Sprawled on a massive flat stone high above a sun-sparkled river, I watched a bald eagle soar silently above me. It was definitely magic and probably dangerous. The sheer drop was a few feet from my boots and the trek to the top was littered with peril. That’s what the sign said.
This makes me sound adventurous, a traveler with stories, but that’s fiction. The story is true - I was there - but how I got there is a tale of angst and bad ankles. I wanted to see the view, to be in that high flown place between earth and sky, communing with nature. I wanted to exercise my vegetating, pandemic body in the service of that vision, and feel a sense of accomplishment. I did not, however, want to face nightmares. Vipers, bears, and vertigo. There’s a price for everything, I suppose.
I was following others, as I am inclined to do.
I went to the Catskills with old friends from the city, for a weekend of wine-soaked chatter about the years. About loss and hope, and the tense state of the world. We fished and ate great food. There was a fog-shrouded midnight bridge walk that made me feel like an untethered teen. We visited the eel guy, an edgy kook deep in the woods. His brew of smoked fish, xenophobia, conservation, and misogyny is jarring. The smoked trout was delicious, but I won’t go back. His walls displayed an interest in the ancient art of weir building and bullets for Hillary.
The house we stayed in was a wooden carnival structure, a house built by free love in pre-code days. Bright colors and multiple levels, a jumble of shapes crashing into each other. There was a sauna, and a loft above a handwritten sign - NOSEXINTHELOFT. A house for injuries and fantasy, just like the hill we climbed.
I don’t like snakes. I respect them and recognize their importance in the grand scheme, but they terrify me. Knowing this, my husband took us to Jensen’s Ledges, a “difficult” hike, straight up a loose-rocked path to the titular stone ledges. A throne for gods and goddesses, but with snakes. A small, unassuming sign at the bottom warned of rattlesnakes and bears. I almost got back in the car, but chose to follow, silently wrestling my rising panic.
It was less than two miles out and back, but straight up and strenuous. An “ankle breaker trail,” according to online posters, who also said to ignore all DANGER and DO NOT PASS signs, because “that’s where the good stuff is.” I wear an ankle brace for the mildest strolls, due to an old injury, so throw another log on the panic fire. My husband - the one with this big idea - led the way and, as an inveterate rule breaker, studiously ignored all signs. He was desperately hoping to see a rattlesnake.
Onward and upward, straight up, rocks rolling beneath braced ankles. Eyes down, a constant and terrible scanning for vipers, ears sharp for bears. “If you smell a wet horse blanket, get back in the car - it’s a bear,” counseled the eel maniac. Far from the car, farther with each step, following my beloved into a possible hell. Reminding myself to enjoy nature.
While walking, we talked about how to protect the knee, the hip, the ankles, my friend demonstrating her physical therapist’s tricks. I thought ceaselessly about snakes and bears. I lectured myself: People do this all the time, they survive, they Instagram it. I thought about survival, wine and cheese, mist on the river, a sauna.
Finally, a waterfall. A beautiful, musical distraction from the snake hiss of my brain. And when the voice in my head started coming out of my mouth - Oh my god this is a panic - we reached a bluestone quarry and an overlook littered with hiker-built stone furniture and cairns. A place to rest with a lovely view, away from the trail with all its snaky hiding places. When I got home, I read that these rocks at the top are snake favorites and that one should be particularly vigilant. I was, stupidly, particularly relaxed, sitting in the stone chairs and adding my own tiny cairn to the collection. Ignorance is bliss.
Pushing on, over a creek, up and up, until the final, famous ledge. The destination, the pinnacle, victory is mine! I soaked up the sun and the peace, a brief break from my watchful march, a moment to be one with the stone, the sky, the river, the eagle. Probably the snakes. (Thankfully, it was later that I learned how they love to sun themselves up there.) I thought dimly of my water bottle in the car, way down the hill. The wine and cheese, and my place in the universe. I am amazing, look at me up here! My ankle didn’t hurt at all (fear is a great pain reliever) and I had new belief in my own power. My husband was still pining for a rattler.
The march down felt lighter. I had made it all the way up - the hard part - with nary a serpent, and my rule-breaking partner agreed to head back. Back to the water and wine, back to the safe side of the warning signs. We slowly slipped and slid our way down down, discussing again the ankles and the knees, trying the PT tricks. Scanning madly for serpents, ears keen for bears, noses for wet horse blankets. If I make it out, I thought, I will be new. Brave and strong and confident.
I made it. We ate the cheese and drank the wine, talked and laughed, pleased with our little adventure. I am not new. We saw no snakes, smelled no bear. My husband was disappointed. When I got home and googled the place, most commenters remarked on death by falling and the many snakes they saw. They will strike if surprised (and I imagine a bumbling middle-aged lady with an ankle brace and a reek of panic would be quite surprising to a rattlesnake). It is suggested that you get immediately to a hospital in that case. I am so glad I didn’t read that before going. I will not go back, even as a follower. I have the memory now. He can break the rules alone.
Happy Friday!
Lisa
Things to share:
The always brilliant Henry Wismayer on awe. I read this with Eno’s Music for Airports in the background, and may have wept a little in that specific way that awe inspires.
Karen Arthur on Surviving Menopause, at Gloria.
Really looking forward to Enchantment by
, "a treatise on the urgent need for wonder in dark and uncertain times." More awe!- with a fascinating conversation about gendered emotions. Dr. Pragya Agarwal’s book Hysterical goes on the TBR list.
As if I need more books for that list,
has suggested five that will be added. And she shares a lovely poem. "Feast on your life." Indeed.
Good one! I think of my husband as the anti-christ of safety, at times. I am sure he doesn't see it that way. We went on a little hike with twin baby girls attached to our chests in the Adirondacks when our dog starting going ballistic and a HUGE mother bear shot across our path with (worse) her own babies. I quickly thought, "do we throw our five month olds in the woods and distract the bears away from them?" "Will our dog get eaten?" "Why are we here?" "Our car is a half mile away" I didn't even think about the snakes! Anyway. It all worked out...They are 21 now and have a younger 19 year old sister.
At the risk of being a real sap, I adore your words. Your posts are so beautiful, and reserved, and evocative. Swoon city. ⚡️💫