a plea for Pigeon Brook

In this immediate area Pigeon Brook is probably the body of water that suffered the greatest damage from Hurricane Irene last August 27-28. Or let's put it this way: the ways in which this brook was changed are still almost entirely apparent.
Pigeon has always been my favorite stream here, and it has some serious competitors.
There's the stateliness and historical significance of the main river flowing through our land - the Neversink, a mecca for flyfishermen starting with the Dutch in probably the 17th century - a classic.

High Falls Brook above the falls itself is a lot like Pigeon, actually, but below it it's slower, wider, more "obvious" than Pigeon. And it has a reason for going: High Falls. Forgive me for putting it this way, but it's like a tourist-destination stream. Not for me when I want the real thing. I've climbed up all the way along High Falls Brook to its source, up a ridge of Doubletop and is probably the best way these days to get up Doubletop. So H.F.B. is special to me but still there's that hike-a-little get-big-payoff thing that seems facile. Hemlock Brook aka Trickle Creek isn't really much and it runs right through the middle of camp, so it hardly counts, and it's dry a lot of the year. It does, when it's been raining a lot, go through the middle of Big Tree Field and that's a nice feature.I don't know if the stream that once flowed through the meadow that is now Lake Cole ever had a name. I suspect not. Two or three streams feed the man-made lake. Anyway, that can't count, can it?
The East Branch of the Neversink flows down the back side of slide, picks up real stream status through the Tison preserve (Frost Valley land), then passes right next to the old Straus estate (now East Valley Ranch, also FV), passes across the road from our Farm Camp (where the kids actually have their "waterfront" period in one of its deep-ish holes) and flows all the way to Claryville, where, just at the famed turn-off to county road 47 and the 7 miles to Frost Valley's main property, the two branches of the early Neversink converge. I love the East Branch and it's getting to be one of those rivers I can drive next to and feel lots of feelings. For one thing, as I drive alongside it toward and at the Tison property, near the head of the Denning trail, I can fool myself into believing that I'm existing in 1870 or 1890.

Biscuit Creek - she's got to be at least everyone's second favorite. Biscuit is what you think of when you think of this part of the Catskills. Really gorgeous. Moves slowly and knows where it's going. Flumes here and there cut through the glacial boulders - making mesmerizing features such as Devil's Hole. It's easy to hike alongside. The train dates back at least to Forstmann's time, when he laid down felled Hemlock trunks on the creek-side edge of the trail, and rode big horses pretty far down the river. I think of Biscuit Creek as Forstmann's stream. The storm messed with Biscuit down near the open fields of camp and down to where it joins the Neversink. Damage upstream is not so horrid. It still looks like Biscuit. (Above: Biscuit Creek falls a few years ago.)

But Pigeon Brook. It's crazy and it's wild. It drops from around 3750 feet at its 2-pronged source, up near the top of of Doublestop, to the spot (right at Sequoia) where it meets its calm brother Biscuit at around 2000 feet (the bottom of our valley is 1900 feet). That's a steep drop. The Pigeon Brook valley, formed between (and actually dividing) Doubletop Mountain and Big Indian Mountain, is very steep. Thousands of years of erosion and this little feisty waterway has done most of that deepening. At right above you can see a Google Map version of the first part of Pigeon. See where Biscuit, much thicker blue, goes off to the east or right. That's Pigeon, ending at Sequoia, bending up off to the west or left and then turning north and up the mountain. Below you see a satellite photo of roughly the same sector: again, Pigeon off to the left, Biscuit to the right. Pigeon goes almost due north up the mountain. That accounts, of course, for its sections of steep descent.

Yesterday - the Saturday of holdover weekend between sessions 2 and 3 - was the perfect day for a hike up Pigeon. At least by the calendar. By the weather, not so much. An hour into our 5-hike hike up and back it started pouring, and I mean pouring. I hadn't brought rain gear because - what the hell. I knew I'd be scrambling hand and foot up the creek itself much of the time and so I'd be very wet anyway. So I put on non-cotton shirt and shorts no hat and headed out. Along with Dr. Rick Kaskel (another trustee and long-time dialysis doctor and a guy with a replaced hip!) and Bud Cox, who got persuaded to do this hike right there over breakfast, a few minutes before departure. Good ol' Bud. Of course having Bud with us meant that we had

access to a ton of knowledge of Big Indian Mountain and Doubletop and Pigeon itself. So, yes, we spent most of the time going up Pigeon Brook hiking and climbing up in the creek itself. You see, there's a Frost Valley-made trail high alongside Pigeon on the right or east side almost as far as FV property goes. Bud and I recalled for Rick the fact that Frost Valley summer camp overnight hikes went to any of four beautiful Pigeon Brook campsites in the old days. These were named Pigeon 1, Pigeon 2, Pigeon 3, and Pigeon 4. Bud thinks that Pigeons 2 and 4 had lean-to's. I think 1, 2 and 4 did. Anyway, those lean-tos are gone and I strongly urge us to build some new ones. No one - and I mean no one - in camp takes campers hiking up Pigeon. It's a shame. You can say you climbed up part of Doubletop if you do. And of course it's an excellent challenge for the older campers. So I say: less High Falls and less Banks Hill and more Pigeon Brook! The old campsites' clearings are still more or less there and with one day's volunteer work they can be re-made and look welcoming even to novice campers. In some of the photos below you can get a sense of the changes made to Pigeon by the hurricane a year ago. Here for instance is a boulder that got tossed downstream and wedged under a larger bolder while everything under the large bolder got swept away. Now the larger one is being precariously held up by the smaller.

Banks are eroded everywhere, which means that any chance of forging a trail or path along either side of the stream becomes less likely. And everything is soft or crumbly underfoot.

And there are many more little waterfalls and flume-like spots.

Here, below, Bud shows where the waterline was at the height of the storm's violent run-off. This we figured by looking hard at damage, water marks, and erosion. Amazing, eh? When the water was really this high, the entire Pigeon Brook valley was filled with fast-moving water. No wonder the pressure below was so great - on the Biscuit Creek falls in camp, on the bank keeping Pigeon Lodge up out of the stream, on the spot where Biscuit (which Pigeon's water in it) slammed against the southside bank of the Neversink behind the horsebarn.

In the pouring rain, fairly well exhausted from the scrambling ascent on hand and foot in the middle of the brook, climbing over many fallen trees and slipping on tilty rocks that had only been in place for 11 months, we reached the Pigeon Brook fork. Here two feeder streams converge to form Pigeon proper. One goes up and east toward Big Indian Mountain. The other goes up and west toward Doubletop. We went on the northwest fork for a little, then clambered up the steep slope and took a compass bearing west to try to find the deerpath that comes due south down from the top of Doubletop. We didn't get that far and in the pouring rain abandoned the plan to continue to the top of the mountain - and headed at a bearing of 255 degrees. Bushwacked, of course, keeping the Pigeon Valley to our left and staying on a 2500 feet contour for quite a while. Eventually we descended on the same contour and at 2200 feet cross the Frost Valley property line and headed due south into camp. We read the perimeter trail and walked by into camp just to the east of Friendship House and Wolff Lodge. (I add these details in part so others can repeat the trip with some relatively specific instructions.) Dear FV-loving reader of this blog: get thee up Pigeon Brook. What are you doing with your life that you can't spare a day and do this? It's good for the soul: rough hard work, and it fills a longing that camp people have felt every since Wawayanda moved here in 1958, but a somewhat lost art. Go there and be real.

going up Slide (for the Nth time)

Looking north from the top of Slide Mountain a few days ago. Although the trees at the top have grown up and now you can't command a view from the entire top of the mountain, as you could back in the '60s, there are a few spots where you get a spectacular view. It was in the humid mid-80s as we started up the trail from the road (county road 47, the one that passes through FV), but by the time we got to 4000+ feet, it was less humid and downright cool (low 70s) with a breeze. Fantastic relief and a reward for what really is quite a steep climb. The trail isn't the most beautiful at the bottom (too much travelled), but it's still 2.5 hours up and a real workout. (Going down takes 1.5 hours at most.) The much more interesting and beautiful way up Slide is from the end of the East Branch Neversink Road (by the Tison house), the "back way." A further note: while snapping this photo from this viewpoint, I heard a little bing go off on my phone and realized that from the top of Slide we were picking up the slightest cell phone service. From where? I don't know. But I actually was able to upload this photo from the top of Slide and to call my wife Jane to report our successful ascent. I didn't know whether to howl with laughter or with crying at this new aspect of immediacy.

Wednesday nights in the old days

My journey.
Camp Wawayanda, Catskill Mountains, 1967.
Geoff Hazel

Wednesday nights at camp were “cabin night”. It was the cooks’ night off, and the drill was that the CIT’s (counselors in training) would drive around to each village of 5 cabins, and drop of a big can of ‘bug juice’ (aka Kool Aid) along with a box of hamburger patties or hot dogs and buns and a #10 can of beans. Cabins would make a fire and cook their dinner outdoors. After dinner was the time for a cabin activity. One of the activities was the “overnight” where a cabin or cabins would travel a short distance and camp outdoors just for the night. You’d leave before dinner, cook your hamburgers there, and be back early the next day. One of the places we would go was just a couple miles (if that) from camp. It was next to a small, deep swimming hole. I was a Junior Counselor, taking charge of cabins when the regular counselor was on his days off. One Wednesday, while in charge of a cabin of 8 and 9 year olds, one of the other village cabins was off on an overnight to the swimming hole site. We set off after dinner, and walked to the site to pay them a visit. I and a few others went swimming in the small, deep swimming hole. One of the fellows had a waterproof flashlight and a mask, so you could actually dive down and see what was down there! Imagine, diving down into the dark with an underwater flashlight, and seeing the sides of the swimming hole. It was nearly like scuba diving, and in 1967 was very cool.

To cap a perfect evening, as we headed back, it started to rain. It wasn’t a cold rain -- this was good, summer East Coast rain: you get wet but you don’t get cold. As we walked along the quiet, narrow road, the campers (and I) all took great pleasure in jumping, kicking and splashing in every puddle that we could find. We did everything your Mom told you NOT to do, but that night, it was OK, and we celebrated our freedom from the normal rules.

When we got back to the cabin, everyone took a shower, and I fired up the little tin stove. It got so hot, the sides glowed orange, and by morning, all the clothes hanging from the rafters were dry. There was no issue getting anyone to sleep THAT night!

It was the kind of evening that summer camps were made for -- making memories that last a lifetime.

the longest hike he took in six summers at FV

Bill Madden was sorry he missed the recent reunion. But it got him thinking about influential leadership and in particular about Bob Whirty when Bob was Bill's fellow camper in Sequoia (Adventure Village). I'll let Bill himself tell the story:

I have been visiting your alumni blog and saw the picture of Bob Whirty and his daughter. Seeing the picture reminded me of something remarkable Bob did as a camper. Here is my memory of what Bob did:

It was the longest hike I ever recall making in six summers at Frost Valley. The counselors leading us were a fellow we called “ Beefo” and another named Charlie. As it often happened on hikes, there was a somewhat overweight camper who could not keep up with the group. We frequently had to stop and wait for this slow fat kid to catch up. When he would finally arrive, at least one, and usually several of the campers would harshly ridicule him about holding us up. With head down, the poor, thoroughly exhausted camper would ashamedly offer a typical excuse of “my back pack is broken” or something along those lines. A counselor would make the obligatory check of the backpack, on occasion maybe even repack it and give a few items to others to carry. It was customary on camp hikes for one counselor to bring up the rear. But on this hike, even the counselor bringing up the rear grew weary of pushing the slow camper and took to calling over his shoulder to hurry and catch up.

Late in the day, we had walked so far ahead; this camper was no longer even in sight. Eventually a small dot appeared and as the dot grew closer we could see Bob Whirty walking with him. Bob was a regular on hiking trips and we all knew Bob had no trouble keeping up. When they finally arrived, we were well rested and would have already resumed our hike but for waiting. The counselor’s tone reflected the feeling of many of us when he impatiently told them to take only a short break as the rest of us were ready to go and it was getting late in the day.

Bob Whirty replied “no, you guys keep resting, we are going on”. The slow poke, although soaked in sweat, was no longer ashamed and echoed Bob. “Yes, we’re going to keep on going”. Bob never said the obvious. He did not try to deflect criticism from himself by pointing out that he was making sure the fat kid kept up.

NO. Bob said WE!! And we all could see Bob’s new friend believed it. The young camper’s face clearly showed he no longer considered himself a burden to the group. Now, he was a hiking companion of Bob Whirty and they were accomplishing a rewarding and challenging hike together. The rest of us were so impressed we remained where we were and allowed them to build a good lead. All of us, campers and counselors alike, were now anxious to do our part to follow Bob’s example and make him feel an equal and not an outcast. Bob gave us the opportunity to be part of one of those “Hallmark Moments” that happen at summer camp.

the other side of the mountain

Jane and I hiked 4 miles up and down a trail along Dry Creek near the township of Hardenburgh. We drove up from Margaretville NY along Mill Brook Road, back into the Catskills State Forest. We reached the trailhead for an area called Kelly's Hollow. The trail goes up to a little lake called Beaver Pond. Here are two overhead views. In the Google Earth view you can see the road and Beaver Pond. The Google Maps view is pulled back for larger perspective. From this you can see that it's not very far from Mill Brook Road to the Frost Valley Road, even though I think of these two roads as far away from each other. It's an hour-plus drive from Frost Valley to the place where we began this hike and yet look how close they are - maybe 15 miles?

mourning on the trail

Today I received an email message from a friend of Frost Valley's - a guy who with his wife owns a house nearby and has come to love hiking and fishing and mushrooming at (and near) FV. He's a big-time guy in NYC, runs a really terrific institute, but loves to get away to the Catskills. He's come to know our summer camp over the past few summers, but his first contact with us was the allure of the forests, streams and trails. His email to me just now really reads like a poem. I've very moved by it. Here goes:

We were at Frost Valley Saturday

no fish no mushrooms of note but gorgeous

In my normally alone spot there was a hiker who told me not to be alarmed if I heard screaming and crying

He said his wife died

I asked when

A year ago

Well I did hear copious weeping and more

So I moved on

Good old frost valley

scene for the decades

Surely this scene is timeless. The photo could have been taken any time, any year. Can you guess when? Write to me at afilreis [AT] gmail [DOT] com and take a guess.

- - -

Bill Madden has guessed 1968.
Mike Troha has guessed 2009.

The answer is 2009. But isn't this photo timeless?

familiar hike

A short easy hike I've made 1,000 times--to Devil's Hole. Still lovely, especially on a sunny, cool early September morning. Here are a few photos.

more firsts up Doubletop

Gail McNeill writes: "...first trip up Doubletop. . . My first was a solo climb in February, in which I was climbing in belly-deep snow and got avalanched off a ledge. . . more on that if you want! Ron House went up the first time in, I think, April, late winter in FV, with a group of inner-city kids. . . the leaf buds on the valley floor had just cracked, and Ron went up to play in the snow with the kids. While he was gone, the temp went up into the 70's and the leaves all opened up. Late that afternoon, I saw Ron, walking behind the line of kids, wide-eyed and uneasy at the spring scene around him. . . he came up to me, grabbed me by the collar, and asked, 'How long have I been gone?!'"

from the top of Giant Ledge (video)

This short video clip is a panaroma from the top of Giant Ledge in autumn**, just after the leaves were gone. To the extreme right of the camera's swing, you can see Slide Mountain.

At the very end of the clip, there's Bill Abbott's happy face.

Below are three photos I took from the ledge. In the first one you can actually see Winnesook Lake and the buildings around that lake. (Winnesook is the club that is located about 5 miles from camp, just before the road turns sharply downhill.)




** 11/5/2006.

first time up Doubletop (video)

Hike up Doubletop: late June 2006, with Bud Cox, myself, and Bill Abbott. I have some great pictures of this trip, but I'll add them later. We left camp at 8 am on this particular Saturday in the drizzling rain, and maybe it was 60 degrees, but no warmer. And we decided to climb up a little-used way - up High Falls Brook, which of course comes down the mountain far far above where most folks see the brook (at High Falls itself). Following the brook to its source (which is really a bunch of swampy streams) we walked through mud and brambles, and it was still raining.

So there were nicer days of hiking, but this was fun. When we got to the two tops of Doubletop, the rain and fog lifted and so we were able to see down to camp (you can see the Ad Office from up there!). But...but...now we were hit by swarms of black flies.

Oh, and as a bonus, here's a video of Bud being Bud - hilarious - as we rested during the final ascent (very steep) up the High Falls Brook-side (or western) ridge.

Send me your first-time-up-Doubletop stories.

The first (in several respects, as you'll see) is Bill Sonsin, who goes way back, wrote me about recent posts to this blog: "The 'first time up Doubletop' and 'Hemlock cabin 24' together brought back memories. I was in Hemlock #24 in the summer of 1959. Art Fritz was the counselor. I think we were the absolute first group [from the camp] to climb Doubletop, ever." Fritz was from Westfield and a student at Syracuse University (class of 1962). Other campers besides Bill from cabin 24 that summer were Ron Lochly, Ed Kieling, Chipper Hoeck, Robert Floyd, Joe Allen, and Dave Edsall.

Here are two more Doubletop firsts.

sunrise at Giant Ledge

On the last morning of one of this summer's camping sessions, the Tacoma staff woke up the girls very very early (4 am?) and took them on a sunrise hike up Giant Ledge. Anna Armstrong, one of Tacoma's counselors, took this shot at the sunrise moment.

I think they cooked and ate pancakes up there. Could it get any better than that?

Fir Mountain in January

It's the first of September and I'm thinking of Frost Valley in winter--perhaps this morning trying to avoid all those autumnal death thoughts I mentioned the other day. I'm glum at summer's end (for many reasons, not all having to do with FV), so my mind likes to leap forward fast. I went hunting among my carousels of 35 mm slides for a scene of snow.

After a day-long hike up and back down Fir Mountain in January 1973, Bud Cox pretends to be so tired as to fall asleep leaning against a tree. Fat chance that Bud was tired--then or ever--on a hike. Among those he dragooned into this adventure were David and Becky White, two of Chuck and Joy White's children.

It was really cold that day--15 degrees or so--but we were all young and had just hiked at almost a running pace, so the coats had come off long before this point.

If anyone ever asked Bud how far it was before we reach our hike's destination, he would immediately and in a flat-toned just slightly ironic voice, "Oh, two point three six miles." You would believe this until, maybe a half hour later, you asked again, and then came this answer: "Oh, two point three six miles." Sometimes he would add as a coda: "Give or take a few miles."