Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins - Adirondack

The road doesn’t take me quite high enough or close enough to the mountains to entirely satisfy the yearning, actually just awakens the mountain man in me even more. I really will have to ride some mountains next year, if not the Rockies, then at least I’ll go a bit deeper into the Appalachians. Maybe Vermont and follow the mountains south, retrace the battles of the Civil War where the Grand Army of the Potomac suffered at the hands of General Lee, yet finally prevailed. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll take the Road 28N and go further east to where it seems there’ll be more views from up on high. But now it’s cooling down and evening is coming so I’d better find somewhere to stay for the night. I’m not keen to ride these roads at night, hitting as much as a raccoon can do more than just spoil the ride.

The road takes me over a bridge, around a corner and into the Village of Long Lake, and where I’d intended to find a place to sleep at reasonable rates. My heart sinks a little, the place is pumping, well in a very sedate way, but enough to make me realize that with weather this good, in a place famous for its gorgeous autumn colors, I really ought to have had the foresight to book ahead. I haven’t even brought a groundsheet and sleeping bag. I try the Adirondack Hotel, but even as I mount the steps I have no real hope. The verandah is full of people partaking of sundowners and outside in front of the hotel, a large gang of motorcyclist are making a noise with their Harley Ds. If they didn’t actually look like an outing from Shady Pines Retirement Home they may have been quite intimidating. As it turns out there is indeed no room at the inn… damn.

Adirondack Hotel - sans Sons of Arthritis 

I am, however, not entirely daunted as I have noticed a few signs for cabins and motels. Back on the Boulevard as I pull away from the Hotel, with the ruckus still going on, courtesy of the Sons of Arthritis gang, the scariest moment of the day happens. I discover that I have managed to trap a yellow jacket wasp inside my visor. Picture this - there is a bloody frightened and angry little creature with a ferocious sting corralled between a bubble of Plexiglas and my eyes, cheeks and nose and I am balancing on a motorcycle, just pulling away into a busy street. Resisting the urge to leap off, sending my precious riderless into the traffic, and rip off my helmet takes every ounce of self-control I possess. Zen Buddhist monks be damned, this is in another league.  Perhaps it’s the presence of such a large audience to witness the events, but ever so calmly I manage to ease the motorcycle to a halt, deploy the kick-stand and flip open the modular helmet. Out of the corner of my eye I see it fly off. Had it started to actually sting me, I don’t know if I could have kept it together. These yellow jackets wasps are a real curse, they seem to be attracted to the motorcycle, often harassing me at traffic lights. I have since done some Googling and discovered that whilst the females like sugar, the males are after protein and the remains of spattered bugs on the windshield (and maybe on my visor) are the attraction.    

Once my composure returns, and despite the concern of finding somewhere to doss down for the night, I notice what a lovely little village this is, nestled in the narrow valley and hugging the shores of the lake. The main road is lined with interesting looking shops that include an old fashion style general store – it’s a little touristy, but not bad. Across from the hotel, where the geriatric delinquents have thankfully moved off, a couple of seaplanes are berthed, and there is a beach where some people are sitting in Adirondack chairs staring over the lake. It’s that human fascination with water I’ve written about before.   (Note to my Canadian readers - an Adirondack chair is known in Canada as a Muskoka chair, according to Wikipedia “…a simple rustic wooden chair for outdoor use. Originally made with 11 flat wooden boards, it features a straight back and seat and wide armrests.)

Seaplane on Long Lake 

Long Lake Village - main street

The village looks like a nice place to spend a few days, but by the looks of things it will not come to pass, as I ride past the motels they all have little signs that read “No Vacancies”. I decide to try my luck at Blue Mountain about 11 Km south, if I luck out there, then my options become very limited, and the later it gets the less chance I have of finding accommodation. The road follows the valley along the lake, slightly elevated and the view is spectacular when not obscured by trees. Then as I get to the end of what could be considered to be the outskirts of the village, I spot a sign for Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins and beneath it is a little board the reads “Vacancies”. As fast as I safely can manage the maneuver I do a U-turn, I am not going to get gezumpt with this one. Down a somewhat treacherous little road and through a lovely piece of forest, I find the equally lovely proprietor standing outside the office. It turns out that I get the last cabin, definitely the last place to stay in Long Lake, maybe the last place for miles. It is a wonderful find and I seriously recommend it, if I come this way again I'll stay here. 

The Cabin 

After moving in, now "No Vacancies" 

The feeling of relief is palpable, although it is a bit more than I had budgeted for, at $100 for the night it is expensive in absolute terms, but if you consider that the cabin actually sleeps seven people, has a fully equipped kitchen, bathroom, sitting room and verandah, it is dirt cheap. The cabin is spotless and well maintained, if somewhat oddly furnished with an incongruous mixture of lovely antiques, like real bentwood chairs in the kitchen, and cheap plastic veneered chipboard Walmart cabinets. The proprietress tells me that they are lighting a fire down at the lake and I am welcome to join them. It sounds all very pleasant, but I am really hungry, the pencil eraser salad I had for lunch in Watertown has long since ceased to sustain me. After unpacking I head back to the general store, I am not in the mood for sitting in a restaurant, but a home cooked steak and salad seems like a good idea. The general store has sirloin steaks packed on Styrofoam as big as both my hands, I buy one plus eggs for breakfast, a tomato the size of a baseball, ripe avocado and a small bottle of olive oil. Then to my horror, my debit, then credit cards, get declined. I had already parted with all my US Dollars except for $20 that is earmarked for gas, to Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins, shit there must be something wrong with the banking system. I ask if they will take Canadian money, and after some hesitation we agree on a very unfavorable exchange rate, but that’s okay an extra five dollars is not important – I have dinner, breakfast and a place to stay.

Evening at Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins,

The steak and tomato/avocado salad that I make is really good. With a glass containing a double Jack Daniels, ice and water I go down to the fire and watch the sunset. This is extraordinarily pleasant. For a time I am alone, then I’m joined by the couple that apparently got the second last cottage. Tom and Wendy. Nice people. Slightly older than me, retired and their children have left home. They are from Vermont and have been travelling around from Vermont, Maine and now Adirondack, for the past week. Going where they feel like, stopping where they want, I envy them the freedom they have.  Having emigrated at age 50 from a country with a weak currency, the probability of retirement before I am really decrepit is extremely low. Still I take the moments that I can get with both hands, and this is one of those great moments. We chat about this and that, the good old, bad old days before cell phones, PCs and Google. Then a young family join us with two young children and they roast marshmallows over the fire. The proprietress and her husband stroll down the beach arm-in-arm and join the group. They tell us about moose tracks they found on the beach. It has been years since I sat around a fire having pleasant conversation, vaguely I realize that this is about as good as it gets, and that makes me profoundly sad, but perhaps it’s just the Jack Daniels.   

Tom and Wendy

Roasting marshmallow 

 Sunset on Long Lake 

I’m up at seven, poach a few eggs for breakfast and drink a Redbull in lieu of coffee, clean up and pack. The Boulevard is wet from the dew and it is misty. Mmmm, the mist presents a dilemma – it is not too thick as to make riding dangerous, but that is here, I have no idea what it is like a kilometer down the road. I know that I won’t be seeing much in the way of mountains with this mist in the way, and who knows how long it’s going to take for it to clear. I wait a half hour, but there is no perceptible change so I decide to leave, going east does not seem to be a good option. I have over 600 Km to ride so I really must get moving and taking the road south makes the most sense.  The mist has a muffling effect so that the world seems to be a very quiet place, a little unreal, bit like I imagine it would be like back in the womb. I head south towards Blue Mountain and wonder how many ‘Blue Mountains’ there might be dotted all over the planet.

 The road away from Long Lake in the misty morning

I see a sign for Buttermilk Falls and turn off the road, a name like that can simply not be resisted, it is a must see. Buttermilk Falls turns out to be worth the detour even though they are not much more than a few rapids. A brief consultation of the map confirms that the road I am on ends up in a cul-de-sac at the wrong side of Raquette Lake. It looks like a lovely ride, but not one that I am going to do today, not enough time. I head back the way I came and resume the journey towards Blue Mountain. The mist varies in density from 500 metres visibility, to as little as 50, and for a few glorious kilometers I find myself high up and above the mist, looking down on the valleys covered from edge to edge with fluffy white clouds and get to see the mountains reaching for the sky in the crisp morning light. This is what I came to see, wonderful.

Buttermilk Falls 

Then the road takes me down and back into the mist and through the Village of Blue Mountain and lots of “No Vacancy” signs. I stop at the Adirondack Museum. Tom and Wendy were telling me last night what an excellent little museum this is. Unhappily it is still closed and I can’t wait until 11.00 a.m. for it to open. I have since looked at the website http://www.adkmuseum.org/ and it does look like a place to spend several pleasant and informative hours, featuring as it does a rustic privy (looks just like a ‘long-drop’), rustic arch and a rustic gazebo. The word ‘rustic’ seems to be used a lot in this part of the world. I am really keen for a cup of coffee, but there seems to be nothing open and the mist lends an air of desolation.

Shop sign in Village of Inlet - can't agree more

 By the time I reach the Village of Inlet the mist has started to lift and things here are a lot livelier. The prospect of getting some decent coffee seems good, but all the places that are open are so full, lots of other people have the same idea as I have. I decide to push on, coffeeless. The next stop is Old Forge, according to the map, it is a reasonable size town so there is a good chance of finding a decent cuppa, not a dead cert, but I am hopeful that good things will come to those who wait. And so it comes to pass, after a very pleasant ride I arrive in the town and find a great coffee bar that isn’t overrun with customers and have two double espressos back to back – just wonderful. Old Forge is not far from the border of the Park, and it seems that for anyone approaching the park from New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Pittsburg (pretty much anywhere except  New England, Vermont, Maine and of course Canada), this is the first town you would encounter inside the Park. Naturally it’s billed as the gateway to the Adirondack. For me it is not the entrance, but rather the exist point. I am sad to be leaving and linger over the second double espresso. This has been an absolutely fabulous experience, but I have a long way to go to get home and as much as the Adirondack needs a lot more time, it’s going to be for another time.

My route home takes me through Watertown, approached from a different direction it looks a little nicer than my first impressions, but still not somewhere I’d choose to live. From Watertown I retrace the route I came in on, north on Interstate 81. I notice every few miles there is a place to pull off the road and fiddle with your cell phone, big signs “Text stop 2 miles – it can wait.” What the fuck are we becoming? Sometimes I long for the days of proper letters sent via the mail service, land lines (in those days we just called it telephones) and telegrams. I know that this dates me terribly, but I recall the excitement I felt when I received my very first business related telex and the wonder of sending my first fax. Okay I do take advantage of communications technology when it suits me, but all the communication that seems to be expected these days’ tires the bejesus out of me. I really don’t want to Tweet, Lync, Yammer, LinkedIn, Tiny Pulse, Skype message, Facebook message and so on. E-mail, text message and WhatsApp seems to me to be quite enough communication. There are two real problem with all this instant communication, the end of real privacy, and enough time between formulating the idea and making it public, hence politicians tweeting pictures of their dicks and fucking over their careers in the matter of milliseconds. I am sure that in the old days there seldom was a memo that went into the internal mail in a buff envelope, “Subject: Picture of My Penis”, any decent secretary (or PA if you must), would surely have stopped that in its tracks.

The Canadian border produces another tough guy with silly questions, whatever happened to, “Welcome home Mr. Williams, I hope you enjoyed your trip.” After all my taxes do pay this guy’s salary. Maybe the question should be, “Have you encountered anyone that recently has been in West Africa?” Anyway, as much as I do like to visit our BFFs down south, I always get a thrill out of coming back into Canada, especially since becoming a full blown Canadian citizen and learning the words to Alouette.

The French sounds better, but the English is more hilarious:  

Refrain

Lark, nice lark,

Lark, I will pluck you.

1.

I will pluck your head. x2

And your head! And your head!

Lark! Lark!

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

2.

I will pluck your beak. x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

3.

I will pluck your eyes. x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

4.

I will pluck your neck. x2

And your neck!  x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

5.

I will pluck your wings. x2

And your wings!  x2

And your neck!  x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

6.

I will pluck your legs. x2

And your legs!  x2

And your wings!  x2

And your neck!  x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

7.

I will pluck your tail. x2

And your tail!  x2

And your legs!  x2

And your wings!  x2

And your neck!  x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Refrain

8.

I will pluck your back. x2

And your back!  x2

And your tail!  x2

And your legs!  x2

And your wings!  x2

And your neck!  x2

And your eyes!  x2

And your beak!  x2

And your head!  x2

Lark!  x2

O-o-o-oh

Notice the Lark’s enthusiasm to all this plucking... "O-o-o-oh, oh fuck!"

I’m home by sunset.