THE CATSKILLS, LAKE GEORGE AND GREEN MOUNTAINS.
In answer to the oft-repeated queries, “Did you have your journey
last summer?” and “Where did you go?” we reply, “Oh, yes; we had a
delightful journey. We were away four weeks and drove five hundred and
seventy-five miles. We went all through Berkshire, up the Hudson, among
the Catskills, then on to Albany, Saratoga, Lake George, Lake Champlain
and home over the Green Mountains.”
Lovers of brevity, people who have no time or fondness for details,
and those who care more for the remotest point reached than how we got
there, will stop here. Those of more leisurely inclination, who would
enjoy our zigzagging course, so senseless to the practical mind, and
would not object to walking up a hill, fording a stream or camping by
the wayside, we cordially invite to go with us through some of the
experiences of our fifteenth annual drive.
We were all ready to go on the Fourth of July, but Charlie does not
like the customary demonstrations of that day, and for several years
he has been permitted to celebrate his Independence in his stall.
There were three Fourth of Julys this year, and we waited patiently
until Independence was fully declared. All being quiet on Tuesday,
the sixth, we made ready, and at a fairly early hour in the morning
everything had found its own place in the phaeton and we were off. As
usual, we had made no plans, but our thoughts had traveled Maineward,
until at the last moment the Catskills were suggested. The heat which
often lingers about the Fourth was at its height, and the thought of
Princeton’s bracing air was so refreshing we gladly started in that
direction. We drove leisurely, taking in the pretty views and gathering
flowers, camped by the roadside two hours at noon, and then on through
Princeton to Rutland. We visited that pretty town three years ago, when
the Mauschopauge House was being built, and we resolved then to spend
a night some time under its roof. It is finely located, commanding
extensive views, and is in every way a charming place to spend a
scorching summer night. The cool breezes blowing through our room,
the glorious sunset, and the one lone rocket, the very last of the
Fourth, that shot up seemingly from a dense forest, two miles away, and
impressed us more than a whole program of Boston pyrotechnics, calling
forth the remark, “How much more we enjoy a little than we do a great
deal,” to which a lady, kindly entertaining us, replied, “Oh, you are
too young to have learned that,” all these are fresh in our memory.
Just as we were leaving in the morning, our kindly lady introduced us
to a stately looking Boston lady, and told her of our habit of driving
about the country. “Oh,” she says, “that is charming. I do not like
woman’s rights, but this is only a bit of Boston independence.”
It was hot after we left breezy Rutland, and we drove the twelve
miles to North Brookfield very leisurely, taking our lunch before we
visited our friends there, and at once declaring our determination to
leave before supper, as it was too hot to be any trouble to anybody.
We sat in the house and we sat in the barn, but there was no comfort
anywhere. Late in the afternoon we resisted the protests, but not the
strawberries, and started off for the eleven miles to Ware. Our dread
of the heat was all wasted, for we had a very pleasant drive, but, when
we were once in that roasting, scorching hotel, we almost wished we had
not been so considerate of our friends.
Twenty-five miles driving the next day, stopping at the comfortable
hotel in Belchertown for dinner, brought us to Northampton. We drove
about its lovely streets an hour before going to the hotel, and passed
the evening with friends, who took us through Smith College grounds by
moonlight, on our way back to the hotel. The luxuries of Northampton
offset the discomforts of Ware, and we were filled with the atmosphere
which pervades the country all about, through Mr. Chadwick’s glowing
descriptions, as we followed along the Mill River, marking the traces
of the disaster on our way to Williamsburg. Up, up we went, until we
found ourselves on the threshold of Mr. Chadwick’s summer home, in
Chesterfield. He took us out into the field to show us the fine view,
with a glimpse of old Greylock in the distance. We were on the heights
here, and went down hill for a while, but it was not long before we
were climbing again, and after six miles of down and up we sought
refuge for the night in Worthington.
There was rain and a decided change in the weather that night, and a
fire was essential to comfort during the cheerless early morning hours.
We took the opportunity to rest Charlie and write letters, and the ten
miles’ drive to Hinsdale in the afternoon was quite pleasant. It was
refreshing for a change to be chilly, rather than hot and dusty. At
Peru, six miles from Worthington, we reached the point where the waters
divide between the Connecticut and the Housatonic.
The night at Hinsdale was without special interest, but the drive from
there to Stockbridge will never be forgotten. Could it be that only
two days before we were dissolving with the heat, and now we needed
our warmest wraps. The dust was laid, all Nature fresh, Charlie was
at his best, and away we sped towards the lovely Berkshire region,
with its fine roads, beautiful residences, cultivated estates and the
superb views along the valley of the Housatonic, in the grand old towns
of Pittsfield, Lenox, Lee and Stockbridge. Mr. Plumb, the well-known
proprietor of the quaint old inn in Stockbridge, remembered our visit
there eleven years ago, and asked us if we found our way to New York
that time. He said he remembered telling us if we had found our way so
far, we should find no difficulty in crossing the State line. Somehow,
we were afraid of the New York State line then, but we have so far
overcome it, that, after we crossed this year, we felt so much at home
that the revolver was packed away a whole day, for the first time since
we have carried it.
Any Berkshire book will tell you all about Mr. Plumb’s inn, the
Sedgwick burial place, Jonathan Edwards and all the rest, and we will
go on, leaving enough to talk hours about. We cannot go through Great
Barrington without lingering a bit, however, giving a thought to
Bryant and the lovely poems he wrote there, before we are diverted
by the wonderful doings of Mrs. Mark Hopkins. An imposing structure
puzzled us. “What is it?” we asked a man. “It is a mystery,” he said.
We afterward were told that it was designed for Mrs. Hopkins’s private
residence at present, but would be devoted to art some time in the
future. We cannot vouch for the latter statement, but we can for
the magnificence of the edifice, as well as for the church with its
wonderful Roosevelt organ and royal parsonage, largely due to Mrs.
Hopkins’s liberal hand. Many travel by private car, but Mrs. Hopkins
has a private railroad, and when she wishes to visit her San Francisco
home, her palace on wheels is ordered to her door, as ordinary mortals
call a cab.
Sheffield had even more attractions than Great Barrington and Mrs.
Hopkins, for there we got home letters. Next comes Salisbury, and now
we are in Connecticut. We spent the night at an attractive hotel in
Lake Village, and fancied we were at Lake Winnipiseogee, it was so
like Hotel Weirs. Perhaps you think we forgot we were going to the
Catskills. Oh, no; but we had not been able to decide whether we would
go to West Point and drive up the Hudson, or to Albany and drive down,
so we concluded to “do” Berkshire until our course was revealed. The
turnpike to Poughkeepsie was suggested, and as we had reached the
southern limit of the so-called Berkshire region, it met our favor, and
we went to Sharon, then crossed the New York State line, which is no
more formidable than visible. Still there was a difference. It seemed
as if we were among foreigners, but the courteous answers to inquiries
and manifest kindly feeling won us at once.
Turnpikes are too public for a wayside camp, and as there was no hotel
at hand, and Charlie must have rest, we asked permission of a farmer to
drive into a little cosy corner where we could all be very comfortable.
He would leave his dinner, although we protested, and helped unharness
Charlie, then he brought us milk and luscious cherries, and when
dinner was over, his wife came and invited Charlie to eat some of the
nice grass in her front yard. We led him to his feast, and had a very
pleasant chat with her, while he reveled in New York hospitality. This
was in Armenia. From there we drove over the mountain to Washington
Hollow, where we had a comfortable night in a spacious, old-fashioned,
homelike hotel. The twelve miles to Poughkeepsie were very pleasant,
and after we had nearly shaken our lives out over the rough pavement in
search of a guidebook of the Catskills, we were ready for dinner and a
two-hours’ rest at a hotel. The afternoon drive of seventeen miles to
Rhinebeck on the old post road from New York to Albany was fine.
This was our first drive along the Hudson; but were it not for the
occasional glimpses of the farther shore through the wooded grounds, we
might have fancied ourselves driving through Beverly-Farms-by-the-Sea.
The stately entrances and lodges of these grand old estates, with their
shaded drives, towards the turrets and towers we could see in the
distance, looked almost familiar to us.
It rained very hard during the night at Rhinebeck and until ten
o’clock in the morning. While waiting for the final shower, we
discussed our route for the day, and somehow inclination got the better
of wisdom, and we left the old post road for one which we were told
would take us near the river. When shall we learn that river roads
are rarely near the river? We hope we learned it for life that day,
for repentance set in early, and has not ceased yet, because of our
compassion for Charlie.
The roads grew heavier every hour, and the twenty-six miles seemed
endless. We scarcely saw the river, and the outline of the Catskills
was all there was to divert us. We will touch as briefly as possible
on the dinner at Tivoli. “Driving up the Hudson must be charming,”
our friends wrote us with envy, but we forgot its charms when we were
placed at the table which the last members of the family were just
leaving, and the “boiled dish” was served. We were near the river,
however, for which we had sacrificed comfort for the day. We survived
the ordeal, smothering our smiles at the misery our folly had brought
us, and with renewed avowals that we would never be enticed from a
straightforward course by a river road again, we went on our wretched
way. Thunder clouds gathered and broke over the Catskills, but the
grumbling thunder was all that crossed the river to us. The fact that
somehow the river was to be crossed, and exactly how we knew not, did
not make us any happier. You may remember Charlie is particular about
ferries.
Is there no end to this dragging through the mud, we thought, as the
showers threatened, the night came on and no one was near to tell
us whether we were right or wrong, when we came to turn after turn
in the road. We were about lost in mud and despair, when we heard a
steam whistle, and came suddenly upon express and freight trains, a
railway station and ferryboat landing all in a huddle. Charlie’s ears
were up and he needed all our attention. We drove as near as he was
willing to go, then went to inquire the next step. No old scows this
time, happily, but a regular ferryboat, and the ferryman has a way of
whispering confidentially to timid horses which wins them at once, so
we were soon safely landed into the darkness and rain on the other
side. We spent the night in Catskill Village, and gave the evening up
to study of the ins and outs of the Catskills. The heavy rain all night
and half the morning prepared more mud for us, and we were five hours
driving twelve miles. The wheels were one solid mass of clay mud, and
we amused ourselves watching it as it reluctantly rolled off.
We took directions for the old Catskill Mountain House, but, luckily
for Charlie, we guessed wrong at some turn where there was no
guide-board, or place to inquire, and brought up at the Sunny Slope
House at the foot of the mountain instead of at the top. We walked two
miles after supper and were tempted to stay over a day and walk up the
four-mile path to the famous Kaaterskill House, but it was a beautiful
day to go through Kaaterskill Clove, and it seemed best to make sure of
it. It was up hill about four miles, and as interesting as Franconia
and Dixville notches, with its Fawn’s Leap, Profile, Grotto, Cascades
and superb views. All this we should have missed if we had gone
over the mountain. We dined at Tannersville and fancied we were in
Jerusalem, for every hotel in the place was full of Jews. The afternoon
drive along the valley was very restful, after the morning’s rough
climb.
We were now in a country entirely new to us, and we little dreamed that
the Schoharie Kill or Creek driving would eclipse the Hudson. We had at
last found a river road which followed the river. The shore scenery was
simply exquisite. Miles of hills—mountains we should call them—with
cultivated grain fields even to the summit. Surely we had never seen
anything more lovely. The roads were not like the post road on the
Hudson; indeed, they were the worst roads we ever encountered. Annual
overflows undo the repairs which are rarely made, and in many places
the highway is simply the bed which the creek has deserted. At home we
improve roads by clearing the stones from them, but there they improve
them by dumping a cartload of stones into them. We learned this fact by
hearing an enterprising citizen declare he would do it himself, if the
town authorities did not attend to their duty, and we can testify to
the truth of it, having been over the roads.
Our hotel experiences were new, too. We spent one night at Lexington,
and when Charlie was brought to the door and all was ready for our
departure we noticed something wrong about the harness. Investigation
proved that things were decidedly mixed at the stable, and probably
a part of Charlie’s new harness had gone to Hunter, ten miles back,
after the skating rink frolic of the night before. We had suspected our
choice of hotels for that night was not a happy one, but the landlord
did his best. He despatched a man to Hunter, and took our bags back to
our room, saying we should stay till the next day at his expense. We
resumed our reading and writing, the stray harness returned that night,
and early next morning we shook the dust of Lexington from us and were
on our way again.
We drove twenty-six miles that day over the crazy roads close by the
Schoharie all the way. We had been hemmed in for some time, with the
creek on one side and overhanging rocks on the other, when we came
suddenly to a ford, the first we had chanced to come across in our
travels, and we feared it might be more objectionable to Charlie than a
ferry, for he is really afraid of water. Only a few rods to the right
was a leaping, foaming cascade seventy-five or one hundred feet high,
which was a real terror to him, but he seemed to take in the situation
and to see at once, as we did, that escape or retreat was impossible
and the stream must be crossed. Oh, how we dreaded it! but we drew
up the reins with a cheering word to him and in he plunged, pulling
steadily through in spite of his fright. “Well, that is over, what
next?” we wondered.
We wanted to drive to Middlebury for the night, but a fatherly old man
we saw on the road said, “I wouldn’t drive eight miles more tonight if
I were you; it will make it late, and you better stop at Breakabean.”
We asked the meaning of the unique name and were told it signified
rushes, but we saw none. Things were rushing, however, at the speck of
a hotel, which was undergoing general repairs and cleaning. The cabinet
organ was in the middle of the sitting-room and everything socially
clustered around it. Out of two little rooms up stairs we managed to
get things convenient. To be sure we had to pin up a shawl for a screen
in our dressing-room, and a few such little things, but we assured our
hostess we could be comfortable and should not be annoyed by the brass
band of native talent which would practise in the little dancing-hall
close by our rooms. When we went down to supper all was peaceful; the
organ had retired to its corner and things were “picked up” generally.
There were two ways we could take the next day, but to avoid the
mountain we were strongly advised to take the ford. We objected, but
yielded at last, being assured it was by far our best course. If it
was the best we are heartily glad we took it, and we got through the
morning safely, but we are never going there again. We reached the ford
in time, but had we not known it was a ford by directions given and
unmistakable signs, we should as soon have thought of driving into the
sea. The water was high, current strong—how deep we knew not—and it
was quite a distance across. Charlie was sensible as before. We tucked
our wraps in close, for where roads are made of rocks you cannot expect
a smooth-running ford, and in we plunged again. Directly the water was
over the hubs, and we felt as if it would reach the carriage top before
we could get across. We held our breath in the spot where the current
was strongest, but Charlie pulled steadily and all went well.
We understood our course would be level after the ford. The man must
have forgotten the tow-path. From the ford we went right up on to the
side of a cliff, and for a mile or more we were on the narrowest road
we ever drove on, with the cliff fifty to one hundred feet straight
up on our left, and a hundred feet down on our right was the river,
or Schoharie Creek, with nothing to hinder our being there at short
notice, not even a stick for protection. When we got to a rational road
we inquired if we had been right, and were told “Yes, if you came by
the tow-path; you would have had to ford three times if you had kept
the valley.”
We told you at the outset that the Schoharie Valley is very beautiful.
It lies now like a picture in our memory, and despite rocks, fords and
tow-paths, we were very reluctant to leave it, but we were aiming for
Saratoga, and at Schoharie we were advised to go by the way of Albany.
It was the week of the bi-centennial celebration, and nothing but
Albany was thought of, so we fell in with the multitude, and with a
last look at Schoharie, turned east. The country was dull by contrast
for a while, but became more interesting as we drew nearer the Hudson.
We spent the night at Knowersville, and after everybody else had
boarded the crowded excursion train to the Capital we leisurely started
off via the plank road. Every grocer’s wagon or coal cart we met had a
bit of ribbon, if no more, in honor of the occasion; and miles before
we reached the city, strips of bunting adorned the humble dwellings.
The city itself was one blaze of beauty. The orange, generously mixed
with the red, white and blue, made the general effect extremely
brilliant. We drove through all the principal streets and parks,
dodging the processions—which were endless—with their bands and gay
paraphernalia, to say nothing of the “trade” equipages, which suggested
that all the business of Albany was turned into the streets. We went
all over the Capitol building and had a fine view of the surrounding
country from its upper rooms; then, feeling we had “done” the
bi-centennial to our satisfaction, we drove nine miles up the Hudson
to Cohoes for the night. When the porter brought our bags in, he said,
with evident delight, “He’s given you the best rooms in the house,” and
they were very nice; but luxuries are not always comforts, and we have
not forgotten sitting bolt upright on the top of a marble table, with
our book held high, in order to get near enough to the gaslight to read.
Everybody we saw the next day was dressed up and bound for Albany, for
the President was to be there, but we were impatient for our letters at
Saratoga and went on. The twenty-five miles was easily accomplished,
and we found a large mail. In the evening we strolled about, enjoyed
the fireworks in Congress Park, and talked over our plans for the next
day. We had seen all the attractions about Saratoga in previous visits,
except Mt. McGregor. We had thought to let Charlie rest, and go by
rail, but were told we could drive up without the least difficulty,
and that it was right on our way to Glen’s Falls. This seemed our
best course, and we tried it, only to find, when too late, that the
road had been neglected since the railroad was built, and was in a
very rough condition. One led Charlie up and down the mountain, and
the other walked behind to pick up any bags or wraps which might be
jolted out on the way. The view from the hotel and the Grant Cottage is
very pretty, and if we had been free from encumbrance, we should have
enjoyed the walk up and down very much. As it was, we could only laugh
at ourselves and say, “Poor Charlie!” We had been to Mt. McGregor,
however, and that is something, and it chanced to be the anniversary of
General Grant’s death.
We spent the night at Glen’s Falls, and tried in vain to find some one
who could tell us how to go home over the Green Mountains. We knew the
way from Lake Champlain, having driven up that way several years ago,
and finally concluded the longest way round might be the pleasantest
way home. We had been to Lake George, and that was one reason we wanted
to go again; so off we skipped over the nine miles’ plank road, and sat
for two hours on the shore in front of the Fort William Henry House
writing letters, which ought to have been inspired, for we dipped
our pens in the waters of the beautiful lake. When we went to the
stable for Charlie, we found an old man who knew all about the Green
Mountains, and if we had seen him at Glen’s Falls we should have been
on our direct way home. Our last plan was too pleasant to repent of
now, and we took directions towards Lake Champlain. We had to retrace
our way on the plank road several miles, then go across country to Fort
Ann, a distance of sixteen miles. It is perplexing when you leave the
main roads, there are so many ways of going across, and no two people
direct you the same, which makes you sure the road you did not take
would have been better.
At Fort Ann we had comforts without luxuries, in the homeliest little
old-fashioned hotel, and stayed until the next afternoon to give
Charlie a rest, then drove twelve miles to Whitehall, where we had a
good-looking hotel and no comforts. There were things enough, but they
needed the touch of a woman’s hand. It must have been a man who hung
the looking-glass behind the bed. We rearranged, however, and borrowed
a table and chair from an open room near by, and got along very well.
These were trifles compared with the pouring rain, which was making mud
out of the clayey soil which the Catskills could hardly compete with.
We almost repented, but would not turn back when only fourteen miles
were between us and friends. We think the men who held a consultation
as to our best way to Benson must have conspired against us, or they
never would have sent us by the Bay road. The rain ceased, but the mud,
the slippery hills and the heathenish roads every way! We turned and
twisted, stopped at every farmer’s door to ask if we could be right,
and more than once got the most discouraging of all answers, “Yes, you
_can_ go that way.” The spinning of a top seems as near straight as
that drive did. I know we could not do it again, and I am surer yet we
shall not try.
When, at last, we struck the stage road, things seemed more rational,
and Charlie’s ears became very expressive. As we drove into Benson he
tore along and nearly leaped a ditch in his haste to turn into our
friend’s stable, where Cousin Charlie fed him so lavishly with oats
seven years ago. No one seemed to know exactly how we got there, but
our welcome was none the less hearty.
Now we were all right and needed no directions, for from this point
our way over the Green Mountains was familiar, and after a short visit
we turned towards home, anticipating every bit of the one hundred
and fifty miles’ drive. At Fairhaven we lunched with another cousin
while Charlie rested, and then had a most charming drive to Rutland.
We now follow the line of the Central Vermont and Cheshire Railroad
quite closely all the way to Fitchburg; but, fine as the scenery is by
rail, one gets hardly a hint of its beauty by the carriage road. We
rode seven miles on the steps of a car when returning from Saratoga
later in the season, hoping for a glimpse, at least, of the beautiful
gap between Ludlow and Chester, which compares favorably with Dixville
Notch or Kaaterskill Clove, but a good coating of dust and cinders was
the only reward. For more than a mile the carriage road winds through
the gorge, the mountains high and very close on either side, and
apparently without an opening.
One of the delights of our wanderings is to stop at a strange post
office, and have a whole handful of letters respond to our call.
Chester responded very generously, for here the truant letters, which
were each time a little behind, and had been forwarded and reforwarded,
met the ever prompt ones and waited our arrival. A few miles from
Chester we found lovely maidenhair ferns by the roadside, and were
gathering and pressing them, when an old man, in a long farm wagon,
stopped and asked if we were picking raspberries. We told him it was
rather late for raspberries, but we had found pretty ferns. To our
surprise this interested him, and he talked enthusiastically of ferns
and flowers, saying he had one hundred varieties in his garden, and
asking if we ever saw a certain agricultural journal which was a
treasure-house of knowledge to him. Still he was not a florist, but a
vegetable gardener, and we learned ever so much about the business, and
for a while could talk glibly of Angel of Midnight corn and Blue-eyed
(?) pease and so on. He gave quite a discourse, too, on the advantages
of co-operation and exchange of ideas. He told us how much he enjoyed
a fair at the New England Institute Building, and was interested to
know that we saw it when in flames. Our pleasant chat was brought to a
sudden stop, just as he was telling us of his ambitious daughter and
other family details, by other travelers, for whom we had to clear the
road.
We spent a night pleasantly at Saxton’s River, and received the
courtesies of friends, then on through Bellows Falls and Keene towards
Monadnock. We wanted to go to the Mountain House for the night, but it
was several miles out of our way, and we were tired as well as Charlie,
with thirty miles’ driving in the heat, so contented ourselves with
recollections of two delightful visits there, and stopped at Marlboro,
five miles from Keene.
When we were packing up in the phaeton, the next morning, a lady
brought us three little bouquets, the third and largest for Charlie, we
fancy. It was a very pleasant attention to receive when among strangers
and gave us a good send-off for our last day’s drive. Forty miles is
a long drive at the end of a long journey, but Charlie seemed fully
equal to it, and all went well as we journeyed along the familiar route
through Troy, Fitzwilliam, Winchendon, Ashburnham and Fitchburg. We
dined at Winchendon and visited the friends in Fitchburg from whom we
have a standing invitation for our last tea out. The five miles from
Fitchburg to Leominster Charlie never counts. He knows his own stall
awaits him. Our last day, which began so pleasantly with a floral
testimony from a stranger, ended with a night-blooming cereus reception
in our own home.
“Did you take Summer Gleanings,” do I hear some friend ask? Oh yes, we
took it, but not one sketch did we add to it. The fever for sketching
ran high last year and spent itself, but every day of the July pages is
radiant with pressed flowers and ferns. One more trip and the book will
be full, “a thing of beauty,” which will be “a joy forever.”