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Philip Paige 11/25/24 Philip Paige 11/25/24

Woodswoman By Storm

As Walden Pond is to Henry David Thoreau, so Black Bear Pond is to Anne LaBastille—well, sort of. Black Bear Pond is actually a pseudonym for Twitchell Lake. Located in Webb, Herkimer County, Twitchell Lake is remote, with Old Forge, Big Moose, and Stillwater Reservoir being its nearest communities.

Anne LaBastille lived alone in a cabin she built herself, deep in the wilderness. She was an author, ecologist, guide, Adirondack Park Agency commissioner, and much more. Her four books detailing her wilderness life are truly extraordinary. For a more comprehensive account of her life's work and personal background, I recommend her obituary from Adirondack Life (link to obituary).

Since reading 3.5/4 books in the Woodswoman series, I’ve hoped to visit ‘Black Bear Lake.’ When Anne passed away, per her wishes, her estate donated her property to the State of New York, and by doing so the property is now protected by the ‘forever wild’ clause in the NYS Constitution. To ‘find’ the property on the map, I used a mapping app (HuntStand) which shows the owner of each parcel—I looked for a parcel on Twitchell (Black Bear Lake) owned by the state, and one with a smaller pond accessible through the forest behind what would’ve been her main cabin—this cabin was disassembled and brought to the Adirondack Experience (museum) in Blue Mountain Lake.

My adventure did not start off well, unfortunately. Coming from downtown Old Forge my map presented me with two options: 1. North Street via Old Forge, or 2. Big Moose Road via Eagle Bay. I’d taken option 2 before—en route to Stillwater, so I decided to switch it up. North Street pretty rapidly (maybe a mile?) turned into a dirt road, which in and of itself is no problem, but the further I drove the rougher and narrower the road became. Eventually, after at least 30 minutes, I came upon a gate and could go no further. All told, I added about an hour of unnecessary driving to get back to my starting point. Option 2 worked out beautifully—GPS said 33 minutes from Old Forge.

Within minutes of launching my kayak and heading down the lake, I heard a distant rumble of thunder. A smarter person might have turned back, but I had invested considerable time and resources to get here. Besides, it was a relatively short paddle to Anne’s former property. With no roads connecting her property to the small parking lot and boat launch at the base of the lake, paddling was my only legal option (though I suppose I could ski or snowshoe in the winter).

Ironically, as I paddled to an increasingly louder soundtrack of thunder, I reflected on Anne’s stories of the dangerous trips she endured to reach her cabin—especially her winter treks to and from the same parking lot where I’d left my car. About two-thirds of the way, I began to feel sporadic raindrops. Having experienced brief rain showers over the past two days, I figured this one would pass quickly. I mostly disrobed and stowed my clothes and bag under the front end of my kayak—no point in burdening myself with heavy, wet clothes for the rest of the trip if I could avoid it. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me: Anne was a frequent skinny-dipper, and here I was, not far behind.

As I approached Anne’s property, I noticed a modest dock surrounded by mountain holly (Ilex mucronata). Still, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d arrived at the right spot. Typically, the state removes structures from properties it acquires, as it had done with Anne’s cabin. Would they have left an unmarked dock? I wasn’t certain, but with rain falling in earnest and thunder echoing louder than ever, I hauled my kayak onto the dock and pushed through the mountain holly. I tucked my belongings further under cover, retrieved my clothes, and tipped the kayak against a tree, hoping to keep my seat and bag dry.

*The final book in Anne’s Woodswoman series*

Now I had a dilemma: what would I do if the storm worsened? With Anne’s cabin gone, retreating onto the lake seemed both dangerous (wielding a long metal paddle in a thunderstorm) and disheartening. Yet, what other options did I have to stay safe and dry? Frustrated with my stubbornness, I mentally berated myself for venturing out despite the ominous forecast.

A small clearing—the site of Anne’s former cabin—was exposed to the rain, leaving me the tallest object in the vicinity. So, like any person with common sense, I chose to stand under a tree—though not the tallest one! Knowing that a balsam fir offered decent cover, I found one within view of the cabin site and sat beneath it.

*Memorial near the site of Anne’s cabin*

The rain eased just enough for me to dart back to my kayak and grab my bag before returning to my dry spot under the balsam. There I sat, as the rain and thunder resumed, Anne’s book in hand. I had intentionally saved the last few chapters of her final book for this very moment, and I couldn’t have been more grateful for the decision.

Sitting in this thin space, I let Anne’s words drift slowly into my mind. I lingered over paragraphs, rereading especially poignant sentences. There I was, sitting under a tree just a stone’s throw from where Anne had lived and written these very experiences she so generously shared with me and countless other readers.

By the time I finished and closed her final Woodswoman book, the storm had passed—I was free to explore her haven! Anne often referred to her forest as “old growth” throughout her series, though I’ve always approached such claims with a touch of skepticism. The most concise definition I can offer for old growth is a forest with a diversified canopy structure—open in some places, closed in others—with a mix of old and younger trees, large standing snags (dead trees), and substantial nurse logs (fallen logs, typically wet and moss-covered, serving as fertile ground for new growth). These unique ecosystems also provide habitat for species sensitive to disturbances, such as pulmonaria lichen and neckera moss.

*A snag in Anne’s forest, near Thoreau II*

I should have trusted Anne’s word, because her forest ticked every old-growth box I could imagine. It’s no wonder she was so deeply attached to this place! I wandered the parcel, marveling at carnivorous pitcher plants near the shoreline, pulmonaria climbing the trunk of a grand sugar maple, and countless other incredible old growth vignettes .

*Pulmonaria lichen (also called Lungwort) growing on a Sugar Maple*

Anne built a second cabin near the back of her parcel, which she called Thoreau II. I hoped to find either the cabin itself or its footprint. Without the forest, I could have walked from Anne’s main cabin to Thoreau II quite quickly, but I stopped so many times along the way that the journey took almost an hour. Initially, I felt disappointed to find her cabin reduced to pieces, but as an ecologist and environmental advocate, Anne likely embraced the principle of “leave no trace.” Knowing this brought me some peace. In a decade or so, the logs will decay into moss-covered detritus—subtler to the eye—and eventually, there will be little to no trace of her presence here at all.

On my way back to the kayak, I chose a different route and found myself marveling at a host of new sights and sounds. Near the end of my trek, I noticed a doe chewing about 30 feet ahead of me on the trail—perhaps a deer trail, an Anne trail, or both; who’s to say? In my experience, wild deer usually bolt at the first sign of a human, but this moment felt surreal. I stood perfectly still, yet the doe saw me. I was certain she would leap into the tangled hobblebush on either side of the trail. Instead, she ignored me and continued munching her way closer.

*Screenshot of the video, which for some reason I cannot upload (nor can I upload any video here, I guess)*

Is she blind? Is she sick? I couldn’t make sense of what I was witnessing. The moment became even more magical as sunlight broke through a gap in the canopy, illuminating her light brown summer coat. I lifted my camera, expecting that my movement would trigger her flight response. But she stayed. The doe stopped about 20 feet away—the closest I’ve ever been to a live deer, aside from encounters from a tree stand. She looked directly at me, then turned and walked slowly to the left.

I stood there, thrilled—thrilled to finally be in this place, thrilled to feel more connected to Anne’s stories, and, in that moment, thrilled to be just another non-threatening presence in the forest. It was a perfect end to my time there.

My paddle down the lake wasn’t entirely uneventful, either! As the parking lot came into view, I spotted a family of loons to my right. Since the storm had passed, I sat back and watched them mosey along the shoreline. Lucky for me, a slight breeze gently pushed me in their direction. Much like the doe, the loons didn’t seem phased by my presence. A loon duet capped off one of my very favorite days of the summer—and, all told, one of my favorite Adirondack adventures. I plan to return again, probably on skis—a true taste of Anne’s commute!

Philip Paige 7/13/24 Philip Paige 7/13/24

Lake Lila: The Most Underrated Adirondack Lake

*My first view of Lake Lila, from the trail to Mt. Frederica*

I have a long list of 'someday' adventures (I'll show you mine if you show me yours), and most involve ponds or lakes. I'm glad peak-bagging is so popular because it makes pond-hopping all the more appealing to me. Fewer people, more solitude, happier me. How I ended up at Lake Lila isn't a particularly exciting story. In fact, unlike the lake (60'+ deep), my rationale was quite shallow—I like the name "Lila," and it's accessible, yet remote. There is a certain baseline appeal for a day on an Adirondack lake, but Lila far exceeded my expectations.

*A Timberdoodle/American Woodcock (Scolopax Minor) pair greeted me at the beginning of the Lake Lila Road*

I'll include a map here, so there's no need to go into great detail about how to get there, but it's worth noting how the drive is both pretty yet, for low-riding vehicles, far from ideal. From Route 30, down Circle Road, and onto Sabattis, you should have no problems, but shortly after turning onto Lake Lila Road, you'll meet many a pothole and problematic protruding rock.

Reaching the parking area 0.3 miles away from the lake itself, I found only a handful of cars (yay). With no particular destination in mind, my intention was to walk the road/trail along the north end of the lake for as long as I wanted—it was a very hot and humid day, so it was up in the air how far I'd go. I'd done very little homework beyond looking up directions to the lake, but walking along a lakeside road, I felt comfortable with the spontaneity of my hike.

*Some woodpeckers use* ***snags*** *(standing dead trees) as a food source, and as a home (as do many other cavity dwelling birds)*

Making a few stops along the way to sneak a different view from the shore or to admire a plant, I was reaching that I am going to have to walk X miles back, maybe it's time to turn around point. Thank goodness I kept going because I saw a sign for Mount Frederica, which indicated I was just more than a mile away from a lakeside peak.

*One of my favorite flowers: Pipsissewa (Chimaphila umbellata), which is considered “exploitably vulnerable” in New York State*

Not having any idea what to expect—Lord knows there are many peaks without much of any view—I decided to roll the dice. The hike up the mountain itself was underwhelming, and though I was too far in to turn around, I did question whether or not adding more than two miles to the trip was going to be worthwhile.

*Crossing the tracks on the Mt. Frederica trail. These tracks extend from Utica to Tupper Lake, passing thru Thendara and Beaver Rive*r

When I turned the corner and saw a preview of the view-shed, I internally said, "yup." To say the extra distance was worth it would be a radical understatement! Immediately, this view jumped onto my 'top 10 Adirondack views' list (it's only a mental list at this point).

*Birch atop Mt. Federica. Lake Lila is a stunner!*

I sat down in the shade to soak it all in, enjoy a pair of peanut butter cups, and a few sips of ice-cold lemonade. The sky was mottled with cartoon-like fluffy clouds in contrast with the deepest of blue skies, and the breeze felt like the predictable oscillation of a household fan. Perhaps it was just late enough in the day for the temperature to drop a bit, but though it was hot and muggy earlier in the day, I couldn't find a single thing I would change about those moments atop Mt. Frederica.

*I stepped down to another section of the peak to get a different view of Lake Lila*

Aside from two groups of folks leaving near the parking lot, I saw no people, heard no jets or engines, and failed to find a single piece of litter to take out with me.

For a moment, I strongly considered leaving from the parking lot, but the 0.3-mile canoe carry to the lake seemed like one I couldn't ignore. And, much like the summit of the mountain, I was so glad I made the right choice. A charming wood path leading through a grove of very large cedar trees perfectly framed a preview of the lake. What I found was one of the most stunning Adirondack beaches I've yet seen—the sand was a fine light khaki color, the shoreline betrayed not an ounce of wildness, and as I ambled into the lake, I stepped in no muck but instead found a gentle sandy grade to a point at which I felt compelled to dive in.

I kicked around and floated as the sun drifted down toward the horizon, played on the beach with Birch, and did everything in my power to soak it all in. Moments like these become a balm to my soul during the doldrums of winter and remind me living here is worth the seasonal challenges.

For roughly 9 miles, most of which follows flat lake grade, I have no doubt you'd enjoy this adventure. It's worth the effort. I will be back with a kayak—stay tuned.

Philip Paige 5/22/24 Philip Paige 5/22/24

A Lie: An Unremarkable Pond

[I]t is highly unlikely the Black Spruce, and Tamarack enveloping the pond would have been either compelling, or accessible to lumberjacks. In all likelihood—with no visible invasive species, and not a single man-made noise within earshot—I stood in a place of untouched serenity.

Risking charges of blasphemy, I’ll share a lighthearted comment I make regarding the most important source text for Old Growth in the Adirondacks, “the gospel according to Barbara.” The text I am referring to is, “The Great Forests of the Adirondacks,” written by the late Barbara McMartin—her work beautifully weaves together historic land ownership data, land use over time (primarily timber), public policy, and first-hand accounts and observations at the individual parcel level.

Using her text as my launching pad, I continually attempt to acquaint myself with Old Growth near me (St. Lawrence County) and in the Adirondacks, broadly. A map McMartin’s features in her work has been especially helpful, “Map of the Great Forest of Northern New York,” which is also the 1891 “The Proposed Adirondack Park.” The utility—and beauty—of this map is it’s demarkation of parcels thought to be “Virgin” (a problematic term which I will address in the future), parcels on which only (at the time) softwood had been harvested, denuded areas (think wildfires, and blowdown), areas cleared and occupied by farms, or secondary forests, and parcels owned by the state.

A radically condensed version of McMartin’s thesis might look something like: ‘there are hundreds of thousands of acres of forests either never commercially harvested, or only harvested lightly—primarily for softwoods, during the earliest wave of commercial forestry in the Adirondacks.” The most convincing case for determining which parcels may be “Virgin,”are those parcels that have never left state ownership (post seizure by Euro-American settlers).

One such parcel, located in the Town of Colton (most easily reached by way of the Town of Clare), is the north-western most parcel of state owned “Virgin” land within the “Proposed Adirondack Park.” I’ve explored the Church Pond parcel to the east (more on that another day), but had come up short with a way to access the parcel in question—let’s call it the Deerskin Pond Forest, or DPF for short. The issue I had with accessing the DPF was not a road access problem—I was able to follow Dean Road to its terminus, then proceed past the mud gates onto easement land. In fact, I was able to see the parcel, but I was on the opposite side of the Middle Branch of the Grasse River. I thought I would need to return with a kayak to cross the river, which would not have been so bad, but seemed inefficient, given the river itself is maybe 30’ wide.

*The parcel I visited is represented here as the green square in the center of the map*

As he is wont to do, my Little Brother saved the day—he and my father share a camp on Dean Road, and he has a great deal of familiarity with the previously referenced easement land. LB told me there is an old suspension bridge over the Grasse, which will bring me directly to DPF. The day he showed me the bridge in 2023 was not sufficiently ‘free,’ thus we turned back, but I felt excited about the prospect of returning alone someday.

At long last, a few days ago, I drove to a DEC designated parking area near DPF. There are, technically, state campsites near the river, but they need significant attention. With no formally marked trail to the bridge, I followed vehicle tracks in the general direction I needed to go. Finding the bridge, which is somewhat precarious, I crossed over the Grasse and gratefully met the DPF.

The weather was overcast with moments of light rain, and temperatures in the high 50s. I expect this will sound less than ideal to most, but I enjoy hiking in the rain (moss and lichens glow, the soundscape is lovely, a light fog in the forest is magical, and there are generally fewer people).

Tree Lungwort, *Lobaria Pulmonaria* & Pincushion Moss, *Leucobryum Glaucum*

My first observation of the forest, which upon crossing the bridge is mostly deciduous (Sugar Maple, and Yellow Birch), was one of underwhelming blasé. I bushwhacked a few hundred yards, aimlessly, and stumbled upon what was once—emphasis on WAS—a trail. I did not see a cut stump in the entire forest, but on this trail there were plenty of blowdown cuts, none fresh. At points the trail became quite hard to follow, and took some trial and error, but I was able to follow it to an unmarked stream. Upon reaching the stream, with no sign of another trail, I opted to head toward a small pond, which is marked on only a few maps, “Deerskin Pond.”

*The '“trail,” which was occasionally demarcated by downfall sawn in two*

Perhaps I am an Old Growth snob, but nothing I saw en route to the pond was especially awe inspiring, and I would have ranked DPF quite low on my list. My perception changed as I came upon the pond, which was unlike any I’d seen thus far. I’d need someone with expertise to verify, but I would guess Deerskin Pond is a kettle pond. Descending the Eastern Hemlock lined ridge surrounding the pond I came upon a mossy plain mostly populated by spruce (with one notable, beautiful exception—see the photo of a Red Maple caked in Tree Lungwort). Approaching the pond the ground felt less stable, progressively, as I approached the shoreline. When I stepped out onto a nice vantage point, I watched waves of foggy mist roll over the surface of the pond—it dawned on me that even if McMartin were wrong about this parcel being Old Growth, even if the source map was wrong, it is highly unlikely the Black Spruce, and Tamarack enveloping the pond would have been either compelling, or accessible to lumberjacks. In all likelihood—with no visible invasive species, and not a single man-made noise within earshot—I stood in a place of untouched serenity. I had the good company of vocal Ruby-Crowned Kinglets, Carolina Wrens, Black-and-White Warblers, Nashville Warblers, Great Crested Flycatchers, White Throated Sparrows, Ovenbirds, and a favorite of mine: the Hermit Thrush. The pond kept giving, and I was glad to accept the auditory and visual performance.

*Suspension bridge over the Middle Branch of the Grasse River*

I have to profess ignorance, because there is a lot I have left to learn, but here are some observations and theories I came up with:

Perhaps the pond—at least the open water portion—was once larger. Standing on the shore, it was clear I was not on ‘solid’ ground, but rather a somewhat gelatinous sphagnum moss platform. I wonder if as time rolls on, the pond is filling in with sediment, and the sphagum is moving slowly inward, pushing out the open water.
I only saw Lobaria Pulmonaria (Lungwort lichen—my favorite) down in the kettle. Perhaps, since this lichen prefers to be out of direct sunlight, in moist conditions, and out of direct/strong winds, maybe the section of forest I traversed to reach the pond was just not favorable for it. I almost always see this lichen in Old Growth, but in this case the kettle seemed to be the only host—and even then, on only one tree I saw. Could this be just related to growing conditions, or perhaps the hardwoods I treked thru were ‘relatively’ recently disturbed. This would not surprise me, becasue I saw only a handful of truly large trees—less so than I have ever seen in Old Growth thus far.

Having now seen the pond—before the Tamarack is fully ‘leafed’ out—I left this experience with a much more favorable opinion. At a minimum, I would like to come back in the fall, because I am sure when the Tamarack are in their full golden glory this will be an even more stunning sight. Additionally, I saw another trail as I approached the bridge on my return to the car—it appeared to head up Deerskin Creek, which is on the opposite side of the parcel I explored. Another hike, another day.

Philip Paige 6/20/23 Philip Paige 6/20/23

Big Pine, Wanakena

I hike not to socialize with humanity, but rather to eavesdrop on the forest — conversations between tree and fungi, bird and berry, frog and pond. The vistas from popular mountains have their merits, but the parade of people descending, and walking ever so slowly up the trail defeat the purpose of hiking, for me. Amid the frequent banter of man, I’m unable to hear the forest speak.

l hike not for the health of my material self, — though there are undeniably tangible benefits — but in an effort to stitch myself, even for a moment, into the tapestry of the forest community. Consequently, the trails I seek out are what Robert Frost famously described as “the one[s] less traveled by[.]” A far off pond on my wrinkled map, or lore of a grove of old growth — that’s what draws me into the forest like a monarch to milkweed.

Such was the case here, on Big Pine Trail. A passing remark from a Wanakena resident first piqued my interest in a specific Eastern White Pine (Pinus strobus) tree located not far from the shores of Cranberry Lake. Much to my great pleasure, during my first trek in to meet the grand tree, I both reached the hallowed ground over which the tree has stood for nearly 300 years, and did so without meeting another person.

Reaching the “Big Pine” is no great challenge — a relatively flat trail (mostly) lacking formal markers delivers your body, and hopefully your spirit, to this sacred grove. You pass under no crucifix entering the grounds of this natural cathedral, but rather along a well worn path dotted by columns of sun-bleached snags —the dominion of woodpeckers, and ascending fungal mycelium. Big Pine stands about 40 feet to the right of the trail, near the bottom of a natural bowl, yet it towers over every neighbor. Its hulking bole shows little sign of slimming as your eye moves up toward the canopy—its craggy needled branches like a crown atop the head of forest royalty.

Owl pellets rest at the base of Big Pine

Getting there:

From Route 3, turn onto County Route 61
As you approach the first Y in the road, stay right (some maps refer to this section of the road as Main Street)
Proceed over the bridge crossing the Oswegatchie River, and stay on South Shore Road.
At South Shore Road’s terminus, head back a short distance and the small pull-off will be on your left. It lacks signage or formal marking (as far as I could tell), but it is not terribly difficult to spot. If you pass a yellow sign indicating a bend with a 25MPH speed recommendation, you’ve gone too far (slightly). Photo of the parking area attached below