The Adirondack Park By The Numbers

To live (or visit) in the Adirondack Park is to love the Adirondack Park. But did you know that 43 percent (or about 2.6 millions acres) of the Park is owned by New York State? Here are some more number- related facts about the largest area of publicly protected land in the contiguous United States*:

84 million – Estimated number of people who live within a day’s drive of the Park (based on Adirondack Park Agency estimates of a 7 hour travel day at an average of 50 miles per hour)

6 million- Approximately the number of acres within the boundaries (also known as the Blue Line) of the Park

Map of New York showing Adirondack Park bounded by traditional Blue Line. Author: Jackaranga, blue line added by Daniel Case

130,000 – People who live in the Adirondacks year-round

5,334 – Height in feet of Mount Marcy, the highest peak in the Adirondacks and in the state

2000 -  Miles of hiking trails in the Park

1909 – Year in which the first fire tower, built from wooden logs, was erected on Mount Morris

1892 – Year the Adirondack Park was created by the State of New York, in part due to concerns about deforestation and water resources

200 – Estimate of the number of species of birds known to breed in the Park

102 – Number of towns and villages within the park

57  – Number of fire towers that have existed within the Park. Thirty-four still remain.

54  – Species of mammals known to live in the Adirondacks

43 – Average age of residents in the Adirondack Park, according to the Adirondack Regional Assessment Project. Residents of the Adirondack Park are the oldest in the country, second only to  residents of the west coast of Florida, as reported here.

1.3 – Acres in millions classified as Wild Forest, a category which allows for use of the land for many recreational activities

1 – Number of peaks in the Adirondacks named after a woman. Esther Mountain is named for Esther McComb, who, at 15 years old, made the first recorded ascent of the peak. Click here for more on Esther Mountain.

0 – Number of  stop lights in Hamilton County, according to VisitAdirondacks.com

*unless otherwise noted, facts are compiled from the Adirondack Park Agency or the NYS Department of Environmental Conservation

A peak less traveled:Catamount

For me, one of the most alluring features of the High Peaks is climbing the open expanses of rock that characterize the region’s tallest mountains. It is no wonder that so many hikers share the same sentiment and flock to the summit of Marcy or Algonquin as the Adirondack summer rolls along. For this reason, I have often sought refuge from the human entrenched peaks by opting to climb smaller, lesser known mountains. My favorite of these little gems is Catamount, a short hike that offers all of the rock scrambling rewards of its lofty brethren—for half the effort.

The beginning of the path up Catamount is almost as difficult to find as its

A unique rock chimney is one of the many exciting aspects of a hike up Catamount. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

namesake, the mountain lion. But unlike the elusive cougar, there is evidence of the trail; one just has to know where to look. Unlike most trailheads in the Adirondacks, there is no big wooden sign to mark the trail—just a well worn path that juts into the thick green forest like a splinter. A trail register let my hiking partner, Tim, and I know we had found the right spot. We signed in and began our journey up one of the Adirondacks most overlooked mountains.

It only takes a few minutes of walking to experience a dramatic change in the forest composition at the base of Catamount. An otherworldly setting, reindeer lichen blankets the ground like a crusty layer of snow, and Tamaracks stand tall and crooked, their long branches gently dancing in the breeze.

Tamaracks are among my favorite trees in the Adirondacks. They are the only deciduous conifer in the area, which means their soft needles turn a lovely shade of burnt-autumn orange before descending to the forest floor come winter. Just past this unique stretch the trail dips and meanders into a hardwood forest, laden with stately white birch. It is here that the climbing begins, and it only gets steeper as it gains elevation.

Tim and I took a couple of short breathers as we made our way up the rock garden path. During our second break we looked through the treetops and saw the summit—an ominous mound of granite freckled with stunted evergreens. My heart rate increased with anticipation, and as I remarked to Tim, this is where the hike gets good.

After a little more elevation gain, and even steeper terrain, we reached a level area where the forest gives way to open rock. From there, Catamount’s smaller summit is in full view. It looms above like a sleeping giant, and its rocky slopes offer no promise of an easy ascent. Easy is overrated, however, and this is best characterized by the rock chimney that stands guard at the base of the summit.

The second of many great views on Catamount. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

The chimney is an awesome geological wonder. It is here that an intrusion of rock eroded over the course of a million rainy years, leaving a narrow passage in the granite that leads precipitously up to the second awe-inducing view. Tim and I clambered up the chimney, laughing and commenting on how enormous Whiteface is. After we emerged from the stone gate, we lingered for a moment and reveled in our surroundings—the steep terrain above, the road, now just a twisting chalk line far below, and the gritty rocks we were precariously perched upon. It was all too perfect, and we had it all to ourselves.

The next section of trail is one of the best in the Adirondacks. Care must be taken, as Tim quickly learned when he was forced to retrieve his water bottle after watching it roll down the mountain, headed for oblivion. Care must be taken here, as the use of both hands is often required to navigate the various sections of open rock. The trail is marked with cairns, small piles of rock that serve as beacons for the intrepid hiker. The exposure on Catamount can be understandably intimidating to those who are afraid of heights, but for those who seek such grandeur, there are few better places to find it.

We made the first summit and relaxed in the shadow of the higher, second summit. The true summit. After a snack and some enlightening conversation regarding the woes of modern society, we pushed onward, bound for the top and fully invigorated.

The final push up Catamount is much like the first, there’s just more of it. Tim

Tim enjoys the view from Catamount's first summit. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

and I took our time and enjoyed ourselves, an easy task in such a playground of open air. At the top we relaxed and tried to name the High Peaks that stab the horizon to the south. I had left my map in the car, leaving us no resolution, but it was okay. To the north we agreed upon Silver Lake Mountain, with its cliff-laden ridge, and Union Falls Pond, which stretches past in the broad valley to the west. Whiteface is there too, its presence impossible to ignore.

As we made our way back to the car without encountering another soul, I was relieved to know that Catamount is still as I remember it—a rugged, solitary little mountain that offers big rewards for those who take the time to find it.

A Lyon of a Mountain

Lyon Mountain from Route 374 in Dannemora

On the northern most edge of the Adirondack Park, just to the west of Chazy Lake, lies a sleeping giant. This formidable peak will reward brave hikers with sweeping views from the Adirondacks to Montreal. But at 3,830 feet, with 1,790 feet of vertical ascent, Lyon Mountain is not for the faint of heart.

When my wife, Andrea, and I moved to Plattsburgh in 2005, Lyon Mountain was the first mountain we climbed. Although the trail was only 2.5 miles long, reaching the decaying fire tower was a steep, rugged, and rigorous trek. Finding the unmarked trailhead was a feat in itself, but it was nothing compared to the trail ahead.

The trail opens with a gentle walk for a few tenths of a mile, providing the illusion of an easy walk through the woods. But things changed as it abruptly began its steep ascent up a rocky old stream bed, which didn’t end for two miles. This climb took us more than two hours and left us as broken as the old fire tower when we finally reached the top.

This is me by a stream on the new trail.

A lot has changed in five years. Although the trailhead is still unmarked, a new path has been cut into the side of this massive mountain. Rather than the direct approach of the original trail, the new route makes a detour through a vibrant and healthy birch forest and hikers can now enjoy a well made path marked with red trail makers and loaded with switchbacks.

This new trail adds another hour or so to the hike, but meandering through a forest loaded with wildlife more than makes up for it. On our hike, we encountered at least a dozen toads, several streams, a snake, a downy woodpecker, and a healthy growth of Lady Slipper flowers.

One of a dozen toads on the new Lyon Mountain trail.

Although the original trail is still open for more ambitious hikers, don’t think you’re getting off easy on this new path. Just as it detours off of the original trail, it joins up with it again near the top, making sure everyone gets a taste how steep and rocky the old route is. After a few hours of winding up the mountain, joining up on this path seems to be a cruel joke, but hikers are rewarded with a stunning view of Chazy Lake and the Champlain Valley, which will stay at their backs as they pick their way up the old trail.

Fear not, however, as this only continues for about half a mile where the trail levels out in a thickly wooded area. As it continues across the top of the mountain, the newly repaired fire tower and bald peak come into view. The ultimate reward after this rigorous hike is the stunning 360 degree view. From the tower, you can see the High Peaks in the south, Malone and its farms and windmills to the northwest and on a clear day, so I’ve been told, Montreal to the northeast. Thanks to Canadian wildfires, it was not a clear day.

Lady Slipper flowers may be endangered but they seem to be doing well here.

If so inclined, hikers can continue on south of the tower through a thick pine forest to the end of an old logging road that runs from the top of the mountain to Route 374 on the bottom. I love hiking and truly enjoy the rigors and challenges a good trail has to offer, but few things are more defeating than learning I could have driven to the top of the mountain—which is why you’ll never see me on Prospect Mountain in Lake George again. I don’t think you can drive up this road but either way it’s a sad thought, to say the least.

As is our tradition, Andrea and I ate our lunch on top of the mountain before heading back down. I tell you, no gourmet meal in the world tastes better than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the top of a mountain.

After our lunch we made our way back down to our car, sweaty, bug bitten and happy. All in all, our trek took us about four hours and it was worth every second. I highly recommend this peak.

The Adirondack's can be seen from this beautiful souther view.

Fire Towers: Form over Function?

About two months ago, I read about the Department of Environmental Conservation’s Adirondack Fire Tower Study and the “Hurricane Mountain Primitive Area – Draft Unit Management Plan.” I talked to some people about their opinions about it, since it created a bit of discord among North Country citizens, and I heard opinions ranging from calling the Hurricane fire tower “a hunk of junk,” to beliefs that the towers should be restored for their historic value.

I hadn‘t heard anything about the proposed removal of the towers on Hurricane and St. Regis

Hurricane Mountain fire tower / photo by Mwanner

mountains lately, so I decided to look into it. I didn’t find out what course of action would be taken, but the Adirondack Park Agency is looking for ways to save the towers.

I also found that that the fire towers of the Adirondacks have a lot of history behind them. Although no longer in use, they have a rich background, and there’s no way I could cover it all. I’ll give you a crash course.

The story of fire towers in the Adirondacks starts in the early 1900’s, when fires plagued the park. Two years in particular, 1903 and 1908, seemed to be especially troublesome, with fires devastating nearly 1 million acres of land, according to the Adirondack Architectural Heritage. To give you an idea of how widespread the fires were, the park is 6.1 million acres, so that means roughly a sixth of the park was affected by fires.

According to the DEC’s website, the Forest, Fish and Game Commission reported about 605 fires in 1908. These fires burned through more than 396,000 acres of forest. Logging and dry, windy weather are considered to be factors in why these fires were so severe.

The fires led to a much more concentrated effort on forest fire prevention and education, and one of the main courses of action was the construction of fire towers on the summits of mountains. The first fire tower in the Adirondacks was built on Mount Morris  in 1909, constructed with logs. Soon, however, towers were constructed of steel instead.

Observers manned the towers, keeping an eye out and alerting park rangers when they spotted fires. Many accounts I’ve heard about these observers say that they weren’t just people sitting up there, watching. They were storytellers who took charge of informing, educating and entertaining the many people who hiked to these towers to climb them and enjoy the panoramic views.

Eventually, more efficient methods of surveying the park for fires were brought into use, including aerial surveillance, and it became more expensive to keep the towers maintained and running during the fire season. The last operating fire towers were closed in 1990.

There were once about 120 fire towers in New York state, with the Adirondack Park giving a home to 57 of them. Only 20 remain standing on state land, while 4 are on private property.

St. Regis Mountain fire tower / photo by Mwanner

Now, some fire towers, such as the ones on Bald (Rondaxe) Mountain, and Poke-O-Moonshine,  have been restored and serve a higher purpose– the education of environmentalists, hikers and wildlife enthusiasts. Groups such as the Friends of Hurricane Mountain or the Friends of St. Regis Mountain are following the model set by other groups, like the Friends of Poke-O-Moonshine, who organized to renovate the fire tower on that summit. In the summer, summit stewards still man the tower to educate people about the natural environment and history of  the Adirondacks.

It seems to me that the towers have a place in Adirondack history and a place in the park. I understand that they no longer serve their original purpose, and  they need to be restored if they’re to do any good, but I can also see that they’re going to cost money. I guess when it comes down to it, I just like them ’cause they look cool.

Cache-ing in on North Country Boredom

Camoflauged cache

Living in the North Country, I am often told by outsiders how there is absolutely nothing to do here. These are typically statements by students I meet who hail from the city and fail to amuse themselves. But I’ve found that the North Country has much to offer to outdoor enthusiasts, even treasure-hunters.

We don’t wear eye patches. We don’t have peg legs. And we don’t say, “Argh!” Instead of a pistol and shot, we are armed with a GPS and pieces of swag. We don’t plunder so much as barter, but we are still looking for treasure.

I was recently introduced to a little sport—I suppose it’s really more of a hobby—called geocaching. Essentially, people take a GPS and romp around in the wilderness, using coordinates that will lead them to treasure, called a “cache.” These are small containers, filled with a log to mark who discovers the cache and when, and there is often times “swag”—known to pirates as “booty.”

The tokens are small, simple things left behind by past geochachers. The rule is that if you take something, you must leave something in its place.

Geocaching is a world-wide hobby

I set out for one in the town of Plattsburgh with a few friends. We typed our coordinates into our GPS and set out on our journey. Our guidance system led us through swampy terrain and rocky hills, and we are certain we went in circles. After an hour, and sheepishly passing by several “posted” or “no trespassing” signs, we decided we weren’t going to find our cache. Hint: it helps if you have a GPS device that is not intended for use in your car.

Defeated, my friends and I decided to take a break and go out to lunch. Afterwards we were back on the hunt and in search of a new cache, located less than a mile away from where we (supposedly) were supposed to have found the first one. This time we got lucky.

My, well, our first cache was hidden inside a hollow log at the base of a steep precipice. It was a small plastic

Some caches contain swag, and if a piece is taken, another should be left in its place

Tupperware container with a blue lid, holding several loose papers with names of adventure-seekers who claimed the container before us. It was filled with swag, including a small green bouncy ball, a cross, a marble, a few rocks, and other trinkets.

I didn’t take anything from this cache. Though it was little more than a plastic box with old notes and invaluable objects, it was gratifying to leave our names, waiting to be discovered by whomever follows the same path. 

I propose the following to those who still believe there is nothing fun to do outside of a big city: go to the geocaching Web site, grab some coordinates, and put that GPS to work. Argh!

Little Giants

The traihead to Rattlesnake Mountain

Every mountain has its own personality. Steep or jagged, wooded or bald, wet or dry, each climb is unique. A lot can be said for climbing the biggest mountain you can find and adding its name to the list of peaks on your conquered landscape.

But I’d like to talk about the little guys out there. Recently my wife, Andrea, and I climbed two smaller mountains: Rattlesnake Mountain in Willsboro and Silver Lake Mountain just outside of Hawkeye. We may not have racked up the miles on these hikes, but they were every bit as enjoyable as any mountain twice their size.

The trails up both of these peaks are less than 2 miles, and often hikers see these as beginner climbs or family hikes. Don’t get me wrong, they are great for that, but they shouldn’t be overlooked by the experienced hiker. They may be short, but what they lack in length and height, they make up for with something special: diverse wildlife and great summits for exploring. On both of these little peaks we found tremendous views, families of hawks, and their large, relatively flat wooded summits made me feel like a kid again.

Willsboro Bay and Lake Champlain from Rattlesnake Mountain

Rattlesnake is a privately owned mountain, which welcomes hikers, just a few miles down Route 22 from Northway exit 33. This little climb may be short, but it offers a commanding view of Willsboro Bay, Lake Champlain, Burlington, and the Green Mountains in Vermont. The hike begins with a peaceful walk up an old logging road, where it makes a sharp right turn and begins ascending to the actual trailhead. Here, the real trails up the mountain begin. This mountain offers a variety of routes to a variety of peaks, all of which are poorly marked but easily spotted. Whether you want to meander up a rocky switchback or scramble up large boulders with excellent views of Lincoln pond and Poke-O-Moonshine at your back, the choice is yours.

The Rattlesnake rock garden

As enjoyable as that is, the fun for me doesn’t begin until I reach the top. Immediately to the right of the trail is a large “balanced rock,” which is more or less the trickiest thing to climb on the whole mountain. Not only is it a blast to scramble up, but it’s a great place to relax, catch your breath, eat lunch, meditate or just soak up the sun. But this is just the beginning of the summit, and I would argue that there is just as much to explore on the top of the mountain as there is trail to there. Between my two summit markers, the balanced rock to the south and the WCPV radio tower to the north, there is at least half a mile of summit to enjoy with a panoramic view Willsboro Bay and Lake Champlain, complete with a family of red-tailed hawks and a large garden of rock statues built by the mountain’s visitors. Andrea and I have climbed Rattlesnake Mountain three or four times, and each trip we spend more time exploring the top than we do hiking. Be warned, there is a long and lovely trail down the backside of this mountain, but if you plan on hiking up the front and down the back, prepare yourself for a 10 mile walk back to your car. I know this from experience. 

Short as it is, the steep bald scramble to the summit should satisfy the experienced hiker looking for a challenge, for which they will be generously rewarded with a panoramic view and families of hawks to observe. But that’s not all.

The summit of Silver Lake Mountain also offers nearly two more miles of bushwhacking and exploring for those inclined. At the top, you’ll find a myriad of dead-end trails that cover the densely wooded crescent shaped mountain. Its many bluffs overlooking Mud Pond offer adventure, exploring, and majestic views of Taylor Pond, Silver Lake, and Catamount and Whiteface Mountains.

 Small as they are, I love these little peaks. What they lack in stature, they make up for with adventure, excitement, and just plain old fun. Next time you find yourself at the top of a high-peak, don’t forget to look down. Maybe next time you can humble your ego, and take a little hike.

The complete view from Silver Lake Mountain

She

To my beloved friend Jade,

 I am writing this letter from the summit of Jay Mountain, and I keep thinking about the last time I was here, and you were with me. We climbed up the steep side of Jay, you always in the lead, and you took to your business as I took to mine. I would stop to check out the bark and the goose-foot leaves of the young striped maple, or the scraggly troll-hair appearance of the bearded lichen, or the finest specimen of morel mushroom I have yet to find, and you would sniff your way through the understory, detecting things I can only imagine. That day was a good day.

 Today you are not here because age is taking its toll, and I miss you. You can no longer climb mountains because arthritis has stiffened your joints, although you still wag your tail in anticipation every time you see me

Jade refusing to smile for the camera

preparing my backpack for an outing. It pains me to leave you behind, old friend. It pains me to walk alone knowing you are sitting at home, peeking out of the window and awaiting my return. We had so many great adventures, didn’t we?

 Do you remember the time we climbed Cascade with Mike and Heather? It rained all day and the summit was engulfed in cloud cover, making it impossible to see anything but the rock we were walking on. We played hide-and-go-seek by simply walking ten feet in any direction, and the insurmountable mist took care of the rest. It was a wet, dreary day, but we were in good company, and could not help but feel the sense of freedom the mountains instill.

 How about the time we took a short hike up to the Giant’s Nubble two summers ago? I was climbing the slippery rocks at the base of Roaring Brook Falls and you got nervous and started barking at me, begging me to come down. I returned soaking wet and you glared at me, and then proceeded to walk back down the trail without so much as a glance to see if I was following. Such attitude! But I laughed because I knew you meant well.

The Jay Range from Silver Lake Mountain

The last big adventure we had was a hike up Silver Lake Mountain, late last spring. I knew your fourteen years could not handle anything too long or steep, so it was the perfect choice. You were yourself that day, young again, and bounding after any poor creature that triggered your senses. There was still snow lingering on the summit, and I lobbed snowballs to you and you chomped them out of the air, just as you’ve always done. It filled me with joy to see you that way, and your happiness almost made up for the sadness I felt at the limp you developed on the final stretch of our return.

 So on this sunny afternoon I have been thinking about all of the times we have shared, and all of the times you have made me happy. I swear sometimes I still see you as I walk through these woods. Whenever I hear a stick snap I expect to look up and catch you chasing after a chipmunk, like a perfect black shadow crashing through the forest. You’re still there, like a ghost, waiting for me to catch up at the crest of every steep section on the path. Perhaps most of all, I feel like you should be sitting here next to me, basking in this, the warmest of mountain glows.

 Although I cannot reverse the imposition of age, or restore the vitality you have lost, I can promise to do my best to make sure you are content. Our walks are shorter now, but there are still plenty of car rides and relaxing afternoons by the lake to enjoy, and when I come home tonight, we will sit out on the patio and enjoy the pleasant spring weather for a while.

Although I cannot have you by my side as often as I’d like to these days, you will always be with me in spirit, and the thought of you will always bring a smile to my face. You are a gentle creature with a crazy streak that might just rival my own knack for insanity. You are a good friend, a protective friend, and a loyal friend.

I cannot ask for anything more.

 Shaun

The Heart and Sole of Mud Season

A muddy path

Winter has passed, but spring hasn’t quite started yet. We are in the transitional period that results in that fifth season, known all too well by North Country residents: Mud Season.

As a child, this was by far my favorite “season.” My mother would no longer be nagging me to button up and put a hat on. I could slip into my (very fashionable) classic black rubber boots with red soles, to which I had formed a rather strong attachment. To me, those boots meant adventure, the freedom to explore beyond the fair-weathered limits to which my sneakers confined me.

I would romp around in the puddles and wallow in the mud like a little pig. Well OK, maybe I didn’t wallow per se, but I really liked to play in the mud. I loved the sounds my boots would make when I walked through a particularly deep patch. I fought with the soggy soil to keep my boots, even though the ground tried to suck them right off my feet.

A young pig playing in the mud

Sometimes I lost the battle. North Country mud puts up a good fight, mind you, and at times can be too much for a youngster. On a few of my wild expeditions, I can recall walking faster than my boots, and I would therefore out-step them, planting my exposed toes straight into a slimy mud pit. I’d look over my shoulder, as if I were doing something wrong, and silently slide my muddy foot back into my boot and carry on like nothing happened.

But that’s the beauty of rubber boots. They are designed to get dirty. When they are covered with mud, inside and out, the simple remedy is to blast them with the garden hose and hang them upside down to dry. In those days, it was always so simple.

Since then, I’ve taken quite a different view of Mud Season. I no longer envision slimy days of play and adventure, but rather annoyance at never being able to keep my car clean. I tire of raking up the clumps of mud that inevitably make their way into the house. I finally understand why my mother would get so upset when I accidentally walked inside before taking off my muddy rubber boots.

Muddy ruts in a North Country field

That’s how I discovered that I’m finally growing up. I’m not a little kid anymore, and those days of muddy adventures are over. They always told me to enjoy it while I could, and as much as I’d like to be able to say I made the best of it, I’m sure I could have squeezed a little more fun and excitement out of my childhood.

But for now, as a testament to my youth—and a strong resentment toward my adulthood—I’m going out to buy a pair of rubber boots. They will not be pink with purple polka dots, or anything as fashionable as that. I want a solid black pair, with red soles, of course.

On the Road (Again)

Over the past few years, I’ve driven the Northway dozens of times. I’ve braved the open roads in every type of weather imaginable– clear skies to torrential downpours so heavy I couldn’t see the flashers from the car 10 feet ahead of me. I’ve driven it alone and with friends, with time to dawdle or in a rush, with great tunes coming from my radio, and once, in an unbearable, droning silence when my radio just couldn’t last any longer. Now, I’m not going to bore you with proper road etiquette or anything like that. I guess this is just my musing, from the best of my memory,  as I enjoyed the drive on I-87 today.

My view from the passenger's seat

The ride has been “my thinking time.” It’s almost five uninterrupted hours where I can bounce thoughts around in my head, or just get into the driving zone. It’s been therapeutic, it’s been relieving, it’s been exciting. No matter what it’s been, it’s been one of the most influential experiences I’ve had in the Adirondacks. After all, most of my views of the Adirondacks have been through the glass of my windshield.

I can recall my first impression of the Adirondacks, as I made my first trip up to Plattsburgh. I was in that in-between state of sleep and wakefulness, as my mother navigated through the mountains. I can remember the enormous gray shadows of mountains looming in the distance behind a light fog, their summits rounded  like the bellies of sleeping giants.  It didn’t impress me much, but the dozens of rides since then have changed that.  I love, love, love driving through the mountains now; it’s so familiar, yet so new each time. I’m amazed by the changes the forest makes as the year transitions.

I remember sunny, cool, autumn days when the forest was on fire with the gorgeous colors of fall foliage and the view looked like something off a post card. I tried once, with little success, to capture the awe-inspiring vistas on my camera phone. Autumn is always my favorite time of year to drive through because, honestly, what better time is there?

I can still feel the sticky humidity of summer drives where I rolled the windows all the way down, turned my music all the way up, and gave thanks to the trees when their shadows provided a cool relief from the sun’s relentless beating on my car. The smell of summer is always so rich and fresh, intensified as I zip by the road markers and the grass and earth baking under the sun.

I can recall the most atrocious snowstorm during an evening two years ago, and the only time I ever went off the road in my lucky old ‘98 Dodge Stratus. The feeling of having the open road to myself in the huge Adirondack Park as evening approached wasn’t so great,  nor was the frustration of losing my cell service every time I called 911 to ask for help. That was the only time the road ever betrayed me. Its black ice was undetectable, unlike the dent left in my door as a reminder that even a slow crawl in a snow storm can be too fast.

But today, as I made my way back to school from my hometown four and a half hours away, the ride was different. Usually, I am the driver, but the untimely death of my beloved car meant that this time I caught a ride back with a friend. As the passenger, the ride was so familiar, yet still unrecognizable, like a family member you haven‘t seen in years. I thought back on all the time I’d spent racing along, counting white lines pass by. I overlooked all of the landmarks I used to gauge my distance in favor for the details I missed out on while I was focusing on the road, like the waterfalls that gushed out exuberantly from the craggy rock walls lining the road.

It was an incredibly different experience, and it reconnected me to how beautiful the park is, even when it’s muddy and the sky is gray, like it was today. I loved coasting over miles and miles of pavement and being able to just enjoy the environment. It gave me an odd, wonderful sense of satisfaction.

Tweet, tweet, tweetly-tweet!

It’s heeeeeere! Well, almost. Even though temperatures have been rising recently, getting into the mid-fifties, even the low sixties in some places,  I can’t say that spring has sprung just yet. There’s one thing I’m waiting for.

I’m giddy like a little kid for a personal tradition that I look forward to ever year: spotting the original early bird, the red-breasted American Robin. Every year, I can’t wait to see my first Robin.

As symbols of the end of winter and the coming of spring, the American Robin (turdus migratorius), is one of the first indicators to me that the long, snowy (or not, this year) winter is over. When the Robin is out, singing and darting around hunting for worms, I start to anticipate spring.  Soon it’ll be time to work on the garden, pull my bike out of the shed, and do the dreaded yearly overhaul my mom cheerfully calls “Spring Cleaning.” But let’s not think about that for now.

American Robin photo by Wikipedia user Mdf

Also called the North American Robin and the Red-Breasted Robin, the migratory songbird is a type of thrush, which explains its scientific name (turdus meaning thrush, migratorius meaning migrating). Even though it’s named after the European Robin, the American Robin is a completely different species, of which there are seven hazily-defined subspecies.

With gray-brown feathers and distinctively reddish orange chests and bellies, the American Robin is one of the most easily identifiable birds.  The head of the bird is darker than the body, the bill is yellow, and the belly and underside of the tail are white or light gray. There is a vague distinction between the sexes; females are usually lighter, compared to males.

According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, the American Robin is  “the largest of the North American thrushes.”  Because they are so easily recognizable, they’re a good starting point for beginning birdwatchers. The Cornell Lab of Ornithology also says, “Robins make a good reference point for comparing the size and shape of other birds, too.”

Robins are known as early birds for several reasons, the most obvious being that they are one of the first birds to be seen after the winter. Surprisingly, even though they migrate to breed, Robins can be found in our area year-round. They are just more likely roosting in the trees than on the ground searching for berries, fruit, insects and earthworms. In the spring, birdwatchers have a better chance of seeing the bird engage in its quirky “running and stopping” behavior, another of the Robin’s distinguishing characteristics.

Because Robins are so well-known, it’s no surprise to find their many inclusions in our culture. The Robin is the state bird of Connecticut, Michigan and Wisconsin, and there’s even a crayon named for the color of their eggs, Robin’s egg blue. If you haven’t gotten the tune of  “Rockin’ Robin” by Bobby Day stuck in your head yet, well, it won’t be long. And if you have, click here to listen.  Even Robin of Batman fame is clearly inspired by the American Robin; his red shirt isn’t just a coincidence. I’m sure there are countless other references to the Robin in pop culture.

One of my favorite things about Robins is their song. They provide the soundtrack to spring. There is nothing like throwing open the windows on a sunny spring day, and letting the breeze and melody of the Robin float into your home. Whether it’s a warning call, or their clear, lilting song, I’m listening. Since Robins are starting to be more active, I know that even if I haven’t seen one yet, I’ll probably hear them announcing spring’s arrival soon.

Have you seen the American Robin yet?