An Adirondack Outlaw: Wandering Lost in Love’s Wilderness

There’s a mystic trail in these mountains. Myths, tragedies, and harrowing rescue tales surround it. It’s not marked on any map. Old timers who’ve survived its trek issue stern warnings to those yearning to follow.  Legends say it reaches skyward beyond Marcy’s peak to the clouds.

It’s well known, yet elusive. It begins near heart’s lake. It is rugged, treacherous, and steep. Many outlaw souls have attempted its route.

Most brave harts who sought never found it. Of those who somehow did, most quickly got lost in the woods, others got dizzy and disoriented, many broke down in tears, some found themselves mired waist deep in a swamp, quite a few just plain quit.

Most who survived the journey bore scars for life.

Legends say it’s a trail littered with broken hearts.

More than a few are my own.  » Continue Reading.

In Honor of Old Newsboys Everywhere.

 We All Started Somewhere.

We moved to Saranac Lake from Lake Placid in the summer of ’73.  I had just finished 4th grade.

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I don’t know if this little story’s “bona fidis” qualify it as authentically blue-line “Adirondack.” I guess I’ll leave it to others to decide that. What I do know is this. Regardless of geography, truth is quite frequently stranger than fiction. Each day in life’s circle re-proves that.

At this point it should surprise no one to know that my father, Tom Monroe, spent his career in the NYSDEC. I have frequently referenced this rise through the ranks while writing my numerous Adirondack adventures and stories. From 1974 until 1994, when he finally retired, he served as Region V’s Regional Director. As a result, my brother and I were raised within and by our dad’s DEC family.

Life moved on. I grew up, went away to college, served time the army. My father retired. My DEC roots faded from view.  My wife Robin and I met, married and settled in Watertown.  We bought a house there, settled down, went to work raising our three children.

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“A crew of hardy young Adirondack men, a deck of playing cards, a cabin, a pair of “One Eyed Jacks”, a whiskey bottle, & a shot glass”

     It was getting late. Time measured by the near empty whiskey bottle and battalion of “dead soldier” beer bottles standing in neatly rowed formation on the floor in one corner.

We were young Adirondack men, sitting around a worn deck of playing cards at a table in a cigar smoke filled cabin after an honest day’s work.  Young men discussing recent adventures with women and fishing as we collectively evolved our individual world views.

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