"Camping" in the Adirondacks

 Days 8 & 9: 

The entire reason for this “pre-trip trip” was to rendezvous in the Adirondacks with George's college friends. Our hostess was the fabulous Laura Zung—wife and mother, scoutmaster, CEO, friend extraordinaire, and part-owner of a lakeside “camp” that’s been in her husband's family since 1880.

Now, before you picture summer camp bunks and kumbaya sing-alongs, let me clarify: “camp” here is a very misleading word. Back in the day, wealthy families called their rustic hunting and fishing estates “camps.” This one was originally purchased by a single woman, which was about as rare back then as an LDS woman wearing pants to church. 

The place still has its original cabins, supplemented with some modern luxuries like running water, indoor plumbing, and not one but two boathouses. It maintains its historical charm with about 100 dead animals, some mounted on the walls, others underfoot as rugs—almost all complements of great, great, great uncle William (the mounted deer butt being the exception). Oh, and the most important tradition: the vintage cookie tin, always stocked. George and I baked my signature cookies upon arrival to help ensure the tradition was maintained.

                   

Highlights included showing Laura the bounties of FamilySearch (nothing bonds friends like perusing their great-great-great grandmother's naturalization papers) and attempting something called a canoe carry. This is where you paddle across a lake, hoist the canoe on your shoulders, stumble across land to another lake, and repeat until you have to visit the chiropractor. I managed two quarter-mile carry segments and then hobbled around like a 90-year-old for the next three days proclaiming how beautiful and amazing the remote and uninhabited lakes were. 

George, unlucky man, missed the canoe carry because there weren't enough canoes. The substiute activity was a 40-mile bike ride to Lake Placid and back (the site of the 1932 and 1980 Winter Olympics). Not a bad alternative. 

We also went on a “booze cruise” in the host’s 1938 varnished wood runabout—which sounds elegant because it was. Unlike “camp,” a “booze cruise” means exactly what you think it does. Don’t worry, George and I stuck to the charcuterie board like responsible LDS adults. Besides, nothing pairs better with a 1930s boat than meat, cheese, and dates.

That weekend another “camp” across the lake was hosting a black-tie wedding. Since it was a boat-in-only property, literally everything had to arrive by boat. Guests, flowers, cake, and yes—even the port-a-potties floated in for the occasion. Since it had rained all day, I'm guessing the guests arrived looking less "vogue" and more "shipwreck chic." But no matter, the rain stopped and the sun came out at precisely the wedding's 4:00 pm start. 

In summary: historic cabins, dead animals, cookies in the cookie tin, canoe carries, olympic cyclists, booze cruises, and floating toilets. A fabulous weekend with fabulous friends! 

Every story has a soundtrack. Here's a song in tribute to our wonderful hosts!