He was having fun exploring on the four-wheeler, but I was nervous.
Our family didn’t go on the other side of the bridge. We went up to the bridge, sure; and, in fact, when the old bridge was falling apart and an ambulance couldn’t get to a cabin where there was a medical emergency, my parents headed the road campaign to raise money for a new bridge and oversaw its construction. But we didn’t often travel beyond that bridge.
“The people on this side of the bridge are different,” I warned him, as my parents had warned me. “They don’t like strangers on this road.”
“It’s a road,” he said, zooming noisily along the long distances between secluded private driveways.
“There’s a cabin!” I alerted. We were on a driveway.
“We’d better git!”, he replied, turning around at the closest opportunity.
We drove back down the road and parked near the bridge – on the safe side of the bridge, “our” side, of course. We wandered along the little river, clambering on rocks and looking at plants.
My heart sunk when I heard the sound of another four-wheeler. We’d never get back to ours in time to drive away. Instead, we went up to face the music.
A man in his seventies in a harsh acrid accent asked us what we were doing there. My companion, in gently rolling Georgian intonations, cheerfully explained that he just took me out to look at ferns and mosses at the creek, and that we were staying the week with my parents at the top of the mountain.
The man gave lectures about strangers going on the private road and that they are not welcome. These people here keep to themselves.
After a little back-and-forth, the man lightened up and got friendly.
“They call me the sheriff,” he said. “No one ever comes up here, so someone hears a noise, everyone calls each other and I go check it out. In the winter, when her parents aren’t here, I drive up to their place to make sure no one is there that isn’t supposed to be.”
He told stories of catching intruders, and prosecuting some based on photographs taken by hidden trail cameras.
“This place isn’t what it was. Used to, people would come up here and go home. Now we got all kinds of people.
“They’ve started coming here from New Jersey. NEW JERSEY!
“That one over there,” he said, gesturing back, “is from South Carolina. They aren’t hardly ever here.
“But the ones beside me are NUDISTS,” he said. “They walk around buck naked. I know we have a lot of woods between our properties, but I can’t even take the grandchildren for a walk anymore. You never know what you’ll see.”
My companion nodded and agreed and said, “I know how it is.”
But then the man talked about how, other than the nudists and the people from New Jersey, that this secluded area of woods in the North Country, bordering the 6-million-acre Adirondack State Park, was heaven on earth.
“I don’t know why her parents even had electricity put in,” he said, gesturing at me. “What a waste of money, when we have everything we could possibly want just by solar panels and generators.”
In fact, for the first 15 years after they had built their cabins, my parents had everything fully lit, with a gas-operated refrigerator and washer and dryer, so it was all very comfortable. However, when electricity lines became possible, they indulged, looking for more convenience to their comfort.
“After all,” the unofficial sheriff continued, “I don’t have electricity but I can power everything I need. My old lady and sit in our recliners and watch TV all night long.”
Well, that’s one thing my parents don’t have: TV. When you have the grandeur of the mountains, creeks, lakes, campfires, ferns, tall trees, fireflies and luna moths, who would want to ruin it with the noisy, flashy intrusion of television?
The old man backed off, indicating he’d leave us alone, but not without a parting shot:
“They call me the sheriff up here,” he said. “If anyone hears anything, they call me.”
We waved good-bye, and got back on our four-wheeler, and went to look at ferns a bit closer to our place.
