When I was a kid growing up in the shadow of the Adirondack Mountains in upstate New York State, I became accustomed to several things Southerners have no need for. Snowmobiles, for example. And yes, we owned one. Having learned at an early age to drive it, I would take it out and roam the fields adjacent to our property. There was something magical about being alone out in the snow, the cold biting my face, while I navigated my way through locations normally not accessible, just me and the machine. Sometimes, I would stop, turn off the engine, and simply sit there, enjoying the quiet and the isolation.
Looking back over the years, I now wonder if these are the same feelings that draw a person to sailing. I'd like to think so. In any case, I do miss it.
Still, as much fun as I had, snowmobiles to those in the higher elevations of the ADK were more than just for fun—they were how folks got around when the roads were impassable… and then again, even when the roads WERE passable. Stop by a restaurant or watering hole deep in the ADK in the winter; it's not uncommon to see more snowmobiles than cars in the parking lot.
Riding at night was especially fun... the snowmobile's headlights lighting up the snow and the darkness all around. Out in the country, there is no spillage of light from anywhere. It is as dark as it is quiet, especially on a winter's night in snow-covered fields lit only by the moon and bounded by the occasional fence, line of trees, or woods.
A funny story… I was out riding with my dad one night. He was driving, and I was sitting behind him (our machine held two riders). We got stuck about 20 minutes into our ride, out in the middle of a field I had never been to before. It happens… often when riding on new snow… but I knew what to do. I jumped off and began pushing while my dad pulled back on the throttle.
The snowmobile began to move and then bite the snow… quickly gaining traction. In no time at all the machine and my dad were once again skimming over the fresh snow… as I stood there… watching… from the middle of the tracks they left behind.
I continued to watch until the lights became very faint and eventually disappeared. Of course, the idea was for me to hop back onto the snowmobile as it gained traction. That's the way it's done. Well, long story short, my hop fell short, and I missed, all unbeknownst to my dad. He had no idea I wasn't sitting behind him.
So, I started walking, following the tracks in the snow. A huge moon that night made it easy. My dad did return, of course. I don't recall how long I walked before I saw the headlights in the distance… my dad retracing his tracks to find me. I thought he would be angry… but he was laughing when he pulled up. He asked what happened. I simply shrugged my shoulders and climbed aboard… and off we went.
We didn’t get stuck again that night, but we did explore places I didn’t recognize, places I suspected I had never been to before, or perhaps had, but was now tricked by the night and the moon into thinking otherwise. I think it is an easy thing for the moon and night to do, making everything look new and unexplored, especially to a kid whose imagination often ran wild.
By my own estimates, that ride took place precisely five decades ago, plus or minus a month or two. I was all of eleven years old… but already a budding Adirondacker. These days, my wife and I pass the time here in the shadow of the Blue Ridge in Virginia… but inside, I'm still an Adirondacker at heart… I always will be.
We do get snow here, but not nearly as much as in the ADK, only a fraction at best. Still, when it does snow, even now, after fifty years, I cannot help but smile when I happen upon the moon shining down on a snow-covered field. Though warm and comfortable in my car, I can still feel it… that wonderful cold upon my face… the snow flying up behind me as my dad pulls back on the throttle… and that magical feeling of almost flying as we skim across the pristine snow… all while exploring places unknown… with my dad… in the middle of both nowhere and the night… in the shadow of the ADK.
