Tag: Essex

Champy Spotted at Essex Ferry Dock (circa 1980?)

Champy spotted at Essex ferry dock?!?! Once upon a time…

Champy Spotted at Essex Ferry Dock (Photo: Kathryn Reinhardt)

I’m gambling that it was around 1980 for no reliable reasons except the look and condition of the Old Dock Restaurant, the presence of ice shanties on a throughly frozen lake with no ferry canal, and the incredibly well executed snow/ice sculpture just north of the Essex ferry dock. It’s this last one that triggered a cascade of memories and lead me to hope that the photograph was taken by Jan Peden around 1980. More on that in a moment.

I make no effort to disguise my enthusiasm for hyperlocal ephemera and other artifacts, especially yesteryear photographs and other representations of our fair village. So you just might be able to imagine my excitement when I received this message from friend and neighbor, Kathryn “Kathy” Reinhardt.

Sorting papers and I found two Essex postcards you might like. One of the Split Rock lighthouse with a postmark and message from 1910. The other card was not used and shows the snow covered ferry dock with a frozen Champ swimming alongside. Photo is by Jan Peden; card was published by ECHO.” — Kathryn Reinhardt

I’ll get to the historic image of the Split Rock Lighthouse in a moment, but let’s pause a moment to appreciate the legendary Lake Champlain monster (aka “Champ”, “Champy”).

Champy & Nostalgia

I’m hoping that this post might rekindle community memory enough to learn who helped sculpt this superb likeness of our favorite surviving dinosaur. The uninitiated may remember Champy from the Sid Couchey painting/illustration of the friendly monster cavorting off the end of Rosslyn’s boathouse. I shared it waaayyy back on April 27, 2012, so it’s say it’s time for a resurface.

Champy in front of Rosslyn’s boathouse (Art: Sid Couchey)

Ostensibly a cousin to the Lock Ness monster, our Lake Champlain mystery monster is considered a myth by some, a fundamental fact by others. Happy hour sightings along the lake’s waterfront apparently offer particularly plausible viewing opportunities, though I’ll admit having never witnessed the friendly fellow (or is Champy a she?).

I suggested earlier that my instinct to date this postcard photograph sometime near 1980 derives from vivid memories of the years prior to and after the 1980 Winter Olympics which took place in Lake Placid. I was a boy, so my memories are likely ripened with nostalgia, but it seems that there was community-wide embrace of winter in those years. Likely catalyzed by preparations for the Olympics and then the afterglow, it seems that there were abundant winter happenings — toboggan runs, outdoor jogging contests, cross country ski races, skating rinks, fish fries with freshly caught smelt, and snow sculptures — that drew people outside into the out-of-doors from community revelry. I remember competing in a cross-country ski race on the Westport Country Club golf course, and “red nose runs” in Elizabethtown. I remember fish fries at the old Westport beach, and the most horrifyingly thrilling toboggan chute down the hill and out onto the frozen lake. I believe that much of these memories are clumped around an annual midwinter event that was called the Westport Outdoor Weekend (WOW). And one of my favorite parts of this annual festival was the snow sculpture contest. Homes throughout the area competed for the bet snow sculpture. We used to drive around and admire them all. I believe I recall the Valley News even showcasing winners some years. And so this flood of nostalgia underpins my suspicion that this handsome facsimile of Champy might date to those years.

It’s interesting to me that the postcards, produced by ECHO, drew attention to the Essex-Charlotte ferry pier and history of service without a more inclusive mention of the Essex waterfront or the handsome snow sculpture!

Back side of Champy at Essex ferry dock postcard (Photo: Kathryn Reinhardt)

Split Rock Light

Let’s turn now to the second postcard that Kathy sent me. Although I and others usually refer to the historic lighthouse presiding over the dramatic geographic promontory jutting out into Whallons Bay as the Split Rock Lighthouse, I’ve notice this older references, especially the further back into history they fall, refer to it as Split Rock Light. That’s neither here nor there, but I find those little linguistic shifts intriguing.

1910 postcard depicting Split Rock Lighthouse (Photo: Kathryn Reinhardt)

I recently shared an almost identical postcard of the Split Rock Light, likely created from the same source photograph. The coloring, layout, and captioning differs between the two, but I imagine both images were late at the end of the 19th or beginning of the 20th century and then repurposed. It’s a compelling angle, especially because this same view today is less open. Here’s the postcard that I published on November 21, 2022.

Split Rock Light, Essex, NY (Vintage Postcard)

It’s fun to flip back and forth between the two images to see what’s similar and what differs. Back in November I was struck then as well by how thinly forested the Split Rock Light grounds were at the time.

The historic lighthouse located at Split Rock in Essex, NY reigns over a promontory bearing a curious resemblance to an arboretum, more landscaped and less wild than today. A copse of diverse specimen trees here, a granite outcrop there, a grassy bluff here,… I can’t help but see a sort of Split Rock botanical garden. (Source: This is Not a Metaphor)

That notable difference with the same location a century or so later vies for my attention, but so too does the message on the reverse of the postcard that Kathy sent.

In many respects this is the most formulaic, most universal postcard missive. We’ve all read (and possibly written) versions of this, right? But there’s a personal pleasure in the final two lines:

Having a delightful sail on this. — B.H.

As a boater in general, and a sailor in particular, this subtle sign-off hooks me. So often Susan and I spy this beautiful, historically significant spot by boat, and often by sailboat. So even though B.H. mostly went through the motions in the message area of the card, the fading memory of a sail on Lake Champlain, indeed on the enchanting broad-lake-to-narrows transition, appeals to my romantic imagination.

Back side of 1910 postcard depicting Split Rock Lighthouse (Photo: Kathryn Reinhardt)

I’d best conclude this post (definitively in need of an editor!) before I wander too much further afield. And yet I can’t resist acknowledging that one of the great satisfactions of these artifacts is not just the bridge across time, but the invitation to meander. To wonder and wander. And this post is proof that meandering is a favorite pastime for yours truly.

Thank You, Kathy!

This Rosslyn blog and the Essex community blog have been meaningful projects in large part because they have catalyzed a sort of community crowdsourcing, gathering all sorts of curious anecdotes, memories, stories, renderings, and relics from current and past members of Essex and environs. Any time I receive a message like the one that Kathy sent, my heart skips a beat. My anticipation builds and builds until the meeting or the phone call or the email or the letter completes the excitement provoked by the initial “teaser”. And so I close off this post with a holiday hug (stretched by distance but invested with bountiful gratitude) for Kathryn “Kathy” Reinhardt.

Kathryn Reinhardt preparing to “polar plunge” on May 1, 2016 (Photo: Geo Davis)

I hope she’ll chuckle good-naturedly at this fun photo that I took a half dozen years ago. It perfectly captures her perennial joy, her contagious laughter, and her warmth. I couldn’t resist mentioning this last 100% accurate description of Kathy’s character because she’s about to take an early springtime plunge into Lake Champlain in the photograph. Brrr…

December 15, 2022
Demolition: Rosslyn Dedux

Rosslyn Demolition, autumn 2006

When it was built it was just right for the times. But it didn’t adapt… Rooms were shut off and fell out of use. Neglect left the paint chipped, with bare wood and brick showing through… rehabilitation fails with no sustainable plan for use. ~ Stef Noble (www.stef.net)

I don’t recollect how I came across Demolition, a blog post by Stef Noble (@stefnoble). I don’t know her. I don’t even know about her. But somehow I stumbled across her reflection on what happens at the end of a building’s life. She ponders demolition, debris, salvage, sensitivity to neighbors and environment. And she wanders into wonders about the transition, preparedness, shelter…

[pullquote]Like an enigmatic poem that continues to resonate long after that first encounter… Stef’s words have hooked me, drawn me back again and again.[/pullquote]

The post moves from conviction and resolve to questions. From “sometimes you find that there is nothing left to save” and “It must be a salvage process” to “What does your shelter look like now?”

It’s a poignant, provocative post despite its brevity and abstraction. I have no idea what or where the building is or even whether the building is a metaphor for something else that’s beyond rehabilitation, something else that must be dismantled sensitively and responsibly before moving on. But like an enigmatic poem that continues to resonate long after that first encounter, inspiring rereading upon rereading, Stef’s words have hooked me, drawn me back again and again.

Noble Demolition & Rosslyn Rehabilitation

At the risk of misappropriation (Sorry!) I have transposed Stef’s wonder to Rosslyn’s endless rehabilitation. Inadvertently. Inevitably.

There are obvious differences. Rosslyn was repeatedly adapted across almost two centuries. From year-round residence to seasonal residence to inn, restaurant and tavern. From Georgian to Federal to Greek Revival to Victorian and back to Greek Revival/Georgian. From stately home and outbuildings to dilapidated, structurally failing buildings more readily, easily, and cost effectively demolished than rehabilitated. Rosslyn adapted.

But rooms fell out of use, and rooms were shut off. A large portion of the rear ell (wing) was removed half a century ago. In fact the rear ell has undergone four or five, maybe even six significant rebuilds and alterations since the 1820s. And the front facade was dramatically altered early in the 1900s when a vast Victorian wraparound porch was added. This lake overlook was removed several decades before Rosslyn became our home.

In short, Rosslyn’s story is first and foremost one of adaption. Repeat adaption. Her perseverance has been at least partly due to her perennial adaptability.

Rosslyn Boathouse, circa 2006

Nevertheless when we were in the final pre-purchase days, the inspector opined that the boathouse and icehouse were probably unrecoverable. Use them while we could or demolish and replace them. There were other eleventh hour surprises that jeopardized the sale too, but demolition as a recommendation was unnerving.

Rosslyn’s boathouse was precisely what I’d fallen for. Tear it down? No chance. And the ice house promised to be the perfect office/studio/playhouse. Think desk, aisle, pool table, bar!

In both cases we forged ahead, prevailing upon the planning board, engineers, contractors (and detractors) that these buildings should be, could be, would be preserved. Underpinning our confidence and our persistence was the conviction articulated so well by Stef Noble:

rehabilitation fails with no sustainable plan for use

In order to ensure that Rosslyn’s iconic boathouse/dock house would continue to welcome ferry passengers to Essex long into the future, it needed to be more than an historic artifact. It needed to be relevant and useful. It needed to adapt.

No longer serving the Kestrel as a boathouse and coal storage facility, the boathouse needed to evolve. It need to become our waterfront, useful and relevant to us. Rosslyn’s boathouse should accommodate our boating and water sports needs. We windsurf. We waterski. We sail. We entertain nieces and nephews and friends who enjoy fishing and playing on the beach and barbecuing…

The sustainable plan for Rosslyn’s boathouse involved adapting the precarious building into a safe, inviting and attractive place of waterfront activity once again. And despite the odds, we prevailed. The boathouse remains the heart and soul of our Rosslyn lifestyle.

And some day — in the still unknown future — I hope that the boathouse will evolve again to satisfy and inspire Rosslyn’s future stewards.

Rosslyn Ice House 2006

The ice house is another story.

We stabilized the failing structure, replaced the failed roof, repaired the crumbling stone foundation and upgraded the mechanicals. But then we mothballed the project, deferring the next phase indefinitely until circumstances warranted moving forward. For several years we’ve used the ice house as a storage and maintenance annex for the carriage barn, but recently we’ve begun to address a sustainable plan for use. I hope to address this in more depth over the course of the next year. But for now, I’ll just say that we understand that simply stabilizing the building is not enough. Successful rehab demands a sustainable plan for use. And we’re working on it!

The carriage barn and house have been rehabilitated and are serving the modern iteration of the original purposes for which they were built. The house is a home. We live and work and entertain at Rosslyn. I genuinely hope that the future is bright for this structure remaining a year-round residence for a long time. And while horses and carriages no longer come and go, the carriage barn is a handsome but utilitarian space for cars and tractors and a colorful parade of property maintenance equipment. There are bicycles and winter storage for kayaks and windsurfers. In a real sense the building has been rehabilitated into a modern “carriage barn”.

If you’re still with me, I apologize for getting carried away. My mind was wandered. And I’ve still fallen short of conveying why exactly Stef Noble’s post continues to resonate for me. I suppose I’m still not 100% certain. But it seems to share some DNA with the adventure my bride and I undertook in the summer of 2006 when we pulled up roots in Manhattan and set down roots in the Adirondacks with the dream of rehabilitating Rosslyn…

Rosslyn Boathouse, circa 2006

Rosslyn Boathouse, circa 2006

Rosslyn Boathouse, circa 2006

Rosslyn Boathouse Detail, circa 2006

Rosslyn Icehouse 2006 (Source: Geo Davis)

Rosslyn Icehouse 2006 (Source: Geo Davis)

Icehouse Demolition, autumn 2006 (Source: Geo Davis)

Icehouse Demolition, autumn 2006 (Source: Geo Davis)

Icehouse Demolition, autumn 2006 (Source: Geo Davis)

November 10, 2014
Connection with Place

Connection with Place (Source: Geo Davis)

I was recently accused, tenderly but definitively, of being obsessed with locale, and more precisely, with my connection to place. As a lifelong wanderer, this struck me as slightly ironic. And accurate.

By now my fixation on hyperlocality and placeness (aka the poetics of place) have become inextricably woven into the entirety of Rosslyn Redux, the robust and resilient fiber that holds it all together, or — as popularized in the parlance of contemporary talking heads — the “connective tissue” of this protracted inquiry into our decision to purchase and rehabilitate Rosslyn as a foundational platform for our small family’s life (and lifestyle) reboot.

From 1999 to 2003 I was living and working in Europe. Mostly Paris, France. But Rome, Italy had become a second base by the end of that exciting chapter, a period that started with teaching and coaching at the American School of Paris and evolved into co-founding and launching Maison Margaux, an exclusive vacation rental startup, and Margaux Europe Group, a boutique travel platform. My business partner and I had based these businesses in New York City, and this third base of my globetrotting existence became even more important in the summer of 2001 when Susan and I discovered one another and tumbled head over heals into an intoxicating transatlantic romance.

In those years I prided myself with what I had dubbed immersion travel rather than tourist travel. The Margaux Project was founded on this distinction. Deep travel. Authentic travel. Meaningful travel. Transformative travel. Human-centric vs. travel brochure scrapbook travel… My love affairs with Paris and Rome (indeed even with New York City) were complex and enriching and multifaceted. We wanted to provide a means for discerning clients to experience Paris, Rome, (and eventually Barcelona, intended at the time to become our third property) with the nuanced richness; genuine, unadulterated texture; and personal intimacy that we had both come to appreciate.

But I was a committed and unabashed global nomad. By choice. By conviction. The dissonance didn’t really phase me at the time!

Wanderlust vs. Connection to Place

This fundamental duality — a peripatetic wanderer drawn to unique locales and connection to place — is at the heart of the thread I call Wanderlust to Houselust. I’ve learned through our Rosslyn years that I am both migratory and rooted. For many years I understood myself as a perennial vagabond, and I celebrated the carefreedom and independence that my work/life amalgam allowed.

But building a loving family and a profoundly fulfilling lifestyle around placeness (Rosslyn, Essex, Lake Champlain, the Adirondacks, the North Country,..) has taught me how important community and connection to place are to me. It’s also helped me understand that I’m not either/or… not nomad OR potted plant.

Life, my life, is more complex than I’d understood despite developing Maison Margaux and Margaux Europe Group around the philosophy of immersion travel — journeying more authentically and meaningfully, interacting rather than travel-skimming. Certainly my need for connection to place was there, but I didn’t recognize what it was. Now I do. And I understand that the meaningful authenticity, the human-to-human interaction, the belonging that had drawn me to a specific type of travel was precisely what fueled my early enthusiasm for living in Essex. It was connection to place that had always enticed me. I just didn’t know it.

September 24, 2022
Contemporary Vintage Boathouse

Vintage boathouse postcard? Or not? (Source: Geo Davis)

Is this a vintage postcard or a recent photograph taken from the ferry dock in Essex, New York?

If you guessed that the image is contemporary, you’re right. It was taken on 29 May 2017. Born a moody, slightly fuzzy phone shot but reborn a tango dancing, filter-upon-filter-upon-filtered vintage postcard wannabe. Or something…

SaveSave

May 30, 2017
De-Icing the Duck Pond

Let me start by saying that we don’t have a duck pond. We have a lake. Lake Champlain.

And although it pains me slightly to say it, we also don’t have any ducks. Not personally, at least. Lake Champlain, on the other hand, has plenty of ducks. And when the lake freezes and the ducks run out of water to swim and eat, we offer them a small “duck pond” in front of Rosslyn boathouse to tide them over until spring. Or at least that’s our current practice.

In the Beginning…

The origin of our “duck pond” is less duck-centric. When we purchased Rosslyn in the summer of 2006 the boathouse perilously teetering on a failing timber and stone crib. The whole peninsular folly was one ice flow away from the grave. In fact, all four buildings were suffering the advanced stages of disrepair. We had to prioritize our attentions that first winter, and the house won out. In the hopes of preserving the boathouse until we could begin rehabilitation, we purchased an Ice Eater to reduce ice damage. It was a long shot. But it worked. The Ice Eater agitated the water at the end of Rosslyn boathouse, preventing ice from forming. It also created a perfect refugee for the ducks. (And the hawks and eagles, but that story for another day…)

The following winter my bride (and many of our new neighbors) insisted that we install the Ice Eater again to ensure that the ducks would have open water. I obliged. Despite the fact that the boathouse now how a solid foundation and is [hopefully] less likely to succumb to ice damage, we continue to maintain a winter “duck pond” each year.

2015 Ice Eater Foibles

Unfortunately in late January pack ice was blown into shore clogging the Ice Eater and eventually sheering both of the propeller blades that agitate the water to prevent freezing. Temperatures were bitterly cold and the lake froze sans “duck pond”. My bride and I were out of town at the time, but concerned messages began to fill my email account.

“Since George has not installed his bubbler this year the Essex ducks are cooperating to keep a pond churned with 100 constantly circling webbed feet. Their pond is a few hundred feet north of George’s boathouse…” ~ S. B.

“Greetings from ‘cool’ Essex. All those mallards are hoping you will turn on your bubbler as the ice is closing in on them and they really don’t want to leave. I was surprised to find them in my yard under the oak tree eating acorns a couple of afternoons. Never knew that could be part of their diet…” ~ D. L.

Reopening the Duck Pond

2015 Duck Pond

I ordered a replacement propeller for the Ice Eater and hustled home to make repairs. By the time I arrived the lake had tightened up (regional expression for frozen solidly) except for the ferry channel where the ducks were congregating, flying up with the comings and goings of the ferry, and then settling back down into the frigid water.

Doug assisted me in repairing the Ice Eater and breaking a small hole in the ice, not much larger than those used by ice fishermen. We suspended the Ice Eater in the hole and plugged it it. It whirred to life, pumping a steady stream of warmer water from the bottom up onto the ice. Within hours the hole had grown large enough to attract some of the ducks. Over the next few days the churning water swelled the hole larger and larger, finally expanding the open water enough to once again qualify as our “duck pond”. As I write this post, literally hundreds of ducks are bobbing wing to wing, beaks into the wind.

That’s the good news.

Can you anticipate the bad news?

February 19, 2015
Essex Horse Nail Company and Wadhams Mills

Envelope from the Essex Horse Nail Co., Limited in Essex, New York.

I spied this intriguing artifact in an eBay auction. It’s a canceled envelope for a letter, invoice, something… sent from the Essex Horse Nail Co., Limited in Essex, New York on August 16, 1898 (year cited in eBay auction, though I’m unable to verify) to Mr. D. J. Payne in Wadhams Mills, New York. It’s a somewhat unremarkable artifact, detritus really, the “wrapper” from correspondence between the village where I live now and the village where I grew up, from the village where the Essex Horse Nail Co. no longer stands (and Rosslyn still does), to the village where “Homeport” still presides over the Boquet River just upstream from a hydroelectric power plant (resurrected on the site of the original Wadhams Mill). Unremarkable, yes, and yet nostalgic. A bridge across almost twelve decades, a dusty handshake between two geographically poignant reference points in my personal journey. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Envelope (back) from the Essex Horse Nail Co., Limited in Essex, New York.

January 26, 2015