“The one lane road used to go thru to the North Branch road, but mostly now it just goes to the Sinclair family Christmas tree farm. Some folks recently bought 50 acres past there, but who knows. They gated it off. I’d say it still goes thru. You just might have to be a bit more clever to make your way. I don’t hold much, with blockages. The old roads hang onto their identity related to usage, and that doesn’t fade, not for years, and then some. As much as I love my camera, I’m not too keen on the current trend towards video in the woods. If you can’t be there to hold a camera, maybe you shouldn’t be there. Anyway, it’s been raining off & on, & dumping erratic wet snow, for a month or so. Hard to choose the right boots, so most people don’t go far, by foot, this time of year. Too early for snow shoes, or skis, unless you’re an aficionado of klister. Now that’s an odd word. but you can look it up if you haven’t heard it before. I learned about it, back around 1980. A friend bought me my first pair of wood X-country skis, because I was poor. And we studied wax, and used a propane torch, to melt it off, and reapply it, for optimal performance. Even ski wax seemed expensive, back then. We treated our skis to pine tar too, because that was how you did it, if you really cared about your skis. I was no great shakes, on skis. But I could feel the connection, between wood, and snow. There wasn’t anything called “adventure sports” not really, at that time. Just people who did crazy things, and got away with it. I guess I went along blithely that way, just not with any skill. I was 50% on my ass, out where no one would ever find me if I died. There was no such thing as “gear”, or survival kits. Yes, my generation fell off jungle gyms too, and got concussions, but no one sued for that. We didn’t get uppity about being reckless, and blame someone else. It was part of being a damaged human, par for the course. It was your own damn fault. But also, a notch on your belt. I’m not defending it, I’m just stating the facts. I can’t tell you how many times I went out on trips with people who really knew how to ski, and felt like an idiot. And came home, hurting. But inside myself, according to my own measure of what I’d attempted, at least I’d tried. I got no medals for it. I’m still basically working off the same template. No one ever filmed me executing a great maneuver .. well, maybe once they did, but it was staged. As soon as the camera stopped, I fell over, did a face plant. Maybe you can build a whole life around hanging out with people who make you look good. That would be me. Anyway, I’m much better suited to doing things that no one ever sees. This Christmas tree farm, that even locals may be hazy about in terms of its existence, made me feel whole. The father and son team running the operation keep things simple, with only a few basic tools, like a hand saw, a chain saw, and a tree wrapping device, that’s pretty handy. It must have cost them a season or two, to buy that thing, but its so much fun to use, and equally fun, to watch being put to use. My guess is, that they don’t brag about being “Christmas Tree Professionals”. They just wake up in December, and put up a tarp, and light a bonfire. If people come, that’s cool. If they don’t, that’s more time to spend doing other things. Their land is a knock-out. One river you can hear to the east, raging from recent storms. Another river, just west of the plantation, hidden behind a belt of beautiful hemlocks. Both rivers run into Ripton, and then down towards the civilized valley. I stood in the mist, looking at trees, and birds and distant mountains, thinking about how next chance I get I’m going to head up Dragon Brook again, just to the north, over by Robert Frost Mountain, and the forgotten beaver meadows. And once and for all, figure out, how it all makes sense. Or doesn’t: in which case, I’ll stay lost.”
