Outdoor Life

Before there was any whisper of a breeze on Lake George, I brushed the dust of my hiking boots at the trailhead for Prospect Mountain. The last time I wore the leather boots I shoveled six inches of snow from Dad’s driveway. It was late January, a day before I escaped to Hawaii for the rest of the winter.

A party of four arrived at the same time, parking just ahead of me. I got off a few minutes before they did, but they were soon on my heals. They passed burning too much energy on the persistent grade. Slow and steady, that is how you approach Prospect. Using this method I over took them and never saw them again until I was sitting at the top of the rocks overlooking the jewel of the upstate New York.

Moments after I stepped onto the trail I realized I forgot insect repellent. There wasn’t much breeze to keep them at bay and soon I was leading a pack of mosquitoes up the mountain. Larger than an average house cat they tried to feast on every exposed skin surface. Despite sweating profusely and hearing my heart thump loudly in my ears I dared not stop for I feared I go insane. I can only say I was fortunate enough to be in good shape so I didn’t suffer too much and the size of the beasts made them equally easy targets. However, I became so frustrated with their persistence that it was with some satisfaction that I began to leave the smeared carcasses on my arms and legs, much like a gunslinger notches the handle of his pistol.

On an exposed rock, I took one small break. A spec of sunshine warmed the granite surface enough to keep most of the blood feeders at bay. Basically, I inhaled a gooey peanut bar while I struck two more buzzards from the sky. It took fifty seven minutes to reach the top. But now the warmed air stirred a breeze and the mosquitoes disappeared, replaced by a swarm of black flies.

They are a thousand times—no a million times—worse than mosquitoes. I have never had a mosquito fly up my nose, in my eye, down my ear canal or crawl into my shirt. And when a black fly bites, I don’t notice the bite until hours later when there is a swollen itchy lump the size of a walnut inflamed on my neck, behind my ear, between my shoulder blades or half way up my pant leg.

As I write I so want to dig into the nape of my neck.

As I arrived at the top a bus load of Brooklynites tumbled out of a tour bus. Geez. So much for a bit of solitude. But I took pleasure in their innocent delight of the panoramic view of the Adirondacks. Looking through the viewfinders, they exclaimed, “I can see the water, the mountains, the trees.” I guess in New York City I would awe, “I can see the Washington Bridge, the Empire State Building, even New Jersey.”

A group of five took pictures of themselves. I offered to take a group photo.

“Oh thank you so much. We are from and don’t expect people to be so nice.” One of the young girls said.

“Hey, I know you guys. You have a reputation, but I know better. It’s all show.”

After a few minutes of fresh air at this dizzying altitude they were ready to hit the Village and do what all tourist do, shop.