What You Don't Know About Gravel Could Choke A Horse

In NYC, there is concrete and asphalt. Sidewalks are concrete, roadways are asphalt, and that's all there is to it.  In the GNC, we have concrete, mostly for foundations, asphalt for roadways, and we have gravel for everything in between. We have more varieties of gravel here than Dunkin has donuts. I know this because I have just researched, purchased, had delivered, spread, and graded twenty tons of Item 4. Shopping at a quarry is not something I had to do when I lived in mid-town Manhattan, but I did it last week in the GNC.

A nugget of Item 4 (I don't know why its called that, since as far as I know, there is no Item 1, 2 or 3) is about the size of a sugar cube.  Imagine twenty tons of sugar cubes being delivered to your apartment in a 4-axle container truck and being brought up in an elevator. Twenty tons of Item 4 would fill every room in your NYC apartment from floor to ceiling with enough left over to fill the swimming pool at Asphalt Green.

To give you an idea of the varieties I had to choose from, there is: bank gravel (gravel mixed with sand or clay), bench gravel (gravel located on the side of a valley above the present stream bottom, indicating the former location of the stream bed when it was at a higher level), creek rock (rounded, semi-polished stones that are dredged or scooped from river beds and creek beds). Crushed rock (rock that is mechanically broken into small pieces then sorted by filtering through different size mesh) is different from crushed stone (which is generally limestone or dolomite that has been crushed and graded by screens to certain size classes). A special type of crushed limestone is dense grade aggregate or DGA.

The most common sizes of crushed stone are 3/8, 5/8, 3/4, 1 1/2, 2 1/2.  If you really need another size, I'm sure you can find it. Crushed stone is measured in inches, but fine gravel is measured in millimeters (particles with a diameter of 1 to 2 mm).  Go figure. 

There is also lag gravel (coarse gravel produced by the removal of finer particles), pay gravel (also known as “pay dirt”, a nickname for gravel with a high concentration of metals) and  piedmont gravel (coarse gravel carried down from high places by mountain streams and deposited on relatively flat ground) not to mention  plateau gravel (gravel from a region above the height at which terrace gravel is usually found) and terrace gravel.  

There are more species of gravel, but this is a blog not Wikipedia.  

Let's not forget Item 4, which is good for driveways.  Item 4 is about $25 per ton delivered, so I just paid $500 for pebbles, and the GNC has rocks everywhere I look.  Go figure.

Building A Platform

Yesterday in the mail, came another rejection from an agent I had invited to represent my manuscript . It was my return envelope, with my three sample chapters inside, but nothing else - not a letter, note, scribble on the pages, nothing. I understand being busy, but "No. Thanks." doesn't take long to jot.

I am learning from talking to other authors that nowadays: the time from agent-finding to traditional book-on-the-shelves is now up to three years; the the average number of copies sold at an in-person, in-store book signing at Barnes & Noble is one; that if the manuscript doesn't have "robots and vampires" it has little chance of getting any traction with the first screeners at literary agencies.

We authors in the GNC (there are some) are witnessing the "disintermediation" of the publishing industry by the internet, leaving all but a special few with no access to the "old" channel.  One agent wrote to me in his rejection note that he liked my characters and plot, but that Costco and Walmart sell more copies of fewer titles than Barnes & Noble does of all its titles combined, and therefore publishers are publishing for Costco and Walmart shoppers.  My characters and plot wouldn't appeal to them.  That says it all.

So, unless you're Stephen King or John Grishman or endorsed by Oprah, I guess it has to be self-publish, e-publish and sell from your own "platform".  

Excuse me while I go the Walmart to try to find a book on "Building A Platform."  Ah yes, here it is, in the home improvement section!

Recent Snowfall Totals

According to the NWS, the snowfall in the GNC on Saturday night into Sunday ranged from over 16 inches in Elka Park to about 4 inches in Cairo.  In my neck of the woods (literally, it is a neck of the woods), the actual total, measured by me with a yard stick stuck into the railing on the front deck, when it was all over was 8.75 inches.  But that was before I started talking about it.

When worried relatives called to check on the power situation, we minimized, "Oh - it was nothing.  Just a little over 6 inches - barely covered the driveway.  Nothing to worry about...we didn't even lose power."

But for friends calling from the Midwest, who always brag to me about how much snow they get and how rugged they are, I said, "Damn!  Pretty heavy snowstorm here for October.  Cold, windy -- I'd say we got about a foot, give or take an inch.  Was out shoveling by 7am so I could go out for some groceries.  Roads will be plowed soon, I guess", though the roads had been plowed hours ago.  We love our county plowmen.

Skier-friends starting checking in around noon, wondering if Hunter Mountain was opening for the weekend.  "Well, you can hike up and ski down if you like.  We got at least 14 inches - probably more at the summit.  Not too wet - not the usual Catskill Concrete. You can make some nice turns but bring your rock skis.  Fourteen inches of snow doesn't cover 15 inches of rock!"

The last person to call was a friend in the valley who wanted me to come down and help him move furniture.  "Gee, I'd love to, really, but we got over a foot-and-a-half of heavy, wet snow and the roads haven't been plowed or sanded yet.  Don't think I want to go down the mountain today - you know, there's still one lane out on 23A near Moore's Bridge. Sorry...why don't you call Jim from Palenville.  They hardly got any snow down there."

If you want a reliable weather report from a reliable source on the Mountaintop, you had better not call me.

First snow of the season.

Time to put away the shorts and sandals.

Variety in the GNC

Traveled round trip from the Mountaintop to Poughkeepsie train station at dusk last night, about 110 miles. Here is a list of what was dead at the road side, road middle and rest stop.

• rabbit
• squirrel
• porcupine
• skunk (unmistakable)
• deer, also later, fawn (cute, but dead nonetheless)
• unrecognizable varmint sort of like a beaver, but with a long, round tail
• cat (no collar)
• bird (species undetermined), pretty feathers, not far from cat
• chipmunk
• something larger than a chipmunk but looks like one (maybe just a really big chipmunk?)
• snake 
• human, perhaps (car on fire on thruway after multi-vehicle accident)
• twelve pack of Budweiser (missed the trash can at Truck Stop, NB past Exit 19)

Returned home by 9pm.  I'm sure the list would be much longer at 2am.  Suppose you could make stew.

To Shave or Not to Shave

When I showered this morning, I decided not to shave since I would be working outside around the house and probably wouldn't see anyone until dinner time, when I would shower again and shave then.

Ran into friend at the Post Office.  He hadn't shaved, nor had the guy in line behind me.  Took a phone call on the sidewalk outside the PO - next two guys to pass hadn't shaved, one heavily bearded, probably hasn't shaved in months.  Woman passed to collect her mail - couldn't tell if she had shaved. (I'm guessing not.)

Stopped at a retail store. Clerk needed a shave (and Proactiv).  State Trooper was getting coffee - he was sharp as a tack - pants perfectly creased, hair perfectly groomed, smelling of Stetson Cologne. Clean shaven like a barber did it ten minutes before with an old fashioned hand held straight blade and hot towel.

Checked emails and the internet for news.  Ashton Kutcher, George Clooney, Tom Cruise, Zac Efron all unshaven for their paparazzi pixs.  Some with their dates on a night out, so it's not like they forget to shave.

In NYC, where I worked for all those years in those corporate skyscrapers, I scraped my face every day, without exception - Saturday and Sunday, too.Maybe skipped a day or two while on a Caribbean vacation, but day after day, year after year, never missed a day behind the razor.  As my career escalated, so did the razor: from one blade to quatro micro adjusting swivel four blade head self lubricating with titanium power vibrating handle.

Now in the GNC, its back to disposable Bics, when I bother to shave at all. Come to think of it,  I'll skip the dinner time shave today and see how I feel in the morning.

Not A Local Yet

Deli-going, in-a-hurry New Yorkers know quick-deli lingo because they are at the deli every morning on the way to the office.  New York delis are set up to get your order, get you served, get you paid and get you out in under one minute, two minutes tops if you have a complicated order.  No matter what the nationality of the counterman, every order has a short-cut name and a short-cut meaning that we all understand. For example, BLT down = bacon, lettuce, tomato on rye toast.  Who doesn't know Whiskey Jack, BWS (bagel with schmear of cream cheese) or that almost everything is to go almost all the time.

So, last night, in a pizza store in the GNC, in a hurry, late, car idling in the parking lot, I run in and order two plain slices with wings.  Guy says, "plain or spicy?".  Puzzled for a moment, I think he didn't hear me say "plain" because he was on his XBOX behind the counter when I ordered, so I say again, "plain".  He pauses the XBOX,  (I could see he was playing Halo from the disc box on the counter next to the unsold calzone), tosses the slices into the oven and retreats to the kitchen.

A few minutes go by, and out comes the guy with a plate of buffalo wings.  He adds the two slices from the oven to a tray with silverware and napkins and says, "That's $10.95".

"For two plain slices?"

"And the wings."

"Wings?"

"You ordered two slices and wings, didn't you?"  He looks at me like I have a third eye growing between my eyebrows.

"No, I didn't order wings."

"Bullshit," he says, politely, "I axed you plain or spicy and you sez plain. Wings is $6.95"

In NYC, there are at least three or four expressions for "to go".  When ordering, you can say "to travel" or "put wheels on it" or "make it roll" or "with wings".  Everybody knows a BWS with wings means a bagel with a schmear to go.  "With wings" means "to fly" as in, "I'm outta here, gotta fly."

But not in the GNC.  In the GNC, "with wings" means "I would like an order of chicken wings along with my  two plain slices of pizza."  The question "plain or spicy?" refers to the sauce that is dripping off the bony appendages when they are served to you.  "Plain" is a barbeque-y sauce, while "spicy" is a more Mexican lather.

When I am truly a local, I will know not to use my NYC deli lingo in the GNC.  Until then, I will end up with a half-dozen chicken wings drowning in Kraft  hickory smoked flavor on a tray instead of two plain cheese slices wrapped in aluminum, ready to be heated when I get home.









 

We Could Have Been in Alaska!

It's a beautiful Fall day in the GNC - colors are bright, air is crisp and moving, the waters of the Schoharie are running clear again - and so I am walking my dogs around Dolan's Lake in Hunter, NY.  One dog is deaf and one is blind, but they know this walk well and help each other as they pant, sniff and pee on the grass perimeter of the lake.

"Lake" is a kind word for this body of water.  It's a pond really if it's anything, a strip of water in a man-made cavity split off from the Schoharie so the local kids have a swimming hole on hot summer days.  Swimming hole is a more accurate description than lake or pond.

So, there I was walking the dogs around the swimming hole on this fine Fall day.  There is a jogger going by one way, a guy doing ski prep exercises against a tree, a couple walking their Lab in the other direction.  We're all minding our own business, sharing the precious privacy early in the morning, before cars, motorcycles and RVs of all shapes and sizes start arriving for Oktoberfest.

WHAM!  WHOOSH! SPLASH! an Eagle with the wingspan of a Concorde dive bombs this little nothing of a swimming hole, fully submerging itself in the shallow water and then WHAM!  WHOOSH! SPLASH! it surfaces ten yards from where it entered and takes off into the quiet sky with a flapping fish in its claws.  The jogger, exerciser, dog walkers and I stared silently at the event, all of us with the same thoughts I'm sure: so accurate was its dive, so powerful was its grip, so steep was the inclination of its flight, so elegant the act!  As it flew away with the struggling trout in its talons, we exhaled together.

I mentioned this is a small swimming hole?  You could swim across in six strokes and you could touch bottom whenever you want to? That there is an electric sub-station on the banks and a picnic pavilion next to the sub-station, and that it is near the parking lot where the Beer Drinkers congregate before and after their chugging?

None of that mattered to the eagle.

Household Expenses

I love my spot in the Catskills - breathtaking views of mountains peaks, fresh air moved constantly by stiff breezes, a stream nearby that provides a soothing background hum for a good night's sleep, enough stars on a clear night to fill the telescope lens to overflowing.  My dogs don't need a leash, my clothes don't need a dry cleaner and my shoes don't need to be shined on the way to the office for a staff meeting.  In the GNC, well worn, muddy boots are a badge of honor.

When I first moved here, I bought into the promise of a low cost of living - independence, as much "off the grid" as possible, low taxes and a homestead. This part of the GNC promise has not turned out as promoted.  There are plenty of expenses that brochures, government officials and friends who came before don't tell you about when they are trying to convince you to join them "upstate" full-time.  Here is a list of ten of them, right off the top of my head:

1. removal of dead trees that can fall onto the house or on a power line, causing power failure or fire
2. pump out the septic tank before it backs up into the house, causing bad, bad, bad ramifications
3. remove 50 year old insulation from attic; replace with new, high efficiency insulation
4. remove pests from attic who liked the old insulation - ants, raccoon, spiders, wasps,  mice, unknown insect species
5. install kitchen renovations - counter tops without pot holes, base cove, faucets that don't drip
6. install heavy duty shelves in garage to provide storage for all the heavy duty equipment I have purchased, such as:
7. snow blower, leaf blower, lawn mower, weed whacker, chain saw, kerosene stove for emergency heat when pellet stove and electric baseboard heat are inoperable due to power failure;
8. pellets for stove, cords of wood for fireplace, propane, kerosene
9. hurricane preparation and recovery equipment: perforated pipe, dehumidifiers, sheet rock, bleach
10. purchase and spread one ton of  Item 4 for driveway, annually. Cover it with ice-melting-salt in winter and weed killer in summer.

All my years in NYC, I never incurred even one of those expense items.  I did call the roach exterminator a few times, but the building always paid for it.

I could list a few more items, but the contractor just arrived to replace the well pump, so I've got to go. For readers in the city, a well pump pumps water from your private well to a pressure tank in your basement where it is held before it enters the water heater, which heats and stores it for when you want a hot shower.  This is one of the things the Superintendent in your high-rise knows about.  You could live your entire life in NYC and never see one.  But in the GNC, they come in several sizes.

  

Moths in the Versace

In thirty years of being a corporate executive, you buy a lot of suits.  Buying suits, dress shirts, ties, "sensible" shoes and then dry cleaning and shining them are part of the costs of doing business in Manhattan's midtown.  In Soho, Dumbo or Chelsea, black jeans and black T's are the uniform, in the Village (East or West), torn jeans or camo is fine and there are your neighborhoods where leather is preferred.  But in midtown, it's suits. Lightweight suits for summer, wool suits for winter, khaki suits for traveling to the branches, "bankers" suits for board meetings, pinstripes for lawyer meetings, tuxedos for formal occasions (the boss's daughter's wedding) and a white dinner jacket (charity fund-raiser, worn once): this is the wardrobe of an upwardly mobile corporate executive, which I was.

Of course, every suit needs a few shirts to go with it and every shirt must have several matching ties. In a year of fifty weeks (two weeks vacation), you would need at least a dozen suits to cover the seasons, occasions and traveling required. I say at least a dozen- some sharp-dressed men would have many, many more.  If your weight varies, then suits for the skinny times and suits for the heavier times.  European travel requires even more suits, since fashion there is so different and appearing at an important function with a poor choice of suit is difficult to overcome.  (It's "one strike" against you, but there's no baseball in Europe.)  Over thirty years, that's a lot of suits.

Further, suits vary by status - as one is promoted, one must refresh the wardrobe to reflect the new paycheck, and one must not dress above or below one's rank. You can pay $200 for a suit or $2000 for a suit.  A dress shirt can be $20 at Daffy's or $200 at Barney's.  A tie can be $10 with pictures of golf hole flags on it, or $100 imported from Italy.  When you get that promotion from manager to Director, you can't wear the Daffy shirt and Hole Flag tie anymore.  Early on my career, I celebrated a promotion by buying three suits for $1000 - my promotion netted me $6000. For another promotion, on a business trip to Hong Kong, I ordered custom made suits and shirts, measured, fitted and finalized over a ten day visit. The order was three suits, six shirts, two extra pair of slacks and a navy blue blazer.  I bought five leather belts in the bazaar for $1 each (yes, $1.  Saw the same ones back in the US at $19.99 each.)  Now I could address a Board of Directors.

I developed a hobby of shopping for ties wherever I was shipped for a meeting.  I would wear the "San Francisco" tie I bought on Market Street when staff from San Francisco visited headquarters in midtown, likewise Houston, Chicago, Boston, Atlanta, LA, Cleveland, Detroit, Miami, etc. I visited the largest mall in America,  near Minneapolis, and bought one tie.  At a sample sale at the Merchandise Mart in Dallas, I bought ten imported silk ties for $49.  Some years, I made 40 business trips - and on each, a new tie came home with me, along with whatever other souvenirs I bought for the family.  Over a thirty year career, that's a spectrum of ties.

Living in the GNC, I don't have much use for Armani suits, Missioni ties or Micheal Kors shirts. When I went to Manhattan last week for a beautiful dinner at a fancy restaurant and a Broadway show, I wore jeans and a nice denim shirt I ironed myself.  For a moment, I considered wearing a suit and dismissed the idea as silly.

When you stop by for a visit, if you're interested, I can show you my suits in the storage space over the garage.  They're still in the cardboard wardrobe boxes the movers used to bring them to the GNC from the Concrete Jungle five years ago. We'll laugh at the moth holes in the $1000 Versace suit.

Proud of My Trash

There I was, at the town dump (or if you prefer, "transfer station") bringing the empty wine bottles from a long weekend of house guests to the recycling area.  I had about two cases of assorted varietals, purchased and consumed to pair with the menus I had planned and executed.  The wines were slightly above the ordinary, every day table wine I buy for myself - some were offered as house gifts by the visiting cityfolk, some were purchased at the Wine & Brew festival at Hunter Mountain in the GNC, but most were from local wine merchants in Kingston and Saugerties. Of the two cases, only two bottles would I call "special", that is, more than $30 a bottle - a French Chardonnay, to go with the chicken dish.

According to the protocol of the dump (it's "dump" to us locals), I was sorting the clear glass from the green glass on the table provided for the purpose, before tossing the bottles into the dumpster and hearing the satisfying crash of a wine bottle at the end of its useful life.  "Wine is Life" it is said by the clever guy who designs T-shirts. An empty wine bottle is a souvenir of a meal enjoyed with friends.

There he was, near the sorting table, hovering, dressed in ragged, smelly, dirty clothes.  He had broken fingernails, unkempt hair and to put it kindly, poor personal hygiene in all respects.  He seemed fascinated by the labels on the bottles as I put them on the table.  After two or three had made it into the dumpster, he began his commentary:

"Ah, a good year and a good vintage - you know your wines", he said as a Cab went into the dumpster.  "Ah, an excellent choice, particularly with duck, a strong taste that cuts through the fat on the palette" as a Pinot made the trip. "Ah, the aroma of this one - I remember it well - hints of pomegranate and citrus."  "Ah, how I loved this one - California, but a vineyard situated north to south rather than east to west as most are in the Simi Valley.  Very crisp, clean finish. No, no - I don't care for these Chilean Malbecs, vastly overrated."

I kept tossing, but at a slower pace, so he would have time to read the labels. His commentary on every bottle had been accurate so far, though I quibbled about the Malbecs.  "Perhaps" I said, "but it was only $15 for the bottle."  He waved my opinion away into the air of the GNC as if I were a sommnelier in training. He waited  for the next case of empties to reach the table.  He continued his critique with knowledge of extraordinary scope and depth until the last bottle, a sweet dessert wine from the local Windham winery.  "Haven't tasted this one," he said and he looked inside the bottle for dregs.  (None, I rinse the bottles to keep the mice out of them.)

The transfer station attendant punches a card for the fee.  I approached with my card and asked who was the man with the French accent and encyclopedia-like knowledge of wine.  "Dunno," said the attendant.  "He shows up occasionally and doesn't stay for long.  Most of the time, the wine doesn't interest him."

For the first time in my life, I was proud of my trash!

Planted

The change of seasons is here and with it I noticed a change in the social scene - summer friends are gone and ski friends have not arrived.  Irene had a scattering effect too - friends have relocated (temporarily or longer), abandoned the mountaintop altogether, or died.  The GNC don't care, though - we adjust, not the mountains.

After eight years here, I understand now why the "real" locals consider so many good-intentioned full-timers "transient".  Folks arrive with the intention of becoming permanent residents, but they when they discover the full meaning of mountaintop living in the GNC, they have second thoughts.  After a season or two, they're down in the valley or back to the city or "out West".

Not me.  I'm staying.  I've survived extreme temperatures, 7-foot snowstorms, 20 consecutive days of rain, Irene and the weeks after her, power outages long, short and numerous, mosquitoes as big as tacos, spider bites, several varieties of poison weeds, backed-up septic tanks, dog fights, tax hikes, mud slides, road closures, noisy neighbors, no television, mail delivery, dry cleaner or Starbucks, nosy bears, clogged culverts, pump failures and maybe the worst of all, road kill skunk in the driveway.  If that doesn't chase you back to a junior-4 in a high-rise, nothing can.

Last night: clear skies, bright stars, full moon, slight breeze moving clean air, cool temps, fresh water running nearby, nature's sounds of silence, 600,000 acres of forever-wild forest for a back yard and no skunk.  If that doesn't plant you here, nothing can.

In Memoriam

Like many families who lived in Manhattan on September 11, 2001, after the smoke cleared, the dust settled, the odor wafted away and  the body parts were retrieved, counted and buried, my family made an emergency plan. Our plan was to rendez-vous at our house in Hunter in the GNC.  If we were separated by circumstance, on opposite sides of the Hudson, or away on business, or on a school trip when the next attack came (which we were sure it would), no questions asked - head to Hunter. We had "go bags" ready, sufficient cash in everyone's secret hiding place and keys to the house hidden under a rock near the front door.  Anyway you can, get to Hunter.

As you know by know, our son went off to college and we eventually moved to Hunter full-time to pursue my writing career and a less stressful lifestyle.  Now, its September 11 plus ten years and I am heading off the mountaintop to NYC to attend memorial services in honor of the friends, colleagues and strangers who died that day.  September 11 was nothing like Lady Irene, but in its aftermath, we did have stranded strangers come stay with us, since transportation home was impossible, there were emergency vehicles everywhere and the devastation was omni-present.

Now,  September 11 has come to Hunter.  A memorial structure has been erected in Dolan's Lake Park, made of steel girders from the World Trade Center.  I saw those girders ten years ago, burnt, twisted and splintered, and here they are again. Certainly I understand why the monument was created, and I will attend the dedication ceremony of the monument next week, but I will do so with bittersweet emotions.   It would have been nice to leave those girders at GZ.

Irene, Meet Lee. Lee, Meet Irene.

Wednesday: still raining here in the GNC, more than ten days after Irene.

Stories continue to emerge of catastrophe, personal hardship and depression. At the post office, a stranger said to me, out of nowhere, "These are the only clothes I have."  She tugged at her T-shirt, many sizes too big, but her shoes looked new, donated.

Everywhere I go I see homes pushed off the foundations, sunken into trenches, washed into the stream (stream by nostalgic name only), broken into chunks, smashed against uprooted trees.  This caused the rushing water to change course, into other homes that had been protected. The people whose homes these were are now themselves without foundation, sunken, nostalgic, broken and uprooted.  They must change course, too, and it is still raining.  I went from the post office to the grocery store. "I haven't seen this much destruction since the war," said a friend. He meant World War II, in Dresden, where he was raised.

Yesterday, I ventured off the mountaintop, to Kingston, for supplies. People, cars and businesses were  going about their normal activities of daily living.  I didn't run into any roadblocks, detours, emergency vehicles or National Guard personnel.  I thought of going to a movie to move my mind off the mayhem, but it was still raining and I didn't want to risk another road washing away before I could get back to the mountaintop.

Normal Activities of Daily Living.  What a nice idea. I think I will try it myself today.

The GNC After Irene

It has taken me a few days to assimilate what happened here in the GNC since Irene passed through a few days ago.  I'm not sure I have completely assimilated it, because each time I travel around the Mountaintop, I am overcome once again by awe at nature, sadness at destruction and optimism at people.

Since Irene, the weather has been magnificent, the kind of weather summer vacationers come here to enjoy.  But I can't enjoy it.  I can't swim in the lake, because it's not reachable, or bike my favorite routes, because many are not passable.  One of my favorite bike routes is "Nine Bridges", so named because the route crosses the Schoharie Creek nine times in about twenty miles.  Six of the nine bridges are gone.  One of my favorite swimming holes is unreachable - in fact, the National Guard was needed to rescue residents from the road that leads to the lake. A friend's home, that last week sat on the banks of a babbling brook, no longer sits there. When I meet friends and neighbors, we are dumbstuck in speechless awe.  Irene had power, but no grace.  Irene had fury, but no elegance.  Irene had kick, but no tact.

I can't enjoy the weather because there is too much sadness.  There are many homes like my friend's in Haines Falls that are gone, or if not gone, have become inhabitable.  They are teetering on a newly expanded riverbank, or they are longer retained by a retaining walls or roofs and walls have collapsed under the weight of tree trunks torn from their roots.  Cliches like "tossed like matchsticks" don't capture the awe or the sadness.  An 82-year-old holocaust survivor could not survive Irene - imagine the sadness of her husband who saw her drown when their tiny house was rammed by a torrent while we was in the garage a few yards away.  Can you empathize with the parents of a 19-year-old son whose car hydroplaned into a tree a few miles from home and killed him?  About ten miles from my home, a  45-year-old man, blinded by the sheets of rain, drove off a road that had been there all his life until moments before he arrived this time - can you feel the feelings of the motorist on the other side of that crevasse who watched him drive into it?  If you can get your mind around it, try to imagine the sadness of a farmer who watched his two hundred dairy cows as they were grabbed off their pasture by the raging Schoharie, to be drowned en masse as they struggled against the turbulent current.  His pasture land, crops, equipment and buildings are destroyed, too.

I do see optimism coming slowly down the road.  Friends and neighbors are becoming closer friends and better neighbors.  Generosity is everywhere.  At the supermarket, I watched second in line pay the balance of the man in from who was short of cash for bottled water.  He paid the balance for his new friend with food stamps.  A call for generators produced more generators than could be used; a call for empty propane containers to be donated produced a mountain of containers to be filled and donated by the local company.  A call for volunteers at a food pantry produced food and volunteers in excess of those rescued.  Donations of hand sanitizers, toilet paper and baby wipes are everywhere.  But I can see it: the optimists are sad and awestruck.

I want to hang on to my awe and grow my optimism.  The sadness, which I would be quite happy to jettison into the now quiet Schoharie, is stuck within, though, like the deep, ragged craters in the beautiful, gently rolling GNC roads that, after Irene, go nowhere.

Summary of Irene

"It was a dark and stormy night"

Irene is a big one!

Things That Are Doing It: Brace Yourselves, It’s Gonna Be a Big One - http://pulse.me/s/1nwIQ

Hurricane Irene Preparation Checklist

1. Remove everything from front deck – place on back deck.
2. Purchase a case of wine or two. 
3. Find the candles and matches somewhere in the garage. 
4. Fill up the streaming Netflix queue.
5. Purchase a case of beer or two.
6. Find all the flashlights that need batteries somewhere in the garage.
7. Place everything that needs a good hosing down in the center of the driveway, away from the house.
8. Find the good old fashioned transistor radio somewhere in the garage.  Probably needs batteries.
9. Purchase a case of vodka or two.
10. Eat frozen food for lunch and dinner so it doesn't spoil during power failure.
11. Take clothes off the clothesline.
12. Find those knee high wading boots somewhere in the garage.
13. Try again to un-jam the damn window that won’t close in the den.
14. Purchase several bags of ice.
15. Don’t bother to water the lawn.
16. Don’t bother to wash the car.
17. Don’t bother to stain the deck.
18. Be sure both dogs are inside the house.
19. Put car in garage.  Remember to close garage door.
20. Fill bathtub with ice, wine, beer and vodka. Place candles and matches nearby.
    

Did I forget anything?

Waiting For Irene

To prepare for Irene, in addition to all the standard procedures, I decided to dig a ditch to bury the downspout  from the rain gutters on the roof. Currently, the rain runs out onto the surface of the lawn - no big deal when the rain is less than hurricane volume, but a bit of a concern if the predicted rainfall materializes, since it will then flow into the basement.  So, I borrowed a pick-axe from a friend, went to the hardware store for supplies, and began digging.

As most of you in the GNC know, the ground here is very rocky.  I was reminded of this when I saw sparks flying from the pick.  Some of the stones are movable, others were stubborn. I'm guessing the iceberg effect was in play - that the round portion I could see at the surface, poking eight inches out of my trench, was about 1% of the mass of the boulder.  Well, I said to myself, no reason the ditch has to be a straight line.  If the stones won't roll, the ditch will have to go around them.

Two hours of pick-axing later, to my surprise, I discovered there had once been a stone wall at the spot where the ditch would empty into the roadside trench.  Even a former city boy like me knows the ditch has to go under the stone wall, not over it or through it.  I suppose it had been a sturdy stone wall in the distant past, but now it is rather flimsy, so I think I will be able to snake the drain pipe under it before Irene arrives.

Ah, ha! When I bought the house a few years ago, the seller didn't tell me there was a stone path leading to the steps of  the deck hidden under the topsoil. The slate stepping stones are now covered by grass, weeds and moss.  I found a bit of this abandoned walkway when I tried to re-route the trench around the boulders.  Maybe, after Irene passes, I will dig up the old walkway and make it nice once again.  In the meantime, with Irene arriving shortly, I focused on the trench for the downspout, weaving it around the prehistoric rocks and the slick slate toward the roadside trench.

After four hours of work, the pick axe had become rather heavy and repeatedly hitting the obstinate boulders had dulled the sharp end.  I hadn't gotten that far with the trench, about ten feet long, I'd say, and not deep or wide enough to put down the Item 4 and the plastic drain pipe I bought at the hardware store.  Today's rainstorm, which turned my sad little trench to a gloppy, meandering  Amazon of mud, isn't part of Irene, it's just your average GNC mountaintop sheets of rain.

When I get up tomorrow, I'm going to finish the trench.  But tonight, I'm running a hot bath filled with two pounds of epsom salt.  Irene had better show up with a few friends and stay for the weekend.      

Quiet, Please

I want to listen to the rain bouncing off the leaves onto the grass, not your kids shouting "Mama, Mama, Mama" across the yard while you ignore them.

I love to hear to the Schoharie, swollen with run-off, rushing past, slamming into and over the rocks in its bed, not the whizzing, beeping and whirring of the musical Frisbee you toss back and forth in the yard.

I appreciate thunder as it winds through the valley, reverberating off cliffs and echoing across the steep walls of the clove, not the racket of kids screaming "Shut Up!" at their too-numerous-to-count siblings.

I need to absorb the sounds of the GNC night, uninterrupted by the cacophony of your family, friends and hangers-on as you go about your business on cell phones, outside on the porch.

And please, MIDAS-ize the run-down, wrinkled, out of tune Caravan with the imitation Thule box on top.  Every time you pull in or out of the driveway, it sounds like a blitzkrieg.

Enjoy your two-week rental property in the GNC. Thank you.

This Blog is on vacation August 6-14. Leaving the mountaintop for the beach.

Three Helpful Hints for Living in the GNC, (learned by personal experience in the last three days)

1. If you leave your shoes outside on the porch overnight, be sure to shake them out before you put them on in the morning.
   
2. Try as you might with any combination of solvents, deodorizers, detergents or other old-wives-tales remedies, nothing removes skunk spray.
   
3. To avoid roadkill, either witnessing the aftermath or causing it, don't go anywhere in a car.

Dogs and Death in the GNC

Yesterday at the bank, while I was at the teller's counter, a big black Lab appeared at the drive-up window in the driver's seat and proceeded to drop an envelope into the sliding tray.  The teller didn't mind the slobber, recorded the transaction and then said, "Nice to see you again, Smith" as the pick up drove away.  I asked if Smith was the dog's name or the owner's name.  The teller said, "The dog - like Smith & Wesson".  Yup, people here love their dogs (and their guns).  Wesson was in the back seat.

At a neighbor's house party last week, there were four guests, and each brought a dog.  I left  my two dogs at home because the host's dog once attacked my dog, necessitating a trip to the vet.  All the dogs got along fine this time until food started to drop from the table.  It was interesting to watch how the owners reacted to their own pet's begging compared to the others.  Table manners matched up pretty well.

A friend down the road in West Kill has a pretty pooch with sad eyes and arthritic hind quarters. A friend up the road in Lanesville has an outdoor-only dog named Shubert who sings along to classical music, preferably Shubert.  A friend up the hill in Jewett has a Lab named after a huge NFL linebacker of roughly equal size.  This dog could swallow a pig without a hiccup.  Across the valley in Windham,  there's a terrier - chihuahua mix that is a nervous wreck, not sure if it wants to be European or Mexican.  At the mountain in Hunter, there lives a pure white Siberian who can't wait for it to snow so he can romp down the trails next to his owner on skis.  He seems to hibernate in the summer (the dog, not the owner.)

At the vet last week, as I waited to purchase the monthly supply of  hormones for one of my dogs, out came a corpse, wrapped in mover's padding.   Three people were needed to carry it out to the waiting pick-up.  The owners followed, sobbing, heaving and barely able to walk.  I don't know if the COD was an accident (there is a lot of road kill here in the GNC) or a put down - I suspect the latter, since they were prepared with the padding.  I wonder how soon before the owners get another dog.  

One of my dogs is diabetic, blind and incontinent.  The other is deaf.  Both are quite old for their breed. Today, I woke up wondering where on the property to bury them when that becomes necessary, and how to make a proper headstone that will endure the harsh GNC winters.  As I was pondering, a friend called in tears to say she had put down her Shepherd last week due to cancer.  She could hardly draw a breath.

I called a city friend to discuss my dogs' fates. He said, "Just put them down, together.  No big deal.  You'll get another one. Dogs are a nuisance anyway."

Cityfolk -- what do they know about dogs and the GNC?

Friends in the GNC

In NYC, a friend does a friend a favor like swiping a metro card when one is low, or picking up Chinese food when passing the place with the best crispy tofu, or holding a place in line for Shakespeare in the Park. These are nice little favors, appreciated for sure, but truthfully, they don't take much effort on the part of the friend doing the favor.

In the GNC, a friend does a friend a favor like driving forty miles in a torrential downpour to pick up a stranded bicyclist, or bringing a backhoe on a trailer to your house to move boulders the size of Rhode Island into their proper places, or loading their pick up truck with a half-ton of Item 4 and delivering it at exactly the right moment to grade the driveway.  Now, those are favors with a capital "F".

Yesterday, a typical GNC day - clear weather in the morning, downpour in the afternoon leading to a breezy, cool beautiful dusk, friends came through on three different occasions, each one requiring much more effort than passing a metro card back through the turnstile.  So, to my friends in the GNC who did me three great favors yesterday, Thanks A Lot!

You know who you are.

If I can pick up the dry cleaning for you, let me know.

Utter Nunsense!

I couldn't believe my eyes -- downtown Hunter covered in cars, all the usual parking spots filled, cars even using the volunteer fire department's private back yard.  The Doctorow Center on Main Street was buzzing - people chatting in the lobby, a line for tickets (the first time in my time in the GNC that I've seen a line for tickets for anything except lift tickets at Hunter), very few seats available in the theater.  No, not for Harry Potter; I saw that last week here and I was one of five in the theater.  The commotion was for the Saturday night performance of the Greene Room Players' production of Nunsense.  


It was a laugh-a-minute night of musical comedy.  The book, music and lyrics about the "Little Hobos" of Hoboken, NJ by Dan Goggin (who must have been a Catholic school drop-out) was putty in the hands of Linda Nichols, the director, musical director and choreographer.  The Sisters could not have been more natural combinations of "gentle but firm", which, come to think of it, describes every Nun I have ever met.   Every member of the production was Talented and Perfectly cast.  The mother superior ("Lake Superior") and her side-kick Sister Mary Hubert ("The Black Sea") played off each other with marvelous timing and rapport.

Sure, there were predictable Nun jokes ("Attila the Nun", The Flying Nun and the necessary penguin march) but they were delivered in such an off-hand way that they managed to avoid being trite and instead became charming.

Every member of the all-female cast was up to the tasks of her  role, but two numbers were show stoppers. Sister Mary Amnesia, played by Kelly Transue, belted out a touching "I Could've Gone To Nashville" so well that the crowd was ready to line dance in the aisles.  Two numbers later, Sister Mary Hubert, played by Myra Garcia, doing her best Whoopi from Sister Act, delivered "Holier Than Thou" as if we were at a gospel revival in the Bible Belt.

Congratulations to the GRP, who proved that  Hey -- there's talent in them thar hills!

Death Watch

Tomorrow morning, the Doctor is coming to put them down.  Six of them. One diseased, two struck by lightning in separate storms, three others huddled together, dead  from unknown causes. If they fall naturally - by high winds or ice storms or heavy snow -  they threaten the power line, the roof and glass picture window, so they must be lassoed, slashed, dis-membered and caused to fall in the other direction, away from the house.

I feel like I should cover the mirrors and dress in black.

It's before 10pm, maybe I can still call it off.

BGH Invades GNC!

What do I know?  When I relocated  to the GNC from NYC, I was more worried about roaches and rats inside the house than weeds and critters outside.  That was before I knew about the Beastly Giant Hogweed -- its straight out of Harry Potter!  I'm sure its used in some sort of spell that makes Muggles allergic to the sun.  It's true --  the DEC says the sap of the BGH causes a  condition called "photo-dermatitis", sensitivity to sunlight.  A bad thing, since there's buckets full of sunlight in the GNC.

The BGH can cause blisters that are painful and result in permanent scarring. On the other hand, it's flowers are beautiful, resembling an elegant white umbrella, like Pippa Middleton would carry at the Saratoga races.  For those of us who don't know the difference between flowering weeds (like the BGH) and flowers (like the pretty what-cha-ma-call it growing near my mini-waterfall), it's scary.  I probably would have cut it down and put the pretty flowers in a crystal vase, and thereby turned myself nocturnal overnight.

The DEC warns, if you come in contact with a BGH, don't touch it or use a weed-whacker on it, since the sap may splatter onto you -- and then you're a goner.  Given the sensitivity to sunlight, you became a vampire, only going to the local pub after dark.  You can expect "long term sensitivity to sunlight" -- not a good thing if you like to go fishing, hiking, biking or otherwise wander about the GNC during daylight hours.

Not to mention, "possible blindness".

Quoting the Times Union, "[The Giant Hogweed] was brought to this country in the early 20th century because it's an amazing ornamental plant.  It can grow to 14 feet tall."  Well, the one on my property is not quite 14 feet but, let me tell you, I've been humming tunes from "Little Shop of Horrors" since I saw it over there overshadowing the basil.

To report a giant hogweed on your property, call the DEC at 845-256-3111 and say "Hello, Hogweed Man?  We've got a problem!".  Then, stock up on sunglasses, aloe vera and vampire novels.

How To Get to the GNC

In the winter, the skiers drive.  Skiers seem to own cars.  With all the equipment, there's not much choice.  In the autumn, the Leaf Peepers rent cars and drive from inn to inn comparing beds and breakfasts from day to day.

In the summer, my guests who are not skiers or peepers are always asking directions and some of their questions are rather obtuse, such as, "If I take the train from Grand Central to Yonkers, can I connect to a train to Hudson?" Yeah, you can, but why not just take a train from Penn Station direct to Hudson?  Or connect Poughkeepsie to Hudson, right across the platform?  In any case, from those of you visiting for the rest of the summer, bookmark this page and refer to it as needed.

1. Trailways Bus to Kingston from Port Authority.  Connect at Kingston for local bus to Phoenica or  Hunter.  I can pick you up in Kingston if the bus is too crowded or you are sitting next to someone objectionable.  I don't mind, and the car ride is much nicer than the bus ride from that point -- Route 23A past the Falls is pretty rather than Route 28, boring.  It's about 45 minutes to my house from Kingston.

2. Amtrak from Penn Station to Hudson.  This is the best choice, but the most expensive.  I can meet your train, we can have dinner at a nice restaurant in Hudson and then come to the mountaintop, about a 40 minute ride.

3. Metro-north to Poughkeepsie.  This is the most frequent schedule, but the longest ride for me to come get you, about 1:15 each way.  If you plan it well, you can connect Poughkeepsie to Hudson, but, as I said, if you do that, why didn't you depart from Penn Station (amtrak) instead of Grand Central (metro north), and skip the connection altogether.

4. Rideshare via Craigslist, at your own risk.  Doable, though, and cheap -- usually, you chip in for gas.  However, many  of these drivers are college kids stopping at New Paltz which doesn't get you here.  Better to find a college kid going to Oneonta -- they come right through Hunter on Route 23A.  Oneonta is about 65 miles down the road, so they can come and use the bathroom.

5. Rent  a car without mileage charges.  Its about 125 miles each way and when you get here, you'll want to sight see so that's more mileage.  Problem with this is summertime traffic going home Sunday night.  Could be a problem if there's an accident or heavy volume on the GWB.  My advice -- come Saturday instead of Friday night and stay over Sunday night and go home Monday morning;  this avoids all the traffic.

6. Limo or radio-dispatch car one way.  If you can get a good half-day flat rate, this can work.  A good driver can make it round trip in 5 hours, so if you can get a good rate for 4 passengers it works out cheaper than peak Amtrak tickets to Hudson x 4.

7. Hitchhike -- not recommended.  Unreliable as to elapsed time and company. Risky.

8. Flying to Albany or Stewart doesn't really work unless you are coming from a long distance.

9. However, helicopter works great, as there is a heli-pad about 1/4 mile from my house.  You can walk to my house from the helipad.  If you are serious about this method, let me know and I will send you the GPS coordinates of the pad.  You can see it clearly on Google maps, just west of my address.

10. Your idea here.  I am amazed at some of the ideas my friends suggest, so if you think of something else, please comment and I will list it here. Zip-car counts as rental; roller blades and bicycles are not considered serious alternatives, even for those of you who can ride a century.

However you get here, it is a great pleasure to have you as a guest.  Enjoy all the GNC has to offer.

Your guest pass expires in three days.

Energy Companies Seek To Demolish GNC

The Department has determined, based on industry projections, that it may receive applications to drill approximately 1,700 – 2,500 horizontal and vertical wells for development of the Marcellus Shale by HVHF during a “peak development” year.  An average year may see 1,600 or more applications.

Hydraulic fracturing requires chemical additives, some of which may pose hazards when highly concentrated.  The extra water associated with such drilling may also result in significant adverse impacts relating to water supplies, wastewater treatment and disposal and truck traffic.  Horizontal wells also generate greater volumes of drilling waste (cuttings).


A spacing of 40 acres per well for vertical shale gas wells would result in, on average, 70 – 80 acres of disturbance for the well pads, access roads and utility corridors (4.8  acres per well) to develop an area of 640 acres. A single well pad with 6 to 8 horizontal shale gas wells could access all 640 acres with only 7 to 8 acres of  total land disturbance.

It is estimated that 2.4 million to 7.8 million gallons of water may be used for a multi-stage hydraulic fracturing procedure in a typical 4,000-foot lateral wellbore.  Water may be delivered by truck or pipeline directly from the source to the well pad, or may be delivered by trucks or pipeline from centralized water storage or staging facilities consisting of tanks or engineered impoundments.

Potential significant adverse impacts on water resources exist with regard to water withdrawals for hydraulic fracturing; stormwater runoff; surface spills, leaks and pit or surface impoundment failures; groundwater impacts associated with well drilling and construction; waste disposal and New York City’s subsurface water supply infrastructure.  During the public scoping process, additional concerns were raised relating to the potential degradation of New York City’s surface drinking water supply and potential groundwater contamination from the hydraulic fracturing procedure itself.


Using an industry estimate of a yearly peak activity in New York of 2,462 wells, the dSGEIS  estimates that HVHF would result in a calculated peak annual fresh water usage of 9 billion gallons.  Total daily fresh water withdrawal in New York has been estimated at about 10.3 billion gallons.  This equates to an annual total of about 3.8 trillion gallons.


The dSGEIS concludes that spills or releases in connection with HVHF could have significant adverse impacts on water resources.  The dSGEIS identifies a significant number of contaminants contained in fracturing additives, or otherwise associated with HVHF operations.  Spills or releases can occur as a result of tank ruptures, equipment or surface impoundment failures, overfills, vandalism, accidents (including vehicle collisions), ground fires, or improper operations.  Spilled, leaked or released fluids could flow to a surface water body or infiltrate the ground, reaching subsurface soils and aquifers.

...shall I go on?


Why are you just sitting there?  If you love the GNC, shouldn't you be doing something? Much more on this topic very soon.

All excerpts UNEDITED from revised draft SGEIS 2011, Executive Summary
Get The Complete Report Here

Independence Day, ignored

One of the most American traits of the GNC is the "Live and Let Live" mentality.  I noticed it as soon as I moved here.  Beyond a few fundamental rules, like paying your taxes and driving sober, you can pretty choose to live how you'd like -- mow your lawn or not, educate your kids at home or in public school (there's a lot of home schooling here), shoot firearms or fireworks in your backyard, socialize or not, it's up to you.

A great number of people have chosen to embrace this good old American freedom to the max.  In the GNC, we have at least three notable communities of substantial population - the Bruderhof Community, centered on Platte Clove Road, the Indian culture, meditation-oriented Peace Village, centered on Route 23A in Haines Falls, and the Hasidic Jewish community, centered in Tannersville, near Rip Wan Winkle Lake.  All these folks enjoy substantial privacy, interacting with the rest of us as they wish, and usually they wish not.  There is some interaction in the course of business, but not much.  As far as I can tell, there's no particular outward hostility shown toward any of the communities, though I have heard some resentment about their expertise at tax avoidance.

So, that is why is it so puzzling to me, as a relative newcomer to the GNC, that on July 4th, Independence Day, the day we celebrate the USA and all its history, ideals, freedoms and idiosyncrasies (hot dog eating contests, watermelon-pit spitting contests, beer-drinking beyond all reasonableness, etc.) that there was no representation at any event I attended by anyone recognizable from any of those three communities.  (Believe me, they're recognizable.) You would think that those who are enjoying the freedom to dis-associate from the rest of us would, at least on that one day, show their appreciation to the country that allows them this much latitude.

I'm not saying there should be fireworks over Peace Village or that the Bruderhof folks should dress in red, white and blue or that the Hasidim should eat hot dogs and ice cream on Main Street, but somehow, somewhere, shouldn't they participate a little to show their appreciation for the country that embraces "Live and Let Live" as a basic premise, which they enjoy so completely?

Even if it's expressed as G-d Bless America?

Such Cute Little Fireworks

Bear Creek is a little business at the junction of Route 23A and Route 214, east of Hunter, west of Tannersville. The proprietors try hard to entertain the local families and the summer visitors, giving them something to do in the evening when the Sky Ride and Zip Line at nearby Hunter Mountain close for the day. There's a restaurant and bar, mini-golf, a driving range, horseback rides, a kiddie playground.  They tried paint ball, they tried go-karts.  To their credit, they keep trying things to attract a few bucks and make a living.

Last night, they lit up a fireworks show, and boom!  As they do every time, fireworks worked.  People in the GNC love their  fireworks and hundreds converged on Bear Creek to watch.  The extravaganza went on for thirty minutes, featuring all your favorite pyrotechnic effects and ended with a patriotic display of red, white and blue sparkles in the night sky. Everyone left feeling quite American, I'm sure.  Good Job, Bear Creek.

About 3am, Mother Nature decided she would show Bear Creek how to put on a show.  Lightning lit the sky as if it were high noon; thunder rocketed through Stony Clove, echoing from peak to peak and rattling my window panes.  The sky threw furious rain at the GNC. (Still is, as I write this Sunday morning.)

We sat on our deck last night, watching the fireworks rise just over the treetops, impressed by the effort Bear Creek had put into producing the show. We awoke this morning thinking how cute those little firecrackers were.  If you really want to see a brilliant show, wait for a lightning storm in the GNC.

Sacred Rituals of the GNC

Our home in the GNC is our first.  In NYC co-ops and condos, there are superintendents, handymen, doormen, porters and janitors employed by the building to service the needs of the residents.  For example, in NYC "recycling" consists of separating the New York Times from the days food waste (no larger than a wastebasket) and placing them in separate labeled sanitary receptacles no more than 10 feet down the hall.  The building staff does the rest. There's no going to the solid waste transfer station (in other words, the dump) with a dozen smelly 33-gallon black plastic containers filled with crap of all kinds, including several dead birds that crashed into the picture window in the high winds.

I have learned there are ten sacred rituals performed at prescribed times of the year by most homeowners in GNC.  These rites are not shared with newcomers -- you must learn them yourself  through trial and error before you can become a full-fledged member of  the homeowner's fraternity.  I am talking beyond mowing the grass and shoveling the snow.  These rituals keep us in touch with the grandeur of nature in the GNC.

1. The whacking of the weeds
2. The hogging of the brush
3. The pumping of the septic
4. The de-leafing of the gutters
5. The de-mouse-ing of the attic
6. The staining of the deck
7. The power-washing of the cocoons
8. The fumigating of the hornets nests
9. The organizing of the garage (to make room for the car)
10. The re-filling of the tiki torches.

Each of these has its own risks and rewards.  Sometimes the risks are high (hornets don't like having their nests destroyed) and the rewards seem negligible (the weeds need to be whacked again 24 hours later), but in the GNC, we keep on keeping on because Mother Nature never rests, Father Time marches on and the there are more damn mosquitoes than Chins in the Hong Kong phone book.

Visit Poet's Ledge...while you still can!

Due to previous commitments, I'll miss the June 25 hike sponsored by the Mountain Top Historical Society, but it sounds like a great one, so I hope you go and tell me all about it.

The destination is Poet's Ledge which provides spectacular views from the south side of Kaaterskill Clove.  The starting point is the MTHS compound, just past the entrance to Twilight Park in Haines Falls as you climb Route 23A from Palenville.  Meet there at 9am on Saturday, prepared to hike all day -- they say you won't return to the compound until 4pm.  You'll pass three different waterfalls not seen from the road and arrive at Poet's Ledge mid-day. Given you are arriving at such a romantic destination, you should no doubt have with you camera with long-distance lens (none of the cell phone cameras will do for this vista) and  notebook to record the poetry that will sprout from you like ash from a virulent volcano.

They say the difficulty of the hike is "moderate" which means espadrilles won't work.  My experience is pants work better than shorts, since pants protect you from thistles, insect bites and poison ivy about the ankles. True hiking boots work better than sandals, sneakers or flip-flops since you are likely to be hiking in mud, shallow streams and slippery terrain.  I spray generous doses of heavy-duty insect repellent on the brim of my baseball cap, on a bandanna around my neck and on my socks so that the reminders of the event are my photographs and poems, not my rash and itchy bites.

There's no concession stand at Poet's Ledge, though I understand there are negotiations underway for a casino to be built there.

Start at Alpine Garden in Windham...

...proceed north for a short distance on Route 296.  Make a left onto Route 23 and drive a short distance to County Route 21,  Mitchell Hollow Road. Turn right and enjoy the scenery as Mitchell Hollow rolls up for two or three miles, past homesteads, horse farms, fields of wild flowers and abandoned shacks. Make a left onto County Route 10 and catch your breath, because you will become breathless over the next few miles.  County Route 10 skirts Mt. Pisgah State Forest,  then Ashland Pinnacle State Forest, then Huntersfield State Forest before it meanders down into Prattsville. Go slow the entire distance on Route 10 so as to appreciate all that is around you. Likely yours will be the only car, and thus you will be likely to surprise the contented critters along the road.

You'll drop into Prattsville, the western-most town in Greene County before you cross into Delaware County, where the GNC begins to undulate into more agricultural terrain.  Make a left onto Route 23.  You'll now be heading south then east, toward Ashland.  (Be careful -- just past Pratt's Rock Route 23 veers east; if you miss the turn, you'll be on Route 23A, heading toward Lexington.) Stay on Route 23 and continue in awe of the beauty of the GNC. Glance at Batavia Kill (on your right) a few times as you drive; there are small falls here and there, and on the left is a small, very old, one-room chapel, in case you want to get married or give thanks.

If you're hungry, there are a few places in Windham to stop for lunch or dinner, some with a view of Windham Mountain Ski Area, or you can continue through town (slowly - cops!), up cemetery hill (as the locals call it) and back to Route 296.  Make a right, and shortly you will be back where you started at Alpine Garden.  (There's no garden there -- it's all around you.)

You can cover this circuit by car in about an hour.  I did it on a bike and it was my quads that screamed at me to blog this.

A Little Night Music

What is the strange and deep attachment I have to certain music played at night through the open windows and doors of my house, into the rocky rolling terrain of the GNC?  It’s not the volume that thrills me – it’s not that loud – it’s the longevity of the music’s wave through the atmosphere.  The critters living upslope are too far away to hear the music, but I have the feeling that they know music has been played downslope.  I bet the sound waves they do hear leaving my deck have an imperceptible undertone of harmonics out of the ordinary for them. 

Other than the creatures and me, there’s no one to hear the music drifting into the edge of the night shade.  The nearest occupied house is more than a half-mile away West or East; my amps don’t reach them or the houses North across the Schoharie.   Their earshot is muffled by the rhythm of its current.  To the south, there is no one for miles and two thousand feet of elevation gain to share my musical choices.  After passing through me, the music undulates into space for whatever good may come of it.  It’s my way of sending a signal for the SETI scientists.

On other nights, the electronic equipment is silent and the music I hear is outside coming in -- a symphony of jagged terrain, creatures buzzing in all keys, shifting shadows, rhythmic current providing an unending bass line, being played for me and anyone else who takes the time to shake out the rattle and hum and listen to it.  

Inside out or outside in, either way is fine with me.  (What was I playing when I wrote this?)

Shopping in the GNC...

...is such a pleasure. The stores are small and personal, eclectic and eccentric, reflecting much more the tastes and personalities of the proprietors than stores in a strip mall, mega mall, outlet mall, or mall.  I prefer the historic section of Kingston (you pull up, you park) to the busy section of Kingston, though I must stop at Petco twice a month.  I prefer the Main St of Catskill (you pull up, you park) to the Walmart side of Catskill, though I must stop at Lowe's twice a month.  I prefer to search for a book at the Catskill Mountain Foundation in Hunter, or on Main Street in Hudson (you pull up, you park), though I do find myself at Barnes & Noble about twice a month.  I haven't been to Albany area malls, Woodbury Common or the outlets along the Northway since I moved to the GNC.

Yesterday, I tried bringing that "Let's Explore" approach to Woodstock.  No parking!  As we used to say in NYC, fu-get-a-bout-it!

I Know A Place

In the GNC, I know of a humble, dignified lake.  Slightly to the West of  it's sister lake, it sits serenely, just big enough to enjoy its stature among other local lakes, small enough to swim across and back without getting fatigued. When I was there today swimming in its sweet water, with fish brushing my legs, I was the only human there.  I was in awe of my good fortune, to be alone swimming in this lake, and the lake was aware too, that it had company for a while.

Later in the summer, this lake will have visitors of all shapes and sizes from morning til dusk, and solitude here will be harder to find - perhaps at dawn.  Today, though, I had all the clean air, clean water, sunshine and peace that anyone could ever need.

Damn mosquitoes!

Rust Farm For Sale

For all you city folk dreaming of a lifestyle in the GNC, here is your chance to purchase an operating rust farm in beautiful West Kill, in the heart of the Catskill Mountains. 

Nestled between the fast-growing, quaint cities of Lexington and Shandaken on Route 42, this 40-acre farm features more than four dozen vehicles, farm implements and corrugated tin rusting away in the bright sunshine.  Conditions are perfect here for an abundant crop of fresh, fragrant rust year after year.

The prize possessions of the farm are several 1950s Ford pick-up trucks (pictured below), that have been award-winning rust producers for the past several decades.  The mushrooms growing under them are rich in iron, from the rust dripping onto the soil, so they will be delicious added to your salad of local leafy vegetables, sun-ripened tomatoes and  flavorful herbs. 

Given the state of the world economy, the price of rust will only go up: since fewer metal goods are being produced now, there will be less rust available when it is needed ten or twenty years from now.  Your retirement income is growing before your eyes!  

Sit on the front porch of your classic, original 1880's farm house and listen to the silent hum of oxidation working for you.   Leave the stress of city life behind!  

For more information about owning your own genuine GNC Rust Farm, please contact:

Meshuga Rust Farm, Route 42, West Kill, NY 12492. 
(We have no email, fax or internet service.)  No brokers.  
Serious Inquiries Only.  Pets OK.

Nature's Miracle

National Geographic magazine has shown us all numerous species from all over the world that have adapted to their environment by disguising themselves with color that perfectly matches their surroundings. Here in the GNC, this has occurred as well. Below is a rare snapshot of the Great Northern Flip-Flop captured in its native surroundings.  This is the male of the species, as it is the females who exhibit colorful plumage, designed to attract the drab males during mating season, when they propagate next season's stylish teva sandals.

Perfect Night For Fireflies

Last night's  hot, humid, calm air was perfect for fireflies and they knew it.

In the GNC, County Route 2, from  Mosquito Point to Prattsville, climbs the shoulders of Mt Vly and then takes a long, windy descent, past farm land, forest preserve and a few scattered homes until it rejoins Route 23 near the border with Delaware County.  As I drove it after dark last night, short darts of light punctuated the road, the lawns and the fields.  They were short flashes, but there were so many of them, that it had a disco-ball effect on me. I pulled over near Harry Peckham Road and decided to count them.

To be sure I didn't count the same firefly twice, I had to catch it and tag it with a sequence number.  I searched the car for something to use for this purpose, and all I could find was an old roll of raffle tickets used to track door prize chances.  The numbered tickets went up to 1,000, so I figured I could tag 1,000 and then extrapolate from there based on the volume of atmosphere surrounding Mt Vly.

I caught the first firefly and attached the tag to it with a rubber band from the glove compartment.  Of course - I should have known - the tag was too heavy for the firefly to lift off.  So, I had to rip the raffle tickets into four pieces, thereby having enough tags for 4,000 fireflies.  I soon ran out of rubber bands and so I used little pieces of  bubble gum for the rest.  This worked well enough, though the flies seemed a bit wobbly as they flew away.

When I had completed tagging 3,999 and looked out over the fields, it seemed as if I hadn't accomplished a damn thing -- there were still hundreds and hundreds -- perhaps thousands more.  So, I said to Number 4,000, "There are so many of you guys...how many of you are there?"  I released the fly and was about to drive away, thinking how foolish I was to try to count fireflies in the GNC.

As I walked toward the car, I stopped to enjoy another deep breath of the sweet, oxygen-rich air.  There above me in the cloudless sky, the fireflies had formed 9,999,999,999,996,000 in blinking dots.

Stragglers (Mountain Jam, Part IV)

The back-channel comments about the T-Shirts were very funny, and some of your additions were better than mine,  particularly the one that had a picture of a UPC over an ample chest with the slogan "Check These Out".
Based on my observations, the answers are A-3, B-5, C-1, D-4, E-2.

Today, nothing but stragglers left around.  The parking lots are empty except for a few RVs, the litter will get picked up over the next few days and the State Troopers have gone back to their regular routes.  Tickets for cell phone use while driving (STD?) a little strange given the DUI candidates that must have been available. I only heard the ambulance siren four times over the weekend, so I guess that is a success.

Between the Hunter webcams and the WDST web-streaming, being nearby with a broadband connection was almost as much fun as being inside the gates, unless you love using those port-a-potties.  Some of the music didn't rise to the occasion, some did!, but those friends did show, pitch a tent, pick up their mittens, have some lunch off the barbie, and tell stories about the former girl-friend.  If this were a different kind of blog, I would share them with you. Let me just say, the former girl-friend's T-shirt read "If I'm Not Happy, Nobody's Happy."

Match The T-Shirts to the Chicks at Mountain Jam

A. Biker Chick (leathers top to bottom) 

B. Rocker Chick (multiply pierced)

C. Hippy Chick (very long hair in braids)

D. Stoner Chick (not quite goth)

E. City Chick (espadrilles in the mud)

1. I Wish These Were Brains

2. I'm Good in Bed - Can Sleep for Days

3. The Dude Fell Off!

4. She's Dead -- Get Over It! 

5. Wish You Were Beer

Check Back Tomorrow For the Answers! 

You Never Know How Many Friends You Got...

...until Mountain Jam comes along in June:

Lost your number -- hey, you found it when MJ rolled around!

Long time to see -- you got lonely just in time for MJ?

Let's do lunch -- sure,  coincidence that MJ is in full swing?

I'm in the neighborhood -- yeah, after driving 3 hours to MJ;

Did you ever find my mittens? -- you need them in June, when MJ is rockin?

It's me, Joe! -- Joe who?  The Joe that cancelled 3 ski days in March!

I broke up my girlfriend! -- in order to save the cost of a MJ pass?

Can I borrow a tent  ... to put up on your lawn? -- who are you, Ghaddafi?

...and it's is only Saturday morning.  Let's see who else decides they're my friend this weekend!

Intro to Mountain Jam at Hunter Mountain

I think MJ@HM is better reported after the event.  Let's see how it goes -- I live a mile away and its already encroaching.  After 11pm, I hear guitar bass, percussion, increased traffic, police sirens and shouting pedestrians.

Earlier today, as I walked my dogs around Dolan's Lake, I caught a glimpse of some of the arriving music lovers, clearly surprised and unprepared for the low temperatures and high winds.   Three T-shirts stood out from the expected repertoire of Rock Stars, Peace Symbols and Tie Dyes:

"Don't Worry Gringo -- I'm Here Legally."

"Make Babies Not War." (A 21st century update of the enduring Woodstock-era  slogan)

And the best T-shirt, Bumper sticker and Refrigerator magnet ever made:

"Still Pissed At Yoko."

Chillin' with Art

In the GNC, on a quiet stretch of Route 23A, West of Lexington, East of Prattsville, on the Eastbound side, there is a shady parking area with a water-level view of the Schoharie.  Mr. Art Flick spent many hundreds of hours at that spot in the Creek, perfecting his practice of trout fishing, researching the efficacy of various stream insects as bait and writing a bible on the subject. He died in August 1985 and the Catskill Mountains Chapter of Trout Unlimited wasted no time in installing a stone memorial there to the "great but humble" man who helped make trout fishing a joy for many others.


Now, Art's spot is a perfect rest stop for me as I bicycle Route 23A toward Hunter after breakfast at the Prattsville Diner.  State Troopers like the spot too, as do young couples and beer-drinkers of all ages.  No one at all is there today in this wonderful weather when I pull in for a short break and gulps of warm Gatorade. Well, I mean no one is there except Art who presides over the oasis with greatness, humility and patience as if waiting for an overdue fishing buddy.  After a few minutes, the Gatorade was consumed and I was saddling up to continue my ride home when Art said, "What's your hurry?".  


No hurry, Art. Think I'll just sit here and chill awhile.

                                                                                    Aug. 3, 1904 – Aug. 30, 1985                                                                  

Memorial Day

I spent Memorial Day in Canada, where it wasn't Memorial Day, and I missed it.  I was busy socializing, so I didn't catch the annual video clip on TV of the President laying the wreath on the Tomb of the Unknowns, which to me, more than anything symbolizes Memorial Day.  I didn't see the roaring Thunder Birds Washington flyover, which to me, more than anything symbolizes American military superiority.  In the GNC, the many small towns produce parades on their Main Streets, led by Veterans stuffed into their decades old uniforms, followed by high school marching bands, which to me, more than anything, symbolizes the sacrifices made by individual families. Some veterans have given up trying to make their uniform's span their torsos -- they just wear their civvies and military hats -- but they are no less proud of their service, and the townspeople (including me) are no less proud of them.  Because I was in Montreal on Memorial Day, I didn't spectate the parade in my town which I have done every year since coming to the GNC in 2004. I didn't realize how much I enjoyed watching that parade with all the other local folk 'til I missed one.

Before I left for Canada, I hung my American flag over the deck rail so that everyone driving by would remember and reflect, if only for a moment.  When I returned from Canada this morning, I noticed the wind had blown the flag onto the deck where no one could see it.   It was as if my being in a foreign country was an insult and it wasn't going to display itself in my absence.  Appropriate, I thought, as I scooped it up, folded it with proper respect and vacuum-packed it in a Space Bag until July 4th. 

For lunch just ended,  I fired up the grill, ate corn-on-the-cob and apple pie.  It was good, but if I had eaten it on Memorial Day in the GNC, it would have tasted much better.

My mobile weather apps...

...were all over last night's Rolling Thunder performance.  They issued an alert to take the blue folding chairs off the front deck, showed the storm track in pretty, dynamic colors, pointed out that I had left the weed-whacker outside, and provided other technical information in case I wanted to go fishing as the storm peaked.  With map app, I zoomed in and out on the intensity bands and then added layers of landmarks.  Radar app showed a line of rough phenomena roughly from Phoenicia to West Kill, eight miles or so West of Hunter.  Bug app predicted the storm to pass over Rt 214 at 11:09p.  It was 11:09p (according to clock app) when it did.  The frequent lightening introduced more theatrics, metrics and statistics - the app reported the number of lightening strikes in real-time.  I was so busy, I didn't check the Earthquake app!


This is not an endorsement of smartphone technology, though I must say,  the same device was my flashlight during the short power outage, and I listened Beethoven on it  as the storm rattled and echoed through Stony Clove.  I realized this morning, when the atmosphere is more hospitable, that probably I shouldn't have been using it outdoors, twirling my key chain and listening to No.5 through wireless headphones.




PS - Happy Birthday to my brother Larry!

Survived 1400 psi power wash.

Weather Permitting

Who you are are determines what it means in the GNC.  If you have appointments, but the weather clears up and its perfect for fly fishing in the Schohaire, then weather didn't permit keeping those appointments.  Depending on who your'e talking to, weather permitting means plans are cancelled if its a hot day, cold day, clear day, cloudy day, overcast day, windy day, powder day or pollen day. 


I have learned to like this approach.  I decided to mow the lawn on Tuesday, weather permitting.  It didn't. Today, weather permitted power-washing off the deck all the pollen that has collected on everything on the deck. Tomorrow, weather might permit me to mow the lawn which weather hasn't permitted me to mow for the past ten rainy days.


Tonight, the air in the GNC is cool, fresh and calm. Weather will permit a good night's sleep.

Oil Spill!

A nearby house, built in 1900, sprang an oil leak from its fuel tank in the basement; the dripping oil was transported via a water-filled trench from the basement to the backyard where it bubbled to the surface, which slopes directly to the Schoharie.  Since the Schoharie is protected better than the Queen Mother's virtue, a dozen state and local agencies sprang into action, even though it was the middle of a raw, rainy night. 


The DEP must have a love-hate relationship with oil incidents: it hates them because spills and leaks threaten the waterway it is pledged to preserve; and yet it must love them in some way, because all the knowledge and training provided at taxpayer expense to its deputies, and its raison d'etre, becomes valuable, urgent and justified.


Such was the case I witnessed: hazmat repsonse teams, DEP patrols, containment units, and many others who didn't wear identification or uniform, criss-crossed the two acre parcel on the banks of the Schohaire for two days. Now, a week later, there are still booms in the backyard absorbing what they can, oil barrels ringing the circumference of the yard, yellow "crime scene" tape surrounding the fenced-off perimeter and regular visits from those cute little hybrid green-and-white sedans.


I'm afraid to discard the leftover olive oil from tonight's dinner.

Seen in church basement near huge, illuminated bingo sign:

Gambling problem?  Call 1-800-BINGO

Names have been changed to protect the exposer and exposee

On May 14, 2011 the Catskill Police Department charged so-and-so, 46 of Catskill with "exposure of a person". 

On May 14, 2011 the Catskill Police Department charged so-and-so, 41 of Albany, N.Y. with "exposure of a person".

So, what I want to know is: what is "exposure of a person" and did they do this together?  Is it a case of double exposure?

Water Under The Bridge

Becker Hollow,  just past the footbridge, after four days of rain.

* Mine are Vixen 7 x 35, 341 ft at 1,000 yards

I'm not a "birder" by any stretch.  Nevertheless, from the front deck facing the Schoharie and and back deck facing Becker Hollow, within sight and sound there are:



thrushes(several varieties),
swifts, warblers, robins (found 3 nests of these),
jays, cardinals, finches, hawks, owl,
(in the swamp off Route 214) heron and other fowl
woodpeckers, is that maybe a Tanager?
don't know what that one is - over there -
pretty throat markings though,
not to mention crow.


I'm guessing an experienced birder with good optics* could sight fifty or more species without having to go too deep into the forest, if it would only stop raining.