Vacation Day 4: Train Ride FAIL
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
The first day of August is a scheduled day of rest to allow our legs, knees, and feet to recuperate between upward -- and then downward -- bound outings. Not that the kids need one, but the old people do.
We think we'll take them on a train ride. Trains are fun after all. Who wouldn't want to enjoy a nice leisurely train ride from Lake Placid to Saranac Lake and back, stopping long enough in Saranac Lake to get ice cream at the local Stewart's?
Curses, foiled again. We call the other family condo to see if niece Bearies's little sister, Piggyback, age eight, wants to come with us. No, I am told, oldest nephew Long Legs, age 30-ish, is taking her hiking up Mount Marcy.
MOUNT MARCY? With an eight-year-old? Hearing the news, I am horrified. Mount Marcy is the tallest mountain in New York State. The grade is actually easier than on a peak we were to end up doing later in the week, but it is the length of the trip that gives it its challenge. It is 15 miles round trip if you hike up and back the same trail. When I did it at age 18, fresh off of my senior year track season, in the best condition my body has ever been in my life, we did a round trip up the typical ascent and then down the back side, past Lake Tear of the Clouds -- the headwaters of the Hudson River -- making it a 16 mile trip and a 12 hour day. It was about as tiring a day as I have ever had. I came home with all joints aching, one swollen ankle, an eye nearly shut thanks to a black fly bite, and jeans my mother wouldn't let me wear into the house -- I had to strip in the garage, change, and then hose them off outside.
Of course, T and Bearie had spent the past three days eagerly trying to spot Marcy from wherever we were. The mountain holds an allure for them -- the tallest in the state! A mountain with an unremarkable profile -- unlike the chin, nose, and forehead of Vermont's Mt. Mansfield, or the sweeping glacial cirque of Mt. Washington in New Hampshire -- but she does rise with a regal air above all the others around her. Her Native American name, Tahawus, means "Cloudsplitter,"and indeed on the day I summited, she was splitting a cloud. Sunny and warm on the way up; sunny and warm on the way down, but at the top it was approaching winter on that July 4th -- a gale wind, a cold rain pelting us, winter jackets on, our backs up against a rock ledge to eat lunch in some modicum of shelter. I have no idea what the Adirondacks look like from the top of the tallest of them -- we could see from cairn to cairn, and that was it.
The two of them hear that Piggyback is hiking Mount Marcy with Long Legs and they come alive. They leap around S and me, clamoring excitedly, "Can we go? Can we climb Mount Marcy too?"
S and I look at each other in dismay. The train trip is now chopped liver. And no, we cannot climb Mount Marcy. It is nearly noon. Piggyback has eight-year-old legs. She is not going to be able to travel 15 miles before dark. Does Long Legs have a head lamp with him? Does he have enough water and food? Does Piggyback have hiking boots? Do they have winter gear for the summit, rain gear for the hike, and how are they going to handle the thunderstorms that are predicted for the afternoon?
I look up Marcy on the Lake Placid website I've been referring to, and it clearly states, "Not recommended for families with small children. This is a strenuous hike. Not recommended for out of shape hikers." I can't in good conscience allow the kids to go even if S goes along. This is just not a hike for little kids. So, we have to break the news that no, they cannot go on this hike.
Both children howl in dismay. Bearie bursts into tears. T pouts, crosses his arms in front of him, and grunts as he stomps. They are incapable of understanding that we have made a decision based on our knowledge of the dangers of mountain hiking. The list of Adirondack rescues each month is as long as my arm. People go into the mountains unprepared -- sometimes even experienced hikers are confronted with unexpected situations that test them -- and dire consequences can result. Mountain hiking is less dangerous than rock climbing, but more dangerous than downhill skiing -- more dangerous even than ski racing.
All they know is they are aching to stand atop Mount Marcy and they are not going to be allowed to go while Piggyback is out there on her way. We try to explain that this isn't us being mean or unfair; we feel it is risky for them at their age and they need to be older. I explain how tired I was when I was 18 and a young adult with legs as strong as they ever were going to be. None of that matters. Bearie storms to her room, slams the door shut, and sobs at the top of her lungs.
Oh yay, we're taking a train ride today!
The train is late and we get in to Saranac Lake late, but they tell us we are going to return on schedule. We don't even have time to get an ice cream cone. There is a rather lame "train robbery" on the way back, which entertains the kids to some extent, but mostly they are bored. This is sloppy leftovers compared to hiking Marcy.
On the other hand, the train ride is always a highlight for me. I love the trains. I have trains in my blood. Both my grandfathers were railroad men. My father worked for GE's locomotive division. I've ridden the train across the country. The spectacular scenery is a bonus on this trip, from my perspective, but the kids are unimpressed. Although they do ask the names of the several mountains we see, and other than Baker -- which S and I climbed three years ago -- and Whiteface -- which they should be able to identify by now -- we can only hazard guesses. So maybe there is a glimmer of hope that on another day when they have not been so sorely disappointed they may also learn to appreciate this little gem of a train ride.
It starts to rain as we arrive back in the Lake Placid station. A sprinkle turns into a full blown thunderstorm. We call over to the other condo and are informed that they heard from Long Legs; he was at Indian Falls -- which is more than a third of the way there, but not quite half -- and they were on their way back. They'd been hiking for four and a half hours; either they are on a record pace to go up and down a 15-mile trail or they got to Indian Falls and Long Legs realized it was a hopeless endeavor.
After dinner we head out for Wilmington for the ice cream we promised earlier but couldn't deliver on. I don't want to fight the crowds and parking on "the strip" to eat over-priced ice cream at a boutique. I want an old fashioned ice cream stand, and I have a line on one in Wilmington. It's still thundering, lightning, and pouring rain, but it looks like the sky might be clearing. I have some hope that it will be done and over with by the time we get there. It's not, but as we're eating our ice cream under the shelter of the open back hatch door of the van, a rainbow appears over the mountains to the south. Ice cream and a rainbow. That'll do as a good end to a day.
When we arrive back, we stop by the other condo to find Longs Legs and Piggyback home safe. Indian Falls was as far as they got. Long Legs thought they were almost to the top, but when he pulled out his map and saw how much further they had to go, he decided to call it a day. He'd carried Piggyback on top of his backpack for much of the trip. Nope, I've got a rule. Getting piggybacked up a mountain is reserved for kids under four -- after that they have to hike on their own -- even if that means sticking to smaller mountains and shorter hikes. Eight-year-olds who want to be carried don't belong on the High Peaks -- and certainly not on a 15-mile trek.
T and Bearie want to know when they can make their first attempt at conquering Marcy. I tell them when they are 12 -- Bearie is currently 10. T -- age six -- could probably handle it now, quite frankly, if he were to start out early enough, because he is so darned tough and rarely complains about hard physical exertion, but I have concerns about such a rigorous outing on young legs.
So all's well that ends well. We make plans to get together to hike Mt. Jo in the morning. Piggyback says she's up to it, although really given how little she hiked of Marcy, there's no reason for her not to be. Her sneakers go into the sauna to dry out and we all turn in early so we can hit the trail before the crowds.
The first day of August is a scheduled day of rest to allow our legs, knees, and feet to recuperate between upward -- and then downward -- bound outings. Not that the kids need one, but the old people do.
We think we'll take them on a train ride. Trains are fun after all. Who wouldn't want to enjoy a nice leisurely train ride from Lake Placid to Saranac Lake and back, stopping long enough in Saranac Lake to get ice cream at the local Stewart's?
How can you see a train and not feel a tingle of excitement? Especially if
Thomas the Train and Dinosaur Train are two of your favorite TV shows?
Curses, foiled again. We call the other family condo to see if niece Bearies's little sister, Piggyback, age eight, wants to come with us. No, I am told, oldest nephew Long Legs, age 30-ish, is taking her hiking up Mount Marcy.
MOUNT MARCY? With an eight-year-old? Hearing the news, I am horrified. Mount Marcy is the tallest mountain in New York State. The grade is actually easier than on a peak we were to end up doing later in the week, but it is the length of the trip that gives it its challenge. It is 15 miles round trip if you hike up and back the same trail. When I did it at age 18, fresh off of my senior year track season, in the best condition my body has ever been in my life, we did a round trip up the typical ascent and then down the back side, past Lake Tear of the Clouds -- the headwaters of the Hudson River -- making it a 16 mile trip and a 12 hour day. It was about as tiring a day as I have ever had. I came home with all joints aching, one swollen ankle, an eye nearly shut thanks to a black fly bite, and jeans my mother wouldn't let me wear into the house -- I had to strip in the garage, change, and then hose them off outside.
Of course, T and Bearie had spent the past three days eagerly trying to spot Marcy from wherever we were. The mountain holds an allure for them -- the tallest in the state! A mountain with an unremarkable profile -- unlike the chin, nose, and forehead of Vermont's Mt. Mansfield, or the sweeping glacial cirque of Mt. Washington in New Hampshire -- but she does rise with a regal air above all the others around her. Her Native American name, Tahawus, means "Cloudsplitter,"and indeed on the day I summited, she was splitting a cloud. Sunny and warm on the way up; sunny and warm on the way down, but at the top it was approaching winter on that July 4th -- a gale wind, a cold rain pelting us, winter jackets on, our backs up against a rock ledge to eat lunch in some modicum of shelter. I have no idea what the Adirondacks look like from the top of the tallest of them -- we could see from cairn to cairn, and that was it.
The two of them hear that Piggyback is hiking Mount Marcy with Long Legs and they come alive. They leap around S and me, clamoring excitedly, "Can we go? Can we climb Mount Marcy too?"
S and I look at each other in dismay. The train trip is now chopped liver. And no, we cannot climb Mount Marcy. It is nearly noon. Piggyback has eight-year-old legs. She is not going to be able to travel 15 miles before dark. Does Long Legs have a head lamp with him? Does he have enough water and food? Does Piggyback have hiking boots? Do they have winter gear for the summit, rain gear for the hike, and how are they going to handle the thunderstorms that are predicted for the afternoon?
I look up Marcy on the Lake Placid website I've been referring to, and it clearly states, "Not recommended for families with small children. This is a strenuous hike. Not recommended for out of shape hikers." I can't in good conscience allow the kids to go even if S goes along. This is just not a hike for little kids. So, we have to break the news that no, they cannot go on this hike.
Both children howl in dismay. Bearie bursts into tears. T pouts, crosses his arms in front of him, and grunts as he stomps. They are incapable of understanding that we have made a decision based on our knowledge of the dangers of mountain hiking. The list of Adirondack rescues each month is as long as my arm. People go into the mountains unprepared -- sometimes even experienced hikers are confronted with unexpected situations that test them -- and dire consequences can result. Mountain hiking is less dangerous than rock climbing, but more dangerous than downhill skiing -- more dangerous even than ski racing.
All they know is they are aching to stand atop Mount Marcy and they are not going to be allowed to go while Piggyback is out there on her way. We try to explain that this isn't us being mean or unfair; we feel it is risky for them at their age and they need to be older. I explain how tired I was when I was 18 and a young adult with legs as strong as they ever were going to be. None of that matters. Bearie storms to her room, slams the door shut, and sobs at the top of her lungs.
Oh yay, we're taking a train ride today!
The train is late and we get in to Saranac Lake late, but they tell us we are going to return on schedule. We don't even have time to get an ice cream cone. There is a rather lame "train robbery" on the way back, which entertains the kids to some extent, but mostly they are bored. This is sloppy leftovers compared to hiking Marcy.
On the other hand, the train ride is always a highlight for me. I love the trains. I have trains in my blood. Both my grandfathers were railroad men. My father worked for GE's locomotive division. I've ridden the train across the country. The spectacular scenery is a bonus on this trip, from my perspective, but the kids are unimpressed. Although they do ask the names of the several mountains we see, and other than Baker -- which S and I climbed three years ago -- and Whiteface -- which they should be able to identify by now -- we can only hazard guesses. So maybe there is a glimmer of hope that on another day when they have not been so sorely disappointed they may also learn to appreciate this little gem of a train ride.
T and Bearie showing some interest.
A photo taken by one of the two kids.
Beauty along the rails is not limited to the mountains.
But the mountains are undeniably beautiful.
Even the clouds were stunning on this day. A portend of weather to come.
It starts to rain as we arrive back in the Lake Placid station. A sprinkle turns into a full blown thunderstorm. We call over to the other condo and are informed that they heard from Long Legs; he was at Indian Falls -- which is more than a third of the way there, but not quite half -- and they were on their way back. They'd been hiking for four and a half hours; either they are on a record pace to go up and down a 15-mile trail or they got to Indian Falls and Long Legs realized it was a hopeless endeavor.
Thunderheads forming over Whiteface on our return.
After dinner we head out for Wilmington for the ice cream we promised earlier but couldn't deliver on. I don't want to fight the crowds and parking on "the strip" to eat over-priced ice cream at a boutique. I want an old fashioned ice cream stand, and I have a line on one in Wilmington. It's still thundering, lightning, and pouring rain, but it looks like the sky might be clearing. I have some hope that it will be done and over with by the time we get there. It's not, but as we're eating our ice cream under the shelter of the open back hatch door of the van, a rainbow appears over the mountains to the south. Ice cream and a rainbow. That'll do as a good end to a day.
When we arrive back, we stop by the other condo to find Longs Legs and Piggyback home safe. Indian Falls was as far as they got. Long Legs thought they were almost to the top, but when he pulled out his map and saw how much further they had to go, he decided to call it a day. He'd carried Piggyback on top of his backpack for much of the trip. Nope, I've got a rule. Getting piggybacked up a mountain is reserved for kids under four -- after that they have to hike on their own -- even if that means sticking to smaller mountains and shorter hikes. Eight-year-olds who want to be carried don't belong on the High Peaks -- and certainly not on a 15-mile trek.
T and Bearie want to know when they can make their first attempt at conquering Marcy. I tell them when they are 12 -- Bearie is currently 10. T -- age six -- could probably handle it now, quite frankly, if he were to start out early enough, because he is so darned tough and rarely complains about hard physical exertion, but I have concerns about such a rigorous outing on young legs.
So all's well that ends well. We make plans to get together to hike Mt. Jo in the morning. Piggyback says she's up to it, although really given how little she hiked of Marcy, there's no reason for her not to be. Her sneakers go into the sauna to dry out and we all turn in early so we can hit the trail before the crowds.
And the sons of pullman portersAnd the sons of engineers[And the granddaughters of railroad foremen]Ride their [grand] father's magic carpets made of steelMothers with their babes asleep,Are rockin' to the gentle beatAnd the rhythm of the rails is all they feel.--Steve Goodman (The City of New Orleans)
Argh! How frustrating to have the enthusiasm for the train derailed. I hope the kids appreciated your decision later, even if they never admit it.
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