Where obsessions intersect

New York’s trail registers haven’t changed in generations: hunter-green metal boxes on cement posts. Hinged covers that drop to form a temporary woodland desk. Binders stuffed with pages wide enough to fit hikers’ names, addresses, phone numbers (surprisingly, most people still provide them), times, dates, number in party, destination and “notes.”

People sign in their dogs (Jay, Matt + Wolfie), share brief impressions (clouds blocking view today), or give fair warning (rattlesnake under giant hemlock quarter mile on left). Thousands of these entries, made in different inks and scripts over months and years by hikers from around the state and around the world, effectively make New York’s trail registers collective works of art. Some trails (not managed by New York) offer only QR codes stapled to posts. But in the deep valleys where most trailheads are found and where phones go dead, pen and paper are the apex technology. And we are the richer for it. Tom and I sometimes linger over the register to get a sense of who’s on the trail and how far they’ve come.

Frustratingly, trailhead registers tend to be stocked with inkless ballpoints, springless retractables and pencil stubs worn down to the ferrule. I am a pen obsessive but never seem to have one upon realizing that none of the writing implements left to us will make even the faintest impression.

So I’ve brought together two problem areas of my life – the trailhead pen deficit and my embarrassingly large pen surplus – for a win. For too long I kept buying pens, although I rarely use them (except to sign funeral registers, when I resist the urge to dig through my purse and use whatever’s chained to the desk to show that my mind is on the Dearly Departed and not on My Favorite Pen); or to fill out forms at the doctor’s office (a joyless exercise that deserves no better than the Bic Stic provided).

I keep my big bag o’ pens near my backpack to make sure I take some to the trail. I brought some lovely gel pens to Peekamoose and dropped them among the misfits – one of which attracted my notice, with its shapely red barrel and gold lettering. I picked it up for my usual sign-in, Pettinato Chergotis....

The ink unspooled from the nib so smoothly, I almost cried. If crème fraiche were a pen, it would be this pen. I was sure that, like Bragi’s Golden Harp, it would confer upon the user divine skill. As it pulled my hand across the page, I thought about all the masterpieces I would write, effortlessly and forever. But – I was horrified to discover – the red-barreled beauty was a promotional pen for a food truck in Roscoe. I couldn’t just order one! Panic. I’ll chase the food truck down. No. If I wanted it, I had to steal it.

Tom was staring at me. We know each other so well! He saw the look on my face as I turned the red pen over in my unmittened hand. He caught me stroking the grip and clicking the plunger. Tha-thunk. So satisfying.

He thought my pen obsession was under control. If he saw me palm this one, he’d know I was backsliding. I took a breath and put the pen back. Nothing final, I told myself. It’ll be here when we get back. I have about six hours to think.

The mountain was quiet on this late autumn day. The social media-generated crowds have hit Peekamoose hard, especially in summer, mostly because of the Blue Hole, a once-obscure natural swimming pool at the base of the mountain. When we first started hiking Peekamoose, its only infrastructure, besides the trailhead register, was a tiny pull-off that rarely filled. Now there’s a new 60-car parking lot a half-mile away, a clutch of port-a-potties, several informational kiosks, flashing electronic message boards, and, in summer, rangers checking that you’ve made your online reservation. A hideous fringe of metal posts line Peekamoose Valley Road to block the parked cars that had been piling up. These sad changes have kept us away.

We found the mountain much the same, but different too. People have started carving up the trees (hearts, penises, that sort of thing). Invasive plants are taking over some sections. The drought made the whole place seem brittle. But as I climbed higher, reaching for the roots and rocks I knew would be there, I was happy to be with my old friend Peekamoose again. Tom and I stopped for lunch at the view just below the summit, a panorama now partially concealed by branches. But with the leaves down, you can see the peak-ringed valley just fine.

We slipped down the mountain as the sun set gently around us. I hadn’t thought about pens for a while. Hiking a 3,819-foot mountain like Peekamoose is enough to spike any obsession. As we approached the trail register, I asked Tom, airily, “Would you sign us out please?”

SNEAK PEEK

Trailhead: Peekamoose Valley Road (CR-42) in Sundown Wild Forest, Denning, N.Y. Permits are required in summer and may be purchased at reserveamerica.com.
Trail: Peekamoose-Table Trail
Blazes: Blue
Length: 3.9 miles each way (out and back)