We’re grateful to our Amish community for assistance nurturing Rosslyn’s organic vegetable, fruit, and flower gardens; our holistic orchard and vineyard; and sixty acres of landscape. While there’s much to admire about the dedicated women who have planted and weeded, pruned and suckered, nurtured and harvested for us, I’m especially grateful for their petroleum-free, exhaust free locomotion!
You suspect I jest? I do. Often. But not in this case. I’m actually quite fascinated with their efficiency of 21st century horse-and-buggy travelers.
And not only when our dedicated Amish gardeners arrive and depart, but on most every morning’s bike ride between the Adirondack foothills and Lake Champlain. I often share quiet, winding backroads with these courteous drivers. And last night, returning from Westport at an advanced hour, we witnessed three buggies moving along at a startlingly quick clip despite having no headlights. Only a single, diminutive lantern bounced within each buggy scarcely illuminating the driver, so certainly offering no navigational assistance.
Amish Assistance Arrives (Source: Rosslyn Redux)
As muscly pickup trucks and stealthy EVs wind through our rural communities, the Amish manage admirably to accomplish whatever locomotion they need without combustion engines or power grid tethers. There’s plenty to be learned from them, and not only for their dedicated industry.
This is a new opportunity for us. One nearby Amish family has been trafficking between our properties, learning quickly what each garden, each plant, each property needs. Since early spring the two to three sisters will arrive in the morning via ultra quiet conveyance. Although it took Carley a little while to become accustomed to the horse-drawn buggy, she’s no longer startled when the staccato sound of horse hooves and the curious crunching noise of carriage wheels on crushed stone awaken her from her postprandial snooze. She perks up, saunters into the screen porch, and observes. The bonneted young women wave, and I return their greeting. Carley watches until the horse and buggy disappear from view.
I’ll close with a short video I shot early in the morning last summer as another Amish buggy for a moment rolled in front of the rising sun.
Rendering for Icehouse Rehabilitation: East Elevation Gable Window (Source: Tiho Dimitrov)
I mentioned recently that framing for the expansive gable window in the west elevation of Rosslyn’s icehouse was completed, and the change was monumental. Now we’re on hold, anticipating the big reveal in a few months when the new windows arrive and the sheathing can be trimmed. For now that facade is concealed behind a plane of green ZIP paneling, effectively shrouding the dramatic transformation until springtime. Anticipation, I tell my dog, is have the pleasure…
Today, however, I’m able to update you on Hroth‘s gable window framing for the *east elevation*. Hurrah! As you can see in Tiho‘s rendering above, the openings on the lake-facing facade will remain virtually unchanged except for a shift from opaque (solid wood openings) to transparent (glass window and door). But the the east elevation gable window will be integrated into a whimsical Essex sunburst motif that echoes the same detail on the third story, west elevation gable end of the main house. I will focus on this detail separately once we’ve made a little more progress.
In short, we’ve endeavored to maintain the public view shed much as it has appeared in recent decades albeit with a reimagined sunburst embellishment that weaves the icehouse together with the main house, the gates, and multiple additional sunburst motifs throughout Essex and the Champlain Valley.
Envisioning the icehouse rehab from within, the photo below helps orient the new window as it will be experienced from the loft (still not framed) and, to a lesser degree, the main room. Morning light will illuminate the interior, offering a restrained prelude to the magnificent afternoon lighting that will bath the icehouse as the sun sets into the Adirondack foothills.
Icehouse Interior, East elevation gable window (Photo: Hroth Ottosen)
The closeup below captures Hroth at the end of a long day of carriage barn carpentry looking a more than a little bit ready for some heat and a more comfortable perch. But it also captures the just completed window framing below the header, perfectly echoing the slope of the icehouse roof.
Another closeup, gets a little closer to imagining the perspective when standing on the future loft floor.
Icehouse Interior, East elevation gable window (Photo: Hroth Ottosen)
Framing East Gable Window
Shortly this aperture will be concealed behind insulated paneling much like the west elevation, but for a fleeting moment longer we can appreciate the natural light entering through the east elevation gable window framing, and we can try to imagine the daybreak view of Lake Champlain, warm sunlight illuminating the north elevation of the main house as it rises up into the summer sky.
A new perspective is emerging as Hroth frames my future office window (from the icehouse loft). Looking east (actually southeast in this photo), this will be my morning view. Panning to the left 10 to 15° the view will be filtered through the enormous American Linden (basswood) tree and across the upper lawn, through the ancient ginkgo tree and across the front lawn to Lake Champlain. (Source: Loft Office View)
Holes in walls. Such rudimentary changes to a building envelope. And yet such profound transformation!
By strategically introducing apertures and maximizing transparency in this small structure we’re endeavoring to dilate the living experience beyond the finite building envelope, to challenge the confines of walls and roof, and when possible and esthetically judicious, to improve porosity with abundant new fenestration, dynamic interior-exterior interplay, subtle but impactful landscaping changes (including a new deck) that will work in concert to amplify the breathability of the interior and temptingly invite insiders outside. (Source: Gable End Window in West Elevation)
The photo below hints at the future porosity of the this space. Imagine the window near bottom right once it is glass.
Icehouse Interior, East elevation gable window (Photo: Hroth Ottosen)
Of course, framing in the balcony and eventually adding blisters will shift add interesting layers, shadows, textures, and other nuances to the transparency looking east from within. Perhaps an interior rendering or two will help imagine forward…
Essex, NY in 1876 (Source: OW Gray Atlas of Essex County)
Where in the world is Rosslyn? If you’re not too terribly averse to a verse, here’s an introduction writ small (wrapped up in a tidy micropoem.)
Up in the Adirondacks
at the foot of the foothills,
where Champlain's sweet waters
refresh, render respite,
and sooth worldweary souls,
a sanctuary sings
welcoming melodies.
(Source: Where's Rosslyn?)
Poetry not your preference? Pity! 😉 Let’s try this.
Beginning to zero in on where in the world Rosslyn is? If neither the poetics of place nor encyclopedic brevity are helping much, let’s try a map or two. Maybe I can narrow your focus a little further with this line drawing that I created with Katie Shepard for our community blog, Essex on Lake Champlain back in 2015. (If you click on the map it’ll open a window where you can download the unfuzzy PDF complete with a key explaining each of the numbers in the map.)
Essex Architecture Map, July 2015 (Source: Essex on Lake Champlain)
Enough with the old school black and white (and sepia with faint rose highlighting). It’s time for technicolor!
So, where in the world is Rosslyn? Train your eyes on the three docks/piers extending out into Lake Champlain. The middle one is the ferry dock. (See the ferry heading to Vermont?) The smallest of the three man made peninsula’s is Rosslyn’s dock house (aka “boathouse”). Armed with that little insight, perhaps you can find the same property on the two maps above? (Hint: the boathouse wasn’t yet constructed in 1876 when the map at the top of this post was made.)
Heck, it still enchants us despite constant maintenance and seasonal flood worries. And the boathouse hammock is a mini vacation!
Head inland from the boathouse and you’ll discover Rosslyn itself, tucked next to two massive trees, a ginkgo and what I believe is a silver maple (Acer saccharinum). In fact, I’m sitting in the top right room on the second floor right now. Perhaps if you swoop in a little lower you’ll catch me jotting this blog post.
A little further left of the house are the carriage barn (lower) and ice house (upper) which offer up all sorts of mysteries. But those for another day. Unless you remember three curious artifacts I shared with you a while ago… (Source: Essex Aerial View)
Hopefully this helped orient you. Yes, a Google map might be more precise and quicker, but sometimes Rosslyn Redux and the art of homing aren’t particularly precise or quick. Besides, a thin veil of privacy keeps the snoopers away. Or at least adds a little challenge to their quest. But if you’re looking for a little more clarity on where in the world Rosslyn is located, I suggest you check out this hopefully helpful hub: “Where’s Rosslyn?“
On Wednesday afternoon my bride and I departed Essex and headed south on Interstate 87. Driving one of the Adirondack highway’s most handsome stretches always affords decadent views, but yesterday spoiled us with near peak Adirondack fall foliage.
It was breathtaking despite overcast conditions. The flat light desaturated autumn’s cacophonous palette, rendering a landscape more nuanced than the scenes typically conjured up on postcards, calendars and television cutaways. This was especially true in higher elevations of the High Peaks where damp leaves and wispy mist intensified my melancholic, almost nostalgic longing.
Leaf Peeping and Longing
But a longing for what? For High Peaks hiking and climbing and camping and fly fishing, perhaps. Or canoeing lazy Adirondack rivers, the crystal clear water at once reflecting fiery leaves on the surface and revealing those that have drifted down to the pebbled bottom, a sort of autumnal double vision. Or is the longing more abstract? An invitation to flip through dusty photo albums of autumns past, or an unanticipated, uninvited glimpse of mortality, the bittersweet knowledge that today’s bounty is tomorrow’s compost.
Adirondack Chair (Photo: jeffsmallwood)
It is all of this, I suspect. And more. Autumn is a welcome reprieve from heat and humidity and — for a few fleeting weeks — the weather and light reinvigorate me like an old country elixir that makes me happy and alert and energetic. After months of nursing seedlings, weeding vegetables, pruning fruit shrubs, trees and vines, fall is the long anticipated harvest. It is a time of abundance in so many tangible and intangible ways. Ever since my school days fall has marked the end of carefree summer adventures, but at the ripe old age of forty I have discovered that it also marks the beginning of some of the best sailing and windsurfing and waterskiing and cycling, luxuries I couldn’t enjoy when school blotted out all these activities. If Norman Rockwell had developed a theme park it would have looked and felt and smelled and tasted an awful lot like Adirondack autumn.
Removing ourselves from familiar environs inspires reflection, reminding us what is unique about the place we live. Wednesday’s visual banquet was no exception. Living in Essex, Lake Champlain influences many aspects of our life, autumn among them. Unlike the Adirondack High Peaks, Essex remains temperate longer in the fall. Our growing season is extended. In fact, the USDA recognized this fact during the last year and actually changed the hardiness zone for the Champlain Valley to Zone 5. Whether climate change or just the “lake effect” resulting from Lake Champlain’s immense, slow-to-cool thermal mass, Essex enjoys a unique microclimate.
Essex Leaf Peeping
For this reason, the leaf peeping in Essex trails the rest of the Adirondacks. The towering maple trees in front of Rosslyn remain vibrant green except for a slight blush on a few leaves. Wandering through the back meadows a couple of days ago I was hard pressed to identify any trees that were already flaunting their fall wardrobes.
Fall into Autumn (Photo: hsuyo)
In many respects a quintessential Adirondack village, leaf peeping in the High Peaks reminded me of yet another Essex exception. While most are quick to focus on Essex’s historic and architectural distinction, our climate is often overlooked as are the ways that nature and agriculture are affected by our often milder weather. The richness of life in Essex in no small part hinges upon the proximity to both.
Adirondacks vs. Adirondack Coast
I close this meandering reflection on Adirondack fall foliage with a forty five minute bicycle ride I enjoyed mid-day on Monday. I had pedaled away from Essex shortly after lunch, headed due west toward the Adirondack foothills. The weather in Essex was sunny and warm with a light breeze. There were clouds in the sky but not indication that I would encounter adverse weather conditions.
The Day the Gingko Leaves Fell (Photo: G.G. Davis, Jr.)
But I did. As I gained in altitude the temperature dropped steadily and the wind increased. The clouds thickened and I became more and more aware of the humidity. I was bicycling quickly, laboriously uphill, so the dropping temperatures were compensating for my overheating body. And then it began to rain. Not a downpour, but a steady, cold drizzle. Wind in my face. Colder still. I reached the furthest point in my loop and turned southward and then eventually eastward back toward Essex.
When I dropped in elevation and swapped woods for fields, the rain and wind subsided. The clouds thinned. Sunshine made it’s way through enough to restore vibrant autumn colors to the landscape. As I rode past Full and By Farm I realized that the temperature had also changed. The air was warming. Was I imagining it? I paid closer attention. By the time I started my final descent into Essex from the intersection of Middle Road and NYS Rt. 22 it was clear. The air was growing warmer the closer I got to Lake Champlain. In just over a dozen pedaled miles I had witnessed a range of at least 10 degrees Fahrenheit.
No wonder our Essex fall foliage is a week or two behind the High Peaks!
In the spring and summer of 2006, when Susan and I took a leap of faith and made the decision to pursue Rosslyn as our future home, it was apparent to both of us that we were biting off considerably more than we could chew.
Dream big. Dream a little bigger. And then leap!
From leaping capriciously, optimistically, idealistically, and oh-so romantically into this Rosslyn adventure 16 years ago to an eventual and inevitable untethering at some point in the future, Susan and I have courted an unconventional but rewarding existence. In a sense we’ve never stopped leaping.
Now with 20/20 hindsight (and a decade and a half of years of lessons learned and humility earned) I’m comfortable admitting that we got in over our heads. Waaayyy over our heads. Our skillset and our checkbook were too lean; our romantic outlook and our self confidence were too stout. Needless to say, that’s a fraught combination. But I wouldn’t change a single thing. Well, maybe a few things…
I envisioned Rosslyn’s rehabilitation as an adventure, a risky adventure, but an adventure well worth the risk (and the 100% investment it would take, not the least of which was our undivided time and energy.) Rosslyn would become our love affair, our work and play, our vocation and avocation, and — despite a resolute decision early in our relationship to embrace unclehood and aunthood while remaining childfree — Rosslyn would become our surrogate child.
In due course, heck, practically from day one, Rosslyn would eclipse literally everything else in our lives. That’s truly not an exaggeration. And, in all candor, it wasn’t particularly wise on our part. If we could do it again, we would try harder to define and observe boundaries. We would create actual limits. We would take breaks. Or at least, we tell each other that that’s what we would do differently. We would try to create boundaries. We would try to take breaks.
But you can’t un-live life. And regrets are uncomely.
Re-examining life, however, is not only possible. In this case it’s prerequisite to the task at hand. The tasks at hand…
Rosslyn Dock House, by Melissa Davis
Leaping
Today Susan and I are longer-term Rosslyn residents — by a factor of four! — than even our most unbridled expectations at the outset. And yet we struggle to untether ourselves from our adventure fairytale with this home, property, and community. In the months ahead I’ll explore this curious connection with place, with an old house that became our home, with a community that beguiled us from the outset and wove us into its enchanting tapestry, and also with the fact that we originally envisioned this chapter of our lives as a temporary transition, a wholesome regrouping, and how challenging it has been to separate ourselves from Rosslyn, and from this community. The complex liminal space we envisioned Rosslyn becoming way back in 2006 was not ready to graduate us after three of four years as we’d originally anticipated. And today Rosslyn’s remarkable liminality is once again catalyzing profound and important growth for us. Transformation is omnipresent, not only at Rosslyn, but everywhere. We’re living through many levels of concurrent transition. And Rosslyn, as she has since 2006, is guiding us, nurturing us, and preparing us for what awaits us down the road.
Today’s post, though rambling and unwieldy, comes at a time when we are brainstorming and daydreaming and contemplating what it would look like to untether and disembark on a new adventure. The vision is still forming, the seed still germinating. But you’re invited to join us as we contemplate and eventually cast off.
Bur first, before introducing the wonders we’re currently navigating, let’s hopscotch through a few earlier posts that refresh our memory about how this marvelous tale began.
Rooted in a personal shift from wanderlust to houselust, I spent 2003 through 2005 recognizing that I was thinking differently about home and community.
I’d made it into my early thirties without owning a home due to my intentionally peripatetic lifestyle, and despite an aesthete’s appetite for buildings and furnishing and gardens, I hadn’t the least interest in settling down. No biological clock ticking. No nesting instinct. No yen for taxes and maintenance and burst pipes and snow shoveling. No desire whatsoever for the trappings of a settled, domestic life. I understood why it appealed to others, but for me the commitments and encumbrances far outweighed the pride and financial wisdom of home ownership.
Until recently.
Something had changed, and I couldn’t quite figure out how or why. (Source: Paris Renovation Bug)
Perhaps for nostalgic reasons I began looking at forgotten farms, bygone barns, meandering stone walls hemming in overgrown fields…
The perfect place, I explained to Bruce, the friend and realtor who shuttled me from property to property, would be a small, simple farmhouse in the middle of fields with a sturdy barn and some acreage, maybe a stream or a pond or access to a river. Barns, in particular, pulled me. Secluded places with good light and views, forgotten places with stories still vaguely audible if you slowed down long enough to hear the voices. No loud traffic. An old overgrown orchard, perhaps. Asparagus and rhubarb gone feral near the barn. Stone walls, lots of stone walls and maybe an old stone foundation from a building long ago abandoned, the cellar hole full to bursting with day lilies. A couple of old chimneys in the farmhouse with fireplaces. A simple but spacious kitchen. A bedroom with plenty of windows. A room to read and write and collage the walls with notes, lists, photos, drawings and scraps. Someplace I could tinker at myself, gradually restoring the walls and plaster and roof. Timeworn wide plank floorboards of varying widths that I would sand by hand to avoid erasing the footpaths and dings and cupping from a burst pipe years before. (Source: Serene, Patinaed Fantasy)
As Susan became more and more interested in my North Country real estate search, we both began to imagine what it would look like to spend more time in a place that pulled us like poetry, viscerally if sometimes inexplicably.
“I’d be living a green lifestyle in the Adirondacks too. I love it here. I’d be thrilled to live here for a few years.” Peripatetic by nature, I enjoyed relocating every three to four years. Having grown up in the Adirondacks, mostly in the Champlain Valley, I had long yearned to reconnect, not just for vacation or a weekend. (Source: Postprandial Soak)
Projecting our lifestyle fantasies onto the tapestry of the Adirondacks’ Champlain Valley became a constant pastime.
We could waterski and windsurf for half the year instead of just two or three months, starting in May with drysuits and finishing in the end of October. We could sail the Hobie Cat more instead of letting it collect spider webs on the Rock Harbor beach. I could fly fish the Boquet and Ausable Rivers in the afternoon while Tasha snoozed on the bank. We could join Essex Farm, the local CSA, supporting a local startup while eating healthy, locally grown and raised food. I could grow a vegetable garden, an herb garden, an orchard. Susan could work for an architecture firm in Burlington and volunteer at the animal shelter. We could buy season passes to Whiteface and downhill ski several days a week. We could cross country ski and snowshoe and bike and rollerblade and kayak and canoe and hike, and maybe I would start rock climbing again… [With] our collective brainstorm leap frogging forward, it all started to make a strange sort of sense, to seem almost logical. (Source: Almost Logical)
Susan and I loved to tell stories, and increasingly we were beginning to insert ourselves into the intoxicating plot of a co-authored fairytale nestled into the Adirondack foothills, rebooting our lives and our work in a more intentional, healthier, happier way. Creating a new chapter together.
“Are you serious? Would you really want to live at Rosslyn?” Susan persisted.
I was unclear whether she was horrified or excited. I had made the suggestion spontaneously, without forethought, and now I felt embarrassed. I knew the idea was absurd. We both knew it made no sense at all. And yet we had returned to see the house again that morning. A second visit to a house we had already decided not to buy. Why? It exerted an inexplicable pull for both of us. It had awakened our imaginations, our fantasies, our hopes.
“No. And yes,” I said, hedging. “No, I’m not really serious. I just suggested it off the cuff. It’s probably the stupidest idea ever, or at least the least serious idea ever. But yes, there is a side of me that would love to live at Rosslyn. I’ve felt it each time we’ve visited the house. I’m not sure I can explain it…”
“You don’t need to,” Susan said. She was beaming. “I agree.” She rose out of the bath and wrapped a towel around her broad shoulders. “What a dream it would be, to live in that grand old home!” (Source: We could live at the Rosslyn)
Little by little we were talking ourselves, talking each other into a transformation that would encompass virtually every aspect of our lives. It didn’t happen overnight, but the possibilities we were conjuring had begun to eclipse our desire to stay in Manhattan, my desire to return to Europe, and our realistic sense that anything else in the world could possibly make as much sense as relocating to the western shores of Lake Champlain to build a home together.
