Tales of Upstate New York
Dragging out the camping stuff, as I am for an upcoming trip to the Sierras, always makes me think of the trips my dad took me on when I was young. My dad, academic that he is, always had a wonderful understanding of how a canoe trip was often more important than spending the day in school. For our annual Memorial Day adventure to the Cedar River Flow we would leave on Friday to beat the crowds to our favorite camping site. A perfect spot, under the pines on a bend in the river, four hours paddle from the launching point. We would stay through Tuesday to enjoy the quiet. However; being a teenager I had other priorities. My senior year we planned to leave early Saturday morning, I had a party to go to Friday night and wouldn’t get home until Midnight. Dad didn’t care; we were leaving at 6 am, with a stop for breakfast at McDonald’s at 7.
Half asleep I helped packed the car in the early morn and off we went. I dozed off most of the way up to the Adirondacks. Somewhere in the netherlands of Upstate New York I sat up with a start “I forgot my sleeping bag” I blurted out. Ugggh! Exclaimed my dad quietly. We were approaching Tupper Lake, a town that just two years before had finally gotten a McDonalds and was the last outpost before heading off into the wilds. We stopped at the Ames Department Store (that really is the name - irony anyone?). Department store is probably too grandiose a word to describe Ames, their core consumers are from small communities too poor for a WalMart. However they did sell thin, polyester blankets; one of which my dad bought. Thinking now, the thing to do would have been to buy two, but he bought one. An hour later, we loaded up the canoe with our packs, my dad’s warm, down sleeping bag and one sad looking blanket. The end of May is a beautiful time in the Adirondacks – few bugs, sunshiny days, birds and animals cavorting about, but cold nights. I don’t remember much about the paddle up to the campsite or even which canoe we took, I don’t think it rained I would have remembered the rain. But I do remember when we were going to sleep dad said – “Here take my sleeping bag, I’ve spent a lot of nights out in the cold and a few more won’t hurt me. But you, you’re not used to it, you need to be warm.” So my dad spent four cold nights wrapped in a thin polyester blanket while I slept guilty but warm.
Years later he sent me a newspaper clipping from the New York Times, the Ames department store was closing; the company was going into bankruptcy. Just one line in his letter referenced the article, noting that this was the store where we had bought the blanket. He sent it to me, thinking of all the enjoyable times we spent together in the Adirondacks, a memory of one more adventure.
It’s been over 15 years since my dad and I took a trip like that, and that may well have been the last one we took. And in 15 years I don’t think either one of us has ever spoken of the forgotten sleeping bag. I don’t remember much about those trips just flashes of being caught in the rain and once in the snow, the river so freezing cold your whole body went numb when swimming, the Osprey who would sit in the tree watching over the marsh. I kept that article stuck to my refrigerator for years. It’s now been lost or crumbled into dust. To me, it was a reminder to be nice to my dad, something I’m getting better at. I don’t need a newspaper article to remind me anymore. And as I drag out my sleeping bag for the upcoming trip I thank my dad for the experiences he gave me, and that he knew what I should learn wouldn’t be taught on a Friday spent in school.
Half asleep I helped packed the car in the early morn and off we went. I dozed off most of the way up to the Adirondacks. Somewhere in the netherlands of Upstate New York I sat up with a start “I forgot my sleeping bag” I blurted out. Ugggh! Exclaimed my dad quietly. We were approaching Tupper Lake, a town that just two years before had finally gotten a McDonalds and was the last outpost before heading off into the wilds. We stopped at the Ames Department Store (that really is the name - irony anyone?). Department store is probably too grandiose a word to describe Ames, their core consumers are from small communities too poor for a WalMart. However they did sell thin, polyester blankets; one of which my dad bought. Thinking now, the thing to do would have been to buy two, but he bought one. An hour later, we loaded up the canoe with our packs, my dad’s warm, down sleeping bag and one sad looking blanket. The end of May is a beautiful time in the Adirondacks – few bugs, sunshiny days, birds and animals cavorting about, but cold nights. I don’t remember much about the paddle up to the campsite or even which canoe we took, I don’t think it rained I would have remembered the rain. But I do remember when we were going to sleep dad said – “Here take my sleeping bag, I’ve spent a lot of nights out in the cold and a few more won’t hurt me. But you, you’re not used to it, you need to be warm.” So my dad spent four cold nights wrapped in a thin polyester blanket while I slept guilty but warm.
Years later he sent me a newspaper clipping from the New York Times, the Ames department store was closing; the company was going into bankruptcy. Just one line in his letter referenced the article, noting that this was the store where we had bought the blanket. He sent it to me, thinking of all the enjoyable times we spent together in the Adirondacks, a memory of one more adventure.
It’s been over 15 years since my dad and I took a trip like that, and that may well have been the last one we took. And in 15 years I don’t think either one of us has ever spoken of the forgotten sleeping bag. I don’t remember much about those trips just flashes of being caught in the rain and once in the snow, the river so freezing cold your whole body went numb when swimming, the Osprey who would sit in the tree watching over the marsh. I kept that article stuck to my refrigerator for years. It’s now been lost or crumbled into dust. To me, it was a reminder to be nice to my dad, something I’m getting better at. I don’t need a newspaper article to remind me anymore. And as I drag out my sleeping bag for the upcoming trip I thank my dad for the experiences he gave me, and that he knew what I should learn wouldn’t be taught on a Friday spent in school.
| 22:45
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