May and Hazel:

                     An Adirondack Adventure

Now the following is undoubtedly one of the greatest stories of birding history in the entire of the good ole USA. Every autumn, May and Day, accompanied by any number of family or friends from her birding group, headed out for a week or two to see the fall colors and watch the migrating birds on their way south. Sometimes it was the Maine coast. Sometimes Cape Cod or Long Island. Often it was in the Green or White Mountains or father north into the Mahoosacks or even into Quebec or the Maritimes.

Anyway these trips became a major annual affair. Now May could take on anybody or anything in life and often did. But in the autumn of 1954, she was about to be meet a wayward gal called Hazel that was to leave quite a lasting impression.

The trip in 1954 was to revisit an old favourite, Mount Marcy, at 5344 feet, the highest peak of the Adirondacks. My aunt had heard reports that the pine grosbeaks and the white-winged crossbills had flocked into Hamilton and Essex Counties. She was always particularly fond of these birds (or any that were pink or red--her favourites were always cardinals). Plus my grandfather was keen to climb Marcy as he hadnÕt been for about 5 years, and May loved the North Country as well. The colors were particularly good that year.

So off they went. May and Day were in their sky blue Studebaker which was quite an elegant site. My grandparents, Frank and Alice in their dark green Dodge with my mother, Pat and her girlfriend Mitsy in tow. Lee and Lila, next-door neighbors of my grandparents, and Uncle Harry (May's youngest brother) and Aunt Eleanor (Alice's sister).

The trip started as usual with a major fight between May and my grandfather about Franklin Roosevelt. Now May thought that FDR was so good and my grandfather thought FDR was so bad, that Jesus and the devil took the middle ground just to watch. May liked FDR mostly because she adored Eleanor Roosevelt. Every time Eleanor changed hats, so did May, literally. May always said that Eleanor Roosevelt was a birdwatcher and kept her a substantial record of birds at the White House and at their home in New York. A decade after FDR's death, May and my grandfather never missed a chance. The rest of the family just ignored them, after all Eisenhower was president 1954, and nobody seemed to mind him.

Finally, after their ritual FDR confrontation, they got underway up old Route 30. Now driving with May was no easy task. May always had her eyes peeled on the surroundings to see any bird that moved. This means that one had to drive very slowly. Luckily Day was always keen to have people notice his fancy cars, so he didnÕt mind too much. However he had to be alert for May's whistles. When May saw a bird of interest, she let out a shrill, piercing whistle that meant the car was to come to an immediate stop regardless of anything. And when May meant "come to a stop" she meant instantly not one inch further!! To add to this, she had the habit of opening the car door, and jumping out of the car the split instant it stopped, and dashing into the bushes to see the bird of interest. I often thought that this should be an Olympic sport as May would have easily won the gold medal. God only knows what the bird thought. To this day, I never can believe how May and Day never had an accident. I can still picture in my head that whistle of May's (that could literally wake the dead), and Day sharply breaking in full traffic and whipping over to the side of the road. Uncle Day, of course, always carried his little metal pocket canteen well filled with "the medicine", so if any offended motorist got out to yell at him, he would point to May with a little smirk, offer the offended driver a little snort, and everyone was happy.

To further add to the complications, Aunt Eleanor always made Harry stop so she could pick the wild flowers and my grandmother had a notoriously weak bladder. This led my grandfather, who owned Mayfield's first motorbike and was a bit of a speedmonger, to lament that by the time we get to Mt Marcy, the leaves will be starting to grow back on the trees in the spring. Once when May and my grandmother were planning a trip to Boston, and they asked my grandfather how long it took to drive there. He responded that it normally it takes a long day, but with you two I think we could do it in a month. Anyway the little caravan wound its way north into the high country on that nice October day.

Now quite unaware to May and company, a wild woman by the name of Hazel had just that day taken a northward course somewhere around the nation of Haiti. She was making a beeline for Mt Marcy as well. Now of course I am referring to Hurricane Hazel, one of North America's most powerful storms. Now in 1954, the news media didn't blast about hurricanes the way they do now. A hurricane headed for the Outer Banks of North Carolina, probably wouldn't make a big mention in the news media of Upstate New York. So May and the rest of the family didnÕt have a clue as they set out, that their great birding adventure was really going to live up to its name.

Anyway the first night they all stayed at Blue Mountain Lake. And the next day they pushed on through Tupper Lake, Saranac Lake, North Elba and finally ended up at the Adirondack Lodge on the north slopes of Marcy. On arrival to the lodge, the ever present grey jays were there to greet her, and May had a pocket full of peanuts for them. If grey jays were red, I think they would have surpassed crossbills in my aunt's favourite bird. She always loved to feed them. About the same time Hazel was just hitting the Outer Banks and causing a great mess.

The family spent the night there. In the morning May, my grandfather, Lee, my mother and her friend donned their packs for the ascent to the top. My grandmother, Day, Harry and Eleanor were not into the rugged life and were going to stay behind and do day trips. Because May and my grandfather were getting up in age, they planned to do the trip slowly taking about 4 days and coming down the Keene Valley trail where Day would pick them up. As the group split up and waved goodbye, little did they know that the next days would be what they were.

The first day, the little group made it up to the lake just below the summit, where they made camp. May was all excited because they had seen a small group of Spruce Grouse, which were not terribly common, and they had seen many crossbills, grosbeaks, chickadees, nuthatches, jays and winter wrens (another of my aunts favourites). My grandfather and Lee put up the tents (the old heavy canvas things), and afterwards went fishing for bullhead. May scoured the lake for signs of birdlife.

Meanwhile that night back around the radio in the lodge, the first reports were coming through of the devastation in North Carolina, and the fact that the storm was working its way up the coast about ready to plow into New Jersey. Soon after storm warnings were issued for New Jersey, Long Island and Connecticut. Day and grandmother began to get a little nervous, but nobody really thought it would be more than some heavy rain.

Next day May and the crew got to the summit, and for the first time my grandfather felt a bit worried. All day everybody noted how strangely calm it was, and none of the birds were singing. However, because they had been on the north slope, no one had gotten a look at the far southern horizon. Finally up at the top, a warm breeze from the south hit them, and the southern horizon was swathed in deep, dark clouds. All the clouds were moving to the northwest, which was a very unusual pattern except during an early spring "noreaster". However my grandfather and Lee concluded that it just might be rainstorm, and because of the warm wind they were not very worried. They pitched camp in the northeast summit tarn and May went off to look for the fabled population of Rock Ptarmigan. Many of you readers may know that Mt Marcy, Mt Washington and Mt Katahdin were fabled to have populations of Rock Ptarmigan at their summits. (In her list May has recorded both Rock and Willow Ptarmigan in Newfoundland but never in the USA.) No Ptarmigans were seen however, and that night at dinner, the first drops of rain began to fall. That rain would continue for a very long time. May who had carted 2-dozen carefully rolled up eggs in her pack unrolled a dozen and made wild mushroom omelettes. May always rolled each egg individually in socks or handkerchiefs, and amazingly they never broke. What was to come, however, was to challenge her long-held record of no broken eggs.

That night at the lodge, Day, my grandmother and the rest were in full panic. Neither Day and May, nor my grandparents had ever been separated much during their life. Now they were separated with the storm of the century between them. They also knew that neither Frank, Lee nor May had any idea about this storm and what was coming. The news reports made it sound like coastal North Carolina and New Jersey were completely washed away. Most all the power in New Jersey was out and the storm was now on the New York, Pennsylvania border below the Catskills, and headed north. Day alerted the police in Lake Placid who said that many hikers were on Marcy and the surrounding mountains, and that they were monitoring the situation, and not to worry.

Back on the mountain, the little group awoke to a steady rain and strong winds. My grandfather was a bit worried and everybody decided to stay in the safety of the tarn where they were sheltered from the wind. Later that a day, as the storm was worsening, a small group of people from Somerset, Pennsylvania led by a Lutheran Minister joined up with them. They had hiked up the southwest slope from Henderson Lake and had been able to see the stormÕs approach. However, they did not know it was a hurricane either.

They didn't know anything about the mountain, and my grandfather said, that it was best that they should stay with them, because he knew the mountain very well. As the afternoon passed the storm broke into full swing and Mount Marcy started turning into one big series of lakes and roaring rivers. Hurricane Hazel was itself meandering around Syracuse and Rochester heading for Lake Ontario and Toronto, keeping the Adirondacks on its eastern side. The tents wouldnÕt stay up in the wind, and they were sitting in half a foot of water. And still it poured.

Flood and wind warnings started to go up all over Upstate New York especially in the mountains. Day was in an all out bluster and doing his best to round up a search party to go in after them. But it was impossible to climb the mountain in these conditions.

That night on the mountain the storm subsided a bit, but everything was wet and getting wetter. The group from Pennsylvania was not very well equipped, so everybody had to pitch together to keep everybody warm and fed. Keeping dry was no longer an issue. So there they huddled like a bunch of drowned rats with the canvas wrapped around them. Nobody slept much.

As the morning broke, the rain was still pouring, but the wind had died down. Hazel had crossed Lake Ontario and was stalled over Toronto, which was about to have the worst flood in its history. Unfortunately for our crew on the mountain, it was about to change course once more on the heals of a midwestern cold front and head straight over the Adirondacks with all her fury.

That morning with Hazel in Ontario, Day finally got up a search party to go in at Keene Valley and look for them. However with the storm again changing directions and headed straight toward them, the weather deteriorated very quickly and they had to turn back. Day was almost dead with panic. The only thing saving him was that he knew how well my grandfather knew the mountain. Meanwhile that morning on the mountain, my grandfather decided to try to bring the group down the mountain while the weather held. Everybody found good walking sticks and they were off. Down the group headed into the Ausable Valley, but soon the weather worsened as Hazel made a beeline due east for Mount Marcy. The Keen Valley trail was a small river, and it was almost impossible to keep your balance or know where to step. As the rain got heavier, my mother fell and got washed about 10 yards down. My grandfather then got out the ropes attached to the tent and each person was tied around the waist.

Night caught the group in rain so hard, you couldn't see in front of you, splitting lightning and crashing thunder, and very strong winds as the storm was right over them. All that night, they all sat huddled next to a cliff singing every hymn they could remember. May was very tired and worried about how the birds were going to survive this storm. My grandfathers always said afterward -Here we were on the mountain as wet and miserable as could be, and May was worried about the birds. Between my grandfather and the Lutheran Minister, they kept everybody's spirits up. Amazing Grace, The Old Rugged Cross, Rock of Ages and all the old favourites got well worn out that night. Abide with Me took on a real meaning.

Finally morning came and the storm had began to subside, everybody was wet and tired, but in as good spirits as could be expected. Down they came and in the late afternoon, they were met by Day and his search posse from below. Day was not the most in-shape person and his idea of hiking was bounded by the back yard fence. The sight of him huffing and puffing up the trail, led May to say she didn't know who was going to carry whom down. But hand in hand May and Day, and the rest made it out that night into Keene Valley where a dry, well-fed and warm night was had by all. By the way, of May's carefully wrapped 10 remaining eggs, none were broken---The record lives!!

That morning my grandmother and Eleanor came down to meet them. Eleanor had made them a surprise--a DOUBLE CRUST apple pie. My grandfather turned to May and quietly said –Haven't we been through enough?

Anyway, they returned home to Mayfield to find lots of wind damage. All of May's birdhouses were down or damaged. Many large trees were down as well. My grandfather had his carpentry work cut out for some time to come. As so it was Mays encounter with Hazel.

Every Christmas thereafter a card would wind its way north from Somerset, Pennsylvania to tell how the pastor and his congregation were getting on. May would always laugh and say, every time I am in church and hear one of those old hymns, I think of that night on the mountain--Amazing Grace has never been the same since.

Many years later my grandfather walked me through the path they took, and showed me the cliff-side where they huddled together that fearsome night. I remember sitting with him on top of the mountain and listening to the story. On the way down, he remarked with a grin that the weather had been bit better on this trip. Although May and my grandfather are now both dead, every time I return to the Adirondacks, I feel the power of those people that were so important to me in life, from a world that seems so long ago, and I know, like May's egg record, they live on yet.