Lookout Mountain

Michael has been dying to hike up the trail to Lookout Mountain ever since we got here.  I point out the trail is 4.6 miles long, straight uphill, and rated difficult.  He hesitates, but still, we drive to the trailhead—where many cars are parked—and thankfully turn around.

A Tibetan Buddhist monastery is across from the trailhead, and we think about it, but it is early and the monastery doesn’t open to visitors till after 2 p.m.  We continue our exploration.

“Michael stop!”

He pulls over.  “I have to take a picture of those two old buildings.  I think they are churches; look, you can drive up to them.”

His look tells me he can’t—or won’t—and I get out of the car and start the short climb.  From afar, they look charming, weathered, and worn.  Close up, they look like trash dumps; at least one does, the one I really liked from afar.  I wonder at their story.

The sign I see close to the battered buildings reads The Western Rite Orthodox Church of The Holy Transfiguration of Christ on The Mount. Back in the car, Google tells me that the church-like largest structure was built in 1891, and, “…in the 1960s, Father Francis, the much-beloved hippie priest that lived here, welcomed hippies who had congregated in town during those years that culminated in the famous art and music festival.”

You gotta love my phone and the age of technology.

In Search of Sawkill Falls

Leaving Lookout Mountain behind, Michael is now searching for Sawkill Falls, and he prefers Gladys to the Google Maps app on my phone, but Gladys doesn’t acknowledge their existence. Google maps tells me where they might be…Googling Sawkill Falls tells me an entirely different story.  Michael gives me a hard time for constantly looking at my phone.

“I’m just trying to help.”

I have come up with a very tiny map to the falls—but it is like a state park map—you have to know where the park is for the map to do you any good.  There are clues, and I follow them, finally telling Michael, “Stop. I think we are really near, or maybe we just passed them.”

We have a few tense moments and a few false starts and wind up on the campus of Bard College.  Perhaps this is where we should be; there is a visitor center and an old mansion. When we reach the highway, we turn back and return to River Road.

Montgomery Place Orchards

I persuade Michael to turn down a road that leads to Montgomery Place Orchards. We are looking for waterfalls only, but in the outdoor visitor center, we discover the story of a wealthy woman in her own right, Janet Livingston Montgomery, widowed during the American Revolution—her husband was Major General Richard Montgomery, who led the invasion of Canada and died at age thirty-seven on that field of battle—who purchased the land, built a home (specifically to leave to her nephew) and established an apple orchard.

We are still interested in finding Sawkill Falls but discover formal gardens, massive towering trees, and a house that really wants me to live there.  I covet the side portico and back terrace that overlook the Hudson River and the Catskill Mountains beyond. I could sit here for a long while—perhaps have tea in the mornings, cocktails in the afternoon. Read a book.

Sawkill Falls

Walking the grounds around the mansion we find the trail to the lower falls and follow a leaf-strewn path that meanders and switches back and forth. Downhill.

“You know what this means don’t you?” Michael asks.

“We have to walk back up…”  Oh well. I continue walking gingerly down the slippery path, wishing for my hiking stick.

The falls look like they could be great—if only we could manage to get close enough to really see them. The rustic viewing area is far removed, and the trees further obscure their thundering descent to the creek below.  Michael decides to climb a small steep hill–gnarled and rooted, on the other side of the fence that silently says DO NOT GO PAST THIS BARRIER–to see the falls from on high.

“Don’t forget how old you are,” I shout…but I am ignored.

Walking back to the car through the woods on a different, wider, gradually ascending, gravel path, Michael tells me to watch out for poison ivy. Having never been afflicted and not totally sure what it looks like other than a cluster of three-pointed leaves, I check Google images.

It looks like it is everywhere.

“Don’t touch anything green,” I say.