The Catskills are less than two hours from New York. My deepest penetration into the wooded mountains had been the town of Woodstock. Tannery Brook marked my westernmost venture, so when my host in Millbrook suggested a road trip to the Catskills, I was green lights. It was a splendid September morning.
Civilization ended at Woodstock and New Paltz. Gainful employment disappeared west of Ellensville and Hunter Mountain. Our friends lived at high altitude in the desolate dissected plateau. Long valley vistas and cool summer winds. Lexington NY was the turn-off for New York 23A onto Route 42. Philippe, once the 'prettiest woman in northern Maine, vacationed with his family in his modernized hunting cabin opposite WestKill Mountain. We arrived a little after noon. There was no offer of lunch. Only lovely tea from freshly picked mint.
The conversation was good, but the rumble from AC's stomach was louder. Mine was demure, since I had snacked on cookies stolen from the kitchen. The schnorred Oreos tasted great, but Phillipe's kids eyed me with gestapo suspicion. Children was very possessive about food.
We said our goodbyes and sat in AC's Audi A4. AC wanted to drive along New York State 23.
"Waterfalls and mountain views."
"I've never been on any of these roads." The route over from Woodstock had been a avnue of arcadian scenery. I had studied the map on Phillipe's table. "42 goes south to 28. We go west for a few miles and then head south on 47 to New Paltz."
"New Paltz is about a 100 miles away. Is there anywhere to eat on the way." AC liked his food.
"Has to be someplace." I had seen a few towns on the backside of the Catskills. Shandakan, Big Indian, Neversink. This was Labor Day Weekend. Stores made a fortune selling hot dogs to hungry day-trippers like us."
"I'm not so sure. I got lost on the road from Tannersville to Woodstock. One hour in the dark." AC was British. He had seen DELIVERANCE. For him the land of the rednecks began once over the Hudson.
"That was night." I argued for 47. "We'll never come this way again. I like seeing what there is. Even if it's nothing."
"There better be something to eat."
He wheeled south and followed my directions to the turning on 47. Everything up to then had been promising, except for no restaurants or delis. The two hotels in Big Indian were closed for the season. The signs wore years of weather.
"That's not a good omen."
The two-lane road slunk through bland valleys. No stores. No food. Deeper into the terra incognita. AC voiced his discontent. We were hungry. Philippe no longer bore the blame for our lack of lunch. The secluded settlements of Olivera and Wistock Mountain were devoid of commerce. Frost Valley's services were reserved for YMCA campers.
"What do people eat here?" AC was frantic. It was well past lunch.
"Bark probably, but the only business I've seen for the past hour has been 'yard sales'." We slowed by each house hoping for the inhabitants to exhibit a gift for roadside hot dogs. Nothing to eat and crap for sale.
"They look to fat to live only on bark. They must be snacking on moss in their spare time."
Our fragile state caused us to make a wrong turning.
Left to Clarityville in hope of sustenance.
Once more a meal of disappointment.
AC turned on his GPS and typed in 'diner'. The GPS did not respond. AC was for straight on. I was too. The land of nowhere had to end somewhere.
40 miles later we rolled into New Platz. I bought AC whatever he wanted. The foodless journey had been my idea.
"One day we'll laugh about this."
"But not today."
And I don't ever have to see the back of those mountains again.
Once was more than enough.
Especially on an empty stomach.
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