Sometimes to protect the places we love, the best thing we can do is let them be. The people of the Adirondacks pride themselves on being resourceful, rugged, and self-reliant, but this time we need your help.
The Adirondacks are more than the mountains. They are the people, the towns, the businesses, and the communities that dot the lakes and rivers within the 6.2 million acres of public and private land. I grew up in the southeast part of the park, and after graduating high school I immediately tried to get the hell out. Don’t get me wrong, I have always loved the woods and expansive wildness, but back then I didn’t realize how special it was. All I could think of was that I’d been seeing the same 60 kids for the past 12 years, and really needed some new world views in my life.
I’ve since travelled to four different countries and lived in three other states. They weren’t the Adirondacks and long story short, here I am. Saranac Lake is home for me, and I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.
Yesterday I drove by Dewey Mountain Recreation Center just outside of town, and with a pang I remembered a Friday Night Ski Jam from before the socially distant era.
Local musicians had gathered with violins and harmonicas to fill the small glowing room with professional-level fiddle tunes. Everyone there was clad in cross country ski boots, and our heads were awash with warm coco and lively music. The space was nothing more than a few couches and some fold-up chairs, but it was full of sound, warmth, and togetherness. Every face looked familiar, and no eye contact was met without a smile.
The sweet vibrations from the violins set our hearts to the same beat and our chests pulsed full of collective emotion. We surrendered to that feeling only live music can bring. Time stood still in a moment of joy and human connection, hidden within a frozen little town most people have never heard of, and strung out on the note from a well-loved violin.
I wish I could hold onto that note forever, keep the pocket of togetherness and joy wound up close to my heart to pull out whenever I need it. It was the moment I realized that this place was home, and that this community was unlike any other I’d been a part of. The music from that night has long faded, but that feeling of community is still strong. We might all be social distancing in old cure-cottages, or small houses out in the woods, but we are still together.
The Adirondacks are full of inspiring people with a lifetime of stories, and a fierce pride for calling these mountains home. A town without its people is just an empty shell. Broken, musty, and caved in in the middle. Like an abandoned house on an old country road – the stories lost forever under rotting boards and mouse-chewed curtains.
Our people can survive sub-zero temperatures and mass flooding events. We can get through overuse of the peaks, and work together to form solutions for the future management of the park. We can advocate for conservation, push lawmakers to protect wilderness areas, and instill a love for this place in all those who visit.
What we can’t do is stop a virus that is highly contagious, highly deadly, and impossible to see.
At least, we can’t do it alone.
Our hospitals are small, and much of our community falls into the high risk category. We simply do not have the resources to handle a major outbreak.
There is no nice way to put it. If COVID-19 were to spread here as prolifically as it has downstate, the fabric of our towns would die along with many of the people within them.
Right now we all need to hike local and avoid popular trailheads. Hiking seems like it would be a great way to social distance, but it isn’t when everyone else has the same idea. Traveling to hike threatens the lives of the communities we all love. There were over 100 cars at the Adirondack Loj parking area last weekend, and the weather is only getting nicer. I’m scared for what could happen if this trend continues.
Even people who are local to the High Peaks region are being asked not to hike there right now. No matter your experience level, there is a higher level of risk involved hiking a peak over 4,000 ft than there is going for a short jaunt up a smaller mountain or out to your favorite local pond.
If a hiker is hurt in the backcountry under current circumstances, our forest rangers risk exposure by rescuing them. In addition, we don’t have all of our rangers and staff in the area. Some of our rangers have been sent to the city to help with the disease that has taken over 20,000 lives in our state.
If you’re thinking that this doesn’t apply to you – that you have hiked in the High Peaks for years, are really only just travelling a couple hours, or that you won’t get hurt – you are exactly the person I’m trying to reach. Take it from someone who has been up Marcy 54 times in the last two summers, accidents happen even on familiar trails. You slip and your knee smashes into a rock, you misjudge a step on the ice and the next thing you know you can’t walk.
These risks that we all take when we go into the woods are not just about us anymore. They are about the health of the people coming to rescue us, and those resources that we are taking away from other people in need. It’s about the threat of unknowingly leaving a deadly microscopic organism on a gas pump.
We all need to come together to get through this. It doesn’t work if only some of us stay home and stay local and low risk. We all need to do it, and we need to do it for each other.
It is not about accepting risk for yourself, it is about potentially killing someone else.
By the time I pulled up to the stop light near the Saranac Lake High School I was blinking back tears. Something as simple as hugging a friend is no longer possible, let alone a tightly packed gathering with everyone singing the Adirondack version of “Country Roads”. No one knows when these moments will be safe again, and it’s scary. The pain of being cut off from those we love is real – at least that is something we can all share.
I know I am incredibly lucky to call this place home. I know that some people do not have access to local trails and outdoor spaces right now. Maybe your local park is always crowded, and you don’t live near any natural areas or state land. Maybe you live in New York City, and you fear just walking down the street or even the hallway in your apartment building. I can’t imagine what that must be like, and I don’t blame anyone who has wanted to escape that in the quiet reaches of the Adirondacks, but for the sake of everyone here I am asking you not to come.
Our lives and our communities are dependent on everyone staying close to home. This really is a matter of life or death, and all of our actions have a major impact on those around us. The possibility of this disease devastating our small towns is very real. It’s far too easy to fall into the mindset that it won’t happen to us, but with something this contagious and this deadly we need to act like it’s going to.
We are not asking people to stay away from the Adirondacks forever, but for right now we need to. If you are only of the lucky people who calls this place home, avoid high-risk trails like the High Peaks, and be prepared to change your plans if a hiking area is full. Carry a mask just in case you aren’t able to stay 6 ft away from someone on the trail.
It’s also a great time to plan for future adventures, take up a hobby that can be done from home, and just spend time in your yard or on the front porch.
The mountains are always going to be here, but the people may not be.
Stay home, stay healthy, and stay local. We will see you when it is safe to visit and hike in the High Peaks region again.
For more resources on hiking local, check out the links below.