Upstate and The Rooney

When someone says “New York,” the top of mind thought is New York City, a place so great they had to name it twice. New York, New York. The Big Apple, the home of skyscrapers and everything metropolitan and then some. New York City has been mentioned many times as the unofficial capitol of the world. You can find someone from everywhere in the world here. Many people from other parts of the country don’t even know that there is another quite viable part of the Empire State. We’re not talking about a “Tale of Two Cities” but two completely separate cultures akin to different nations on separate continents. Most everyone in the region calls this bucolic wonderland, simply “Upstate”. I can’t think of two parts of one state that are so different, that it’s hard to believe that they actually reside within the same borders. Upstate New York could actually drop “New York” and just be called “Upstate” and everybody in the region would know what and where you’re talking about. It’s a good thing the capital of New York...ahem…the state...is located in Upstate, or else these hardy uplanders would be short shrifted in government representation.

There are essentially four regions to Upstate, the Catskills, the Adirondacks, The Finger Lakes and Western New York State, including Buffalo and I guess you could throw in Rochester way up there on the shores of Lake Ontario. Every one of these regions is filled with natural beauty and a combination of rolling hills, bona-fide mountains and farm themed country sides that make you want to sing Old MacDonald.

In the 1980’s, a group of us from the aforementioned legendary group of friends made an annual pilgrimage from New Jersey to a blue grass festival on Rooney Mountain, near the hamlet of Deposit. The event’s motto was “This Ain’t No Picnic” and was dubbed The Rooney Fest. The best way to describe where this music fest took place is to say it was somewhere north of Binghamton and south of Syracuse. Eccentricity was the theme of this festival that took place faithfully on the first weekend of August annually. I had a t-shirt from every one. We would caravan up on a Thursday prior to stake out our usual camping spot to be occupied until late Sunday. Every year it was four days of music and mud. Rain never failed to fall in any given year. The Colonial Campers always set up in the big field by setting up an actual living room complete with colonial furniture…lamps, coffee and end tables included. The whole arrangement was placed on a large oval rug and power supplied by a portable gas generator under a rather large blue tarp.

We always camped next to the Santori brothers from Garden State Fireworks. Every year they brought a “Treasure Chest” filled with commercial grade fireworks. This is where I had lessons in being a pyrotechnic. A few of us would trek across the big field with cast iron mortar tubes, shovels…and the Treasure Chest. After the trenches were dug, the mortar tubes were carefully placed in the ground and back filled with dirt to insure a sturdy launch. The fireworks themselves were called “4 inchers”, cylindrical bombs about 12 to 14 inches long and 4 inches in diameter. One would drop the firework in the tube and pull the long wick out. With about 6 loaded tubes, the first was lit and just as you would yell “fore” after a hearty golf swing, the yell here was “fire in the hole!” At that time, the fuse would burn down quickly and you would feel that vibrating concussion as the missile left the tube and headed for the heavens, exploding with colorful delight accompanied by a chorus of ooohs and ahhhs from the audience. I learned at that point why Pyros are kind of crazy. The feeling of the concussion so close at hand is indescribable. It makes you nuts. Once in a while one of the fireworks would mis-fire and go off early, raining down fire and ashes from about twenty feet overhead. One had to be mindful of the possibility of burning clothing and hair. Occupational hazards as they may be.

The long Rooney weekend would end by everyone deliberately wetting down the area in front of the stage with coolers and buckets of cow wash water to make the perfect mud to dance in. I have a picture of a fellow dancing in the mud with a cardboard cut-out of Marilyn Monroe. One dandy guy and girl were dancing with watermelon rind helmets fashioned with duct tape holding the cranial contraption together. Such Kodak moments. Go figure. Those two are probably parents today, trying to explain normal behavior to their children. After the mud dance, it was time to mud it on home.

All good things must come to an end, and so too did the Rooney Fest. Seems one participant wandered off from the party one night and drowned in a nearby cow pond. As is the case in today’s world, the law suits flew and the beloved festival was shot down like a dead duck for future generations. So sad.

Other times in the 80’s, we camped out at our old pal Cindy Chuvala’s 75 acre farm near Rhinebeck, New York in the Catskills. Windham Hill Mountain was quite visible in the distance. We positioned our tents and RVs in a wide open meadow and swam in the crystal clear Catskill Creek on the southern border to her property. A fun event was building a mammoth bond fire and baking fresh ears of Silver Queen corn in the wood coals…husk and all. The nights were filled by sitting around eating corn and telling stories.
The drive on the New York Thruway straight across Upstate is unspoiled for the most part clear clean across from Buffalo to Albany. Ride north to the Adirondacks to Plattsburgh and you’ll find some of the most scenic roads in America. My friend Bob Stoekert owns a campground near Plattsburgh near Lake Champlain, across from Vermont and a stone’s throw from Canada. Bob will be more than happy to tell you all about the benefits of camping in Upstate. I’m looking forward to trying out his corner of the world.

As I left Syracuse to pick up a load headed to Ohio, I was treated to some of the most scenic winding country roads I’ve ever seen in Upstate. The sky was overcast and the landscape was blanketed by a fresh overnight snow fall…not a lot…maybe an inch, just enough to make it all look so seasonal. Wispy gray smoke wafting from chimneys in the chilly morning air could probably be traced back to a cozy hearth. I passed through the village of Woodstock and thought of another mud-fest I was too young to attend many years ago. I could picture myself hiking into the countryside with an axe on shoulder in search of a fresh and perfect Christmas tree.

So, I vote heartily for Upstate. Don’t miss this crown jewel of the Northeast. I’ll will return.