Where The Pavement Ends

When blacktop fades to mountain brown,

And dust clouds swirl like nature’s crown,

The truck slows down, time shifts its gear,

That’s when we know that camp is near.

Each pothole tells a story sweet,

As gravel crunches ‘neath our feet,

Alan Jackson on the radio plays,

While civilized world slips away.

The old truck rocks from side to side,

Each bump and dip a gentle ride

Into a world where time moves slow,

Where wisdom has a chance to grow.

That first deep breath of mountain air,

When windows drop without a care,

Pine scent mixing with the dust,

Converting “have to” into “must.”

Round each bend, anticipation grows,

Past landmarks that each local knows:

The leaning birch, the lightning pine,

Nature’s markers, yours and mine.

The dashboard rattles like a song,

While stories flow where they belong,

Your voice mixed with the gravel spray,

Teaching lessons along the way.

Through puddles deep as morning light,

Past clearings where the deer take flight,

Each turn reveals another view

Of mountains painted wild and blue.

The truck crawls up each weathered rise,

While memories flood through windshield skies,

Of countless trips just like today,

When dirt roads showed us wisdom’s way.

Familiar washouts mark our path,

Where spring rains showed their gentle wrath,

Each rock and rut we navigate

Builds anticipation’s sweet, sweet weight.

The radio fades to static art,

As mountains take us both apart

From modern world’s incessant rush,

Trading chaos for evening’s hush.

That final hill before the bend,

Where cell phones lose their signal’s end,

Marks passage to a sacred space

Where peace has found its resting place.

Through mud or dust or dappled shade,

Down paths that generations made,

Each journey on these mountain roads

Lightens life’s demanding loads.

The truck knows well these twisting trails,

Where every journey never fails

To turn two hearts toward simple truth

Found where the dirt road shows its proof.

For here’s where real life begins:

When pavement yields to mountain hymns,

When dust clouds mark our slow parade

Into memories being made.

Each washboard stretch and muddy run

Brings camp life closer, one by one,

Till finally through the trees we spy

Our cabin ‘neath the mountain sky.

These aren’t just roads we’re traveling on,

But pathways to where we belong,

Where grandfather wisdom flows like streams

Down dirt roads made of mountain dreams.

And though the journey shakes us some,

Each bump brings transformation’s sum:

For when the dirt road takes its hold,

We find what’s worth far more than gold.

The Briggs Switch Hunter

Near Briggs Switch in mountain light at dawn,

Where Adirondack shadows stretch and yawn,

The aged hunter picks his careful way

Past Sarvey Hill where morning mists still lay.

Panther Mountain looms against the sky,

While tracks in snow catch his practiced eye,

Through Dry Timber Swamp where silence reigns,

Each step a memory his heart retains.

Past Camp You and I, where years ago

Other hunters tracked through early snow,

His rifle steady, breath a cloud of white,

As winter’s chill greets morning’s first light.

Behind Dry Timber Lake, the knob

Stands sentinel, while his heart’s quiet throb

Keeps time with wind through hemlock trees,

Where generations sought their peace.

The stand creaks soft beneath his frame,

These woods now know his face, his name,

Each trail and hollow, ridge and dell,

Hold stories that old hunters tell.

Through countless seasons he has traced

These ancient paths, each step well-placed,

From Sarvey’s slopes to Panther’s height,

Where wild things make their morning flight.

The sun climbs high o’er mountain pine,

While memories of past hunts combine

With present moment’s sacred space,

In this beloved mountain place.

Here where the Adirondacks rise,

Beneath their vast and timeless skies,

The old hunter finds his truth again,

Among these peaks that know no end.

By Briggs Switch where his journey starts,

Where mountain wisdom fills his heart,

Each hunt becomes a prayer once more,

On trails his father walked before.

Mountain Weekends With Grandpa

Friday afternoons held pure gold,

Each minute worth a fortune told

In dashboard clock’s slow-turning hands,

As country music filled our plans.

George Strait singing crystal-clear,

While excitement drew camp ever near,

Brooks & Dunn and Garth Brooks too,

Soundtrack to our mountain view.

Phil’s store waiting on the hill,

That screen door’s creak (I hear it still),

Canvas bags of beef jerky sweet,

Cold drinks rolling at our feet.

Then Gearsbeck’s welcome, warm and bright,

Where subs grew tall in fluorescent light,

“Extra bacon,” our sacred words,

The weekend’s anthem finally heard.

The camp road’s final winding climb,

Each curve a step back into time,

Till there she stood, our mountain home,

Where memories waited, free to roam.

The water pump’s familiar song,

Arms full of wood where they belong,

Each task a dance we knew by heart,

In nature’s play, we knew our part.

Crossing paths worn soft with care

To June and Jim’s trailer there,

Where addition lights glowed honey-warm,

A haven safe from evening’s storm.

The big blue light cast gentle rows

Of shadows where the tall grass grows,

While stories drifted through the trees

Of hunts and mountain memories.

Around the lantern’s steady glow,

Tomorrow’s plans would ebb and flow,

Which ridge to climb, which trail to clear,

What project would the dawn bring here?

Rain’s soft tattoo on tin roof high

Sang nature’s sweetest lullaby,

While mountain darkness gathered deep,

And peace wrapped ‘round us, soft as sleep.

Sometimes midnight brought the race

To outhouse through the starlit space,

Where mountain air caught in our chest

Made even this feel heaven-blessed.

Dawn broke gentle, chickadee song

Telling us where we belong,

While bluejays scolded morning light

For chasing shadows into flight.

Coffee perking, radio low,

As morning mist began to flow

Down Sarvey’s slopes in silver streams,

While we planned out our day’s sweet dreams.

These weren’t just weekends, something more,

Sacred rituals we lived for,

Each moment precious, crystal-clear,

Growing dearer year by year.

From Friday’s first excited breath

To Sunday’s pause, each moment kept

Like treasures in a mountain chest,

These memories remain our best.

Simple things made magic there:

A sandwich shared, a knowing stare,

The way you taught without a word,

Through mountain silence, wisdom stirred.

Now when crickets sing at night,

Or when I see a blue porch light,

I’m back there in those moments true,

Living mountain dreams with you.

For in these memories, time stands still

At Phil’s old store upon the hill,

At Gearsbeck’s counter piled with care,

In every space we learned to share.

Each weekend built a legacy

Of love as vast as mountains be,

Where simple moments, strung like pearls,

Made boys to men in nature’s world.

Lesson In The Woods

At Camp You and I, where memories dwell,

In quiet moments stories would swell,

Just you and me in that sacred space,

Time slowing to a gentler pace.

Between Sarvey Hill and Panther’s height,

We’d steal away, make time take flight,

With paint and blazes marking trails,

While wisdom flowed through ancient tales.

The chainsaw’s song would fill the air,

As firewood stacked with patient care,

Each log a lesson in your way:

“Do things right, don’t rush the day.”

Through mountain laurel, thick and deep,

Up trails where deer their secrets keep,

You’d pause to point out nature’s signs,

Teaching me to read between the lines.

On Sarvey’s slope, we’d often rest,

Your stories flowing from your chest,

Of hunters past and seasons turned,

Of hard-won wisdom, lessons learned.

“Watch the wind,” you’d softly say,

“Listen close to what these mountains pray,

For in their silence lies the truth

That bridges age back down to youth.”

From Panther’s view, you showed me more

Than just the peaks stretched out before,

You taught me how to be a man,

With work-worn hands and patient plan.

Each painted line and blazed-out trail,

Each story shared, each wild detail,

Built something stronger than the trees:

A legacy caught in mountain breeze.

From boyhood steps to manhood’s stride,

You walked these paths right by my side,

Through seasons changing, years unfurled,

Teaching me to face the world.

At Camp You and I, we’d sit at night,

Stories flowing by lantern light,

Of times gone past and wisdom earned,

Of family truths and lessons learned.

Now every tree we marked back then

Stands witness to the where and when

You shaped a boy into a man,

With loving heart and guiding hand.

In these wild places that we shared,

Where every moment showed you cared,

Your legacy lives strong and true

In everything I say and do.

Thank you, mentor, guide, and friend,

For time you chose with me to spend,

In these mountains, wild and free,

Teaching what I’d need to be.

For every trail we blazed together,

Through fair and harsh mountain weather,

Shaped more than just the forest ways,

Built the man I am today.

The Old Hunters Morning

In the forest’s hushed and frost-kissed dawn,

An aged hunter treads softly on,

His face a map of seasons passed,

Each wrinkle earned, each memory vast.

The earth lies draped in winter’s shawl,

Fresh tracks of deer, a silent call,

Like whispers in the morning air,

Guide his steps with practiced care.

His rifle cold against his sleeve,

As morning mists begin to weave

Through branches to his waiting stand,

Where wisdom dwells in wild land.

Though solitary in these woods,

He’s never lonely in such solitude,

For in this sacred morning space,

He finds his long-familiar place.

The stand creaks soft beneath his weight,

As patience settles in to wait,

His breath, a ghost upon the air,

Mingles with the silence there.

He reads the forest like a prayer,

Each rustle, snap, and windswept share

Of ancient stories told in tracks,

While time slows down, then circles back.

The sun ascends its azure throne,

Warming flesh and weathered bone,

His heart beats steady, sure, and deep,

In rhythm with the forest’s keep.

Here in nature’s cathedral vast,

Where present moments mirror past,

The old hunter finds his grace

In this wild and timeless place.

Through countless dawns he’s made this trek,

Each hunt a chance to reconnect

With truths that only silence brings,

When human hearts touch wild things.

The Tannerville Legacy

Great Grandpa Jim first blazed the way,

With Uncle Tom in younger days,

To build a mountain legacy

Where Tannerville would come to be.

Through brush and bramble, year by year,

They carved out something special here,

Where families found their summer homes,

And mountain wisdom freely roamed.

Then Ed, my Grandpa, known to all,

Answered Tannerville’s sacred call,

His presence like a mountain oak,

In every tale the old folks spoke.

Three-wheelers humming through the trees,

Like busy clouds of summer bees,

From camp to camp we’d make our rounds,

Our motors’ gentle purring sounds.

“Going visiting,” we would say,

As wheels kicked dust along the way,

To share a story, laugh, or tale,

Where friendship never seemed to fail.

Screen doors would slam with welcome’s song, While coffee perked all summer long,

In camps where every open door

Held stories of the years before.

Great Grandpa’s vision, wild and free,

Uncle Tom’s tenacity,

And Grandpa Ed’s familiar smile,

Made sacred every mountain mile.

Children running wild with joy,

Each camp a playground to enjoy,

While elders shared their coffee sweet,

And wisdom passed from seat to seat.

The evening air would fill with smoke

From campfires where the old folks spoke

Of hunting tales and seasons past,

Building memories meant to last.

Three-wheelers parked in friendly rows,

While conversation gently flows,

From porch to porch and camp to camp,

Beneath the evening’s dewdrop lamp.

In Tannerville, no stranger stays,

For fellowship lights up the days,

Where every camp holds open arms,

And friendship keeps the evening warm.

Great Grandpa Jim would surely smile

To see how, after all this while,

His mountain dream took root and grew

Into this close-knit mountain crew.

Uncle Tom’s determined ways

Echo still in summer days,

While Grandpa Ed’s familiar face

Brings warmth to every gathering place.

The three-wheel tracks we left behind

Tell stories of a simpler time,

When visiting wasn’t scheduled in,

But flowed as natural as the wind.

From camp to camp the stories flow,

Of hunts and helps from long ago,

Each memory shared builds something more

Than just some camps along this shore.

For Tannerville’s not just a place,

But legacy of shared embrace,

Where three generations’ dreams combine

To make these mountains yours and mine.

Great Grandpa Jim and Uncle Tom

Built more than camps to call our own,

They founded something rare and true:

A mountain family, through and through.

And Grandpa Ed, beloved by all,

Still echoes in each friendly call,

Each camp light burning through the night,

Each three-wheeler’s evening flight.

This legacy runs mountain deep,

In trails these generations keep,

Where every camp light’s welcome glow

Tells stories that we all should know.

For in these camps and on these rides,

Where mountain wisdom still resides,

Three men’s vision helped to build

This precious place called Tannerville.

Sarvey Hills Memories

Along the tracks to Sarvey Hill,

Where time stands frozen, always will,

I walk with Grandpa always beside,

Each step echoing our shared stride.

Through microburst paths we climbed that day,

The hill face steep, but found our way,

Like mountain goats on fallen trees,

Two generations on hands and knees.

Remember, Gramp, that autumn dawn?

Dropping over the top, and buck that burst like summer's fawn,

Our hearts stopped short, then raced as one,

While golden light caught your old gun.

Your weathered stand still holds the views

Where you taught me patience, shared your truths,

While sunrise painted Sarvey's crown,

And wisdom passed without a sound.

Through rain and snow and autumn gold,

Up afternoon trails, both young and old,

To separate stands we'd slowly climb,

Each hunt a treasure stored in time.

Then after dark, beneath the stars,

We'd find our way back to the wheelers,

Your stories flowing rich and deep,

Like secrets only night could keep.

That Sunday hunt you made me stay,

"You never know," I heard you say,

Then there he stood, my first buck there,

Your pride as bright as mountain air.

Named your dog Sarvey just for you,

For all these memories tried and true,

For every lesson that you shared,

For showing me how much you cared.

Some say a mountain's just a hill,

But Sarvey holds our spirit still,

In every tree and shadowed space,

I find the echo of your grace.

These moments, Gramp, they're yours and mine, Carved deeper than the oldest pine,

No time or distance can erase

The love we shared in this wild place.

For Sarvey's not just earth and stone,

But every value that you've shown,

Each sacred morning spent with you,

Each star-lit walk, each mountain view.

Whenever I climb those trusted trails,

Where autumn wind tells ancient tales,

I will always feel you walking by my side,

In Sarvey's heart, where you abide.

Fridays With Grandpa

Friday's promise sets hearts aglow,

As country music, soft and low,

Floats from the truck's old radio—

Alan Jackson, Brooks and Dunn in tow.

First stop at Phil's, across the hill,

For beef jerky and treats until

Our arms are full of weekend fare,

While mountain air lifts every care.

Then Gearsbeck's counter, lined with hope,

Where massive subs and tales elope—

"Extra bacon," Grandpa grins,

As weekend adventure begins.

Up winding roads to camp at last,

Where present meets beloved past,

The pump to prime, wood to arrange,

As city cares to wonder change.

Each task a dance we know by heart:

Unloading gear, each plays their part,

While chickadees dart through the trees,

And bluejays scold the mountain breeze.

To Grandma June and Grandpa Jim's,

Where trailer lights through windows dim

Welcome us to their addition's grace,

Time slowing in this cherished space.

The big blue light casts gentle glow

Across the yard where memories flow,

While stories drift on evening air

Of hunts and times beyond compare.

Around the lantern's golden sphere,

Tomorrow's plans grow crystal clear;

Which ridge to walk, which trail to take,

Which project will tomorrow make.

Rain drums soft on tin roof high,

A lullaby 'neath mountain sky,

While kerosene heat warms the room,

And comfort fills the gathering gloom.

Sometimes nature's call at night

Sends us rushing, full of fright,

To outhouse dark through mountain air,

Adventure found even there!

Morning breaks with joyful sound

Of birds announcing treasure found—

Another day with Grandpa here,

In mountains that we hold so dear.

The radio crackles morning news,

While coffee scents the morning dews,

And plans unfold like morning light

For moments we will hold so tight.

These weekends were pure magic spun

From simple things so deftly done:

A sandwich shared, a tale retold,

Worth more than any mountain's gold.

Each ritual, each sacred stop,

From valley floor to mountain top,

Built memories that still remain

Like sunshine after summer rain.

Now when I hear those country songs,

Or smell camp coffee coming on,

I'm back there in those moments true,

Where every Friday brought me you.

For in these mountains, time stands still

At Phil's store just over the hill,

At Gearsbeck's counter piled with subs,

In every place that speaks of love.

These weekend trips, they shaped my soul,

Made broken pieces something whole,

Each moment spent in your wise care

Made life beyond

d compare.