Eleven years ago today I went from Syracuse to Lake Placid, through the Adirondacks — again, the locals call them mountains, but as I said in my journal for this date, “then I headed up into what turned out to be surprisingly steep hills. Easterners may call their up and down country mountains, but I’m afraid one of my few prejudices as a Westerner is my unwillingness to call anything less than seven or eight thousand feet tall a mountain.”
The Adirondacks were another place on my list that I’d always wanted to visit because of a book, Woodswoman, by Anne LaBastille. And for their rather prominent place in American history. They may just be hill-height, but they do pack a punch.
Also, they provided me with my first view of a flock of turkeys in the wild:
My first stop was in the town of Rome, just on the edge of the Adirondack Park, where I did a bit of grocery shopping, and bought and mailed a get well card for my oldest brother-in-law, who, my mother had told me the day before during my weekly call, had gone into the hospital to have an angioplasty, but she said, was doing fine. Then I headed up into the hills. The foliage, which I’d been following ever since I left Minnesota, really hit its peak here, too:
I at lunch at the small hamlet of Long Lake, in a café that turned out to be mostly a bar. But they had good soup — not quite to the standards of the Holy Grail of Soup I’d had in Minnesota, but still pretty darned good.
After lunch I drove past Saranac Lake, with its fancy historic cottages:
And on into Lake Placid, where it took me quite some time to find a reasonably-priced motel. The next day was Sunday and I needed my day to rest and do all my usual Sunday things, plus I wanted to prowl Lake Placid and go to the Olympics Museum. I did eventually find one, although I discovered why it was so cheap later that night.
I really liked the Adirondacks. They were exactly what I thought they’d be, and it was exactly the right time of year to be there. If only they’d liked me [wry g].