Vacation Journal - Day 1
Day 1: July 29, 2012
T wakes up earlier than usual, walks up to me and says "Happy Lake Placit Day!" He's so excited to be going to the mountains. I find a document that has the name printed out and show him the 'd' at the end of the word 'Placid.' We've been trying to emphasize that the word ends in a 'd' but he doesn't get it until he sees it. From then on, he says "Lake Placid." For some reason I think it's cute that he was calling it "Placit."
We are so far behind on getting ready that we don't leave until 1:30, meaning that instead of eating lunch at any of the many Mom and Pop diners in the mountains, we have to settle for Burger King on the boulevard. Blech. Ideally we'd get to Lake "Placit" at 3:00, giving us time to hit the grocery store so that our food shopping would be done for the week, giving us more time to do the fun stuff that there is to do here. Even if that's just sitting in a chair looking at the mountains. But that's not happening this trip. Oh well, we roll with it. Next trip, T will be old enough to take a list and pack his own stuff, not quite halving my work, but hopefully helping us get out the door faster. As opposed to playing with his toys and having little cars strewn all over his room when I'm in there trying to gather up clothing and gear for all kinds of possible weather.
All the way there T keeps asking if we are in the mountains yet. I try to distract him by pointing out the lakes and rivers we pass. I name them. This starts him on a new track of something to be hypervigilant about -- how many lakes are there? "I don't know," is not a good enough answer, so the question is repeated several times, each with the same answer. Finally Daddy tells him to count them. This happens in a good spot, along a chain of lakes that are actually named by numbers. We are at Fourth Lake when he starts counting. By the time we arrive at the final lake in Lake Placid, which is nestled along the shores of Mirror Lake -- the actual Lake Placid being north of town -- he has counted 25. Or as he puts it, "Twenty-Fifth Lake." If we can't escape the anxious attachment related issues, we can at least use them to our advantage, and it worked this time.
Some of the lakes we pass include Racquette Lake, Blue Mountain Lake, Long Lake, Tupper Lake, and Saranac Lake. This is a place of great beauty.
Traveling through this territory brings back unpleasant memories of four years of getting to and from college. Through these same mountains. The world didn't see this as a prime vacation destination then. The towns were tiny and insularly local. It was clear that those of us "just passing through" weren't welcome. It seems ridiculous that I had to drive through the middle of one of the most beautiful places on earth to get to college, and I hated every minute of the trip. Frost-heaved mountain roads -- usually snow-covered and treacherous, getting stuck behind logging trucks and being unable to pass for dozens of curve-and-hill laden miles, finally getting around, only to come upon another --- the trip was long, cold -- one time undertaken in 14 degree weather in a car with no heat -- and frustrating. It's difficult 30 years later to drive through the many "Lake" named towns without mentally going back in time to the drudgery of those drives.
The place is different now. The roads are lined with cars at each trailhead, at each lake entry point, at each river crossing. The towns have new and appealing restaurants, and a revitalized look to them, although the high unemployment and underemployment rate that exists in the area is still evident in Tyvek-sided homes and backyards decorated with old junker cars.
Now we outsiders aren't always looked at like unwelcome invaders, trespassing on territory we don't belong in; in fact, the owner of a restaurant may engage one in a conversation about being a "46-er" -- someone who has climbed the 46 peaks over 4,000 feet -- and what mountains he climbed last weekend. The welcome mat is out for the most part, it seems. We no longer have to find a place in the woods to take a pee break. We are actually allowed to use the restrooms. But, gone with this transformation is the sense that you are really in a remote "forever wild" place. It's beginning to feel like Long Island has moved to the Adirondacks. This place is now full of traffic and people. The tranquility of a solitary hike on a lesser known trail is gone. The wilderness crawls with people, an oxymoron if there ever was one.
But we come up the final rise into town and are greeted by the sight of Whiteface. And I, a native of the mountains of another state, feel like I am once again Home. When you grow up in the mountains and then leave them behind you can't help but constantly yearn to be back amongst them. "I will lift mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help," (Psalms 121:1) is the mantra of mountain-born people.
Now to see if I've recovered enough strength in my chondromalascia patella-possible-meniscus-tear knees to get myself up a couple of them.
T wakes up earlier than usual, walks up to me and says "Happy Lake Placit Day!" He's so excited to be going to the mountains. I find a document that has the name printed out and show him the 'd' at the end of the word 'Placid.' We've been trying to emphasize that the word ends in a 'd' but he doesn't get it until he sees it. From then on, he says "Lake Placid." For some reason I think it's cute that he was calling it "Placit."
We are so far behind on getting ready that we don't leave until 1:30, meaning that instead of eating lunch at any of the many Mom and Pop diners in the mountains, we have to settle for Burger King on the boulevard. Blech. Ideally we'd get to Lake "Placit" at 3:00, giving us time to hit the grocery store so that our food shopping would be done for the week, giving us more time to do the fun stuff that there is to do here. Even if that's just sitting in a chair looking at the mountains. But that's not happening this trip. Oh well, we roll with it. Next trip, T will be old enough to take a list and pack his own stuff, not quite halving my work, but hopefully helping us get out the door faster. As opposed to playing with his toys and having little cars strewn all over his room when I'm in there trying to gather up clothing and gear for all kinds of possible weather.
All the way there T keeps asking if we are in the mountains yet. I try to distract him by pointing out the lakes and rivers we pass. I name them. This starts him on a new track of something to be hypervigilant about -- how many lakes are there? "I don't know," is not a good enough answer, so the question is repeated several times, each with the same answer. Finally Daddy tells him to count them. This happens in a good spot, along a chain of lakes that are actually named by numbers. We are at Fourth Lake when he starts counting. By the time we arrive at the final lake in Lake Placid, which is nestled along the shores of Mirror Lake -- the actual Lake Placid being north of town -- he has counted 25. Or as he puts it, "Twenty-Fifth Lake." If we can't escape the anxious attachment related issues, we can at least use them to our advantage, and it worked this time.
Some of the lakes we pass include Racquette Lake, Blue Mountain Lake, Long Lake, Tupper Lake, and Saranac Lake. This is a place of great beauty.
Traveling through this territory brings back unpleasant memories of four years of getting to and from college. Through these same mountains. The world didn't see this as a prime vacation destination then. The towns were tiny and insularly local. It was clear that those of us "just passing through" weren't welcome. It seems ridiculous that I had to drive through the middle of one of the most beautiful places on earth to get to college, and I hated every minute of the trip. Frost-heaved mountain roads -- usually snow-covered and treacherous, getting stuck behind logging trucks and being unable to pass for dozens of curve-and-hill laden miles, finally getting around, only to come upon another --- the trip was long, cold -- one time undertaken in 14 degree weather in a car with no heat -- and frustrating. It's difficult 30 years later to drive through the many "Lake" named towns without mentally going back in time to the drudgery of those drives.
The place is different now. The roads are lined with cars at each trailhead, at each lake entry point, at each river crossing. The towns have new and appealing restaurants, and a revitalized look to them, although the high unemployment and underemployment rate that exists in the area is still evident in Tyvek-sided homes and backyards decorated with old junker cars.
Now we outsiders aren't always looked at like unwelcome invaders, trespassing on territory we don't belong in; in fact, the owner of a restaurant may engage one in a conversation about being a "46-er" -- someone who has climbed the 46 peaks over 4,000 feet -- and what mountains he climbed last weekend. The welcome mat is out for the most part, it seems. We no longer have to find a place in the woods to take a pee break. We are actually allowed to use the restrooms. But, gone with this transformation is the sense that you are really in a remote "forever wild" place. It's beginning to feel like Long Island has moved to the Adirondacks. This place is now full of traffic and people. The tranquility of a solitary hike on a lesser known trail is gone. The wilderness crawls with people, an oxymoron if there ever was one.
But we come up the final rise into town and are greeted by the sight of Whiteface. And I, a native of the mountains of another state, feel like I am once again Home. When you grow up in the mountains and then leave them behind you can't help but constantly yearn to be back amongst them. "I will lift mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help," (Psalms 121:1) is the mantra of mountain-born people.
Now to see if I've recovered enough strength in my chondromalascia patella-possible-meniscus-tear knees to get myself up a couple of them.
Whiteface, which stands in perpetual guard over Lake Placid.
It is the closest of the 46 high peaks to the village.
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