It's been a while since I've gone on any trips worthy of these hallowed blogger pages.
Yesterday however, I was in upstate New York visiting my alma mater and found myself looking at a hefty chunk of free time as I waited for everyone to get back from the track meet. With cross-country skis, crampons and ice axes in my car, it was Choose Your Own Adventure day. Deciding between skiing or mountain climbing in the Adirondacks, I decided I'd rather ski because it was safer to do alone, and required far less driving.
My sites were set on Great Sacandaga Lake, a 29-mile long body of water, which is about 40 minutes to the northwest of Schenectady. I'd never been there before, but figured that it would be a good place to see some new sites, get cold, and get some exercise. As for exactly where I was skiing from where and how far I was going, I winged it. By the end of the day, I'd logged about 15 miles, and got a chance to witness the man-cave culture of those that live out their winters on the ice.
I took Route 30 up from Amsterdam to the town of Mayfield. The first challenge was finding a place to park the car. At first, I figured I'd just pull into a boat yard and go from there. The first one I checked out was gated off, and at the next one, I guy came out to tell me that I had to get off the property. The walls of snow on either side of the roads made it impossible to simply pull to the side anywhere. After a lengthy period of frustrated wandering, I finally pulled into a post office parking lot about a mile away from the lake. Fortunately, it was right next to a snowmobile trail heading in the direction that I wanted.
I got all my stuff in order—parka, gloves, face mask, gaiters to keep the snow out of my boots, a backpack to carry my camera and provisions. Most of my calories that day came from a box of Malt-o-Meal® frosted-flakes from Stewart's (Join the value cereal revolution!) along with some fig newtons and a pb&j. I hadn't counted on it snowing when I set off, but I more or less had the gear I needed.
The trail lead me through some fields and then down to a marina. Intermittently, I had to step to the side to make room for a snowmobile gang. Once I got out onto the lake, I had far more room and could stay out of everyone's way. The lake gets to be about four miles wide, creating an impressive image of frozen desolation. The wind was still blowing when I took to the ice, moving the snow in winding rivulets along the surface. The whirling flakes cut visibility but I could make out an island with a couple of pine trees about a half-mile away and skied over to check it out.
On the other side, I got a view of one of the fishing settlements, which looked like a bunch of garden sheds on the ice--plenty of them probably were. Like the squatters of old, they were spaced out on the ice at respectful distances so that they could each tend their plots of ice with tip-up traps. In all likelihood, they had been out their since the wee hours, brews in hand, waiting for the flags to pop up, signaling that they had a bass or pickerel on the line. That particular corner of the lake must have a reputation for more fish activity than the others in order to justify it's popularity. Probably a lot of the fisherman cast their tip-ups using sonar to determine their best spots.
Outside the main cluster however, there were plenty of outliers, the lonely cabins. I swung by several of them as I skied up the lake and found they were mostly empty. I was able to ski up and gawk at some of the handiwork. Many were prefab, trailer affairs; others showed some ingenuity. Vinyl siding was a popular theme in Sacandaga architecture. One looked as though someone had slashed up some porta-potties and reassembled them into a bigger box. Many were hand nailed with boards. Chimneys came out of the roofs so that the men might be warmed by fire waiting while they drank. The owners stuck reflectors to the sides of their dwellings--probably a good idea, considering the consequences of a collision with one of the snowmobiles flying up and down the lake through white-out conditions.
These buildings must have cost countless hours and/or thousands of dollars to build. Surely, they had yet to recoup their expenses through fish meat alone. Perhaps proceeds from fishing contests supplemented some of their income but this is an inadequate explanation. Obviously, these buildings are a point of manly pride amongst their builders, an extension of the boyhood impulse to build the tree-fort in the backyard. Each had a name and address printed near the door. Many fishermen took the time to adorn the structures with colorful trinkets like American flags and messages: "Wanted: Hot Babes. I'm Cold."
I peered through the windows as I went, looking at the different lures, canned food. Without fail, their was a bag filled with empty cans of Busch or Miller.
Soon after the island, the sun came out and the the snow stopped. The wind stayed steady though. Come lunch time, I decided that there was no point in sitting out in the cold with shelter readily available. I took off my skis and walked into an unlocked structure. Admittedly, I was a bit nervous that an infuriated redneck might burst in and kill me for an intruder, but I figured that I was justified because I'd never been inside one of these houses and wanted to try and better understand the culture it was a part of. This place was particularly well furnished, with hand-constructed wooden walls, a gas lantern, wooden furniture and cookware. There were photographs of the owner and his prize catches ($125 for second place in a fishing contest). The walls were a record of the catches that my absent host had made on the lake. There was also a stack of porno-mags to help pass the lonely hours. Otherwise, there wasn't much worth looting and little reason to have a lock on the door.
It was nice to be in, because the wind picked up something fierce as I munched on my pb&j. When things died down, I went back out and started North. Soon, the sun came out and I got some nice views of the Southern Adirondack Mountains. A guy with a huge green kite and a harness was zipping around the lake with the gusts of wind. He gave me a friendly wave as he shot past. It looked pretty damn fun. Later, I saw another guy with the same set-up. All kinds of weirdoes on this pond and only one nut in cross country skis!
Despite the fact that I was probably as different from the boarders as they were from the ice fisherman, I feel that we were all here for similar reasons. As much as I can poke fun at the ice-fisherman and their habitats, it's arguable that my decision to drive up to Mayfield and ski the ice alone was just as irrational. There's something appealing about the vastness of open space though I think it pulls on each of us in different ways. I enjoy skiing, hiking and kayaking; others go outside with snowmobiles and ATV's. I've felt the same draw whether it's to the top of mountains or an empty desert.
I read a book by E.O. Wilson recently who theorized that humans admire open space because it is reminiscent of the Savannah we emerged from. In these environments, it is easier for us spot predators and resources. I like the idea, but I'm not sure that I felt anything like belonging out in the cold, weird place. If anything, what I liked most about being there was that I was able to survive and thrive in a place that seemed so unfamiliar and harsh.
Just as the fishermen had to practice a kind of self-reliance to stay out on the hostile ice (before they got home to their warm beds and SportsCenter), I enjoyed the independence of moving on the ice on my own. As I slid out miles away from land, I had to know that I had the energy and the wits to get back where I'd come from.
I was probably about six miles into my journey when I started to turn into loop so that I could check out some of the other islands. Meanwhile the wind was picking up. Instead of going around the island, I decided to ski through it in order to be sheltered by the trees.
Doubtless, I was congratulating myself on my self-reliance and mystical communion with the Forces That Be, when the wind became harsher. The snow became deeper too, slowing my progress. The powder whirled around my ankles as I tried to make my tired body go forward. I looked to the west and saw a white wall bearing down on me. Shit.
The island, which I had passed on the start of my journey had been a useful landmark, now the flying snow had completely obliterated it from view. I reflected upon the wisdom of using a compass for these kinds of things. The lake was narrow enough so that I could still see both sides and more or less figured which way to go by staying parallel to the shore. I was in no real danger of getting screwed by the elements, not with shore so close and with plenty of fish huts nearby.
Still, I didn't want to add mileage to my journey by aiming for the wrong place on shore and having to adopt an indirect route. My ass and thighs already burning from the hours of skiing. Operating with the best knowledge that I had, I decided to keep my course in the general direction I had been heading. I got lucky, because after about forty-five minutes, I was able to make out the clump of trees of the island I had passed earlier in the day. It took me about another half an hour to get back to the cluster of ice houses, but at least I knew that I was heading along the right course.
I got all my stuff in order—parka, gloves, face mask, gaiters to keep the snow out of my boots, a backpack to carry my camera and provisions. Most of my calories that day came from a box of Malt-o-Meal® frosted-flakes from Stewart's (Join the value cereal revolution!) along with some fig newtons and a pb&j. I hadn't counted on it snowing when I set off, but I more or less had the gear I needed.
The trail lead me through some fields and then down to a marina. Intermittently, I had to step to the side to make room for a snowmobile gang. Once I got out onto the lake, I had far more room and could stay out of everyone's way. The lake gets to be about four miles wide, creating an impressive image of frozen desolation. The wind was still blowing when I took to the ice, moving the snow in winding rivulets along the surface. The whirling flakes cut visibility but I could make out an island with a couple of pine trees about a half-mile away and skied over to check it out.
On the other side, I got a view of one of the fishing settlements, which looked like a bunch of garden sheds on the ice--plenty of them probably were. Like the squatters of old, they were spaced out on the ice at respectful distances so that they could each tend their plots of ice with tip-up traps. In all likelihood, they had been out their since the wee hours, brews in hand, waiting for the flags to pop up, signaling that they had a bass or pickerel on the line. That particular corner of the lake must have a reputation for more fish activity than the others in order to justify it's popularity. Probably a lot of the fisherman cast their tip-ups using sonar to determine their best spots.
Outside the main cluster however, there were plenty of outliers, the lonely cabins. I swung by several of them as I skied up the lake and found they were mostly empty. I was able to ski up and gawk at some of the handiwork. Many were prefab, trailer affairs; others showed some ingenuity. Vinyl siding was a popular theme in Sacandaga architecture. One looked as though someone had slashed up some porta-potties and reassembled them into a bigger box. Many were hand nailed with boards. Chimneys came out of the roofs so that the men might be warmed by fire waiting while they drank. The owners stuck reflectors to the sides of their dwellings--probably a good idea, considering the consequences of a collision with one of the snowmobiles flying up and down the lake through white-out conditions.
These buildings must have cost countless hours and/or thousands of dollars to build. Surely, they had yet to recoup their expenses through fish meat alone. Perhaps proceeds from fishing contests supplemented some of their income but this is an inadequate explanation. Obviously, these buildings are a point of manly pride amongst their builders, an extension of the boyhood impulse to build the tree-fort in the backyard. Each had a name and address printed near the door. Many fishermen took the time to adorn the structures with colorful trinkets like American flags and messages: "Wanted: Hot Babes. I'm Cold."
I peered through the windows as I went, looking at the different lures, canned food. Without fail, their was a bag filled with empty cans of Busch or Miller.
Soon after the island, the sun came out and the the snow stopped. The wind stayed steady though. Come lunch time, I decided that there was no point in sitting out in the cold with shelter readily available. I took off my skis and walked into an unlocked structure. Admittedly, I was a bit nervous that an infuriated redneck might burst in and kill me for an intruder, but I figured that I was justified because I'd never been inside one of these houses and wanted to try and better understand the culture it was a part of. This place was particularly well furnished, with hand-constructed wooden walls, a gas lantern, wooden furniture and cookware. There were photographs of the owner and his prize catches ($125 for second place in a fishing contest). The walls were a record of the catches that my absent host had made on the lake. There was also a stack of porno-mags to help pass the lonely hours. Otherwise, there wasn't much worth looting and little reason to have a lock on the door.
It was nice to be in, because the wind picked up something fierce as I munched on my pb&j. When things died down, I went back out and started North. Soon, the sun came out and I got some nice views of the Southern Adirondack Mountains. A guy with a huge green kite and a harness was zipping around the lake with the gusts of wind. He gave me a friendly wave as he shot past. It looked pretty damn fun. Later, I saw another guy with the same set-up. All kinds of weirdoes on this pond and only one nut in cross country skis!
Despite the fact that I was probably as different from the boarders as they were from the ice fisherman, I feel that we were all here for similar reasons. As much as I can poke fun at the ice-fisherman and their habitats, it's arguable that my decision to drive up to Mayfield and ski the ice alone was just as irrational. There's something appealing about the vastness of open space though I think it pulls on each of us in different ways. I enjoy skiing, hiking and kayaking; others go outside with snowmobiles and ATV's. I've felt the same draw whether it's to the top of mountains or an empty desert.
I read a book by E.O. Wilson recently who theorized that humans admire open space because it is reminiscent of the Savannah we emerged from. In these environments, it is easier for us spot predators and resources. I like the idea, but I'm not sure that I felt anything like belonging out in the cold, weird place. If anything, what I liked most about being there was that I was able to survive and thrive in a place that seemed so unfamiliar and harsh.
Just as the fishermen had to practice a kind of self-reliance to stay out on the hostile ice (before they got home to their warm beds and SportsCenter), I enjoyed the independence of moving on the ice on my own. As I slid out miles away from land, I had to know that I had the energy and the wits to get back where I'd come from.
I was probably about six miles into my journey when I started to turn into loop so that I could check out some of the other islands. Meanwhile the wind was picking up. Instead of going around the island, I decided to ski through it in order to be sheltered by the trees.
Doubtless, I was congratulating myself on my self-reliance and mystical communion with the Forces That Be, when the wind became harsher. The snow became deeper too, slowing my progress. The powder whirled around my ankles as I tried to make my tired body go forward. I looked to the west and saw a white wall bearing down on me. Shit.
Still, I didn't want to add mileage to my journey by aiming for the wrong place on shore and having to adopt an indirect route. My ass and thighs already burning from the hours of skiing. Operating with the best knowledge that I had, I decided to keep my course in the general direction I had been heading. I got lucky, because after about forty-five minutes, I was able to make out the clump of trees of the island I had passed earlier in the day. It took me about another half an hour to get back to the cluster of ice houses, but at least I knew that I was heading along the right course.
