100 Miles And A Couple Centuries

Last of The Mohicans

If Daniel Day Lewis is not in your “Top Five” list, he most certainly will be after watching this film based on James Fenimore Cooper’s classic tale of life on the American frontier.  In Cooper’s time, the frontier stretched all the way into upstate New York and democracy still remained a vision to be scribed, much less lived.  Nonetheless, Lewis’ portrayal aptly created an impression of life in the colonies during the French and Indian War, when the spattering of cities and the frontiersman beyond their reach still aligned with the crown and an actor in leather could make any British daughter (and most any female viewer) swoon.  If anyone ever told me, “Stay alive; I will find you,” with such passion, I would readily obey.  If Daniel Day Lewis instructed me accordingly, I would develop successful cryogenics technology to enable such a possibility.

Nonetheless, the plot of Last of the Mohicans revolved around the idea of doing what is law versus doing what is right.  And as each character chose between each option, the story unfolds in a breathtaking setting, albeit cinematically altered, to give the impression that the uppermost British colonies on the North American continent offered vistas lost to the time of nobility, gentry, gallantry, romance, and heroism.  Those were most assuredly days long gone, in scenery transformed over two and a half centuries, but a click of the DVD player brings them, and brings Lewis fabulously back to my living room.

 

Lake George
 

With a toddler and a first-grader in tow, I cruise upward from Albany into the lush mountains of eastern New York.  We barely set foot inside the expanses of the Adirondacks when we begin our climb up to the hundred-mile view.  Not as imposing as the Bitterroot Mountains (see “The Rivers of Idaho,” December 2011), these peaks stretching down into Saratoga horse country and up just below the border with Quebec characterize much of the contrast between the state’s most renowned escapes and the state’s most renowned city.  The Adirondacks, while a focus of tourism yet without the skyscrapers of the city, still offers views far above the highway, gazing across the lakes and rivers, peering into Vermont on a tranquil, clear autumn afternoon.

 

Son Number One knows the basic highlights of American history at age eight and Son Number Two knows the basics of human communication as he approaches age two, yet they both sit quietly, enjoying the solemnity of the scene.  Below them on the shores of Lake George, more than two hundred years before their birth, a band of state militia fought to defend Fort William Henry from the threats of the French guns.  On where now exists little more than a souvenir stand, the characters from Last of the Mohicans paraded in a formal surrender before the French have the delight of burning the structure to the ground.  Here at this site, two boys sit quietly, sit closely, and sit patiently as their mother enjoys the history of this place, the tranquility of the view, and perhaps a wistful thought to Daniel Day Lewis’s portrayal of the something historically memorable, not to mention visually yummy.

Honey

Six Horses

Lately my travels have included a new and unusual term: tardy.  Of course, recent excursions have also included a series of new concepts: impetuousness, spontaneity, and broadening (as in my horizons), even more than my past adventures.  I have given up the luxuries of convenient motels and cozy beds and have experienced camping in its most basic form.  Admittedly, the tent in my back seat should provide adequate shelter for this new phase of my travels, but due in large part to my tardiness (and impetuousness, and spontaneity), I arrive at my campsite after twilight and discover the scenes to be too dark to pop my tent without making a disaster of my campsite or a nuisance to my adjoining overnight neighbors.  So by default, I have spent each night at my intended tent sites as the occupant of the folded-down seats of my SUV.  Delano, my affectionate mode of transportation, offers a hard surface, but a half dozen blankets, an air mattress, and a couple feather pillows make even a stormy night an exceptional, restful experience.

On one occasion, I reminded myself that time was of the essence in reaching my campsite to allow for adequate assembly of my tent.  Wavering between my driver’s-side window and my windshield, the sun swayed from front to side as the road twisted and curved and in the back of the car, the sack containing my tent begged at long last to gaze upward at the night sky.  Yet as I rounded a bend on County Road 585, I saw ahead on my starboard side five tall, brown horses galloping intently over the next rise.  Were they charging the length of the fence or towards the rails paralleling the road?  The angle of the road masked their true direction.  As soon as I topped the next hill, I saw the quintet stopped at the fence line, gazing longingly across the road to the corralled field on my right.  There a single gray horse sauntered towards the neighboring rail as if to tease the five stallions and greet their anxious impatience on the opposite side.  I wanted to pause for five or ten minutes to take photos, including a panoramic shot of the two contrasting scenes reminiscent of ladies’ night on the farm, but the clock was ticking, the tent was anxious, the campsite remained more than thirty miles away, and the sun was descending.  The equine meat market remained a memory.

For Sale

Pressing onward, a casual, yellow, hand-painted sign states simply, “Honey for Sale.”  I used the last of my supply only days before and how convenient that I would receive a shopping-list reminder late on a Sunday evening.  But at this hour, the vendor would have retreated for the night.  To my absolute delight, the marketplace remains open, yet unattended.  Making a u-turn, I double back to the wooden structure featuring a bevy of sweet selections.  Buckets and bottles and bears offer a range of sizes and samplings.  A box of free honey recipes adds a personal touch to the fare.  A single metal tin – a leftover from a holiday cookie exchange of many years ago based on its wear – sits simply on a shelf, waiting to be opened by a random passerby.  I try not to spill its contents and I discover nearly twenty dollars worth of previous purchases, and a notepad for a brief comment to the unknown merchant.  I deposit my five spot, scribe a note of appreciation, sign my name and the date, and snag a bottle of Devil’s Tower Honey.

On small country roads, in the corners of Wyoming [or Maine, but that was a matter of firewood], a commodity sits safely curbside.  I am equally delighted by the presence of honey in this vast openness on its own rustic shelves and by the confidence, trust, and sincerity of the vendor.  On a swath of hilly road, a selection of merchandise, a small deposit of cash, and an offer for preparation tips of the treat greet a complete stranger like me.  Trust abounds.  Transactions occur.  The wind blows in the otherwise silent store.  A pound of Wyoming sweetness travels away from its home and in Delano’s possession.  Of all my souvenirs from this outing, a simple jar of honey may be my favorite.  My tent cringes as it realizes it will spend another night unassembled in its sack because the impetuous purchase of my sweet tooth, the spontaneity generated by a simple yellow sign, and my continued broadening of my horizon by taking the road less traveled all take precedence over the sun’s position in relationship to its own horizon.  As I finish my exchange with the wooden box, a van also succumbs to the sweetness and sincerity of selection.  We exchange salutations, and I know another jar of Devil’s Tower Honey will grace the table of a random traveler, and the pot of trust will grow.

Boca Chita Lighthouse

The Florida Keys

A Little Bit of Something Is Better Than A Whole Lot of Nothing

Key Lime and Key Moments in Key West

Back in the day, when I held the moniker of “cool parent,” we jetted on New Year’s Day to Key West.  Admittedly, the flight from Orlando was a short jaunt – less than an hour – but as one of a handful of passengers, we enjoyed a vast selection of seats on the plane, and to save time, we placed our drink orders before we ever left the gate.  This may have been the easy way to the southernmost point in the US, but it reduced our travels by more than a full day and in a matter of minutes, we were in the tropical islands.  Before long we arrived at our bed and breakfast and cruised Duval Street with slices of key lime pie, key lime soda, key lime souvenirs, and key lime everything.

Son #2 enjoyed the tourist view of the city.  Remnants of the year-end celebration lined the curbs with confetti and tissue paper muted into the nooks and crannies of the town.  We treated ourselves to pie on a stick dipped in chocolate, we laughed at stupid, cheesy t-shirts, we obtained cold drink cozies, and we observed the range of lush plants gracing the residences between our inn and the queue for the photo opportunity at the southern-most point in the Unite d States.  This is where the tourist line up but we snapped a quick shot from the far side and skipped the craziness of the Keys.  Once back at the B&B, Son #1joinedme for a chance to cruise the adult side of the last of Florida’s chain, sampled the margaritas of this ‘ville, meandered in the darkness that leaves Key West in the Florida version of winter, and stumbled home on a lovely buzz of tequila and fun.  We dabbled in a little bit of something for everyone.

Day Two

When we depart early this morning, heading for the excursion out of Biscayne National Park, we really have no business being awake before sunrise.  Yet arriving in Marathon, we see the sun peek over the horizon of scattered islands and inlets bathed in the rich oranges and deep roses of early morning delighting us with the view of the Keys that those cursed with hangovers fail to appreciate.  Most of Florida misses this sun-drenched view, and as I snap a photo of its beauty, Son #1 serenades the sunrise with his harmonica.  We know how to absorb the best of the moment, complete with musical accompaniment.

Upon arrival south of Florida’s narrow east-coast metropolis, we press on to our destination, and then patiently wait to embark on the cross-bay excursion to Boca Chita.  Still technically a Florida Key, downtown Miami looms in the distance and we ignore its presence and head for the small speck of land and the lighthouse guarding its shores.  The northern end of the chain lacks the excitement and ambiance of Key West; Hemingway was never mesmerized by the simple ride from just above the Turkey Lake Power Plant to this simple plot of land.  For a single mom and her sons, though, an afternoon off the mainland, away from the nine-to-five of the office and the routines of everyday, this simple spot of land close to the city yet far enough away to feel like an escape reminds me that even for a few days, reveals and reminds that a little bit of something is far more enjoyable than a whole lot of the nothing in every day’s humdrum, delivering a few hours of simply wonderful.  I appreciate the boys’ silliness, the escape from the rest of Florida, the basic beauty of the lighthouse, and the tiny island of Boca Chita.

Bighorn Mountains, Part 2

 

 

Bighorn Mountains, Part 1