What you missed

If you were one of the unlucky many who were not able to join the hardy Loonatics for last weekend's construction festivities, you're certainly stricken with remorse.  You are also, no doubt, well aware that these pages would never display text and images to create envy or engender a feeling of lonely absence, so here is a blog that will allow you to feel that tiny bit of joy that comes from knowing you were almost part of the camaraderie.

Up on one of the hills on the way in.
Cows live here.

I don't believe they appreciate the beauty around them.
Perhaps they only see the color green.

Looking down toward the Mohawk River Valley.

Up here, cows have the right-of-way.

Finally at the camp, the foliage is definitely past peak.
We Loonatics can identify with that.

Dock Doc and Chowdahead relax in the spacious office/workshop over the garage.
One never fully appreciates a space heater until that is the only way to heat a space.

Homefries set up camp between the trees.
In his hammock, he is prepared for any weather.
He prefers the outdoors to the comfort of others snoring in warm spaces.

One of the jobs for the weekend was to convert the previously named "Warm Room"
to suit its new name as the "Plywood Palace."
Incredible how fast these guys worked.
The camera could not freeze the action,
but later on, the weather did.

Plain to see what's going on here.

"We need a plane," announced Dock Doc.
"I don't have one," replied Gimp 1.
"Yes you do.  It's on the stairway landing."
"Oh yeah, that is a plane.  But I never ever would have thought of it.  To me, it's only an antique, since it was my Father's Father's tool."

Hard at work with the antique.
It worked, but we eventually just trimmed with the circular saw.
Note Homefries in the background, removing the nails from the crazywood.

The fruits of Homefries' labors.
The harvested crazywood awaits its next application.

Why call it crazywood?  Because it was made with finished-lumber boards that were skived BY HAND with a chisel to look like barn wood of some sort.  Then a dark stain was applied, and over that, a semi-gloss finish that makes the entire thing look like plastic.  It always took a great deal of effort to convince people that the false beams created with crazywood were actually not applications of prefab plastic.  

As it looked in place.  Note the different technique around the knots.
Crazy!

If you have any experience at all with using a hand chisel, you know that this took an incredible amount of time and effort.  And what you see above is a small fraction of the total crazywood throughout the former camp, God rest its plumbing.

The remains of the trees that no longer ring the camp structure that is no longer there.
The big one is from the hemlock that was just in the wrong place.
If it could have been spared, it would have, but it makes no sense to rebuild
with a huge tree poised to crush the new construction.

The tree began its life when Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox. 

What's this October surprise?

Must be a flock of white birds...

Or perhaps a meteor shower.
Thank goodness the garage has a metal roof!

Or maybe it's coagulated fog...

Or disintegrating flower petals.

But it sure makes you want to go for a paddle, eh?

Perhaps we'll paddle a little later.
In case you're wondering, what's under the hat is
the helmet liner that Mom's Dad brought home from WWII.

Yeah, that's it.
We'll paddle after the Dippin Dots disappear.

But they never disappeared, so paddling will have to wait for another day.

Dock Doc prepares dinner while Chowdahead provides verbal support.
Only the upstairs of the garage is warm.

But the unheated portion of the garage was much warmer than outside.

And speaking of unheated,
a lack of plumbing dictates that
every pioneer needs a shovel...

...and good grooming habits.

But enough about the nitty gritty.  It's always beautiful in the woods, no matter what the temperature may be.

It's beautiful when 
the white pines release old needles to float in waves upon the waters.

And the snow almost covers the vibrant leaves.

And just before it disappears, the last flower brightens the day.

And the same old view is beautiful again in a different way.

Even if the camp is no longer there 

All done!
Time to put the top down and drive home!

Hike to Cat Mountain

After breakfast and cleanup, the big hike began.  The Gang of 5 made their way across the river and to the old road alongside the Oswegatchie.  The remnant of the road was interesting only in that it was at a level over the stream where more of the swamp was visible.  

Where are we going?

Glad the bridge is here.

It looks as if there are many channels through this section.

The old road headed through an odd area where it appeared the river had tested many different waterways, and then to the junction with another barely discernible road with a path down the middle that would take them toward Cat Mountain.  This road must have been important at one time, since both sides were trenched to remove water.  

Soon, any trace of a road disappeared, and the trail meandered through the forest.  Before long, they found themselves at one end of a long log spanning a wide expanse of water.  The trail markers were visible on the other side.

See those little red and blue dots on the tree on the far side?
Those are the trail markers.
"Follow me!  Follow me!"

The bridge provided proved quite sturdy as Randy ascended.  Not only was the log wide, it had been skived flat for easy walking.  A rope was also provided as a hand hold.  No way the thin cord was going to keep anyone from getting wet if full weight was put on it, but one could make small balance corrections with it.  Or more realistically, perhaps it was merely a psychological aide.

Regardless, no one wanted to get wet, at least not right there.  It wasn’t so much the water as what might be underneath.  Inky black, one couldn’t see the bottom, and though it was probably no more than waist deep, who knows how deep and disgusting the muck below might be.

Randy started out confidently with a near-normal gait, but just past half way, the log became significantly more rounded, thinner and less sturdy.  Ripples moved outward as Randy’s walk changed to cautious baby steps, or better stated, cautious old man steps.  He managed to pass the moss adorning the narrowing sides and finally jump to the shore.  All made it across in similar fashion, but none were looking forward to the return crossing.

Matt strode across, assuredly.

Jim took a little longer.

Look at the rippples created as Mike vibrates across.

Russ demonstrates the shuffle technique.

Heading straight ahead after the log bridge, they encountered a really tough section of the trail.  They soon realized that it was unlikely the trail would be heading over blowdown after blowdown.  Returning to the bridge, they were happy to see that the trial  markers did in fact continue 90 degrees from their previous path.  

Why happy?  Because they knew that it was not a cruel joke that had sent them across the log bridge.  On the re-found path, the blowdowns were cleared.  One log even sported a smiley face carved with a Department of Environmental Conservation chainsaw.  

So that's where those pesky markers have been hiding!

The trail curled around to cross an impressive beaver dam.  No complaining about this one...it helped them get to a nice section of the trail following alongside another swamp.  

Walking atop the beaver dam.

"Thank you, Beavers!"

They eventually crossed the picturesque wetland at a narrows to ascend the rise that took them to the fork leading to Cat Mountain.  Should you ever go to Cat Mountain, consider coming in on the other shorter branch from Cranberry lake.  

When the need arises,
use this photo to illustrate "Picturesque Wetlands."

Almost to the narrows, another impressive beaver dam.

Only another mile and one-half.
No big deal after walking 6 or so.

The little stream was tempting, but giardia parasites provided by the beavers
make it much less so.
Nobody wants the major intestinal distress of Beaver Fever.
After washing your face, don't lick your lips!

They began the walk up the mountain and passed by a pretty pond with an empty campsite, perfect for a stop for lunch.  

Sights like these are great motivators
to overcome the inconveniences of camping and hiking.

"Hey, Jim, is that the rock face where we're going?"

"Hey, guys, this is a perfect spot for lunch!"

Others had come this way also.
Can you make out the cleft hoof of the moose track just above
my pudgy little boot?

A rock face showed high on the far side, but Jim let all know that the destination could not be seen, though none necessarily believed in his surprisingly accurate map reading skills at the time.  All soon headed upward, with Jim and Randy hanging back and taking their time, remembering that there is no prize for being the first in the party to reach the mountaintop.

Another rock face.
Actually, I see several faces.
You don't?  What's the matter with you?

The Cat Mountain rock ledge provided a fine view.  Morning might be a better time for pictures since the outcropping faces west, but even in the midafternoon, no one was disappointed.

Jim is happy he made the trip.

We were much too early for the peak,
but some trees on the peak had begun the annual autumn process.

There's magic in my eyes.
"I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles...."
"Oh yeah..."

Level headed?
Not quite.
The guru on the mountaintop?
No one asked him any questions.

A better view than the previous image.

Long way down, eh?

The view definitely made the hike worthwhile.  Unfortunately, languish long was not an option, since getting there took longer than anticipated, and everyone agreed that stumbling along the trail in the dark would be no fun at all.  

Not sure which one is supporting the other,
but neither look very stable.

One last look.

So they bid adieu to the view, the rocks and the solar powered radio repeater on the summit and headed down.  Randy shared one of his hiking poles with Russ.  They really help old knees on the way down.

Back on the flat on the trail through the marsh.

Jim, Matt and Mike had started off first, and Russ and Randy did not see any sign of them until hitting the junction of the two roads.  Though it looked as if Jim had waited there, it turned out that he had lagged a bit behind the other two, and his tired brain had sent him in the wrong direction.  He realized his navigation error when he passed an ancient piece of logging equipment hiding in the woods.  He was just returning as the others got to the intersection.  They followed Jim, now headed in the right direction, for the last two miles toward the campsite.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Russ.

“Well stop it!” Randy shot back.  “This is the part where we just slog through the hike we wish was done and don’t think about anything.”  Jim followed this advice really well, once again leaving Russ and Randy a bit behind.

More like it.

Randy has never been a big fan of case camping.  You know...the kind of camping where you take as much beer and ice as you can possibly carry into the woods and use them to sustain your carbohydrate and hydration needs while you whoop it up.  Yes, “never” is probably too strong a word, particularly considering the invention of beer can bocce at Utowana Lake, but that was clearly an indiscretion of youth.  Massive coolers in the woods just seem wrong.

But he is considering a change of heart.  When Russ and Randy arrived back at the bridge, they could have gone a little out of their way to skirt the close-by campsite, but after 15 miles of hiking, they were too tired to think of anything but the shortest route.  So they cut right through the site where Bob and Joe, local teachers, had settled.

“Where you guys been?  You look beat.  Wanna beer?” asked Bob.  Randy considered the proposal for two full nanoseconds before answering, “Yes!”

Bob produced a pair of cans and handed them over.  Moods swung appreciably upon hearing the “spwoosh” of the pop top.  

We usually use white lights at night in our campsite,
but we were willing to make an exception.

And as luck would have it, it happened to be Mike’s favorite beer!  He had informed everyone at the campfire the night before that, “My favorite beer has two characteristics, the first and most important being ‘free’, and the second being ‘cold’.”

We returned to our site, sporting our spoils for the visual benefit of the remainder of the group.  Jim cooked another fine meal and became glued to his fire-side chair, from which he never moved until he crawled to bed.  Given the diminutive size and limited compliance of Jim’s bladder, this is especially noteworthy.  The dehydration from the long hike was a blessing in disguise.

We would have found Jim sitting there the next morning
if we hadn't rolled him to his tent.

The rest of the crew returned to compensate our new friends with complementary fluids, and to make sure that too much of Mike’s favorite would not weigh them down on their return trip.  No one had any idea why they brought such mass quantities with them, but none will place any fault upon them.  When the 4 returned, Jim reported that the next door laughter had been very loud.