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Just 200 miles north of Manhattan, in the country's largest state park, you can thread a string of gemlike lakes and ponds by canoe. by John Jerome
Decades ago, new to Manhattan, I chafed at my separation from the natural world. A city lover assured me I misunderstood. Deer were hunted an hour from Wall Street, she said; what wild feature could I possibly want that wasn't readily available? Seven thousand feet of altitude, I grumbled, having just moved from Colorado. I never did adjust. To this day I consider New York the Ur-City, the jangliest place on earth. Eventually, however, I discovered that my recurring city rage could be assuaged by hightailing it 200 miles north, where I could quietly disappear into a state park the size of Vermont; in fact, it is the nation's largest state park. That's the Adirondacks, of course--about half of the 6 million-acre park that was declared "forever wild" by the New York State Legislature. For even further surcease, I found tucked away in its vastness a pocket gem of liquid serenity called the St. Regis Wilderness Canoe Area. It comprises some 58 bodies of water, sprawled around the bases of St. Regis and Long Pond mountains and connected by portages ("carries" in the Adirondacks). It is restricted to canoeing, kayaking, fishing, hiking, horseback riding, and temporary camping. Most important, motorized traffic is forbidden. Arguably, any place is magical if you can get away from motors (prospective members of the Jetski Assassination League, sign here), but the St. Regis area is special. Most access points require a portage, which sets the mood (and discourages the unserious); once there, you propel yourself. It is, above all, intimate. The longest uninterrupted paddle is less than three miles. On most routes you work through a series of small ponds and short carries, camping on the larger ponds linked thereby. (The best-known routes are called the Nine Carries and the Seven Carries.) Each pond, including Long Pond (above), is different from the last, in color, vegetation, and mood. Campsites are, where possible, tucked out of sight. The wildlife knows well what a rich and quiet place it is, and gathers accordingly. You paddle, swim, camp, and look. Heavenly. One foggy July dawn on St. Regis Pond I took my coffee down to water's edge. Immediately, a low-flying merganser emerged from the gray to my left, its headlong flight splitting the fog so distinctly that it left a wake, an anti-contrail in the mist, for minutes after the bird was out of sight. I was awed by the sheer physics of the thing. Another time--on the same pond--my wife and I camped in a September dusk
that turned the world into a Japanese painting, composed entirely of shades
of blue. Two islands made a Zen garden of the shining surface; a mile away
we could just see the orange campfire dot of the lake's only other occupant.
The scene was so serenely lovely that I found myself thinking that if God
were ever going to speak to me, now was the time. Then, looking out at
the perfection of the landscape, I thought, of course not, just look: She
doesn't speak, she draws pictures. At that moment, with God's own perfect
timing, two loons popped to the surface almost at my feet. I believe I
laughed louder than the loons did--not with regret, but with joy.
John Jerome is a former magazine editor and columnist
for Esquire and Outside. His previous books include Truck
and Blue Rooms. On Turning Sixty-Five: Notes From the Field will
be published in June.
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