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July/August 2009: Indian Summer |
Indian Summer
Following folklore on an Adirondack paddle
by Tom Henry
Songwriter Tony Romeo's feel-good lyric, "swim in the cove, have a snack in the grove, or you can rent a canoe," from the Cowsills' 1968 hit "Indian Lake" is looping in my head as I car-top my kayak from Vermont toward the only Adirondack lake ever to chart Billboard's Top Ten. My daughter Lisa and her boyfriend, Chris, will join me tomorrow on the central Adirondack lake that inspired the song, for part of my four-day journey amid beautiful camping islands, hidden coves marked by stone "hoodoos" and morning fog thick enough to mire a boat.
Paralleling Indian Lake's west shore, south on Route 30 in the town of Indian Lake, I blink through the hamlet of Sabael (Suh-beel), named for Penobscot-turned-Abenaki Sabael Benedict. It's said at age 12 Benedict helped provision troops at the 1759 Battle of Quebec before venturing from his native Maine in the 1760s to become Indian Lake's first settler. Ten decades later, in 1855, he simply vanished at the purported age of 108. As former Indian Laker Bill Killon (photographer for this essay) tells the story he'd heard as a child, "Chief Sabael was visiting a friend's house one night when they had an argument. Sabael stormed out and was never seen again. It might have been foul play because of the public knowledge of Sabael's treasure said to be buried on or under Baldface Mountain." Some say if you listen carefully over the lake on cold windy nights you'll hear Benedict wailing for his fortune. I'm enjoying other stories about the lake in a lore-filled book, Adirondack Folks (North Country Books, 1980), by former Indian Lake and Hamilton County historian Ted Aber.
Six miles south of the hamlet named for Sabael the view opens dramatically, and I see the state launch ramp in the belly of a long bay near the lake's south end. I check in at the registration booth for the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation's Indian Lake Islands Campground. Within minutes, armed with generous notes about the things I'm about to see from today's town historian, Bill Zullo, I am launching for my first voyage on 12-mile-long Indian Lake.
I love it when the contours I've been studying on topographic maps suddenly appear life-size, and in such vivid greens and blues. My first reaction to this glistening gem is that it's like a little Lake George, but without the crowded shores and boat traffic. To the east 2,230-foot Baldface and 2,949-foot Kunjamuck Mountains posture elegantly before the peaked horizon, which from central Adirondack valleys is never far away. But it's 3,899-foot in-your-face Snowy Mountain with its massive sheer cliffs and crowning fire tower, looming west, that dominates this lake.
Paddling north I skirt a tiny island under the eye of a fussy heron—he's the island's sole resident and intends to keep it that way. Quiet coves sidetrack me as I laze two miles along the west shore toward the main lake. The blue, cloudless sky bodes well for freshly outfitted families paddling rented canoes to distant campsites, reminding me of another line from the song: "Indian Lake is a scene you should make with your little one." Forested shores surround the lake's southwest arm, which is also bobbing with grizzlier returning campers.
After a leisurely hour of paddling I enter the main lake where, Aber wrote, in 1903 Deke Wilson had to sit the night adrift in his fishing boat after becoming mired in fog so thick fish could swim in it. The fisherman had barely nodded off when a school of pickerel swam up and started flapping him across the face. Deke slugged at them in vain, then cleverly began snatching them out of the fog by the fistfuls and hurling them into the bottom of his boat. By midnight Deke was rather enjoying this new kind of sport, until he'd caught so many fish his boat started to sink and he had to throw them all back. Next morning he couldn't produce a single pickerel to prove his fish story—the only thing his buddies could see in Deke's bilge was his empty jug of hooch.
Steering around a rocky point into the Jessup River, Indian Lake's fjordlike southern head bay, I gaze upon an enchanting world of sandy peninsulas, hidden coves and small emerald islands. With the breeze now at my back and the warm sun soothing my shoulders I glide into the tranquil scene in search of tonight's campsite; it's another hour south and I'm not begrudging a minute of paddling.
A few motorboats are beached at some of the Jessup's 11 campsites but I encounter none on the water. And with traffic noise from Route 30 blocked by the ridge to the west my attention in this nearly pristine channel is drawn to intimate natural settings: Tall stands of pine shading mossy shelving rocks, sparkling water lapping sunny beaches and driftwood tangles gleaming in shallows. Glimpse in any direction and it's an award-winning picture—the classic wilderness scene that draws paddlers to the Adirondacks. Lost in this peaceful paradise I'm startled when I happen to see my campsite number tacked to a tree in a quiet inlet. I shift gears, stake the tent and, with three hours of daylight to spare, am back on the water carving south at a good clip, hoping to finish exploring the Jessup before dark.
Named for two Tory brothers who speculated extensive land parcels here in the 1700s, for the most part the shores of the Jessup have, instead, become a protected wild forest between the Siamese Ponds Wilderness to the east and the West Canada Lake Wilderness on the west. Back Log Camp, a century-old tenting retreat built by Quakers on the west shore, remains private. Chocolate Bar, a tantalizing east-side spit, is one of the lake's public camping sites.
Oddly, along the way I've been noticing little rock towers, or hoodoos as I've decided to call them, borrowing the name from the eroded rock pillars of Utah's Bryce Canyon. Here, though, they're man-made cairns of lake stones, with mushrooming capstones, balancing up to four feet high, upon many of the islands and headlands. I'm captivated by them for some reason and begin seeking them as if on a scavenger hunt. Some suggest they originated long ago as navigational aids; today I think folks build them to stake out secret coves and favorite islands.
Five miles into the Jessup, about 70 minutes beyond camp, I hear the lower falls of Dug Mountain Brook in stereo with the gentle rapids of the Jessup River, which is Indian Lake's headwater. I pull out north of Dug's mouth and scurry an upstream path to a magnificent 40-foot cascade. It's a refreshing surprise and only 20 minutes round trip by foot.
Back in the 'yak I slingshot around in the Jessup's currents until lengthening shadows send me deadheading back to my site for a campfire and hot chowder. The night is chilling so quickly that I shudder to think what winters are like here. Aber claimed a lady awoke during the winter of 1904 to find the flame frozen on her oil lamp—she snapped off the flame and discarded it in the corner but, sadly, when it thawed it set the place afire. I crawl into my warm bag and drift to sleep in the moonlight.
At sunup I stow gear and slink out of the Jessup through Indian Lake's notorious morning fog. In its haze it's easy to imagine Deke slugging at those pickerel, or more likely slugging his grog, which could explain why lake lore is so spirited. Aber noted that a local temperance movement failed in 1878 when it was revealed that many of the 100 people who had agreed to abstain from alcohol were too intoxicated to be held accountable when they signed the pledge.
Long Island, the lake's largest, appears in thinning mist just ahead, and beyond I see the alluring broad lake. But at the mouth of the Jessup I skirt a new hoodoo that I'm certain wasn't there yesterday and head back to the launch to meet Lisa and Chris. Off the heron's island gleeful kids in a canoe are having a blast blaming each other for going crooked, making me wonder in what way my practice of paddling straight is more fun than that. We meet at noon, grab lunch, then load gear and set out for a site we've reserved farther north, on Camp Island.
East of Long Island we steer north through a beautiful maze of small isles into the broad lake. On the west shore we see Timberlock, a woodsy 19th-century resort with more than 50 buildings, about half that are set on original tent-platform sites. Indian Lake's early resorts, some of which began as logging camps, provided comfortable but rustic quarters and offered everything from swimming, fishing and boating, to tennis, archery and horseback riding. Some, like Timberlock, still do.
We've been paddling and exploring for four hours by the time we reach Camp Island. Others share the isle but we don't hear or see them—Indian Lake has only 55 campsites and they're generously spaced. After pitching camp we grill hot-habanero-cheese sandwiches, then launch for a sunset cruise around the island. In the afterglow, Chris plays "'Round Midnight" and "Taps" on his pocket trumpet; cheers rise in the dark from distant campsites. We turn in late and sleep well.
Loons crow precisely at five a.m., announcing yet another sunny day. We've lucked out weather-wise but Chris's parents, aunt and uncle weren't so fortunate many moons ago; they warned us to be ready for anything when camping here: His father held a garbage-can lid over their fire ring for three days while his uncle tried to grill steaks in pouring rain. Meanwhile their camp bread baked beyond any possibility of slicing, then wouldn't burn at all when his mother at last dispatched the dismal loaf to the coals. On another rainy trip here a bear batted down their suspended cooler like a piñata and devoured sirloins along with the rest of their groceries. Even Chris's Aunt Elaine, long revered for winning a tug-of-war with a raccoon over a bag of pancake mix, capitulated in this instance and wisely waited out the bear in the tent. But after two days in the dripping dome they all realized it was as wet inside as out. They unzipped—his dad stepped out barefoot into bear scat—and they spent their last day together drenched in bathing suits laughing maniacally at unrelenting waves of cloudbursts, incredulous that one could roll in so closely on the heels of another. During moments between downpours, mosquitoes and stable flies attacked, forcing them into the lake up to their noses. Their weekend reduced to four cold, wet, hungry schnozzes sticking out of the water, they finally slumped into their canoes and took refuge in a culvert under Route 30.
We apply sunscreen, enjoy toasty sausage-and-egg sandwiches, then head east to explore a large picnic beach we've been eyeing on the mainland; it's deserted except for yesterday's sandcastles. Paddling south, we bob and weave among hoodooed islands and shoals, and explore more beaches and hidden pocket bays—and it's all public land. In fact we've found almost no development on the south end of this lake. And surprisingly little boat traffic. Three boys plunging from a jumping rock and a young girl soloing in a sailing skiff are the only people we've seen this morning, though it's early. A bald eagle reconnoiters then lands atop a tall pine. We beach nearby to snitch chocolate from our s'more stash, then mosey south along craggy forested embankments.
The east shore gradually leads us into John Mack Bay, a narrow mile-long undeveloped area containing six campsites. In a cove, next to campsite 27, we note the trailhead to John Mack Pond, a 3.2-mile round-trip walk that we're saving for our next visit. A band of campers on a nearby sandbar has hoisted a giant Jolly Roger, but we're not scared of them because two are wearing foppy knickers and only one is scruffy enough to be a real pirate—we've seen plenty of their type winging the skull-and-crossbones over this lake, a recurring theme since Disney's first Pirates of the Caribbean film.
Lisa and Chris have to leave by midafternoon so we head back to the launch and say farewell. I move my car north to Clark's Marina on the shore in Sabael and explore the hamlet's waterfront, which is dotted with cozy cottages. Eyeing Baldface across the lake for a morning hike, I head to camp and bed.
It's not yet seven a.m. as I round the northernmost camping island into Normans Cove, a sizable east-shore public bay nearly isolated from the main lake by clawlike peninsulas that form its mouth. The hermit Norman Shaw made his home here in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Tourists would row a mile across the lake from Sabael and pay to have their picture taken with him. His plank-and-log hut, near the Baldface pull-out, was the subject of an early souvenir postcard. Today a white circle painted on a large rock marks the trailhead. I pull up on a sandy beach and follow the easy path just over a mile to the summit, bushwhacking off trail at times to explore the majestic cliffs that give Baldface its name. For such an easy hike the view is outstanding: Indian Lake ribbons through the valley before Snowy, Porter and Squaw Mountains, just west. Countless more Adirondack peaks range beyond.
The wind is whipping up small whitecaps as I return to the lake. High-water rings on shore ledges tell me that many of the lake's beaches are sometimes submerged. Lake level is controlled by Indian Lake's current (third) dam, built in 1898. Before the first Indian Lake dam this valley held a chain of three small lakes. Today's waterway reaches depths of 80 feet and covers 4,365 acres. The islands just south of Normans Cove are former hilltops; I paddle among them and find wonderful nooks and jumping rocks. Indian Lake has a dozen decent-size islands and, depending on water level, another 20 or so tiny ones. The crannied shallows east of the northern islands are not suited for powerboats but are a paradise for paddlers.
Turning back north, I follow the east shore two miles through Indian Lake's Narrows. I'm seeing quite a few camps, some dating from 19th-century resorts and cottage colonies. Soon a stone gear house rises above today's 47-foot-high stone-and-concrete dam, which replaced an 1860s earthen dam that remains intact below the surface. The first logging dam was built in 1845.
A large lumber camp operated near the logging dam. Lumberjacks cut timber and corralled logs in cross-lake booms on Indian Lake. In springtime, river drivers coursed the logs through the spillway and down the Indian River to the Hudson.
Indian Lake has gripping logging lore too. Bill Killon recalls a tale about a long-haired peddler with blazing eyes who haunted a local lumber camp where he had been murdered by lumberjacks creeped out by his looks. And Aber tells the sad story of river-driver foreman Jeremiah Donahue, who inherited a fortune in 1902 and could at last retire. But he stayed on to complete a log drive, only to be killed by rushing logs seconds after freeing a large jam on the Indian River. Not wanting to go that route I hang back safely from the dam and return south along the west shore.
At the foot of Squaw Mountain I explore the rocky mouth of Squaw Brook where it's said Sabael Benedict buried his wife near their home. But the spectacle of her ghost wandering over her grave spooked him so that he resettled by a pond across the lake. The tale, as passed on to Killon, claims that anyone venturing around the mouth of the brook at midnight will see her apparition. The brook and the mountain are named for her, as was Snowy Mountain, formerly Squaw Bonnet. Indian Lake is named for the Benedicts, as is the 266-square-mile town.
I'm finding the shores around Sabael quite developed. Some old homes are on much older foundations—as Bill Zullo describes one, "Go down cellar and you're in 1847." West-side camps range from lean-tos to sprawling designer cottages. Rental cabins are plentiful. Across Route 30, the Indian Lake House, a former hotel, dates to the late 1800s—I picture it during those earthy guideboat days, rowdy with city sports come to hunt. The Lake Store nearby has a landing so I walk up the trail and bag a plump deli sandwich.
Journeying here today is easier than it was for the Rist family, who had to shoot their lunch—the town's first Anglos cut a road and moved here by oxcart about 1836. Life is different too for local descendants of the Porter and Locke families from Vermont, who settled on Indian Lake's west and east shores, respectively, about 1847 and communicated by shouting across the then-narrower lake. The Porters had four sets of twins and other children; about half succumbed to epidemics. These families, founders of the town in 1858, knew Sabael Benedict; it's said he was already 100 years old when the Vermonters arrived.
This Vermonter is nearing the end of his journey as Clark's Marina comes into view. Romeo's lyric pops back into my head as I weave among colorful windsurfers and ride a swell to the pull-out, already looking forward to coming back: "Keep it in mind, if you're lookin' to find / a place in the summer sun." Good call, Billboard, I decide. Indian Lake makes my top-10 too.
If You Go
The New York State Department of Environmental Conservation's Indian Lake Islands Campground has 55 nicely spaced island and mainland campsites, and several day-use areas; all have picnic tables, fireplaces and privies and are boat-access only. A modern launch ramp with parking for 50 cars is available to day visitors for a fee and at no extra charge for campers.
Reserve sites far in advance at www.reserveamerica.com. Sites are $19 per night and the campground is open mid-May through Columbus Day. Several sites are designated for walk-ins and cannot be reserved ahead. Check in at the state launch site on Route 30, 12 miles south of Indian Lake's village center and 12 miles north of Speculator.
Across the highway from the launch, the DEC's Lewey Lake Campground has 209 sites (including a few drive-up sites on Indian Lake). Lewey provides a swimming beach, pay phone and hot showers for both campgrounds, which have reciprocal admissions. There is no cell-phone service on either lake.
The lake elevation is 1,650 feet so campers should be prepared for chilly nights, plus possible high winds and foul weather, and always follow bear precautions, even on islands. Campers can find provisions and more phones in the village of Indian Lake or at the Lake Store on Route 30 in Sabael.
On Route 30 south of Sabael are trailheads for 3,899-foot Snowy Mountain (7.8 miles round trip, very difficult, can be muddy, fire tower) and Watch Hill (2.4 miles round trip, easy to moderate but not a state-marked trail). Lakeside trailheads include 2,230-foot Baldface Mountain (2.2 miles round trip, easy, pull-out by a large rock with a white circle in Normans Cove north of the northern islands and about a mile across the lake from Clark's Marina), John Mack Pond (3.2 miles round trip, moderate, pull-out just beyond campsite 27 in a cove on the east shore of the southern arm known as John Mack Bay), and Dug Mountain Brook Falls (.8 miles round trip, easy, pull-out east side just north of Dug's smaller lower falls near the south end of the five-mile southern Jessup Bay).
Farther east, accessed by Big Brook Road, is Chimney Mountain (2.5 miles round trip, moderate to steep, small parking fee, cool geology, dangerous caves and crevices for expert spelunkers only). See http://www.indian-lake.com for additional hiking information.
Clark's Indian Lake Marina (518-648-5459) in Sabael rents power boats and canoes, or launch your own boat for $10 in and $10 out. Paddlers launching at Clark's can cross the lake to northern campsites and the Baldface Mountain trailhead in about an hour, depending on wind and weather. Southern campsites and trails to John Mack Pond and Dug Mountain Brook Falls are best accessed from the state launch on Route 30.
The Town of Indian Lake Museum, housed in an old village homestead on Route 28, is packed with interesting exhibits, history and lore. —T. H.
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