Darothy at the grave of Ezriah Shipman.

It has been years since I enjoyed a good campfire tale. But I got my fix in a surprising way a few Sundays ago on a guided tour of Oakwood Cemetery, right on the edge of the Syracuse [...]]]> Two in a Series of Three on Syracuse University Area Open Spaces.

Darothy at the grave of Ezriah Shipman.

It has been years since I enjoyed a good campfire tale. But I got my fix in a surprising way a few Sundays ago on a guided tour of Oakwood Cemetery, right on the edge of the Syracuse University campus. I felt like I was back at summer camp, equally captivated by the natural scenery and stories: On the tour, about two dozen people huddled around gravesites instead campfires, sat on overturned headstones instead of logs, and listened to sisters and avid historians, Darothy DeAngelo and Susan Greenhagen, instead of camp counselors.

Before you question how I could make such a lighthearted connection to a place where bodies are buried, consider this: In 1859 when Oakwood Cemetery opened, its wooded, rolling hills quickly became the most popular place for a family picnic. Nineteenth century folks weren’t morbid, they just wanted to escape the urban chaos that industrialization brought to their day-to-day lives. Rapidly growing cities like Syracuse were dirty, loud, and well, smelly. The same could be said about cemeteries at the time. Ingenious landscape architects killed two birds with one headstone (couldn’t help myself) by creating the “rural” cemetery. Rural cemeteries provided citizens with a relaxing, quiet, natural retreat while they were alive and a respectable burial when their time came. But back to my graveyard tour…

At the grave of Henry Denison, a member of the shady Erie Canal Ring.

Despite being in her late seventies, Darothy proved an energetic tour guide, taking our group straight up a hill on a  hot, sunny afternoon to our first grave. The subject of Darothy’s tour was “Doctors, Dentists, and Quacks” and we were all introduced to quack number one: Henry Denison, a doctor-turned-contractor, who “was so crooked he made a horseshoe look straight” according to Susan. (The banter between the sisters was worth the tour alone.) I had just gotten comfortable and cool in the shade when we were led to our second grave, a hut-like structure which reminded me of a Parisian cathedral entrance. In fact, Doctor Ezriah Shipman, who was buried beneath, had died in Paris “at sundown” as the inscription read. I felt like I was just getting to know who Ezriah was, when Darothy herded us to the resting place of Surgeon Hiram Hoyt who was a renowned cataract surgeon (eye surgery in the mid 1800s, not a pleasant thought).

You can thank Hanchett every time you're at the dentist.

We spent about ten minutes at each of the dozen or so gravesites we visited, meeting the people of Syracuse’s past. There was Milton Waldo Hanchett, a dentist who invented both today’s adjustable dentist chair and the organ pedal pumping system – all by age 26; Doctor Mercer who saved Syracuse from the 1874 smallpox outbreak, lived to 95, and shared his secret to life, “don’t worry, don’t hurry, and masticate your food thoroughly”; the quack George Greeley who cheated on his wife, got divorced, went broke, and killed himself just days before he was to inherit millions; and the younger brother of Wizard of Oz author Frank Baum, who gave up his cot to a sick friend in the Spanish American War, got bronchitis on the cold floor, and ultimately died from his act of goodwill.

As you can tell, there’s more story than spookiness at Oakwood Cemetery. And Darothy carefully researched each of the characters, visiting local libraries and historic societies for months in order to bring their stories to life. At one point, in the middle of a graveside tale, Darothy looked up from her notes and said, “really, I find this fun, everybody has a story – I just piece it together by pulling out the interesting parts.” When I share stories from my outdoor adventures, I try to follow this same advice. But my Oakwood tour gave me so much material, I had trouble “pulling out the interesting parts” – because it all was so engaging. So I’ll share just one last graveside tale, one that best captures why I like walking in Oakwood.

The tour winds down at the stuppa.

Towards the end of the tour, I was starting to tire of the graveyard shift. There was no breeze, and the grey tombstones on grassy hills started looking the same. But then we stopped at a massive honeycomb-like structure that was almost as tall as some of the century-old trees nearby. Its simple, circular shape looked out of place among the more traditional angular monuments. This was the grave of Dr. Wieting, a world traveler who had designed the structure like a stuppa, a Buddhist shrine he had seen in Asia. I admired the subtle reflection of the person’s life in the actual structure.

I drifted away from the group and sat down to gaze up at the stuppa and the trees, leaning back on my elbows as the breeze picked up. Up on the hill in Oakwood Cemetery, my busy day-to-day life down in Syracuse seemed very far away. While the stories were entertaining, for me, Oakwood holds the same appeal it did to a stressed out 19th century citizen: it’s quiet, peaceful, and full of natural beauty – the perfect spot to retreat from the chaos of our day-to-day lives.

Want More Tales from the Crypt?

The Historic Oakwood Cemetery Preservation Association is hosting two more tours this summer. Tours begin at 2:00 pm and begin at the chapel on the west side of the Cemetery. Turn into the Oakwood entrance off the 900 block on Comstock Avenue. The tour is free, but they appreciate donations!

August 15th - “Murder, Mystery, and Mayhem”

September 19th – “Signs, Symbols, and Sayings: The Iconograpy of Death”

Stopping to smell the roses.

Have you ever watched one of the hoarding reality shows on A&E and wondered, could this be me someday? I think this fear strikes the heart of anyone with a collection. For me, my concern is waking up [...]]]> One in a Series of Three on Syracuse University Area Open Spaces

Stopping to smell the roses.

Have you ever watched one of the hoarding reality shows on A&E and wondered, could this be me someday? I think this fear strikes the heart of anyone with a collection. For me, my concern is waking up surrounded by perfume bottles, essential oils, and piles of scented candles and thinking, when did my collection of good-smelling stuff get out of hand?

For now, my obsession is at bay, but beware: If you join me at the E.M. Mills Rose Garden in the Syracuse University neighborhood, be prepared for some serious sniffing. While I enjoy collecting olfactory treasures, there’s nothing better than the real thing…

On Saturday morning, I took a humid, post-rain walk through the E.M. Mills Rose Garden where over 400 rose varieties are jam-packed into a big backyard-size garden. Eight brick walkways, four shaded by rose-heavy archways, lead to a small pavilion in the garden center. Everywhere you turn, you feel engulfed in roses that spring out from large bushes or up from tight clusters.

The Marilyn Monroe Rose, first cultivated in 2001.

That morning, dew had collected on the roses; each looked perfectly primed for a picture. I got into a rhythm of admire rose (a pale yellow), look at rose name (Marilyn Monroe), wonder how rose inspired rose name (I’d expect it to be pink?), sniff rose (only mildly rosy), repeat. Unfortunately, only about half of the roses are fragrant, but the ones that are – ohhhh! Each rose has a different scent; some are pure, heady rose; others, slightly smoky or tinged with licorice – one variety even smells like vanilla, another a bit lemony. At one point, the scents started blurring together. High-end perfume counters usually put out a cup of coffee beans to cleanse the nasal palette, but I was out of luck.

Then I sniffed out a particularly lovely scent: the incense-like Constance Spry rose. I felt the urge to bottle it up and take it home with me. But a single ounce of scented rose oil requires the distillation of about 10,000 pounds of petals; that’s not so practical. And really, there’s no way to truly capture a fragrance from nature. After a spring visit to Scottsdale a few years ago, I left enchanted by the scent of orange blossom that hangs in the air. I did some serious Googling to find the closest perfume replication (Jo Malone Orange Blossom) and ordered a sample size. I remember receiving it in the mail, taking an excited sniff, and feeling disappointed: it just wasn’t the scent in my memory. It’s the same frustrated feeling you get when you trying in vain to capture a breathtaking view on camera.

This rose looks like it's been painted.

My disappointment was validated when I heard about a study that proved there’s no replacement for our interaction with the natural world. In the 2008 University of Washington study, office personnel were divided into three groups. One group got to look out their window at the natural world; the other group had a similar real-time nature scene shown on a plasma monitor, and the unlucky group go to stare at a blank wall for months. The study concluded that while the simulated nature scenes were better than the blank wall (obviously), the window view produced real health benefits – most notably better stress response.

I wonder if the same logic holds true for stopping to smell real roses as opposed to sniffing a substitute? In aromatherapy, rose essential oil is known to have a calming effect. My friend Courtney Klick, who’s an Ayurvedic practitioner at Puja Wellness in

Named after the Chanel designer, the Lagerfeld Rose has a soft rose scent.

Wisconsin, told me that rose scent promotes “bhakti,” or spiritual devotion towards a person or god. It would seem that spending time among actual roses would only enhance these benefits, or at the very least, improve your response to stress (the study proves it!).

All I know is that the scent of fresh roses captivated me for a good hour at the E.M. Mills Rose Garden. And I did leave feeling relaxed. There really is no substitute for being engulfed in nature, surrounded by the “real thing” whether it’s roses or rivers, mountains or trees. To experience nature at its fullest is to be drawn into the present moment, taking in all it has to offer, but taking nothing when you leave beyond a memory or memento. That you can’t collect – or re-create - natural experiences,  is a good thing though, because it keeps you coming back for more.

Robbins is one of my favorite writers: He over-writes which writers are taught not to do, but he pulls it off. His rich, descriptive sentences are as lively and imaginative as the stories he tells. Jitterbug Perfume combines beets, New Orleans, the Greek god Pan, the perfume industry, and an eccentric waitress into one crazy story. Read it!

Take a Walk on the Rosy Side: Visit the Garden!
Learn more about the E.M. Mills Rose Garden, here.

Standing on the edge of any unrestrained height over gives me a shaky, gut-churning feeling. It’s not so much the height that bothers me (I love roller coasters); it’s the fear of falling. My legs freeze up, and I think, go back to safety!

My pesky fear of falling has prevented me [...]]]>

There's a cave below!

Standing on the edge of any unrestrained height over gives me a shaky, gut-churning feeling. It’s not so much the height that bothers me (I love roller coasters); it’s the fear of falling. My legs freeze up, and I think, go back to safety!

My pesky fear of falling has prevented me from experiencing some amazing hikes: I only made it halfway up Camelback Mountain in Arizona and watched in embarrassment as a little girl in flip flops casually descended the mountain. During a European backpacking trip, I spent the day shopping and gelato-eating in Florence instead of day-tripping with friends to Italy’s famed cliff-side town, Cinque Terra. But it’s getting better…

Over the last year, I’ve watched Ben walk up to many a cliff edge like he’s approaching an old friend. He did this on Sunday while we were hiking the Cliff Trail at Clark Reservation in Jamesville near Syracuse (read about an earlier winter stroll, here). I stayed back with the dogs (another Ringo and Rufus adventure) while he looked down at the deep, murky Glacier Lake about 200 feet below and up at the cloudless sky. He always stands in silence while I look on with a mix of envy, what am I missing?, and relief, at least I’m safe. The problem with the Cliff Trail is that there is a risk of falling every few feet, thanks to the natural crevices that pepper the cedar-lined, limestone rim. The dogs don’t mind, agilely hopping over them; but I do.

Ben Looks Out at Glacier La

Ever the supportive companion, Ben has created a little game when we visit Clark Reservation. We’ll call it “feel the fear and do it anyway.” He finds a crevice just wide enough that it forces me to jump, and deep enough that there’s a slight risk of bodily harm. We’re talking fall from the monkey bars, not imminent death. The first time we visited Clark Reservation last spring, Ben suggested I try a little jump. I approached the ledge and looked down into the dark vertical cave, feeling the cool air on my face. Then I stared ahead at the other side of the fissure but I just couldn’t jump: My thighs felt like cinder blocks, my feet were magnetized to the ground, and my mind was paralyzed into inaction. I wasn’t ready.

This past Sunday, when Ben and I approached a menacing crevice, I definitely experienced the weird leg sensations and don’t do it thoughts. But for some reason the thought of being a kid popped into my mind – and I made the leap. Ben’s 9-year old niece, Julia, and 6-year old nephew, Nick, are always climbing high trees in their grandma’s backyard. I thought about how they love visiting Clark Reservation, bounding over the limestone cracks with ease and ignoring the huge drop-off lurking nearby. If they have a fear of falling, they just ignore it as they make their little leaps of faith.

As I mentioned in my last blog post, I’m currently exploring the path of entrepreneurship as a freelance writer. I’ve already felt the ground-grabbing fear; but I’ve been channeling my inner adventurous child and making small leaps forward each day. Ben is a great trail companion as he has started three businesses. He reminds me to “feel the fear and do it anyway.” Maybe someday I’ll be able to fearlessly join him out on a cliff’s precarious edge, being at peace with the risk, but for now I’m just focused on getting past the relatively minor cracks in my path.

I step away from the edge.

Clark Reservation IS Open! Hopefully For Good…

Has our governor finally gotten the message that closing 55+ NY State Parks and Historic Sites doesn’t make sense? That’s the latest news. An earlier Trailing Thought focused on the possibility that Clark Reservation might close; read it and weep (that’s what I felt like doing at the time).

One Small Step For the Fearless, One Giant Leap for the Risk-Averse.

See it on YouTube.

Where I Was

Getting ready to paddle Lake Abanakee.

Why is it that sometimes we willingly make life hard on ourselves? Despite the ease that GPS provides, I just won’t get one. I prefer the now-archaic act of jotting down or printing out directions. When I encounter roadblocks, construction, or lose my way, I use good old-fashioned intuition or ask for directions. Arriving [...]]]>

Getting ready to paddle Lake Abanakee.

Why is it that sometimes we willingly make life hard on ourselves? Despite the ease that GPS provides, I just won’t get one. I prefer the now-archaic act of jotting down or printing out directions. When I encounter roadblocks, construction, or lose my way, I use good old-fashioned intuition or ask for directions. Arriving at my destination gives me a sense of accomplishment and the feeling that I blazed a trail instead of cruised on autopilot.

This weekend I found myself in a GPS-tempting situation: lost in the Adirondacks somewhere outside the town of Indian Lake without a cell phone signal and no street signs. I had directions to a camp a group of us rented for our friend Kati’s rustic bachelorette getaway, but got off track within miles of my destination thanks to a bridge being out. (Note to Michiganders: cabins and cottages are known as camps in these parts.) I followed the detour signs, but somehow ended up circling the pristine Lake Abanakee – twice. Feeling frustrated but not too proud, I rolled down my window and asked a family working in their yard for directions.

I pulled my sunglasses up to reveal that typical sheepish expression everyone gets when lost. The man laughed, and walked up to my car; I was their first lost tourist of the season. He patiently explained how to get to the Gitchie Goomie camp (another Michigan reference). I was about to pull away when he called after me:

“Hey, don’t get discouraged. Think of yourself as Daniel Boone.”

“Umm, who was he again?,” I asked, with a vague vision of a big man in a coonskin cap.

“Daniel Boone? Only one of the greatest pioneers in American history. He helped settle Kentucky. And he famously said ‘I have never been lost, but will admit to being confused.’”

This friendly stranger’s words resonated with me. Beyond alleviating my temporary yearning for a GPS and the soothing sound of a British lady directing my every turn, he had reminded me it’s alright to be confused on a journey. Just days ago, I started another journey the hard way: I put in notice at my job, and am currently on a new trail. My destination? To be a freelance writer and communications consultant. Being self-employed is a dream I’ve had since playing on the oriental rug in my grandmother’s own antique shop. Watching her interact with customers and take pride in her own business left a strong impression on me. And I was given an opportunity to pursue this destination – so I took it.

Now, my favorite sunglasses are in fact, rose-tinted, but I have a realistic view of the journey ahead. It’s not going to be easy. And I’m not ashamed if I must turn back because the road is too treacherous. But for now I’m prepared to navigate around whatever roadblocks or downed bridges await me. I know I’ll experience fear, disorientation, and plenty of confusion. But I promise I’ll never say I’m lost when things get tough.

A Quote I Love

“Destiny is usually just around the corner. Like a thief, a hooker, or a lottery vendor: its three most common personifications. But what destiny does not do is home visits. You have to go for it.” – Fermin from one of my favorite books, The Shadow of the Wind.

Where I Was!

This past weekend, my mom came to visit me from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Between catching up over coffee and treasure hunting (of the shopping variety, a respite from junkyard pillaging), we made time for a walk at Upper Onondaga Lake Park: a significant stop on the trail of my life. Located in [...]]]>

A sign of spring in Strathmore.

This past weekend, my mom came to visit me from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Between catching up over coffee and treasure hunting (of the shopping variety, a respite from junkyard pillaging), we made time for a walk at Upper Onondaga Lake Park: a significant stop on the trail of my life. Located in the heart of the Strathmore neighborhood, Upper Onondaga Lake Park an open space that will always give me a warm feeling of home.

A month before starting my new job at the Syracuse University Daily Orange newspaper in 2003, my mom and I spent a weekend searching for a place I could call home. She needed to feel good about where I was living as much as I did. We had squashed a house that required a walk up two flights of stairs (no driveway), said no way to an apartment complex reminiscent of senior living, and ran the other way when a tenant warned us of roaches. I can’t remember what led us to the Strathmore neighborhood but when its beautiful park came into view, both my mom and I felt that this neighborhood and the two-family house for rent just might do the trick.

My mom and Ben, both being camera shy.

My mom and I both believe that home is more than just a house – it’s what surrounds it, too. And the very charming Upper Onondaga Park was just steps away from what would soon be my front door. A large, shallow lake – originally a water reservoir – is lined with stone walls and encircled by a path. At one end of the lake there’s a long, brick bathhouse from the 1920s topped with a bright white, painted roof. Near it, an old bandstand on an island and then, my personal favorite, a trio of old weeping willows next to a stone arch bridge.

When I moved out to Syracuse a month later it was during the 2003 blackout. My family and I had finished loading up the U-Haul, and were raiding the fridge for “pop” to drink on the road, when the power went off and didn’t come back on. We waited until the power returned the next morning, got gas, and headed for Syracuse. As I said last week, this was a major turning point in my life. It was an especially long drive for me; I had grown up and gone to college in Ann Arbor. This was my first time living away from my parents – sort of a late bloomer’s version of the away-from-home college experience.

The white roofs stick out against a gray sky.

The closer we got to Syracuse, the more apprehensive I was of my decision. It was about midnight when we headed into the Strathmore neighborhood where the power was still out. The complete darkness around me only exacerbated my rising anxiety; I felt like a kid afraid of the dark – and of the unknown. But then I saw the park. I saw the familiar bathhouse and old bandstand island, their white roofs practically glowing in dark. My fear turned into excitement; I felt that home feeling and I felt like things would be ok. Over the next two years, the park became part of my life: Its benches became my therapy couches when I called family and friends, homesick and lonely. Its tennis courts and jog paths, a place to meet up with new people. Its amazing view of the city, a favorite photo opp for out-of-town guests. And yes, I swam laps in the pool during summer without contracting any mythical public pool diseases and played tennis on the courts just outside my doorstep.

That saying, “home is where the heart is,” gets a little complicated because my heart is in different places. Part of my heart is back in Ann Arbor where my family and old friends are. A little part, still in Strathmore, where I created an independent life for myself. And of course I love the home I own today in the Salt Springs Neighborhood. No matter where I’m living, one thing is certain: my heart feels most at home surrounded by open spaces.

Home to History…and Great Garage Sales

The homes surrounding Upper Onondaga Park are stunning as well as architecturally important, check out the neighborhood’s history here. If you’re in the Syracuse area, do not miss the neighborhood-wide garage sale on Saturday, May 8th. I’ll be in Chicago that weekend, so please do some treasure hunting for me (fashionistas: I picked up a brand new pair of Bally loafers one year!).

Map It!

I mapped the house I rented on Arlington Ave., right across from the park. There’s plenty of street parking if you go.

Take the 4.2 mile hike through history.

So today I’m 364 days closer to age 30. In other words, I celebrated my 29th birthday yesterday. Between cards and calls, emails and presents (no Bounty Hunter; but highlights included a new backpack for both myself and Rufus), I thought about where [...]]]> Three of Three in a Series on Saratoga Springs, New York

Take the 4.2 mile hike through history.

So today I’m 364 days closer to age 30. In other words, I celebrated my 29th birthday yesterday. Between cards and calls, emails and presents (no Bounty Hunter; but highlights included a new backpack for both myself and Rufus), I thought about where I am today – and how I got here. Get your mind out of the gutter; I’m talking about turning points!

If you think about it, your life can be summed up in turning points: pivotal places in time where your path shifted in a new direction. A key turning point in my history was pulling out of my driveway in Ann Arbor, Michigan and heading for Syracuse, New York. I had lived most of my life in Ann Arbor, then went to University of Michigan, which was so close I could hear Big House football games from my bedroom window. Then, I moved to Syracuse, where I knew no one, with one goal in mind: independence. Seven years later, I’m still here. And while I miss Michigan family and friends, looking back with that fancy 20/20 hindsight vision – I can see I took the right path.

NPS's Ray Miller.

A few weekends ago, I visited Saratoga National Historical Park , the site of a key turning point in a much more notable struggle for independence: The Revolutionary War. It was there that I asked the National Park Service’s Ray Miller a loaded question: So why, exactly, is this place known as the turning point of the Revolutionary War?Soon, I found myself and a dozen strangers peering into a glass-covered diorama of the Saratoga Battlefield, captivated by Ray’s account of the turning point. Behind Ray was the actual Saratoga Battlefield where I had just walked the four-mile Wilkinson Trail loop.

I had been so eager to hit the trail when I arrived at the Saratoga Battlefield on the first spring-like day in New York, I walked through the visitor’s center, only pausing to grab the interpretive map. Looking back, walking first then getting the history lesson second was a fortunate accident. As I progressed along the same trail that doomed British soldiers walked, I followed the sequential order of what happened there. This is more like real life, we don’t know what’s next – or what move will prove advantageous – or a mistake.

Ben on the Wilkinson Trail, at Station C.

The trail starts on the grassy hill at Station A. This is the same place British soldiers stood, looking out at the Hudson River bluffs wondering how many rebels were encamped there. At Station E, I walked through a dense forest along the same path that British General Burgoyne marched, the forest floor hushing each step. Within the forest at Station H, the British troops set up camp for two weeks, waiting for reinforcements that never came. I could feel the desperation in the air. Moving on to Station I, I envisioned the German troops hired by King George struggling to pull cannons across the muddy creek then up the steep hill.  I paused at Station L, discovering that the British built a small fort here, not knowing what they were up against. Finally, the trail brought me Station M where hundreds of soldiers on both sides died in battle. Now that I understood the causes leading up to the turning point, I wanted to learn their effects, that’s when I approached Ray.

Looking at the battlefield from Station M.

If you’ve ever spoken with a true history buff, you know they’re fascinated with cause and effect. Ray explained that the two patriot victories on both September 19th and October 7th, 1777 had tremendous after-effects. The British formally surrendered, laying down their weapons. News of this humiliating defeat spread throughout Europe, establishing the Americans as a force to be reckoned with. Impressed by the two victories, France finally decided to help fund the revolution, patriot morale improved and, as they say, the rest is history.

The Hudson River bluffs in the distance from Station A.

As the World Turns…Watch Ray Miller Explain the Turning Point at YouTube

Proud to Be an American

As readers of my blog know, I try to make a personal connection to each place I visit. By reflecting on the turning points within my own life, this post was not meant to minimize the importance of each soldier who fought in the Revolutionary War – and those who fight today. Standing at Station M, a large field where hundreds of soldiers lost their lives, I noticed this painting and felt gratitude for the soldiers who fought – and continue to fight – for American freedom. While each of us have our own battles to wage, a visit to the Saratoga Battlefield is an opportunity to honor soldiers; those who fight battles of life and death.

Map It!

Learn more about the Saratoga National Historic Park at the official site.

Spring water from Saratoga Spa State Park.

A rotten-egg bouquet with a surprisingly sweet finish. Complex and metallic; notes of rusty nail. My tasting notes would frighten even the most adventurous wine lover. But it wasn’t wine I sipped along the Geyser Creek Trail in [...]]]> Two of Three in a Series on Saratoga Springs, New York

Spring water from Saratoga Spa State Park.

A rotten-egg bouquet with a surprisingly sweet finish. Complex and metallic; notes of rusty nail. My tasting notes would frighten even the most adventurous wine lover. But it wasn’t wine I sipped along the Geyser Creek Trail in Saratoga Spa State Park a few weekends ago…

As Saratoga Springs is a favorite weekend getaway for Ben and I, this was my third trip down the Geyser Creek Trail within the year. The trail is less than a mile yet boasts four natural springs, each with their own character. This time I came prepared with hotel glasses: Call me a water snob, but I was ready for serious tasting -- no hand cupping.

Starting at the parking lot near the Geyser Island Sprouter, the first spring is off to the right on the forest edge. It shoots up three feet, cascading down into a stone basin stained blood-red from mineral deposits; and it tastes like a new penny smells. Just across the parking lot is Hayes Spring: Four sleek spickets -- like silver straws -- protrude from a stone monolith. This spring reminds me of a premium vodka: no taste and velvety smooth. From here, we approached the gurgling Geyser Spring with its sweet, salty, and highly carbonated water. This is a messy spring, the water spilling onto the concrete and into the Geyser Creek. From here, things get weird.

Saratoga Spa State Park boasts the only geysers east of the Mississippi.

To your right is the Geyser Island Sprouter which looks like a giant pancake with an occasional burst of syrup from its center. The “pancake” is actually a natural mineral island -- called a tufa -- in the creek. If you look ahead down the trail, you’ll see a flesh-colored dome in the woods (think Jabba the Hut): This is another massive tufa which is constantly growing compliments of the Orenda Spring trickling down from above. Orenda Spring is the “roughest” tasting of the springs to borrow a wine-tasting term.

The tufa looks like it's made of peanut butter and maple candy - yum

Drinking spring water from a borrowed hotel glass seems a far cry from sophisticated sampling in a winery, but this wasn’t always the case: Saratoga Spa State Park was once the stomping (and spring water-sipping) ground of 19th-century bigwigs like JP Morgan and various Vanderbilts. I might have even run into Mr. Gray Area himself on the Geyser Creek Trail, searching for his choice spring. High society was drawn to Saratoga Springs by the promise of health benefits from drinking and bathing in the natural spring water. The nearby Saratoga Race Course, America’s oldest continually operating horse racing track, was another plus. Lavish spas and hotels sprung up around the springs; and you hadn’t made it until you “took the waters” at Saratoga Springs.

Even if you couldn’t afford the opulence of 19th century Saratoga, anyone could stop by and literally take a taste of the waters. In 1838, John Honeywood Steele wrote in his study of Saratoga spring water that “it is daily sought after and drank by all classes of people.” He went on to explain that some drank from the springs for health, some to see and be seen, and others for sheer delight in the water’s taste. Not much has changed today. The Hayes Spring is truly a local watering hole with some intensely filling up labeled jugs, others casually chatting, and people like me, just sampling - and delighting in - the water. But that’s what I love about nature and open spaces like the Geyser Creek Trail; the only rule is to come as you are.

Vitamin Water of the 19th Century

The natural spring water at Saratoga Spa State was believed to cure diabetes, cancer, hangovers, malaria, rheumatoid arthritis, indigestion…ummm, pretty much everything!  I’d love to know if any health studies have been done on the mineral-loaded springs in Saratoga. The last study I know of was conducted by Mr. Honeywood - in 1838.

View it!

Check out the Geyser Island Sprouter in action. I’ve also uploaded close ups of the tufa and more at  YouTube

www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdQh1QP9OR8

Map It!

Full Fathom Five...

“Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a Sea-change Into something rich & strange.”

-Shakespeare, The Tempest

Close-up of a stromatolite.

A few years ago, I drove past my childhood home – a 19th century farmhouse in rural Michigan. On my way there, memories [...]]]> One of Three in a Series on Saratoga Springs, New York

Full Fathom Five...

“Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a Sea-change
Into something rich & strange.”

-Shakespeare, The Tempest

Close-up of a stromatolite.

A few years ago, I drove past my childhood home – a 19th century farmhouse in rural Michigan. On my way there, memories came in vivid colors: a hot air balloon landing on golden fields behind our house, my sister finding a nest of cherry-red ladybugs. But when I arrived, the place seemed drained of color. The once yellow house was a dirty white, the formerly green lawn was covered in corroded junk, and if I kept staring, my memories seemed in danger of losing luster as well. I drove away sad and disappointed.

This weekend, Ben had a similar feeling when we first arrived at the Petrified Sea Gardens just outside Saratoga Springs. It was an afterthought on our way back to Syracuse as Ben remembered going there when he was young. He described it as a tour into prehistoric time complete with both petrified and living vegetation. I was envisioning a lively aquarium scene captured in stone. So when we pulled up to a closed gate without signage, we both felt disappointed. The place was abandoned, the only sound a swing-set creaking along with the massive pines in the wind. The gray skies of late March didn’t help the lackluster mood.

A 500 million year old fossil.

Despite our disappointment, we walked into the gardens – passing a concrete foundation where Ben claims a souvenir shop once stood. We noticed a trail head and numbered markers to our left. Without a trail brochure, we had no idea what we were looking at. It became a game: massive moss-covered rocks at exhibit #14 made an outdoor living room. Stones in a circle at exhibit #17 was a squirrel maze. A pitchfork-shaped tree and part of a bathtub were, well, just plain creepy. I hadn’t seen a fossilized anything until we had just about completed the trail’s loop. We began walking on what felt like pavement, then I brushed aside pine needles to reveal a surface of circles, like the sky-spirals in Van Gogh’s Starry, Starry Night. I looked up and saw an entire slab of the mysterious circles. Ben finally recognized where we were from his memories: on the bottom of the sea.

Standing on the sea floor; photo contrast increased so you can see the stromatolites.

We were standing on 500 million-year-old stromatolites – fossilized blue-green algae growths – that were formed in an ancient Cambrian sea. It was here in 1922 that Robert Ritchie, an amateur geologist, first discovered one of the earliest life forms on Earth. (A 3.46 billion old, two-ton stromatolite was recently found in Virginia.)

Ben and I walked along the fossil bed, hypnotized by the spiraling stromatolites. Unlike my unsettling visit to my childhood home, Ben found this return to his past a little strange but overall rich in rediscovery. I thought about how the more time that passes, the more set in stone my memories become – distinct and sharp like white fossils against dark rock. So it’s unsettling when I visit a place from my memory, and find it altered by a sea-change, washed of anything recognizable. But as I walked on the ancient ocean floor, I didn’t feel sad or disappointed, just in awe of time’s ability to both transform and preserve.

Visit the Petrified Sea Gardens

Well, actually, you should probably visit Lester Park a mile away where you can view ancient stromatolites without trespassing. Here’s why: Although the Petrified Sea Gardens are a National Natural Landmark, it is unfortunately closed to the public and considered private property. I didn’t realize this until researching afterward, as no signs were posted.

The Full Shakespeare Verse from The Tempest

Full fathom five thy Father lies,
Of his bones are Corrall made:
Those are pearles that were his eies,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a Sea-change
Into something rich & strange
Sea-Nymphs hourly ring his knell.
Harke now I heare them, ding-dong, bell.

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At the Woodchuck Hill wetland with Rufus and Ringo.

My birthday is in a few weeks, and there’s just one thing on my list: The Bounty Hunter TRACKER IV. Some girls want jewelry, I want a metal detector to find it. Well, I really hope my Bounty Hunter turns up a Revolutionary War coat button, [...]]]>

At the Woodchuck Hill wetland with Rufus and Ringo.

My birthday is in a few weeks, and there’s just one thing on my list: The Bounty Hunter TRACKER IV. Some girls want jewelry, I want a metal detector to find it. Well, I really hope my Bounty Hunter turns up a Revolutionary War coat button, although jewelry will do. For me, there’s nothing more exciting than finding treasure on the trail. That’s what I stumbled upon during a hike last weekend at Woodchuck Hill Field & Forest Preserve in Manlius, NY.

I set out on the trail with Ben (boyfriend), Rufus (beloved mutt), and Ringo (sheepdog on loan for the weekend from Montreal-bound friends). The trail descends through cedars to a wetland which it follows on the left for about a mile. To your right are the big cedar-filled backyards of Woodchuck Hill Road residents. Every few hundred feet, old limestone fences that divide their properties intersect the trails. You’ll see beaver dams, hear the sound of wind rustling the marsh grass, and jump at the occasional shot from the nearby range. Otherwise, it’s dark, cool, and quiet on the trail. That is, until you come upon an old backyard junk pile. Then you might say, “ohh treasure!” like I did.

Old rum bottle top I found on St. John.

Treasure is a personal, intimate thing: You learn more about people from the objects they value than from a peek in their medicine cabinets. Before you label me a dumpster diver, you’ve got to understand my treasure definition. An old junkyard is the mecca for my kind of treasure: Old objects with an interesting story behind them. It’s also the venue of choice for archaeologists. And if I wasn’t an advertising professional, I’d be channeling Indiana Jones for a living. On my recent trip to St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands, I spent one afternoon playing archaeologist, walking the outskirts of a sugar plantation where I figured waste would be: A slight brush of dirt revealed the top of a rum bottle and a piece of pottery, both around 200 years old when the plantation was still operating.

Old junkyards are not like today’s; in fact, you won’t realize you’re at one until you start poking around. What clued me in at Woodchuck Hill was a broken dish, then, a shoe sole so old it had stitch marks, and a rusted-out pie tin (the ceramic coating revealed its age). I picked up the plate fragment, and looked at the inscription: Buffalo China made for New York Central Lines. The story here was that this plate came from one of the first railroad lines in America; the New York Central Line started operating in the 1830s. In the nineteenth century, Central New York was a major transportation hub with both the railroad and the Erie Canal stopping at cities and towns like Manlius.

Old New York Central Line railroad plate.

While being out on an unexplored trail is a treasure in itself, it’s always exciting to hold little pieces of history in your hand. (Although I always put my treasure back where I found it, yes, even the rum bottle piece). To me, the most valuable objects aren’t necessarily worth much money – although an intact piece of Central New York Line china can bring a profit. I see value in the trail that leads to treasure, and the story behind what I find along the way. Even if I won the lottery, you’d still find me with dirt under my nails, Bounty Hunter TRACKER IV in hand, and a story to tell you.

No Peeking!

While I’m curious, I respect boundaries – I’ve never even peeked in Ben’s journal although it sits on his nightstand. Woodchuck Hill Preserve is adjacent to the big backyards of Woodchuck Hill Road residents, so please respect their privacy and stay on the trail.

Also, check yourself for ticks after hiking at Woodchuck Hill - Rufus, Ringo, and Ben each inadvertently brought home an unwelcome tick treasure.

What Do You Treasure?

Everyone has a different definition of treasure (arrrgh, matey!). For example, my grandma prizes possessions that were flippantly discarded. The less a former owner appreciated a useful or beautiful object, the more it’s worth to my grandma. Growing up in a farming family during the Great Depression, Grams was forced at an early age to access objects as potential treasure. She channeled her definition of treasure into a successful antiques business.

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Remember that kid in Jerry Macguire who liked sharing obscure facts – like that the human head weighs 8 pounds? I’m that kid, grown up. On the trail of life, I like gathering little crumbs of knowledge. And one of my favorite pastimes is giving native Syracusans [...]]]>

The I.M. Pei-designed Everson Museum of Art.

Remember that kid in Jerry Macguire who liked sharing obscure facts – like that the human head weighs 8 pounds? I’m that kid, grown up. On the trail of life, I like gathering little crumbs of knowledge. And one of my favorite pastimes is giving native Syracusans a positive fact to chew on when they complain about their hometown. I like proving people wrong with an unexpected bit of information, or at least serving food for thought.

That’s what I did with my friend, coworker, and lifetime Syracuse resident, Nell, during our lunch break last week while walking to the Everson Museum of Art. To be fair, Nell isn’t a Syracuse basher, but she was surprised when I shared my Everson fact: It was designed by I.M. Pei, the same world-famous architect who created the Louvre’s pyramids, the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame, and even an apartment for Steve Jobs. And Syracuse has not one, but two, Pei buildings; the Syracuse University S.I. Newhouse School being the other Pei-produced architectural masterpiece.

Spring arrives. The ice melts on the Everson's pool.

Ask Nell about San Francisco where she lived for three years, and you’ll get an insider’s take on the city. She’ll tell you about the hidden yet hip Savoy bar with outdoor pool tables or Crissy Field, the best place to walk in Golden Gate Park (you walk right under the bridge!). Yet, Nell admitted she hadn’t been to the Everson since a grade school field trip and didn’t even know about the outdoor plaza in the back. I think most of us can relate: We’ll explore and ultimately idolize a new place, but ignore the treasures in our own backyards. I know I’m guilty: As a Michigan native and art museum lover, I haven’t even been to the Detroit Institute of Arts! But back to the trail…

As Nell and I approached the Everson, she eyed the Cubist-looking building with admiration. But it was the large sunken pool in the plaza that really impressed her. Not visible from the streets, the pool must be experienced from within the Everson grounds. You could walk by it, and not even know it was there. That day, the pool reflected our annual wish for spring: The sun and fifty degree weather had melted the pool’s ice. Nell and I walked around its perimeter, listening to the wheel-to-concrete rumble of a few bikers – an audible complement to Pei’s textured cement structure. We checked out the outdoor sculptures, then walked back to work. Nell thanked me for the lunchtime tour and I felt smugly satisfied, having shown a townie a new treasure.

Nell at the "Wishing Tree" sculpture outside the Everson.

Maybe I’m still in the honeymoon phase, but I love living in Central New York after calling it home for six years. When my born-and-raised Syracuse friends bemoan their city, I always jump in with my Jerry Macguire kid bit, sharing facts and then setting a date to visit a cool local spot – like the Everson. To my Syracuse cynics, the grass looks greener in bigger cities where there is more “going on” or in milder climates (the Carolinas are full of expatriate Central New Yorkers) where a snow plow has never scraped the streets. But one fact I know for sure: No matter where you live, it’s like the grass in any backyard, there are patches of dull brown – but also plenty of emerald green.

More Pei

See more Pei buildings here.

Visit the Everson

For me the highlight of the Everson is the building itself, although the art inside is impressive as well. Pei has created an inviting and timeless structure. I love the gracefully spiraling cement staircase. Cement is graceful, you wonder? Yes. Visit the Everson, and see for yourself.

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