Tastes Good

I think I warned you I wasn't an internet kind of person. Been messing around at the cabin and taking the odd drive out through the North Country. Working on a new brew, but don't go getting excited, I'm not planning on sharing this recipe. The whole Dacker thing has just been more than I bargained for. Just the other night I stopped in to Davidsons for a pint of the stuff and they didn't have any.

"We're sold out," he tells me.

"Fine, how 'bout an IPA?"

"Eh, no can do. Guys are drinking it fast as I can brew it."

Call me nit picky, but it's a brewery, right? You'd think the least they could do is stash a secret bomber for me. Ever since Rick bought that rig of his he's been different. Matter of fact I think he's in Mexico now. Mexico! Why you'd leave the Adirondacks to go to Mexico is beyond me. It's that blue rig of his, I'm sure of it.

Anyway, the reason I logged on to this miserable contraption was because the folks that put together the whole box and bottle decoration aspect of the beer called me. They said seeing as Rick was out of town they thought they'd call "the dacker man himself." Listen, the whole thing has always been a bit over the top for me. I just like good beer, all the rest is about as useful as a pocket in underwear. I like my privacy too. When Rick gets back from points south you can bet I'm going to give him an earful about passing my number out. That'll have to wait.

Turns out some folks go in for all the bright colors and pretty pictures. Some group in Albany gave an award for Dacker, not the beer, the cartons and six packs and glasses and whatever else Rick had made up. Tshirts and caps I think. Said it was the best campaign. Didn't say anything about the beer, but turns out that for this contest Rick sent a case of Dacker to them. When they returned the stuff last night after the ceremony, seems there was only a 6-pack returned. You ask me, keeping the beer was the best compliment.

Bird Watching

Gramp used to have a friend by the name of Gus, though he always told me to call him Moe. Moe was a bachelor, preferring the call of adventure over the call to the altar. He could always bring out the best in Gramp, course it was those times when he'd laugh the hardest and let me take extra pulls off the ale jug. Moe liked to do what he called, 'bird watching' and admire the ladies sunning on the shore. One summer though, when I was about 17, Moe spent a heck of a lot of time with a woman named Mary Cudahy. She was the prettiest tomboy I ever saw. She used to sit fishing on the dock or off the pontoon of Moe's seaplane. She could spit a watermelon seed from 15 yards and make it ding off the door of the plane. Mary sure was something. She left just as the leaves began to turn to take a teaching job near Utica. After that summer Moe was never quite the same.

5H1T Happens

Back in the fifties, Federal Aviation made Duncan Sr. change the tail number on the lunkin 'livery to go with the new system. Dad gave Harvey Plude at the boat yard the new ID, 0-51HT, to paint on and told him there's a jug o' the ale in the jump seat for his effort. "That's zero dash five h one tee, and I've got to have it first thing tomorrow." Well, Dad might'n o' better kept the jug 'til the job was done. Harvey'd had it half gone by the time he got started. Dad went down next mornin' to load up for a run up Ampersand and saw Harvey's ale-aided handiwork. Big and bold was the new tail number: O-SHIT."

Got My Wires Crossed

Wiring is something that should be done, as Gramp used to say, "according to Gunter," so I tend to stay away from these sorts of projects since I'm more likely to learn as I go then really plan it all out ahead. At least I try to. But every once in a while a fly gets in the ointment.

Take for example one indian summer back in the early eighties. I was set to head for the High Peaks and a bit of climbing and quiet. No sooner had I uttered that I aimed to leave by noon on the 18th, did old Margie Ingman appear down my road. Margie was a friend of the family from before I can remember, used to do mending for Gramp's ma back when she was but a little thing. Over the years she just sort of attached herself to Gramp, til she'd just about drawn her own branch on the Kincaid family tree.

I knew the minute I saw her moving my way I was up a gum-tree. Before I knew it the 18th became the 19th and the 19th the 20th as I did favor after favor for Margie, who had found herself in possession of a little camp near Brant Lake.

"A little help with lighting and some light carpentry," she said.
Still remember plain as day how badly I wanted to turn on my heel and leave. But it was Margie, and Margie is family, whether she was born a Kincaid or not. Light carpentry my hat. The place was a rat's nest with bowing walls, buckling ceiling and the worst mess of wiring I've ever seen. Never did make it to the High Peaks, but I did spend a heck of a lot of time climbing as I reroofed the dang thing.

Found this picture as I was cleaning out a trunk in my house. That Margie sure could get it done. "A little help with lighting," she said.

Oswegatchie

Certain experiences in life can make a person glad to be alive.

I had one such experience a few weekends past. It was one of those days when the air seems to carry a weight to it, a bit of the autumn air creeping into summer, warning you to get while the gettin's good. Me and a friend, along with a couple of younger folks, headed for parts north. With our kayaks strapped four abreast to the top of my friend's vehicle, we made our way toward St. Lawrence and the Oswegatchie River.

Not being much for music myself, and the rest of the group of such disparate age, we rode without the radio. The whistle of the wind against the strap ends of the kayak tie off quickly lulled us all into a bit of a trance. The dark greens of the forest whirring past and the great expanse of blue Adirondack sky reminded me of the early days with Gramp and running supplies back and forth from the seaplane to camp.

"Mind ya don't stumble and lose all those potatoes on the dock. I like 'em mashed, not bruised," he'd say this all with a chuckle, sometimes seemed as if he'd'a preferred me to fall so as to break up the chores and laugh for a spell.

Gramp would've appreciated being able to take a day to steal away for a paddle. Speaking of paddle...I found the photograph from the Northeast Paddlers. It shows a piece of the river. I don't go in for the rapids and steep ledge drops. Me,I like to just sort of float, paddling as I feel so inclined. Better to take things in when you let the boat kinda do the work. Paddle, glide, breathe.

This bit of river was particularly suited to just coasting and looking around. I was far behind the group and enjoying the sounds of the wildlife, the feel of the paddle in my hands and the sun breaking through the tree limbs. Made me glad to be an Adirondacker. Gladder still that we had several growlers in the rig to enjoy at day's end.

Hazards

Photo by Nathan Pallace

Seaplanes, with all the required upkeep and attention, can be a demanding mistress. Most pilots are pretty content to do what's needed to keep our planes sea and flight worthy. Heck, it doesn't take more than a couple of break downs in foul weather to burn ya clear through with the need to keep things in working order. Unfortunately there are times when things happen that turn a good flight sour with no regard to the condition of your plane or the skill of the pilot. I've heard plenty'a people specualting 'bout how this particular accident happend, what he did or didn't do. Seems to me it's pretty far fetched to talk about what happend like you know when you don't know the first thing about piloting a seaplane. You'll never hear me going on about what the jeweler shoulda done with his displays in the window. I'd sooner try to put the pearl back in the shell it came from then in a set-up to get folks to pay for it.




Photo by Nathan Pallace
Photo by Nathan Pallace

It's the 7th of July.
This time of year always gets me to thinkin' 'bout Gramp.
I suppose folks thought he was a bit peculiar, what with his quiet ways and predilection for carryin' oddities in his coat pocket like a three winged beetle.

A'course he wouldn't've called it a beetle, he'd a said, "This is what ya call a Northeastern Beech Tiger Beetle, rare indeed to find one with a third wing."
He was a smart fellow, just a bit misunderstood. Have to chuckle because I 'spect that was exactly how he wanted it.



He had a great cabin, tucked away in the trees out of sight of most everyone, except of course the occasional bear, fox and wild turkey. He built the whole thing himself late one summer after having a none too pleasant experience with a woman by the name of Annie MacDougall. Never did tell me exactly what happened, but any time the subject came up he'd get a look about him that let you know you should hold your tongue or else. Then off he'd go to chop more wood.




Didn't bother me any, the thing 'bout Gramp was that even at his most sour, he was the best company I'd ever known. I used to sit on Gramp's porch and just listen to the crackle of the fire and the sound of his ax as he brewed the barley wort and chopped wood for later in the season.




It was actually early in July the year I turned 9 that he first let me take a pull off the jug he used for his ale. Gramp is long since gone and ale has never tasted quite so sweet as it did that afternoon under the hot July sun.
But I'll tell ya, knockin' back a dacker by the fire comes pretty close.