TALES FROM SHAWANGUNK

by Peggy Spencer Behrendt

In 1974, Tim and Peggy Spencer Behrendt set off on an adventure. They began a new life in the woods of Cold Brook, NY, without modern conveniences like electricity or indoor plumbing. These are excerpts and reflections from Peggy’s journal chronicling their adventures and also her childhood memories growing up in Westmoreland.

I put on my cross-country skis and head out to get some fresh air, exercise, and enjoy winter with Sue Hill Tittler in our Preserve. We head down the old section of Shawangunk Road and pick up the well-marked trail that runs along the edge of Black Creek. I know that deer and other wildlife use this trail and I wouldn’t be surprised if Indigenous ancestors may have also used it. I imagine that I’m a character in a North Country adventure story by James Fenimore Cooper - an explorer looking for an easy way to cross the creek, a Native American searching for winter-hardy herbs, a mountain hermit returning from town, or maybe a homesteader looking for firewood. When I see a likely little shelter under the roots of a tree, I think that it would be a comfy place to sit during a storm if I were a bunny.

It’s good to have someone with me because, like swimming, it’s safer to have a companion in case of a mishap. We comment about what we are seeing and experiencing along our excursion, and it enhances the immersive pleasure of the trail.

Our skis slide quietly through virgin snow. It undulates in pure white mounds and dips.

Today, it’s perfect for skiing with soft fluff over crunchy accumulations.

Black Creek is not frozen or filled with slush but re flects a brilliant arctic blue from the sky with dancing crystals in the mirror images of snow-mantled trees and bushes along its shores.

We notice a distinctively muddy otter trail creating a lit tle slippery slide flowing down a steep bank to the creek. When our trail swerves deeper into the woods, there are porcupine tracks that invariably end at the base of a tree. I look up to see if there might be one parked high in its branches having a winter nap. As the trail meanders close to Black Creek again, we come across what must be a beaver trail. Around the paw prints is a rather wide swath in the snow on either side caused by the dragging of their paddle-shaped tails.

Many dainty footprints of squirrels and mice disappear at the base of a tree. Sometimes we see the chicken-like tracks of a ruffed grouse. If we’re lucky, we even see an imprint of what looks like angel wings created by a bird, perhaps a partridge or crow that has recently taken off, after having possibly caught an unwary mouse.

I attempt to go straight down a small, slightly steep slope and am surprised to suddenly find myself tilting out of control and landing hard on hidden ice at the bottom of the hill! Like a newborn colt on gangly legs, I gingerly maneuver awkward lengths of skis, legs, and ski poles to rise, hoping I’m not seriously damaged, but all is well. I’m feeling grateful now for the stretching, sit-ups, leg lifts, and push-ups I diligently (albeit reluctantly) do most days as it keeps me agile and mobile.

Snowshoes would be better footwear for navigating this trail of forest mounds and dips, but I love the feeling of gliding on skis. After about two miles of exquisite woodland scenery, we return pinkcheeked, refreshed, and pleasantly tired.

Still, winter often pins us inside too long, and our spirits flag because we miss the sepia shades of earth un-mantled by snow. We crave the succulence of plants bursting with chlorophyll and throbbing with veins filled with sap. In March, we eagerly await the first patch of bare ground, which often occurs on the south side of a pine tree where accumulations of tawny pine needles may be dry enough to sit on with our faces to the sun. Fresh, pine-scented air wafts about, and the cheery music of chickadees, pine siskins, and purple finches entertain. Sometimes we’ll tap a maple tree to see if it has begun to flow and to taste the indiscernible sweetness of maple flavor, a “spring tonic.” Since this sap is supplying nutrients that facilitate the growth of huge, strong trees, (and we share 50% of our DNA with trees, according to reliable scientific sources), it makes sense that it might be beneficial to us as well.

It’s very difficult to predict the flow of maple sap, even from one day to the next as it is so dependent on weather conditions. Last year, because of this, we missed the special weekend events at the maple syrup farms in the Mohawk Valley but near the end of the season, we were able to get to the McComb’s Family Oak Hill Farm in Speculator. Family members from far away come to spend the sugaring off-season, helping with the harvest and processing. They are fortunate to have many beautiful acres of maple-abundant forest on slopes that give them the advantage of labor-saving, gravity-fed pipes from the trees to the sugaring-off shed. We admired their stainless-steel tanks and equipment and got a friendly reception with interesting facts on the process, some great recipes, and a succulent sample of maple syrup, hot out of the boiling tank.

Of course, a visit to Specu lator is not complete without a pause by the semi-frozen lake where geese appear to be walk ing on water or to the shops filled with Adirondack-themed items. The books on local history in the General Store always interest me, and Tim can’t resist any representational form of a bear, so it’s not unusual for us to come home with one.

Trying new things can be fun. This year, we went ice skating with family members at the Clinton Arena. I was hesitant since it’s been probably at least 60 years since we’ve had skates on and didn’t relish risking an injury from falling. I was comforted though when we met a female skater there who was older than I. She obviously loved the sport and was able to do it skillfully. Also, the Arena has a device like a walker that novices can lean on and push along to keep themselves upright. This was a great help and comfort until muscle memory and confidence returned.

There was a very interesting exhibit on the history of ice skating at the James Fenimore Cooper Museum in Cooperstown one year. The