It is a shame that when people say "New York" that most Americans think of the big city.
New York outside of the City proves to be a beautiful, strange state. I have been to Albany and areas around, Saratoga Springs, Syracuse, Lake George, and various small towns at various times.
The lakes and rivers of northern New York must be some of the most beautiful in America. One cannot imagine so many isolated areas, full of bear, coyote, deer, porcupine, (saw one on Wednesday), heron, loon, and even the occasional puma, (which I have not seen) in such a populated, crazy state.
The pine and fir forests seem almost untouched, and the old farmhouses, as well as ancient barns, remind one of Amish territory further south and west.
One thing I rarely see is the sky, unless I am by water, a lake, or river. The forests are dense, with little bits of sky peeping through, small puzzle pieces taunting the eye. I miss the big sky. I miss watching the clouds build up and roll across the prairie like giant spirits ruling the skies, None of that here. The clouds pass over the huge pines and firs quickly, as if looking for a place to be seen and admired. I never see stars.
I do not mind the dark of the forests, but I am, as a Midwest girl, use to big horizons, plains and views, which may be over twenty miles away in all directions. I miss the constellations, the planets, the meteors.
One cannot see that far in any direction here, unless one climbs up the hills and mountains and looks out.
Cold is coming in with a vengeance. Winter is rumored to be worse than last year, and the locals tell me last year was bad. Ice storms broke many branches, which still lay where these fell.
I do hear birds, like the chickadees, blue jays, and still, the odd goldfinch, but some have left the area already. Even the crows have left, with a racket. The deer pass the house, snorting and scaring the cats. A big animal walks above the house, on the ridge, at night, but I cannot identify it. Under the darkness of the trees, it seems like a shadow, not an animal.
All the small, red squirrels have disappeared.
I have not heard the loon for many days.
I do think winter is going to shut up this place, pushing a huge dome of silence over the soil, which is not like Iowa dirt, but red and sandy. Obviously, glaciers came through here and the scattered boulders in odd places here and there remind one of the power of the ancient ice flow.
I always need to live near water to feel like I am at home, as I grew up on the Mighty Mississippi, which I miss. The rivers here, although beautiful, with small waterfalls and rapids, cannot rival the Father of Waters. The rivers here have no romance, no stories to tell, but are just what they are. In this part of New York, there are no poets, no novelists, no story-tellers to weave magic around the rivers.
New York here is a strange place, almost pristine. It is a land at odds with itself, not able to decide whether it wants people or not, despite centuries of natives and pioneers marking the land with small tools or temporary homes. It is not "hospitable".
Two days ago, I passed a pumpkin patch. It was nestled between two red farmhouses. Some of the houses look pre-Civil War. But, many houses lack care and tlc. There is a run-down, almost sad feeling to so many small communities,which, indeed, are dying for lack of employment and children.
This land will sink back into pre-pioneer settlements, I believe, with the ferns and Queen Anne's lace, the milkweed and birches taking over the once tilled lands. Mulleins, cornflowers, and flea-bane encroach upon the edges of the roads as if to say, we shall take over again, just wait and see. As the giant oaks throw acorns everywhere, I am told that wild boar have been seen not too far away, following the acorns for food from states west and south.
This is not a country which is tamed. It never has been. The people all seem like passengers in boats, cars, campers, wandering through the forests and glens, temporary visitors, ready to give the land space to be wild, which it is. These people do not seem "at home", but like pilgrims, on their way to somewhere else, restless, men and women waiting to be told to move on, somewhere else.
Man is not master here. Perhaps, he is in the City, but not here. The animals still walk the old instinctual paths and the dark, deep forests still belong to these creatures. One has a healthy respect of the wild here.
I may have to move on soon, sooner than I expected, or face an early winter of illness, as asthmatics do not do well in cold and still places. We need warmth and fresh air. The air here, like the land, is wild, solid, almost a thing, not ethereal, not breezy, not helpful to those who are not use to sand, mold, and decaying bark shifting in the harsh wind.
I shall only miss the silence, which I love.
The wilderness will never reveal that I was here. I am just another passing biped, inconsequential, leaving no prints on the soil. If and when I return, the land, the rivers, the woods will be unmoved, not surprised, but ever calm and still. The firs may sigh and whisper, another stranger has returned, but we shall push her out, as we did so many before. She, too, will move on.
This is the land which belongs to itself, to no one, even though persons may have deeds over a hundred and fifty years old or even older. This New York is nothing like Old York, but something which belongs to no time and no history. Roads, houses, businesses seem plunked down, like small pieces on a monopoly board, to be moved again by chance.
It is a land between time. I wonder at the edges of these times which seem to have little grace and much shadowed mystery. I do not think I shall be here to see a unraveling of the story of these parts. Like all people here, I have stood at the edge of the ancient woods and turned my back on the wilderness wondering if any light brought by humans could ever pierce this darkness.
If, before a storm, I saw Henry Hudson's men playing ninepins, I would not be shocked. They seem more real in fable than so many people I have met, who just have not settled this land. Maybe the land belongs only to fable, but few read or write here now.
Perhaps, this place will never belong to men. Perhaps God made it for himself and His irrational creatures. I hope this is the case, as I believe this is the land of nature's sovereignty, not man's.
Even the large flatbed trucks carrying logs seem out of place, as if the owners, loggers, someone, somewhere was trying to destroy the unwritten, silent song of this place with the noise of saws and cranes. But, one knows the machines, the businesses will go, fade away, leaving scars on the sides of the hills, but no more. The weeping linden will cover the scars in time.
Once the Mohawks walked through these forests, once missionaries held meetings under these trees, once entrepreneurs created small Edens, but no efforts of men have changed the air, the trees, the soil under the layers of needles.
As I walk down the hill towards the river-lake, I know my footprints will be gone with the new rain which is coming tomorrow. So, it has ever been here, in this place of passings.
