Snow, Stories, and Stewardship: A 2016 Reflection on The New Land Trust's Trails and History

This delightful essay about the ski trails and history of the New Land Trust surfaced during a perusal of some NLT memorabilia. From the events mentioned in the piece, it appears to have been written circa 2016, but the author is unknown. If anyone recognizes their work, let us know!

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From Guadeloupe, just shy of the swamp, slither along Darkside, where the woods dim and the midday light goes dusky. Turn away from the fen on a serpentine path beckoning you to the Hobbit House, in boreal woods thick with balsam and spruce. Next, hop along Pelvis Pass and Solstice over to the rollicking ride on 3-Wall's dipsy-doodle down into sunny woods, past one of the massive stone walls, along the old apple orchard to the barn, where the mares once made their singular gifts to science.

Casting altogether different vibes, these pathways are just a few of the finds at the New Land Trust, up at 1600' on the flanks of Lyon Mountain above Saranac. The place is a wildlife refuge of 278 acres, knit through with a trail labyrinth rife with mystery and whimsy, put together over the long haul by nature and over the last 40 years by the Trust's devotees. There are thirty-one named routes on the map, and a few more that are not. Over six visits, I've not yet explored them all. Come north to Plumadore Road, and frolic along them; you'll be glad of it.

The Trust is a work-in-progress, created by a cast that's evolved, ebbing and growing since the late 1970s, with a couple of the early stalwarts still on board. One, Hal Moore, frequently comes up from Saranac to check on the place, go for a ski, answer queries on the Facebook page, and manage finances. A master carpenter and owner of Saranac Hollow Woodworking down in the valley, Hal is the only one of the original group of fifteen still in the neighborhood and involved in the Trust My ski pal, Nancie Battaglia, has joined us and is snapping photos as we meet him at the Trust's Clubhouse on the frigid afternoon of December 26.

The wind is whistling through the birches and the snow is squeaking underfoot beneath a pale yellow sky. It's about 10 degrees out, so there's no standing around; at this temperature, snow crystals don't slip with the friction of boots or skis. They rasp and creak. So will our bones, if we don't get moving.

We do, and head north on Saranac, one of two trunk trails here that used to be roads; this one's still a high way through the woods. The trail signs are succinctly effective: "Dog poo makes bad ski wax," keeps the place clean; the simple graphic of ski tracks between snowshoe prints disentangle trail users' trajectories; "OUT" points the way back to the club house. But we're heading IN. We crest a gap in one of the huge stonewalls that dissect the property; a stone rampart, constructed long ago to clear the ground for tilling.

Farming at this elevation in the Northeast is always marginal, and this land has been worked since the 1820s for potatoes, hops, haying, dairy, and other livestock - yet never quite making it. In 1978, the Trust began to take on its present identity.

Fifteen SUNY Plattsburgh students of the fledgling Environmental Studies program, chipped in $1000 apiece to buy the acreage. Over prior years, crops had failed, the farmhouse burned down, the property was foreclosed, auctioned, bought by an investor, and then sold to the students. Seven of these upbeat souls signed the deed, one of them Hal.

North we glide and soon pass the junction with Bunkhouse, whose namesake digs are a bit west over a rise. It's a sweet one-room cabin in a small clearing. In the early days, it was a crash pad where strangers would land, and stuff sometimes went missing. Not so nowadays - the playful spirit of the Trust (now set up just for day use) is well mannered and respected.

The students wanted to live on the land, work it, and protect it, under "an ethic from which man may live in greater harmony with his environment and the universe." The called themselves "settlors", and they dug into gardening, building repairs, maple sugaring, making friends with the neighbors. They fueled their spirits with seasonal parties, the grandest of which was called the "Poobah"; high-energy music, food, drink, dancing and whatnot flowed long into those nights. The winter gathering was the "Noobah". There are still lively annual community events - Chilfests, Fall Pioneer Days for cider-making, "Cock-a-Doodle Shoe" snowshoe races - maybe all a bit tamer, but just as well received.

Warmed up, we climb back to the high road and cross a graceful bridge spanning a wetland. This was a Scout project, one of so many avid community initiatives that Americorps and ADK volunteers, student groups, neighbors, and out-of-towners have worked all over the property. Past the bridge is where the forest darkens into boreal habitat and we wind along a small path to another mini hideaway, The Hobbit House. An earth and rock dome eight or so feet tall, it appears to have a door but, no, it's a fake, an impish hoax all around. Hal tells us it was likely just a rock pile at the edge of a field, or perhaps a small charcoal kiln. He's unsure who schemed it, and this speaks to the broad inclusivity of the place over the years.

The north end of the land has likely never been cultivated; it's too swampy, and the soil acidic. The property ends at the old railroad embankment, an imposing wide berm, now used mainly by snowmobilers. This the Chateaugay Branch of the Delaware and Hudson line from Plattsburg, built in the 1870s, to carry iron from the mines at Lyon Mountain and tourists to nearby Chazy Lake and beyond. The tracks were pulled up in the 1970s when the mines closed. It's a broad, flat boulevard with steep sides; after a few minutes, the skiing here gets monotonous, compared to the trails below. We zoom down its flank, back into the trees.

We hit Night Rider and dip along it to Solstice, the other old roadway, aiming back west, near Luke's Lodge. The son of one of the early trail builders, Luke completed this Eagle Scout project as a camp-out spot, replete with leanto, woodshed and outhouse. From here, we zigzag along Sugarshack to The Meadow, the last clearing left on the property; well over half the acreage at the Trust used to be open; now the woods have crept back in.

Yet The Meadow is mowed. It has been the focal point of the early seasonal celebrations and a gathering and camping spot since the beginning. A tipi frame is in one corner of the field, a new outhouse went up last year, the old sweat lodge is no more, and on the west side, the small roofed stage remains, There's a medicine wheel and a pine tree of peace with a sign of blessing by Jake Swamp, a travelling Mohawk peace emissary. Invisible beneath the snow is an impeccably laid-out stone labyrinth. We're on a plateau here in the clearing, and there is a great view south to the pyramid of Whiteface, the closest High Peak, The Meadow was and is the center of the land.

We shoot off the upland in a fast hoot down toward the south end. The trees are shorter, the land more open, with an orchard-like feel to it, but the apple trees have gone wild. The monumental stone walls mix with fences here; the land is brushy, more recently in field. The wind picks up and gusts snow through the fading light.

The barn across the way was an early and drafty dwelling for the settlors, but now it's off-limits, held by neighbors on land leased from the Trust. It was here that the prior owners in the 1960s tried an unusual farming scheme: milking mares' urine as an ingredient for a hormonal medication. This didn't go on for long, and some of the horses are buried in the old field, fertilizing today's fruit trees and garden plots.

By the 1990s, with so many people coming and going, most of the original members had drifted away, and the critical mass of the place was dwindling. Sensing this, a couple of the early leaders moved back to the land, incorporated the Trust as a not-for-profit, brought groups of students to the property, fixed up more of the buildings, held classes, and revived the gardens, starting a CSA to sell produce to the community. Joe Licari, one of the principals, kept a cozy cabin, also on ground leased from the Trust, so he could be here often and in the thick of things. The property took on a new public calling.

But with these new ventures came higher expenses; though tax-exempt, the Trust elected to pay the local taxes, a solid neighborly gesture. By the early 2000s, new people came on the board, and promoted the place as a daytime destination for hiking, birding, skiing and snowshoeing. It has worked out; most weekends, the parking lot is full. The gardens are gone, but the Trust sponsors a weekly farmers' market down in Saranac. A new trail map is in the works.; the place's energy and its following are up.

The light was fading, the sun below the trees, down here at the bottom of the property. We headed back uphill and wound our way along Foxhole, Fiskar, and almost appropriate to the hour, Stardust. We found ourselves at one of the OUT signs and glided back toward the Clubhouse. Built in the early days as a dwelling, it's now the center for the festivals and the starting gate for the snowshoe races. Nancie was way behind, her binding broken, hoofing it in, snagging a last couple of pics.

The reinvigorated board of seven now meets almost monthly and puts out 5-600 newsletters three times a year. The Trust is working with the state to put in place a conservation easement, a complex agreement to keep the land as open space, and lower the taxes without impacting the local tax base. Tom Martin, a neighbor and the Natural Resources Supervisor for DEC, is assisting with this, and has nothing but admiration for the community here. John Tedford, another neighbor since the beginning, has often helped out, watching the cast of characters evolve and grow; he knows there's new passion all about 236 Plumadore Road and that the place is in good hands and hearts.

We say our goodbyes and thanks to Hal, promising to visit again. If I lived closer, I'd be here all the time. As we slide down the last bit to the parking, we pass the donations box on a tree and slip in some green stuff. Even in faded light, someone is starting up the trail for a late and dusky scoot into the maze. Early or late, you can too; you'll be glad of it.