"Do you know what you wish? Are you certain that what you wish is what you want?"
-Into the Woods
On the idle Sunday afternoons of my childhood when the clouds were sparse and the air was pure, my father would pile his four children into the car and we’d head past the confines of our little Town of Bethlehem, through New Salem, and up the hill to Thacher Park. As soon as the minivan was in park, the doors would fly open and we’d pile out, each hoping to be the first to scan the landscape below the escarpment and spot our Aunt Mary and Uncle Louie’s house in the distance. As our eight small sneakered feet pattered across the pavement toward the wall that hugs the overlook, we’d be met by unyielding hands that would grab for anything in reach --an arm, a hand, a loose shirtsleeve-- to pull us back away from the precipice, from which if we fell we'd be met by certain demise.
Nestled on the edge of the Helderbergs, I have always known Thacher Park to be a gem amid a landscape largely void of breathtaking beauty. But Thacher Park was more than just a natural wonder to which the people of Albany County flocked on hot summer days and crisp fall mornings when the mountains were on fire with color, it was a place I grew up.
When I was five, my Girl Scout troop spent weeks preparing for our first wilderness hike, which was to take place at Thacher Park. This would not only to be our first hike, but our first Father-Daughter event, and we spent many meetings sitting in a circle on the floor in St. Stephen’s Church basement listening intently as our Girl Scout leader, Mrs. Johnson, taught us the necessity of trail safety (always hike with a buddy, never go into the woods without your whistle), and the importance of respecting nature (carry in, carry out; leave nothing except footprints behind). The highlights of our preparatory practice, however, occurred in the weeks immediately leading up to our trek: during one meeting, we made our own homemade sit-upons. They were fashioned out of old wallpaper samples, which were bound together with twine that was looped through holes punched into the edges with a metal hole puncher, and then stuffed with newspapers. The next meeting we learned the essential ingredients to a great batch of trail mix and together prepared a large Tupperware container to tote with us on our journey. And in the last week leading up to our hike, we took part in our own Native American (in those days we called them “Indians”) initiation ceremony, before which we fashioned headdresses complete with colorful feathers and wampum beads. The highlight of this activity was that we each got to choose our own Indian name. As the other girls got busy scrawling their names across the front of their headdresses in black Magic Marker, I sat contemplatively at the end of the card table on which we worked --chin in hand-- thinking about the title that would suit me best. After much consideration, Little Bear was the name I chose. Fearful that my sloppy first grade handwriting would mess up my carefully crafted headdress, I asked Mrs. Johnson to write my name neatly across the front. One week later, I was walking beside my father down the Indian Ladder trail with my sit-upon strapped to my back, my headdress tight across my forehead, and a fist full of raisins, peanuts and M&Ms melted into a rainbow of goo across my palm. How happy I was.
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Many years later, on listless summer afternoons, Thacher Park was the place to hang when there was no other show in town. And there was rarely a show in town. For as long as I live, I will never forget the contentedness I felt sitting in the passenger seat of Rich Shaye’s parents’ maroon Plymouth minivan. I’d have my feet propped on the dashboard, my hand soaring out the window in the wind, and a smile on my face as Peter Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill” or Sarah Maclachlan’s “I Will Remember You” blared from one of Rich’s infamous mix tapes and through the crappy speakers as we sped down the back roads to Thacher Park. My best friends, Nicole and Megan, and I were approaching our junior year and the friends we hung with were off to college. We treasured every moment we could share with them, and many of those moments happened on the fields and trails of Thacher.
One afternoon that same summer, while winding down the hill through the park with my boyfriend Jeremy in his tan Subaru, I heard a siren and looked up to see the red and blue of flashing police lights bounce off the rearview mirror and across Jeremy’s face. It was my first “run in” with the law (if you can even consider it a run in) and I almost peed my pants in fear as the officer questioned us, walked back to his cruiser, and returned a few minutes later with a ticket for Jeremy. “60 in a 30 can never be good,” he said as he tipped his hat and left us sitting there in silence.
My next trip back up that hill wasn't until more than a year later. Jeremy and I had since called it quits and I was now hanging out with a new guy. One sticky summer day he and I headed to Thacher for a hike. After our walk we sat together beneath an oak tree in an isolated section of the park near Glen Doone, swatting at mosquitoes and sweating in the summer sun. As he looked at the wide open vista before him, I looked at him. His hair was blond; he had the prettiest blue eyes I’d ever seen, and dimples so deep you could stick your fingers in them. We spoke of nothing remarkable that day, but as we headed down the hill toward home, I knew I was in love. Nine years later, I was with him in the same spot, celebrating his birthday with his parents and a bottle of champagne.
Yesterday Mart and I brought Joey to visit our familiar stomping grounds and enjoyed a picnic by the creek and a hike through the woods with our friends Colleen and Eric. While there we bore witness to the park’s decline: tree limbs and branches littered the picnic areas; restrooms were locked; and parking lots were barricaded, closing off access to favorite picnic spots and trails.
ERIC, MARTY, AND COLLEEN DO THEIR PART BY HOLDING UP A FALLEN TREE
As we parted ways with our friends at the close of the day, I asked Mart if we could visit the overlook before heading back toward home. As we sat there looking out over Albany County, I scanned the landscape for Aunt Mary and Uncle Louie’s house – a habit I haven’t broken since I was a child. We lost Aunt Mary in January, and it’s been more than twenty years since I played baseball with Uncle Louie using a wooden shovel handle for a bat and crab apples for balls, but I’ll never cease searching for them from the precipice.
As I sat on the ledge, wondering if it might be my last chance to do so, I recalled how as I child used to yearn for the days when I would be old enough to approach the edge without caution and sit on the stone wall with my feet dangling freely over the other side. I guess I should have been more careful about what I wished for, for I would give anything now to go back to those days when loving arms hugged me back away from the edge, when a homemade Indian headdress was enough to make my year, when my Aunt lived happily with her dog Paws at the base of the cliff, and when governments realized that when they cut the budget, they budget memories instead.
