There seemed to be no roads crossing the highway I was journeying on
which might lead into that mountainous reservation. I knew of the
popular entrance to it on the shore of the Hudson. But I wondered
whether it might not be entered at some inland point in this
neighborhood. The reader who is familiar with this region will bear with
me for the sake of those who live at a distance from it.
On making inquiries at Tuxedo I learned that I could enter the tract (I
cannot bring myself to call it a park) by a bridge over the Ramapo River
several miles north of the village. I was told that this was the only
way of entering the reservation, which information I later found to be
incorrect. I know now an obscure and unfrequented route into those hills
which you shall hear about later.
Soon I was over the bridge, and passing a little log shelter where a
couple of state troopers loitered, I knew I was within the precincts of
the region dear to scouts. My intention now was to cross the reservation
to the Hudson and continue my journey to Kingston along the shore road
up the river.
I doubt if there is any drive hereabouts more interesting and
picturesque than this Seven Lakes Drive, as they call it, which takes
one in and out among those clustering heights and skirts the shores of
tranquil waters. Half hidden in the surrounding woodland may be seen
camping shacks and cabins whose rustic architecture consorts well with
the wild surroundings.
There were men painting rowboats as I drove along, and others repairing
picturesquely rough structures by the wayside. The camping season had
not yet opened and there was an alluring air of preparation as I drove
along.
At Kanawauke Lakes, about a third of the distance to the Hudson, is the
Boy Scout Headquarters, from which point, I understand, the various
camps are provisioned and supervised. A lonely boy scout in a reefer
jacket was lolling here; I did not ask him his business thereabouts so
early in the spring; he seemed like the first robin to reach the north.
As I drove along the winding way, up hills and down, I noticed primitive
country roads here and there, and I wondered where they could lead to in
that hilly wilderness. Clearly they were not incidental to the making of
the Park; they had an old country look about them, and I wondered to
what remote habitations they might lead.
Not so much as a hamlet is there along that scenic course, but now and
again I could see embowered in the woods or standing upon distant
hillsides quaint little old-fashioned houses, the humble abodes of old
settlers, I supposed. There could never have been any community life in
that region, for these primitive abodes were secluded and widely
scattered among the mountains.
Who were the hardy folk who had reared their simple homes so near to
Nature’s heart--so far removed from civilization? The thought of them
suggested pioneers of old. For no cabin of a restless Daniel Boone in
the depths of the Kentucky wilderness would seem more remote than these
same little ramshackle houses must have been less than a score of years
ago, before the dedication of this region to the revival of woods-lore
and pathfinding. I wondered whether these original inhabitants or their
descendants had been ousted in the interests of the reservation. That
would seem a pity, I told myself. They must have been a bold,
adventurous race.
It was quite interesting, the contrast between these dwellings as I saw
them hidden here and there in the distance, and the consciously
primitive architecture of those modern camps. I could not help it, my
fancy wandered to the old life of the district, and I conjured up
visions of the hardy adventurers who must once have lived there. What
did they do for a living? There was no village life. There was one of
these houses, two hundred years old I should say, standing a little
distance back from the road, and against its unpainted, weather-beaten
side rested a motorcycle. I suppose perhaps one of those clanking,
decorated paragons of romance, a state trooper, lived there.
Well, I mused, you cannot make modern camping and outdoor life and all
that anything like the life of real scouts and pioneers; you can’t do
it. The motorcycle sneaks in when you are not looking, they have
machinery for making logs correctly rough, and when they are pressed for
time they put up cabins in the glare of an arc light. You cannot link up
the past with the present. The one is the one thing and the other is
quite another, and there you are. But they are both very interesting,
and the aggressiveness of one and traces of the other one were to be
seen in this wild territory extending in from the Hudson Highlands.
Then suddenly, just as this historic name of Hudson Highlands was in my
thoughts, I went rolling down-hill and around sweeping turns till the
majestic river opened in full view before me. And soon I was skirting an
extensive lawn where games are played, I suppose, and was making a
circuitous approach to the picturesque rubble-stone building which is
known as the Bear Mountain Inn. This is the neighborhood of Bear
Mountain, one of those frowning giants that guards the noble river in
its course. In popular usage its name has been used for the whole region
through which I had passed.
If I had been truly of the spirit of those hardy folk to whom I was
pleased to attach so much romance and tradition I suppose I should have
climbed the mountain or done something of that sort. But instead I fell
back into the modern way and parking my car in front of the attractive
Inn I went inside for a hearty luncheon.