3:00 PM Curse

Is it smart, in mid-winter, to set out for a hike in late afternoon? No, but Dave and I love our leisurely mornings, snug in a sunny spot on our green couch, sipping coffee while scrolling through emails or practicing Italian with Duolingo. Then, there are bills, laundry, projects, and phone calls, and time passes, ever more quickly the older we get. As a result, plans for a brisk walk around noon get pushed forward, and as dark settles in, we’re still out in the woods. 

So, I was mindful when we set out last month around 3:00ish. We should know, by now, to be wary of that time. 

But this is the winter I have been yearning for! Snow deep on the ground, trees black-ink-bare, and the tops of ancient thrown walls mere stepping stones through white-washed woods up to a ridge. Lasting cold that freezes ponds and rivers. Lacy patterns etched in the snow by deer, skunk, fox, and coyote searching for food. Icicle daggers glinting from gutters. 3:00 or not, we were bound to go. 

While we walked, Dave nibbled pistachio nuts and, with thumb and forefinger, flipped the shells, striving to land them on the yellow line down the middle of the road. “Yeah! Got one! Check it out!” 

As we approached a hill, we noticed tire tracks carved into the snowbank flanking the street; someone had parked there since last night’s storm. Thankfully, hunting season was over, and we were curious, drawn by the solid set of boot prints that led through a break in the stone wall.

“Want to follow them for a bit?” Dave asked.

“Sure. I’m up for it.”  

We’ve explored these woods before and know where the stream widens and splashes in a frothy tumble over a series of waterfalls before flowing into the reservoir beyond. The water was running fast and high after the autumn rains and recent snow melt, so we expected this jaunt to be quick, curtailed when we reached the stream. But after brushing through thorny brambles and clambering over fallen branches, we saw that someone – our boot-shod leader perhaps – had thrown down two wide planks to form a bridge. He or she had come prepared.

“Eleanor would love this,” said Dave as we crossed over. Our granddaughter is ever curious and loves an adventure. She’d be bright-eyed and animated as she postulated theories about Mr. Boots and whatever his hike might have held. 

Came a point where the boot prints angled toward the reservoir, and it was time to head home. We branched off in what felt to be the right direction. It was still light, but I was mindful of the hour as I recalled a walk on Jump Hill years ago with our wolfish Alaskan Malamute, Kodiak. I’d heard the trail there was about a mile long, just right since we were late in starting, again around 3:00. 

Turned out, I had the distance wrong, and when the sun set and the painted trail blazes on trees disappeared in the darkness, we were too far along to double back. We’d stumbled on, gingerly feeling forward with sneakered feet before each step in order to avoid rocks, wetlands, and downed tree limbs. Periodically I’d ask Dave, “Are you nervous?” His reassuring answer always calmed me, but I was on the town’s Conservation Commission and kept imagining search parties and humiliating headlines in the Easton Courier: “Commissioner lost in the woods.” Ultimately, however, we were able to situate ourselves using Orion’s stars, our sense of where the sun went down, and Kodiak’s instincts. We vowed that from then on, we would bring water and a compass on every hike. 

That wasn’t the only time we turned a walk into a foolhardy adventure. Once while staying at the Mohonk Mountain House, Dave and I set out for a stroll. Need I tell you the time? Yes, around 3:00. Did we bring water and a compass? No. We skirted the lake, enjoying the sound of cheery youthful voices above us and out of sight beyond a wall of tumbled boulders. A painted yellow arrow on a nearby rock pointed upwards, an invitation. We grinned at each other: a short scramble would add rock climbing – which has a nice risky ring to it - to our list of Mohonk forays. 

For a while, it was fun, a wonderful challenge to find toeholds and reach for the next rock, always led upwards by occasional yellow arrows and the chatter of young voices ahead. But the afternoon was passing; it was dusky; we were relying more on feel than sight; and again, it was too late to turn back. Suddenly the kids’ commentary stopped short, and we heard a girl say, “No F-ing way I’m doing that.”

Not a good sign. 

By then, we’d been calling back and forth, and Dave yelled, “What is it?”

“Ladders! A series of ladders up through a narrow crevice in the rocks! It’s pitch black in there!” 

“Is there another way around?” 

“Nope. We saw signs early on for the ‘Lemon Squeezer.’ This must be it. It’s gonna be tight.” As we clambered closer, we could hear the muffled grunts, curses, and exclamations punctuating their efforts.  

It was full-on dark when we reached the Lemon Squeezer, and the kids had kindly, wisely, waited above the crevice and shone their phone flashlights through the opening at the top to ease our ascent. 

The wooden ladders were steep and rustic. Head back, I gazed up the rock face; it would be quite a climb. Still, I knew we were closing in on the road near Skytop, a stone tower on the highest point overlooking the lake. The kids were waiting for us, and we would not spend a chilly night huddled in the shelter of a ledge, a recurring mental image I’d tried to block earlier. So, as I grasped the rungs and started up, I was exhilarated more than afraid. And you can imagine the triumphant babble of Lemon Squeezer survivors when we met up with our fellow adventurers and all but skipped down the dark road to the Mountain House together.  

So, on this recent January day, I was mindful; 3:00ish start times had proved tricky. Also, having reveled in spotting bobcats and bears in our yard, I had no wish for a close encounter, although these days, I worry more about dangers posed by humans than our woodland friends. Still, I picked up a sturdy stick to wield, just in case. 

Dave was confident we were on course to meet up with a familiar trail, but I thought we’d been angling too deep into the woods for that. Perhaps I haven’t mentioned that we’d brought neither water nor compass with us. So much for that vow.  

“If the trail’s not over that ridge,” I said, pointing to a stone wall that crested the rise ahead, “we should turn back so we can still see to follow our tracks.” 

The snow was deep enough that the uphill climb was laborious, and our exchanges were turning testy. 

Suddenly Dave said, “There’s the road!” and gestured to the left.

I scanned the expanse of snow, rock outcrops, and trees and saw nothing promising. “How do you know?” I said, my voice verging on snarky.

“I saw car lights.” 

Well, I hadn’t… but he was right. We tromped further, met up with the road, and were home before dark. Perhaps the 3:00 curse has been broken. 

     

 

Crazy in the Cotswolds

October 5, 2024

Our Uber crunched across gravel and pulled up in front of an impressive stone façade. Immediately, two men in button-down shirts and tweed vests rushed to relieve us of our hated, monstrous bags. 

Unused as we are to such luxurious treatment, mentally still the scruffy twenty-somethings who backpacked through Europe in the seventies, unworthy to be guests in such a venerable establishment, we protested, “No! NO! They’re too heavy! We can manage them!” 

“We insist!” said one man, and a tug of war ensued as we sought to wrest our suitcases away from him. 

“Please! You’ll hurt your back!” I said.

“We are used to this, really!” 

When I loosened my grip and turned to thank the Uber driver, my attention diverted for but a moment, the men and our bags disappeared. 

Resigned, Dave and I followed, grinning at the vision before us as we left the brightness of day to enter the dimly lighted front hall of The Lygon Arms. The small bags still in our care rattled over the stone floors as we passed the first of several parlors. Inviting it was with its leather wing-backed chairs and massive fireplace darkened by 700 years of smoky fires, and already I pictured myself ensconced there with a book. 

At a broad desk, a young man checked us in, his blue eyes so wide, his accent so English, and his voice so soft-spoken, I had to ask him to repeat himself several times. Such a contrast was his lovely lilt to my flat American, “What? Sorry. What did you say?”

After check-in, Sophie - lithe, blond, and dressed in black - led us up a flight of stairs, down a hall, through a glassed annex, up four stairs and down another hall to our room where our suitcases awaited. Lord, we were glad we hadn’t made that circuitous trip with them. Those poor men. 

We unpacked and Dave hopped into the shower while I perused the inn’s history on an electronic tablet. How odd to snuggle in this ancient inn against a comfy headboard upholstered in plaid woolens scrolling for info about dinner reservations on a modern device. 

The matching curtains were of soft, heavy wool in shades of lichen and forest green, and a wingback chair with brass studs graced the corner. Until I scrolled further, I was mystified by the decorative decision to place on the bureau a large white rabbit sitting high on his haunches. All was clear when I learned the original name of the inn was The White Hart. 

                                    

October 6

Careful to avoid horse droppings and muddy puddles, Dave and I followed a footpath worn through the green of a well-grazed meadow. Black-faced sheep with blue swatches on their nubbly wool gave us passing notice, while horses and cows further along paid no heed. At various points, we fiddled with ingenious wooden gate systems that kept the animals in their respective fields while allowing us through. Pauses to absorb our surroundings granted sweeping views of the dirt path we had trod, swaths of pasture, a stately stone church tower, and the village of Broadway beyond. Long have I wanted to wander in a scene such as this…   

So, why was I wallowing in worry?  

Yes, despite the gentle wind, chirp of birds, and languid flick of a horse’s tail, I was rumbling about in my head, brooding about catching the Eurostar train from London to Brussels in two days. 

Dave would have thought I was crazy if he knew how many nights this had kept me awake. I thought I was crazy too: making train connections throughout the trip had put a pit in my stomach ever since we made the arrangements. As distant church bells tolled, clamoring for attention, I chided myself, and sought to shake it off.

We had climbed a long but gentle slope, and it was nearing lunch time. As I stepped around a pile of manure and angled to avoid a clump of thorny thistles, I commented that a comfy seat in a pub sounded pretty good. “Let’s go a little further,” said Dave. “I think the trail skirts the edge of the field and loops back on the other side of that hedgerow.” 

Neither of us had any idea what the path might do, or even if the close-packed bushes were a hedgerow, but we continued walking until we encountered some hikers who told us the trail headed back after an abandoned farm. 

We pushed on, lifting latches, winding through gate mazes, and noting the “Cotswold Public Way” signs until we came upon a weathered shed beneath the massive dead-white trunk of a tree. Abandoned, yes, long ago, but definitely not a farm. Still, content to grant it that status as reason to turn around, I said, “You’re welcome to keep on, but I’m heading back.”

By then, Dave was ready for a pub too.   

Return trips are always faster and easier, and we snapped too many pictures of sheep, cows, and horses along the way, our phones switching to low-battery mode from overuse. When we reached that long, gentle slope toward the end, Dave’s toes and my knees were offended. 

“Walk backwards,” I said. Silly as we looked, we turned around and inched our way down the slope backwards… Seriously, we did. And, Cotswold-lesson-learned, it helped.

The village of Broadway is enchanting. Rough walls overgrown with moss and creeping ivy, pink roses blooming in small gardens, whitewashed cottages with exposed beams and thatched rooves. And nestled among all that charm was the perfect welcome after our hike: a pub offering cushioned seats, wine, beer, and fish n’ chips. 

                                                                        

Glorious Currents

When I was born, my parents were living in Edie’s family’s garage apartment, so Edie and I go back as far as friends can go.  We attended each other’s first birthday party. We suffered the wrongs of an evil science teacher who accused us of cheating (which we had not).  We both adored Ms. Josten, our beautiful 8^thgrade Latin teacher. We danced, over and over, to Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” in our living room at 638.  We drove stealthily past Cliff Pemberton’s house when, at sixteen, I longed for him. We made mashed potatoes for midnight snacks and begged Edie’s mother to make her famous chocolate sauce. And fifty years later, when my Mom received her diagnosis, it was natural to call Edie and weep while curled on the green-carpeted stairs of 638 where, as teens, we’d spent countless hours gossiping about boys. 

Before Mom got sick, Edie and her husband, Dave #2, invited us to their time-share in Bend, Oregon, and that is what prompted our entire trip west.  

Edie and Dave #2 are seasoned travelers and hikers, and after my Dave and I experienced Glacier’s High-Line trail – during which we inched along a foot-wide pebbly path while clinging to a cable bolted in the rock face so as not to be swept to our deaths by buffeting winds – we thought we were reasonably ready to keep up with them. 

On our first evening in Bend, they eased us in with a lovely canyon walk.  The next morning, we were up at 7:00 AM, slathered with sunscreen, fortified with granola and yogurt, and out the door by 8:00 in order to stay ahead of the scorching sun during our hike up Smith Rock. 

Edie and Dave #2 were compassionate to us Smith Rock neophytes.  Yes, they’d chosen the Misery Ridge Trail, clearly designated “Most Difficult,” for our second day, but as I said, my husband and I were secretly preening with unearned cockiness after conquering at least a mile of Glacier’s High Line, and, adrenaline-charged, we were game. Besides, Earth herself beckoned to us, her bones exposed, ragged, red and raw, towering above and before us. Onward campers!

Our Bend Camp counselors were mindful of hydration and stamina, and insisted upon regular shade and water breaks, and, omigod, Chocolate Mint Cliff bars.  Can I tell you how good those things are? Anyway, we didn’t realize how significantly Edie and Dave #2 had slowed their pace for us, and Dave and I thought we were hoofing along just fine; we were solid.  The breath-stealing sight of rock climbers suspended from cables slung from one precipice to another gave us yet another excuse to take a good long pause for pictures and exclamations. 

Ultimately, the sun caught up with us, and our final descent down a series of switchbacks was sweltering as well as challenging, but Dave and I were proud and exhilarated that we’d hiked this “most difficult” trail.  Were we undone by the rattlesnake curled in the rocks to the right on the teeny trail? No! We inched by and took pictures. 

When we reached the end of the trail, mentally, I danced a victory lap that, at 65, I had successfully, fairly comfortably, achieved such a feat. But, I had not remembered, had not considered, the climb back up to the parking lot.  When I gazed up toward the lot - so faraway it seemed! - my body began to protest. 

You know that let-down response when you really have to go to the bathroom and you pull into a rest stop and your body thinks, “Yay!  Now I can go”? And then, the bathrooms are closed for renovations and you are really screwed because your body thinks it has permission to release?  Yeah.  It was like that.  

Agh, I was so close, but my knees said, “no way,” so I sat in the meager shade of a stunted pine while my heart cursed me with a frenzied, erratic, reproving beat.  Wait. Wait. Slow it down. Slow it down. I reflected on an incident at Logan’s Pass, when Dave and I witnessed a rescue helicopter landing to pick up a hiker who’d had a heart attack. Oh Lord. I’d not been charitable in thinking the man had been unrealistic in gauging his abilities.  Breathe.  Breathe. Judge not, lest ye be next. 

When my heart calmed, I stood up, and remarkably, that respite was enough. I crested the final leg to the parking lot where Dave #2, bless him, waited in the car with the air conditioner blasting.  Once seated and cool, my triumph and bravado returned. 

So, what next?  Bring it on!   

                        *                                  *                                  *

In the morning, rested and well fed, again we were up and out by 8:30 to hike the volcanic cone of the Newbury Shield.  It was forbidding and charred, a vast expanse of spikes and crevices. Surprisingly, berry-studded bushes and yellow potentilla bloomed from cracks in the rock, and chipmunks and lizards scurried about the black surfaces.  How could that be?  Oh, this Earth! So beautiful, bountiful, resilient, and mischievous!  I’m thinking about having her tattooed somewhere on my body.  

In our normal life, a moonscape stroll such as this would provide stories and adventure for months, but this was but one morning at Edie and Dave’s Bend Camp.  For, that afternoon, we were off to the Sun River Resort for a bike ride followed by tubing down the Deschute River.  

After a tasty lunch on the balcony of a club overlooking a golf course, we changed into bathing suits, took a shuttle upriver, and slipped into the water, each cupped in our own royal blue inner tube, at the mercy of the river’s whims.

For three hours we drifted. Three hours to gaze at blue sky. Three hours to admire passing greenery and the occasional bird. Three hours to chat, when our tubes floated close enough, about the wonder of creation, man versus nature, evolution, and the danger of Trump’s roll backs in environmental and species protections.  

Three hours where my control was limited to what paddling hands could accomplish in steering clear of debris or maneuvering toward a promising current. Despite what we like to believe about life, isn’t that really all we are ever able to do? 

Glacier National Park: Park Stars

After a glorious scenic overnight train ride through the Columbia River Gorge, Dave and I arrived at the tiny depot in West Glacier, Montana. Early the next morning, we drove our rental to the Apgar Visitors Center, parked, and asked a ranger for suggestions given our lack of rigorous hiking experience.  He directed us to a series of shuttles that would take us up the Going-to-the-Sun-Road to the Hidden Lake Trail.  

My, what a mixed crew marched this accessible route with its enticing name and a trailhead conveniently located above the visitor’s center and restrooms! Seasoned hikers wore safari hats and leather boots and carried walking sticks. Dave and I carried no poles, but wore sensible layers, sturdy sneakers, baseball caps, and fanny packs stocked with sunscreen and water. 

Teens, nimble and spirited, scampered along, shrieking with glee and tossing snowballs scooped from patches of snow.  Some sure-footed souls had opted to wear flip-flops and sandals. Amish nature enthusiasts wore flowing dresses, aprons, and bonnets, and an Indian contingent breezed along in elegant saris. Parents trucked babies in backpacks and held the hands of little ones clutching just-purchased stuffed grizzlies and mountain goats.  

Alpine meadows swept to the foot of striated, craggy mountains. Swaths of snow and stony soil alternated with grasses awash with yellow wildflowers. Towering clouds, puffed and important, mounded overhead. And look!  My God! Look!  A mountain goat! Soon after, we spotted a shaggy mother nuzzling her baby, a snoozy goat under a scrubby pine, and a herd of seven picking their way across a snowfield high on a peak above. Like the bison of Yellowstone, beasts at first remarkable to those accustomed to squirrels and deer, the goats soon became an expected, marvelous, part of the scenery. 

    

Every wildlife sighting spawned a gathering of pointers and admirers, so no passers-by missed anything. I loved the wish to share wonders, and the elevation of animals to Park Stars.  They aren’t “game,” a nuisance, or something to “harvest”; they are the rightful, extraordinary inhabitants, and all humans trooping the Hidden Lake Trail joyously celebrated them together. 

But often, when it comes to nature, many people seem to have lost sense and instinct. At one point, the trail narrowed and climbed, with steep drops to left and right. It was one-way only, and slippery with smooth, hard-packed snow.  Crossing required caution, so lines formed on the ascending and descending sides as patient hikers awaited their turn to inch forward. 

Suddenly, a young father with a babe in arms and toddler in tow started to run down the path.  A cry went up, and we stretched our arms, as did everyone else down the line, to catch and steady him and his children as they slid, tottered and careened.  Maybe he was trying to be thoughtful by rushing to spare those waiting, but seriously?  Strangers’ arms prevented a terrible fall. 

Joy, awe, and effort combined to steal breath as the trail wound on and up to the overlook with its spectacular vista of Hidden Lake and Bearhat Mountain. A thin rope prohibited access to the next leg of the trail down to the lake.  A sign meant to instill a healthy keep-away response read, “Entering Grizzly Country!  DANGER.” If that weren’t clear enough, it went on,  “This Trail is Closed Because of Bear Danger.”  Of course two teenage boys sat smirking, bold in their bravado, just on the far side of the rope. 

“A bear!” someone called, and every head swiveled.  The two boys lurched to their feet and scrambled under the rope in a hurry. All eyes followed the pointing finger, and scanned the shore of the lake far below. Far, far below. We searched, and then strained, to better see a tiny blotch at the distant end of the lake. It could have been anything. Several brown stumps had already ramped my heart rate with a confusing mix of joy-fight-or-flight, but this blotch was moving, and safely distant.  

“Look!” An even smaller brown speck had appeared by the side of the blotch.  A cub!

Kind onlookers who’d had the foresight to bring binoculars shared this treasure, and we, at the guardrail, were united in our oohs and ahhs in confirming the momma bear and her cub ambling along the shore. 

Yes, mountain goats are marvelous to see, but bears are the beast most feared… and sought. Over our three-day visit, every conversation included bear cautions, sightings, and close-encounters. Many visitors, certainly those embarking on longer hikes or deep-woods camping, carried bear spray, and a number of signs advised this. Dave and I did not, but we learned that if we did have some, we were not to spray at the bear, but in a swath between us and the animal. Good to know. 

We also learned to make a lot of noise while walking, which we did, although we did not jingle like those who carried “bear bells” to add to their clamor. Later, Peggy, our Red Bus tour guide, told us, “Mmm.  Bear bells. More like dinner bells. The bears learn to associate that sound with humans and their food. Some say you can tell the scat of black bears because it’s small and full of berries, while grizzly scat is large, scented with bear spray, and full of bells!” 

Going Up

Tea and cookies at the Mohonk Mountain House is a civilized snack served at 4:00 PM, and savored while sitting in velvet Victorian chairs before a cozy fire.  Today, however, the management graciously invited the citizenry of New Palz (all of them) to a day of skating, hiking the trails, and afternoon tea.  A generous offering, but when Dave and I entered the lounge, the dash of hordes desperate for a cup and the surge of celebrants eager for a sugar cookie convinced us that a walk suited us just as well.

A stay at this resort is a luxury for the most part beyond us, but for several years we have taken advantage of a mid-week, pre-holiday deal that puts an overnight almost within the realm of reasonable.  With its dormers and turrets, balconies and stone arches, porches and picturesque overlooks, the Mountain House is a castle nestled in the Shawungunk Mountains, like Brigadoon, an oasis from a different time, a time where we want to be. 

Despite the dimming light, Dave and I skirted the lake, leaving the castle behind us, taking an easy stroll along a wide graveled trail arched over with evergreens.  To our left, massive blocks of stones scoured from the earth and carried by the glacier jutted from the steep slope that rose to the ridge.  Ahead and above us, obscured by great profiles of rock with soaring foreheads and protruding chins, we heard youthful voices laughing and chattering, three teenagers, we later learned.

“What do you think?” said Dave.  “Shall we add ‘rock-climbing’ to our activities when we tell friends about Mohonk?”

Totally.

Having not done much rock-climbing, or any, we both wore sneakers. I regretted this, telling Dave I wished he’d worn hiking boots so we could legitimately call this outing a hike, but rock-climbing?  Even better.  Besides, we planned only to clamber up a little ways. Just enough to claim the activity.

But we got into it.  Kept climbing.  And when Dave called, “Here’s one of the red arrows that marks the trail.  Wanna keep going?”  I did, so we continued onward, pleased to have the guidance of those who’d planned the best approach.

Cheerfully, we reached for finger- and toe-holds, and where there were none, paused to study our options and plan how to progress.  At times Dave gave me a boost; other times, I stretched out a hand to steady him.  In places, we had to scooch through gaps, or heft our butts up onto a grainy surface, and swing our legs around and up. 

All else receded as we scanned the rocks before us, the chinks and inclines, the heights and spans, to decide the best and safest way forward and up.  It was difficult, but I was grinning, pleased I could still do this, grateful and awed that I was scaling these bones of the earth, rocks shunted and lifted and tumbled into place millions and millions of years ago. Oh, how I need to recall that perspective as I ruminate and worry about every detail of life. 

The light was fading and I yelled ahead to the teenagers, asking if they knew how much further we had to go.  

“Not sure.  Close, I think.  I hope,” a young man’s voice called back. 

“Plenty of time before dark,” Dave said.  He knows where my head goes.

For this is not the first time we’ve headed out for a walk that turned into something else, an adventure if one is charitable, sheer stupidity if one is honest.  Years ago, when I was still on our town’s conservation commission and our malamute Kodiak was alive and fit, we set out with the dog on a November afternoon, around 4:00… a time we should beware of, it seems.  Though the trail was local, it was new to us, well marked with blue splotches painted eye-level on intermittent tree-trunks.  We marched along with Kody straining to run, her ears pricked and swiveling. 

I always felt guilty with this big girl on a leash.  She was majestic, maned, and wolfish, black and white with a masked face.   Bred to pull sleds, but born, it seemed to me, to howl and run wild. I felt honored to be her human, and wished more for her than life in a house and at the end of a leash, but suburbia, hunters, and cars limited her freedom. 

For some reason, I’d thought the trail was only a mile or so.  I was mistaken, but when the sun set in front of us we’d been hoofing for a while and it didn’t make sense to turn back.    Periodically I’d ask Dave, “Are you nervous?” and he said no every time, which calmed me.  But my mind was picturing headlines, “Conservation Commissioner Lost in the Woods,” the “What a Jerk” part unprinted but implied.  Plus I knew this preserve backed up on the 750 acres of Trout Brook Valley, which was adjacent to the even larger Devil’s Den state park. One could wander lost in those woods for days.  Mentally, I whipped up a full-scale search with dogs and helicopters as I plodded on, craning for a glimpse of a trail marker, but no longer able to see them in the dark.

It was a glorious night, the sky velvet and star-sparkled, the constellation Orion overhead, club in hand.  We knew the hunter’s orientation in relation to our house, right above the mailbox, at this time of year.  We’d also taken note of where the sun went down. In the absence of a compass or Boy Scout to guide us, we took stock with those elements, and turned to head in the direction Orion indicated.  Having grown up watching “Lassie,” we also enlisted the dog, saying, “Where’s home, Kody?”  When we loosened up on her leash, she pulled as if she knew the answer, and eventually we spotted the reassuring flash of headlights along Black Rock Turnpike.

Back on the rock face above Mohonk, we’d long ago lost sight of the lights of the hotel, but the red arrows were still visible to mark the way. 

Up ahead, we heard a female voice, shrill with alarm, say, “You’ve got to be kidding.  I can’t do it.”

We heard the exaggerated teasing sighs of her friends, but I’d registered her remark with concern.  “What is it?” I called. 

“The arrow on this rock points straight up.”

Excellent.

Still, I felt some satisfaction that we were closing in on the kids.  I realized it might be because challenging spots slowed them down, but Dave and I had them by four decades at least, and I couldn’t help a whisper of pride. 

Beyond the exertion, this was a physical puzzle.  At times the red arrows were friendly partners, providing good guidance, easing our way.  At others, they mocked us, a joke surely, pointing up the flat face of a boulder without any visible cracks to cling to, and I pictured the painter smirking as he slapped that red sneer on the rock.   Yet, always we figured out a way up. 

Dave was faster, taller, and stronger, but he remained the rear-guard to protect and sometimes shoulder-boost his flower of a wife.

We could heard Kyle, Greer, and Todd just ahead, and had ascertained their names through their taunts and encouragements.  Every now and then we’d glimpsed Greer’s curly head of hair, Kyle’s bearded face and broad torso in plaid flannel, and Todd, enveloped in his navy blue hoodie.  “How much further, do you think?” I said again, but still, they had no idea.

“Sundown in twenty minutes,” Kyle called, and I inspected the overhangs around me, finding no comfort in the specter of a night spent, back to rock, in their shelter, as opposed to our cozy room with its wicker headboard, snuggly quilt, and convenient bathroom. I refused even to think about the meals now roasting in ovens and simmering in pans in Mohonk’s kitchens. 

“Shit.  I am not climbing that thing.” Greer again.

“Yes, you are,” said Todd. 

“What is it?” I said.  The kids were close now, just around the lip of a ledge.

“A ladder.  A series of ladders.  Straight up.  Kyle, I don’t think you’ll even fit in there.  Too narrow,” said Greer.

Too narrow? 

By now, we were in this together.  I was grateful the kids were with us on the mountain, grateful for their company, both in the adventure and in case.  And as we rounded the ledge, we saw two feet disappearing into a crevice above us. 

Later we learned this was the “Lemon Squeezer,” a long, tight crevice with sturdy wooden ladders bolted to one side. As we stood at their base, I reflected that I would kill my kids if they ever tried anything like this, much less attempting it in the dark.

“It’s going to be a good story soon,” I said. 

Dave, my brave one, my stalwart man, stood beside me as we eyed that groove in the rock with dismay.  Still, the ladders guaranteed footholds and handholds at regular intervals, a good thing as it was pitch dark once we climbed inside the crevice. 

Muffled grunts, complaints, and nervous laughter accompanied the kids’ struggle up the rungs. Glimmers of light broke the blackness, filtering past the bodies crammed into the opening above us, as one of them turned on a phone flashlight.

It was work, climbing those ladders.  Well-smoothed by many hands, the wood of the rungs was solid and reliable.  Reach, grab a rung, heave, step up: it was crazy, to be doing this, but I felt strong, capable, and daring.  I didn’t want to be stranded on the mountain that night, but climbing those ladders felt good.

“Thank God!  I see the opening at the top!”  It was Greer.  “Agh.  The ladder stops short.  How do we get out?”

“You’ll be fine.  Press your feet against one side and inch up,” said Kyle, his voice kind.

More grunts and the sounds of fabric rubbing rock, of shifting, and shoving… and then hoots of triumphant relief.  The kids had shimmied their way out… and Dave and I were alone, clinging to ladder rungs inside a crevice, on the side of a mountain, in the dark.  But we knew we were close. 

Reach.  Grab a rung.  Heave.  Step up.  “Can you believe we’re doing this?”  I could hear the grin of satisfaction, along with the effort, in Dave’s question.    

Then, a bright light, and a head and shoulders silhouetted against the opening I could now see. “Here, I’ll hand you my phone.” 

And I could picture this young man, a stranger, Kyle it was, lying flat on the rock slab above us in order to stretch an arm far enough into the crevice so I could reach the phone pinched in his fingertips.  

“Oh my god, thank you.  I’m so grateful you’re here, that you came back with the light for us! Are we near the top?”

“Yep.  Almost there.”

With my right hand, I clung to the ladder, while twisting to the left to angle the phone down to illuminate the rungs below me for Dave.  Once he caught up, I threaded my arm between my body and the rock face in order to hand the light back up to Kyle.  He didn’t leave to rejoin his friends, but waited at the opening, shining the light into the fissure while Dave and I inched, backs and feet pressed to opposing rock faces, out onto the rock ledge, into open air, above the wide spread of the Hudson Valley. 

P.S.  We returned the next day to take pictures in the daylight!