Fly the Friendly Skies of the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome

Flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.  
        Douglas Adams

Years ago I had the opportunity to attend the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome.  The airshow, the announcers, the actors, and airplanes were entertaining.  Magnificent even, I loved watching my son’s face light up as he took everything in.  And then I remember one particular portion of the outing that tested my parenting prowess.  I will simply share that slapstick comedy is not an art form for the young of age as much as it might be for the young of heart. And nothing could prepare me for the look on my son’s face when Trudy Truelove, the delightful damsel of the airshow act was seemingly thrown from the plane in a slapstick skit.  She landed hard, lifeless. My son’s heart fell heavy, his eyes growing bigger, as he was searching and looking to me for some explanation.   He could not understand why the crowd was laughing.  Maybe I was more traumatized than he was, I had a really hard time explaining that she was “fake”.  We did both watch her walk onto the plane…and an even harder time explaining why it was funny.   It was the first of many more opportunities for me to be faced with not being able to protect my children from the evils of the world, or from other unexpected tragedies of flight. He was 4 at the time of our visit to the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome and raised close by in this sheltered bucolic Hudson Valley community where families still leave their doors unlocked and their true-loves safe from reckless abandonment, or at least heartless heaving from low flying aircrafts.  (It’s true, I’m really working this tale, stretching it for all it’s worth….)

I told this story recently when I met Tom Polapink, a long-time volunteer for the Rhinebeck Aerodrome, as I tried to cover for myself when asked if I had been to visit.  It is his passion, this spectacular place with it’s impressive and rare collection of aircraft form the Pioneer Era, The Golden Age of Flight, World War I and the Lindbergh/Barnstorming era.  I did have to give pause as to why I had not been back.  And then I recalled another visit with another tale to stretch a tad.

I had been there on one other occasion in the past 15 years.  I brought a small middle school group of 14 and 15 year old boys, otherwise known as “at-risk” with varying degrees of let’s just say, “behavioral challenges” and heightened degrees of teen enhanced testosterone.  During that particular outing I was more concerned with keeping my students from lifting and throwing an airplane at another defenseless woman, mainly myself, than I was at protecting them from finding Trudy’s remains.  The trip was brief, arranged as a favor by a colleague of mine as we attempted to provide enriched activities, or breaks from the otherwise enhanced agitation of school confinement for the emotionally enhanced.  Our goal for this trip was to leave a minimum of destruction in our wake.  (Don’t even ask about the pigeon catching incident  on our trip to the Museum of Natural History…).  Unfortunately, it was difficult to attend to the rare collection of original and reproduction planes that fill 4 buildings, or the impressive fleet of early automobiles, engines, wings and model airplanes found throughout.  I was impressed, but I wasn’t able to adequately take in the extraordinary and rare collection so close to home on either visit.

Maybe my tale of trauma pulled on the heartstrings of Mr. Polapink.  I was recently offered a personal tour, redemption perhaps? Or maybe he jumps at any opportunity to share his passion for these flying machines.  In any event I jumped at the invite.  It was greatly appreciated.  I especially enjoyed getting a close look at the vintage Indian motorcycles.  Family legend holds my grandmother rode with her brothers and their friends, doing stunts on the back of an Indian much like the ones on display.  As far as airplanes go, there were a few that caught my eye. The Nicholas Beazley NB-8G and the Monocoup 90 were my personal faves, at least from an aesthetic point of view, which is about all I can offer regarding favoring one over the other.  (Sort of like choosing a sports team based on the colors of their jerseys.)  The Curtiss Wright Junior CW-1 with it’s brightly colored body and it’s futurism inspired design, (think early Kitchenaid blender meets George Jetson pre-space flight), was pretty snazzy too and fantastically futurama inspired.

indian motorcycle . monocoupe . my grandmother florence abernethy

In addition to getting an up-close look at the many planes in the collection, I was especially impressed with the multi-generational group of volunteers out on a cold November work day.  There was such a strong sense of community amongst the extended make-shift family, all together in this place sharing a common interest.   The diverse ages of volunteers struck me immediately.  There are so few opportunities for young and old to work together and learn from each other while having fun.  Spending a small part of my day with these dedicated folk, I was awestruck by their kindness and commitment to this place so close to my home but rarely travelled.

Work was being done on several projects on the grounds as well as on the airplanes.  Cement footings were being set for the new sign that will welcome visitors for the 2015 season and beyond.  A propeller was being glazed, the body of a plane was in some stage of re-construction. Small groups were working to transport planes and vehicles across the grounds for winter storage.  I was most amazed at the work being done on a reproduction of The Spirit of St Louis.  Seeing this work gave me such appreciation for the need for the preservation of these historical artifacts.  To be able to see the great exoskeleton of this aircraft; the man-made wings, with fabric skins wrapped tightly around them, the inner workings of the control panels was thrilling.  Seeing other aircraft in varying stages of completion, including the bare bones cockpits, the struts and wire braces, the wings, and engines gave me a small glimpse of the ingenuity and brilliance that inspired and motivated those early pioneers who worked passionately and obsessively to make flight possible.  Something we take for granted now.

That son of mine grew up, the story from his early childhood is not remembered so clearly (trauma has that way of protecting you).  A few years ago while visiting New Orleans, he and I visited the World War II Museum.  He is interested in history, machines, and tales of heroism.  And while it would not have been a stop on my travel itinerary, seeing collections related to our national history first hand, gave me a very different perspective on the past. These preserved artifacts make history accessible and more meaningful.  Seeing the airplanes that came before World War II in Rhinebeck, I was able to the learn more about the story of flight in it’s earliest initiation through various stages of development.  Flight as a means for pleasure, thrill, and joy.  That same spirit was evident in the people that I met dedicated to preserving history at the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome.

The collection at the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome is one of the largest collections of early aeroplanes, and it is very accessible and worth the visit!   I am looking forward to stopping by in the 2015 season, open May - October.  Feel free to visit the website and plan your own visit, shop the gift-shop, become a member even!  http://www.oldrhinebeck.org/

The View From Never

Last weekend I went on my first ever “winter” hike.  And since it’s not officially winter just yet, it doesn’t really qualify as a “winter” hike, if you happen to be an official hiker and need to bag a few winter climbs for your official status as a card carrying member of some such rule oriented hiking club or another.   But since there was snow covering the trail to Cascade Mountain from the parking lot in Keene, NY and all 4068 feet to the top, in addition to the glistening sheets of ice covering a great majority of the rock faced summit, I’m going to call it my first ever “winter” hike.  If you, gentle reader, are an official hiker and you don’t like that I am taking liberties such as these, well I’m sure there is somewhere you can report this activity, or simply indulge me the pleasure.

This winter-esque hike was, before last Saturday, something on my “never” list.    A “never” list is like a bucket list only less fun and much safer.  Accomplishing things on a never list makes you feel smug and maybe a little more pulled to the earth. Solid even.  It does not give you an adrenaline rush, or bring on delirious grinning, or lead you to yell “OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD!” It can even occasionally make you feel a little elevated in righteousness, if that’s your sort of thing.  Or it can simply make you feel wise and smart and like you have beat the odds by not testing the fates.

My never list is not anything official.  It’s not documented or catalogued or neatly ordered.  But neither is my bucket list, or just about anything else in my life, it seems.   It’s really just several random things that I have no interest in doing because I believe them to be unsafe, uncomfortable and/or uninteresting.  OK there are a few things that could be added because I think they are down right idiotic and even asinine. Like running with the bulls for instance. And accomplishing not ever doing things on a never list is sort of like giving up liver and onions for Lent when you never come into contact with liver and onions to begin with.  My never list is not incredibly long.  It couldn’t really be categorized through any recognizable data sorting system, such as Dewey or BISAC.  In fact I hadn’t even thought about it until I was hiking in snow and getting deep within my hiking head space.   I will never go scuba diving.  I will never go bungee jumping.  I will never wear a turtleneck, at least not, happily.  I will never enjoy a Tilt-O-Whirl.  I will never like tapioca and it’s fairly unlikely that I will eat liver and onions during Lent or any other 40 day block of time. 

Until this past weekend I would never have hiked after Columbus Day weekend, with the exception of hiking two weeks ago at the end of October. And that was before there was any snow on the ground, which I very carefully checked and watched closely, the Weather Channel up until I lost service 10 minutes from the trailhead. I’m a fairly cautious hiker. I know my limits. I know the dangers.  I plan accordingly.  Hiking beyond Columbus Day weekend brings the possibility of risks that I am uninterested in facing.  Snow, ice, falling 4000 or so feet to my death, or slipping on one ice covered rock and falling into the bared teeth of a hungry black bear.  It could happen!  Maybe….so why take that sort of risk?

The truth is that hiking the Adirondack High Peaks Region is not without risk in any season. Knowing now, just how much risk-taking is relative, I am a pretty low key participant on the risk seeking continuum.  I don’t typically seek them out.  On rare occasions when I am facing them, I try to remain open in consideration and weigh out the staying alive factor when deciding about risks. 

I went hiking after Columbus Day weekend this year because I was heading into a serious bout of a consuming, immobilizing funk that I knew could lead to some unnecessary and avoidable high risk consequences. The threat of developing bedsores and loss of vision through dry eyes from long stretches of staring, unblinking at my ceiling was not only lurking, but a few times seemed to be the only real option in coping with the news of my daughter’s breast cancer. (Maybe bedsores and dry eye are not exactly life or death conditions or even worth mentioning in comparison.)

The reality of my ineptitude in being able to protect my daughter from a cancer that could not be foreseen has been daunting on good days and damn near debilitating on quite a few others.  I know cancer is not typically seen afore, or easily detected or even expected until it multiplies into some fierce bad toxin that knocks whole families to their knees.  We don’t look for cancer and worse yet in cases of breast irregularities, doctors continue to overlook symptoms in younger women if there is not a genetic predisposition.  Or at least a known link.   I hope this will change.  I hope no one else’s daughter is sent home to allow concerns and irregularities to grow and spread until it has reached other organs and can finally be named stage four breast cancer.  And I hope my daughter is able to reach the top of this hardest climb and emerge emboldened and smiling and safe.

I got out of bed and went hiking post Columbus Day because, well, my daughter hasn’t stopped moving once since her diagnosis.  She is fierce and strong and not willing to be stopped by almost anything.  (I’m not sure if there is an almost, I haven’t seen it yet.) Staring at the ceiling to cope with my inability to help her, seemed to not honor the spirit of her, it wasn’t helping her, and it had the potential to make things worse.  She didn’t need to worry about the impact it was having on me.  I went hiking with a friend who has recently discovered the thrill of hiking mountains.  I loved hearing his enthusiasm and convinced him to come to the Adirondacks to hike a high peak with me.  Anything to get me vertical.  I ignored that I was out of shape from all that ceiling staring, I knew I would find my way to the top, or wanted to believe anyway.  He suggested a peak outside of the range of the 46 High Peaks.  A little one.  Only 3,694-foot.  I was, in my mind a little disappointed.  Hiking Hurricane Mountain was on my never list.  And now that I think of it, it would be in the No Need To, or Why Bother column.  It’s not a high peak. 

Hiking for me is a great many things.  But it is a way to reach a goal, first and foremost, or so I thought until now.  Hurricane Mountain is not a high peak, so why bother hiking it? It won’t get me closer to becoming a 46er, I thought to myself.  My thoughtful risk analysis also suggested to me that I was not in hiking condition, and I was happy to have a friend willing and eager to hike with me and guide me out of my useless funk.  So I went along with this "little" hike.  I hiked, and panted, and turned purple trying to keep up or at least upright.  I sweated and breathed heavily and stopped occasionally to meditate or keep from passing out.  I had that internal hiking conversation I sometimes have of late, “If I die here, I will have died happily, doing what I love, in nature.”  Then I take in a deep breath and go on, knowing I will survive this hike. 

As I approached the top of Hurricane something happened.  Adrenaline popped and pumped and spit its way through every neuron and synapse. Suddenly I was smiling. Twirling. Experiencing elevation elation. The sky opened to reveal blue, the view was spectacular, like no other I have seen.  (Each peak of course provides a unique vantage point.) A bird was performing and clucking overhead, spiraling and gliding and playing in the airstream.  This would have stayed on my never list, if not for my hiking partner, if not for my daughter’s cancer, if not for learning I have such little power, and so very much.

I found myself eager to go up to the mountains again to check on my cottage, to stay away from the lurking consuming useless feelings, and because my friend is available and eager, addicted even, to go hiking.  Because I skipped down Hurricane Mountain and walked to the lake to celebrate with Prosecco afterwards, I have impressed upon my friend that what I might lack in physical conditioning I make up for in moxy and determination.  I talk him into a high peak.  He tries to divert me, but seems curious by my chops at least. 

I don’t tell him on our drive up, but I am already busy formulating my exit ticket.  The weather seems a bit, shall we say…. Frigid?  No fun, just uncomfortable.  Conditions could be icy, cold, snowy and even idiotic to attempt.  We enjoy dinner, wine, music, deep conversations and decide to set out early enough to make it back down before daylight saving darkness.  After whirlwind cleaning, to prepare the house for guests arriving in my absence, a trip to the dump, the local farm, and a meandering drive through the back roads of Essex County, we get to the trailhead near about 10:40, late, for official hiking protocol.

There is snow. Everywhere. It is beautiful.  The trailhead to Cascade Mountain is along route 73 towards Lake Placid. It is one of the most beautiful drives in this country!  (I get to say that confidently, because driving cross country solo, was an almost Never, but turned into the most spectacular Again I have ever experienced.)  So yes, the view along this road is not to be missed.  But beware, the intoxication of it made me forget that I don’t ever, as in Never, hike in snow.  I parked the car and as I stepped out, was happy I threw my jeans in the car and quickly added them to the two layers of pants I was already wearing.  With my jacket, I had 4 layers on top.  I added my pack, my camera, my dogged determination, snacks, and a big grin, and we headed up. 

The hiking was spectacular.  And of course, I got to do the mind meandering and head organizing that I often do while hiking.  I started considering the whole concept of Never.  I began to realize how we all, or most of us anyway, have these rules that restrict us perhaps more than keep us safe.  I started thinking, as I now must, about the richness of life.  About the fragility and the timidity that we sometimes approach our lives with.  I started thinking about not wanting to waste too many more moments.  I started thinking about Never and Why the Hell Not?  I don’t want to look at too many I Wish I Had But Lacked the Courage or Worse, the Faith, in myself, in others.  I don't want those kind of lists to adhere to.

As we near the top, I hear the sound I wait for.  The sound I am sure will come.  He yells, Oh My God!  Oh My God! I cannot believe this!  He is grinning, elated. Joyful.  I am pleased.  I am happy to share this, my very first high peak, now his.  I think, huh! another Never.  I Never plan to hike the same mountain twice, it will slow down my goal of attaining all 46.  And now know I would not have wished to miss this moment for the world.  We are not even at the treacherous icy bald summit yet, but we are given this first taste of a view that must be like heaven we both agree. 

When we make it to the top, there are a few points that we, either one or the other, find ourselves reaching for that exit ticket.  A vertical stretch that is difficult to scramble in ice.  As I am deciding to wait, I have already seen the top, I encourage him onward.  Try your foot here.  Reach there.  You have to!  You will not want to miss it.  After he gets up.  I decide I have to join.  He reaches down to help me up.  Slowly and cautiously we can both do this.  We came this far.  We have to.

It is amazing, this view of Never Say Never, and Get It While You Can.   I’m not sure if I will hike again in snow and inevitably ice.  I think probably not, but find myself ordering crampons and researching gloves from the safe warm comfort of my home the very next day.  And honestly, testing the fates or beating the odds, I think that system is rigged, like last weeks elections....but staying positive, in the game, and grinning deliriously from time to time staves off bedsores and a great many other ailments have been fought down through believing in the impossible.