We are in the midst of a major geopolitical crisis over immigration, fueled by war and catalyzed by terrorism. It’s no secret that one consequence is a rising tide of anti-immigration sentiment here in the United States. Recent events have prejudiced our long debate over illegal immigrants and secure borders to the point where any sensible discussion of policy has been all but drowned out.
With the Adirondack Park Agency (APA) having signaled its inclination to support the proposed amendment to the Remsen – Lake Placid Travel Corridor Unit Management Plan that would refurbish the rails between Big Moose and Tupper Lake and replace the rails with a multi-use trail between Tupper lake and Lake Placid, the time for endless argument over the merits of this proposal needs to come to an end. Instead it is time to begin the work to maximize the great economic potential of this project. That’s right, Tupper Lake: I’m talking to you.
I’ve known of the Champlain Valley’s storied past for a long time. But despite a lifetime association with the Adirondacks, I had never been there. Being reasonably well-read in history is hardly adequate to actually experiencing it, so when I was hired to teach at North Country Community College’s Ticonderoga campus I became excited at the chance to do some exploring.
My mother Hendrieka is going to turn ninety-five years old just after Christmas. She has led a remarkable life – her adventures would make for an interesting memoir to say the least. Her innate spirit and resiliency remain, but while she shows every sign of being around for a while longer, there is no doubt that she is in the sunset of her life. Even as recently as a year ago she still walked with her trademark pace, an energetic stride with arms swinging in long, purposeful arcs. Now she shuffles, small steps, cautious about any variation in floor or terrain.
Being Mom’s caretaker in her last years has been a learning experience. One » Continue Reading.
I have always felt that there were three prevailing dispositions towards statistics: professional – by those who know how to use statistics and do so legitimately; political – by those who use (or typically misuse) them for propaganda; and cynics. Cynics have an attitude toward statistics best captured by the aphorism popularized by Mark Twain: “There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics.”
Making the Adirondack Park more attractive to youth of all backgrounds and preferences was the focus of the second Towards a More Diverse Adirondacks Symposium on August 15th at SUNY-ESF in Newcomb. We had a robust discussion, and the bulk of our time was given to the voices of high school and college-age students, from inside and outside the Adirondacks.
There has been a long-held belief about Newcomb among many Adirondackers visitors and residents alike – there’s nothing there. I’ve heard this about Newcomb on and off for thirty years. It’s Nonsense!
Sure, I don’t deny that the Newcomb area could benefit from more places to dine and stay the night. But I can’t think of any place better equipped to appeal to one class of tourist the Adirondack region has so far mostly ignored: ecotourism.
Last Wednesday was the day that my wife Amy and I finally closed on our Adirondack house in Keene. The morning of the closing I awoke to a cloudy, fogged-in day and an overwhelming need to get my head right and reconnect to this place I have so come to love. I decided to hike up Big Crow, a substantial promontory that rises from one of the ridges of the Hurricane Mountain complex, directly behind our new house. Big Crow has a lot of open rock and a rise of several hundred feet facing the Keene Valley, promising a huge view of the High Peaks beyond. As I began my ascent visibility was a few » Continue Reading.
I was in the Adirondack Park last week and while I did not have a chance to visit Lost Brook Tract I did get into the back country, climbing Mount Adams (which I highly recommend) and doing a little bushwhacking in the newly acquired MacIntyre East Tract. But it was another place, not as remote as the MacIntyre tract yet as far removed from the world at large as any place I’ve ever been, that called to my consciousness in my hour of need. No such call could resonate more deeply in me than that of Osprey Bay.