An outsider’s view

Sunset on Lake Champlain. Photo from freedigitalphotos.net

I have lived in Vermont all my life and have been fortunate to call a small peak overlooking Lake Champlain my home. Not far from there, I have found, nestled among the brambles of the precarious shore, something I treasure very dearly: my happy place.

Ever since I was little, I would walk or bike the one mile to the shimmering shoreline of Lake Champlain. Sure, it wasn’t much of a beach. The sand was riddled with broken glass, sharp rocks, the occasional pile of bones and decomposing fish, and a beachgoer had to beware of poison ivy. With high water, it was really more of a lakeside parking spot than a beach, but to me, it was the most wonderful place I could imagine.

The perfect vantage point it provided me made this beach so special. Out across the choppy water, the sun would lazily dance toward the waves, painting the sky a vibrant yellow-orange, and eventually a shade of grapefruit red before tucking itself behind the Adirondacks.

As I watched the sun set one evening, it occurred to me that many people across the lake never get to witness this masterpiece. I pondered this awhile and came to the conclusion that I am stealing, in some way, shape, or form. It’s like an artist’s work is on display, but I am the only one to see it.

Of course, this observation never stopped me from returning to my beach and stealing glances at the western shore. Call me a thief, but I won’t hesitate to do it again. There is some satisfaction in gaining such delight from the distant mountains without being able to touch them. I only hope, as a matter of fairness to my neighbors across the lake, that the sunrise over the Green Mountains also holds the capacity to take one’s breath away.

What’s a nor’easter?

You know when one is about to hit. Grocery stores swell with shoppers stocking up on bottled water and canned goods. Municipal snowplows make preemptive sanding runs through the quiet streets. Nothing sends North Country folks into a tizzy quite like a good nor’easter. What is it that makes these unholy blizzards that blow from the wrong way so powerful?

Nor'easter image courtesy of National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

Nor’easters are known to bring enormous amounts of precipitation and wind gusts upwards of 50 miles per hour. In the winter, which seems to be most of the time here, all of that wind and rain translates into a lot of snow and ice. A nor’easter is basically a wet and windy storm that blows up the East Coast. Although these storms can occur anytime of year, the prime season is from September to April when frigid artic air blows southeast from the Canadian plains and meets northbound warm air on the Gulf Stream. This collision of warm and cold air masses creates a cyclonic storm off the coast that equates to the winter version of a tropical storm.

These storms occur often and usually aren’t very strong, but when they do get big, they can pack a wallop. Burlington is still digging out from the nearly 3 feet of snow it picked up in early January, but that was an isolated total. Most of the Adirondacks got only 6 inches so.

Most storms occur as the result of warm and cool air masses collide, and the more extreme the difference between temperatures of the air masses, the more powerful the storm. We just happen to live in a part of the world where extremely cold air blows down from Canada to collide with warm air moving up the East Coast.

The art of solitude

Last summer, I successfully climbed 15 High Peaks and countless smaller mountains. Having grown weary of trying to convince others to join me, I spent the majority of my time exploring the Adirondacks alone.  People hear this and are quick to show their surprise at such an endeavor.  “You mean, you spent that much time, out there, alone?”  Yes, I did, and it taught me the difference between loneliness and solitude.

Looking toward the Flowed Lands from Mount Colden. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

In my mind, finding something that truly brings joy is a precious thing.  Hiking has that effect on me; I am always happy when I am in the woods.  It was lonesome at first, seeing all of this beauty and having no one to share it with, and yet I felt drawn to it.  I came to terms with the fact that if I wanted to be out there, I had to go no matter what.

The first few solo hikes were strange.  I found myself hurrying along to give myself more time just in case something happened.  I became nervous when I saw clouds rolling in, and every skinned knee felt like a warning that next time, it could be my skull bouncing off that rock.  Arriving at my destination brought a sense of accomplishment, until I realized that the journey was only half over.  I still had to make it back. 

Persistence is a terrible disease of mine.  I could not let fear, or loneliness, stop me from being close to something that felt so good.  Spring melted into summer, and I continued to hit the trails.  As the days grew longer, I discovered that I was no longer calling everyone I could think of, looking for a partner.  My pace on the trails slowed, affording me the opportunity to look around, into the forest  instead of at the obstacles at my feet.  I was becoming comfortable out there, and it felt good.

As I opened up to my surroundings, they welcomed me in the gentlest of ways.  Life began to spring forth from every granite stone, every rotten snag, every fern grove.  It swam in the waters, dove from the sky, and peeked at me from the most unlikely of places.  There I was, surrounded by nature, standing waist deep in John’s Brook with the hot summer sun warming the frigid water that was dripping down my chest.  I had found my peace, but the loneliness of solitude remained.

It was sometime in July when I decided to make the 12-mile loop over Mount Colden. The day was pleasant and warm, with occasional bands of clouds slowly rolling by overhead.  I made the summit and relaxed, facing the Flowed Lands as I wrote and enjoyed the view.  Over the course of an hour, the clouds thickened, and I decided it was time to head back.  As I descended Colden’s smaller summit, I stopped to take a drink and noticed there was an inchworm on my shoulder.  A stowaway!  I let it climb onto my finger and watched as it crawled along.  It was then that I realized that I was not alone.  I set the inchworm down and saw my surroundings in a new light.  I no longer just looked at the life around me, I recognized it.  

As I continued walking back, toward Adirondak Loj, every turn of the trail put me in touch with something familiar.  At the time I was unable to identify them by name, but they were there.  The smell of balsam fir, the trillium that add artist’s strokes to the forest floor, the knock knock knock of the pileated woodpecker.  There was a hint of rain in the air, and I could hear the leaves above me shivering.  I have always felt an uncanny sense of energy in the forest, and as I made my retreat, I realized why.  The energy does not come from me; it comes from the life that surrounds me. 

So now, when people tell me they can’t join me on my next excursion, I tell them it’s OK.  I no longer tell them I’ll be going alone.  Instead, I tell them I’m going to visit a few close friends, and I’m fine with that.  My pace on the trail has slowed considerably, and I now find myself enjoying every nuance of the forest.  Sure, the view at the end is inspiring, but it is the experience of being in nature that I find most rewarding.  I am forever indebted to the Adirondacks because they have taught me something I will never forget: With so much life around us, we are never truly alone in this world.

Greenbacks for being green

As carbon emissions increase and the economy declines, the stock market isn’t the only place doing trading these days. Carbon credits are traded among power plants and industries as part of a regulatory scheme to lower greenhouse-gas emissions. One carbon credit is roughly equivalent to one ton of carbon dioxide that would be released into the environment.

Adirondack forests store a huge amount of carbon.

Carbon credits can be bought by polluting companies, but they also can be earned if the companies protect forestlands or replant forests that can help filter out the carbon they emit. Every stand of trees that can filter out carbon is a “carbon sink” and can contribute carbon credits to that company.

But as carbon credits were doled out across the North Country and Adirondacks, no one thought to give municipalities credits for the sinks within their borders—until now. In some Adirondack towns, more than 70 percent of the land is in the forever-wild Forest Preserve. In short, the towns are huge carbon sinks. If these carbon sinks had been owned or protected by a power plant, the plant would earn carbon credits.

In an interview with North Country Public Radio, Adirondack Council spokesman John Sheehan suggested that in today’s turbulent economy, perhaps Adirondack towns should be compensated with carbon credits, just as companies are. They could then trade these credits to polluting plants and perhaps boost their local economies. (Click here to listen to the interview.)

In effect, local government could make money off of the policies they’ve been living with for decades, leading me to think that maybe Kermit was wrong: maybe it is easy being green.