Some days I simply allow myself to succumb to my first world problems.
I fret my way through the mess of transit -the D train running on the R line?!- and escape to the great Upstate that only select New Yorkers explore.
I hop off the train at Cold Spring simply because I like the name:
The first thing I do is traipse my way past the ominous “warning do not enter” signs posted along the gravel road. (Let’s think about this logically- “warning” signs along a game trail? Yep, I’d probably listen- but roads were built by humans for humans; it’s the small rebellions which matter.)
The trail winds northward, then takes a sharp turn and dumps me out at the top of Main Street.
On your right is Antique Alley, on your left is Antiques Again. This whimsical little town thrives on tourism and arts. With botiques like Kismet, and Gallery 66, foot traffic from The City is the stimulant of the local economy Lenora Burton, owner of the Country Goose tells me. Be that as it may, I am pleased to see true intimacy limned by locals snarling amongst themselves as they walk behind the service counter to grab their own beers, stuffing their money into the register at the “Pizza Place”, (Local holder of The Lifetime Achievement Award for Food Service) without a second thought about the honour system they live by.
I am even more pleased to bypass the white picket fences and historical houses of the town historical society by exiting out the West side of town…Padding along the Hudson, I explore Little Stony Park (don’t be deceived this park is composed of megalithic granites), the Trailhead for Cornish Estate and Bullhead Run. For the hikers fitted in form fitting neon nylons, these paths are easy jaunts up slight inclines … For me, a City (shudder) Dweller, I’ll admit it was a bit of a #laboredbreathingdoubledupclimb…
The forrest is sleeping yet, but it is on the brink of spring. The leaves no longer crunch as much as they do compress, into the ground. When I finally rally my way to the steeple of the ridge the hollow sounds of trees- rasping- in the wind knocks the air from my lungs like the lung-hug of a long-lost friend.
In Cold Spring I purchased antique sea-glass and an empty guilded frame. I sipped molten chocolate and took the time to listen to each droplet as it catapulted itself off it’s icicle-slide, heading out on an admittedly slightly-suicidal, but not altogether gravitational adventure.
Eventually cold thighs, mine to be exact send me careening awkwardly down the hill. I race the setting sun across the snowy asphalt, towards my homeward, city-bound train….
intrepid trekking 
