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.

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.









 

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.

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.

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.      

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.

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.

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.

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?)

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!

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.

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