The Mountains, the Metropolis
There’s a slowness, a serenity, a full kind of emptiness, that is welcome — three hours and a world away from New York City. In place of throngs of pedestrians, accordion city buses, yellow cabs honking and bicycles whizzing by, there are horses swishing tails, tractor wheels slowly turning, silos standing sentinel, three in a row. Rolling hills, landscapes in every shade of green, trees dotting the distant curves and crabapples swinging in the breeze, close enough to touch.
A handful of covered bridges, their wood worn, abandoned barns and farmhouses, weathered and overtaken by ivy and lichen and time. As the 4x4 navigates rutted roads, there’s no need to turn on the stereo — sounds sweep in through the open windows. Wind rustles through leaves like a soft rainfall. Crickets and birds chirp, tires crunch on gravel, brooks gurgle on the side of the road.
Hiking up mountains, hopping over tangled tree limbs and scrambling up stones, a rattlesnake’s warning echoes among the branches. You can glimpse dragonfly wings shimmering in sunlight, chipmunks darting to catch crumbs inches from your feet. The variety of animals that inhabits Manhattan — pigeons on eaves, crossing streets, swooping right past your ears; dogs of every breed: poodles with ears dyed pink and perpetually pouting pugs and panting scott terriers; rats scampering among sewers, squirrels and robins in Central Park’s lawns — gives way to an alphabet of animals: blue herons and black bears, chickens and cows, hawks and horses, wild turkeys and white-tailed deer. A coyote and a basset hound form a duet, lonely howls aimed at the rising full moon: a yellow orb so bright that it is nature’s light pollution, allowing for a glimpse of just a fraction of the countless stars that smatter the sky.
The experience of time savored in nature, soaking in the sensations that are foreign in dense urban life — slippery stones beneath barefeet in a cold watering hole; a fire pit crackling in an open field, roasting salmon with maple syrup from the local farm; breathing in mountain air crisp and clean, a refreshing ten degrees cooler than summer back home — is wholesome, nourishing, in a way that fuels the body, mind, soul. Hands resting on bark, gnarled and storied, head tilted heavenward, expression awestruck. A spirituality that descends, a rootedness, that you can tuck in your pocket and reach for as you lay your head upon your pillow back home, where lit squares, a grid of pale blue and amber, stand in for stars and the trundling carts drown out the crickets.
In one palm, you preserve the peacefulness, the untouched beauty of nature, the forceful rush of waterfalls over cliffs, and in the other, the symphony, the busyness and buoyancy, the gush of people perpetually streaming across sidewalks, clamoring onto subway cars, turning through glass and brass revolving doors — always a dream to pursue, forward motion — a path to chart, a future, a promise, a forever endeavor.
The above gallery includes images I’ve taken in Upstate New York near the Catskill Mountains, side by side with photos of New York City.