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The Adirondacks, the playground of the north, was empty in the September heat. All of its playmates had gotten bored, broke, or had other things to attend to as summer turned to fall. Stores were closed, or tired from the boredom of waiting. At some point, life would come back. Whether October, winter, or next summer, life would be coming back. But no one knew for sure, so in the meantime, it was time to wait, and everything was on hold, waiting for life to begin again as it hibernated away. That was the way to see it if everything was determined by man, if everything that was here thought the same way as the stores that said "Closed". The water still was ebbing and flowing, the trees were going through their autumnal metamorphosis, and the birds and wildlife were going about their usual migratory habits. They weren't all that aware that tourists had come and gone, or if they did, it altered nothing. They couldn't tell that locals were the only thing holding the economy of small towns forgotten in the rush of schedules. They had their own schedules to hold, and though many of them too were planning to go, the yellow school bus held no deadline to them. The waning sun would tell them when to go. So for now, they were still here. The wind, the sun and the water, well, they had a schedule just as important as well, but these seconds that passed in their time meant nothing to them. Water sculpted the sand, wearing the rocks down with age of eons. I didn't know if the sand here at Northampton Beach was natural, or if it was some artistic creation of New York State to create a sandbox for children and adults alike. Nature was something both unpredictable yet sanitized in the modern world, and it was so common that its synthesis could appear like the real thing. Or perhaps, it was more of a question of saying, what was the difference anyway? Mankind had been altering things for so long, what was the difference between nature and make-believe? After all, everything came from the earth anyway. May as well say bread wasn't natural because it wasn't raw wheat. So if the state moved sand from here or it didn't, what difference did it make? Here there was sand, wind, rocks and trees all for your enjoyment and to create lungs for a modern world choking on itself. Why ask why or how?  To say, let's go to the Adirondacks is a vague, spacious kind of thing. Even with devices intended to shrink your search like cars to lessen travel time and Google Earth to pick your destination down to the acre, there's a lot to choose from. It's a big place, the Adirondacks. Six million acres, to be exact. It's one of those parks that has designations like Forever Wild and Low Intensity Use, small towns and hotels, woods and beaches all coexisting with bears, deer and other kinds of neighbors. I'd been there here and there, rushing past Saranac Lake and Sacandaga River. Some rapids were there somewhere, like panning for gold deep in the mountains. So after all that, through the twists and turns that lead through sleepy hamlets hibernating until the next tourist season, somehow the rapids were lost and we followed the signs that led us to Northampton Beach. If you want to find Northampton Beach on your Magellan GPS or your Street Atlas program, it's at the north end of the Great Sacandaga Lake in the Adirondacks. Taking NY 30 is the best bet, but NY 30, while running parallel to the lake, doesn't really give a front row view of the place. It's more like being stuck in the mezzanine section with three rows of people who are a foot taller sitting in front of you. There are turns to side roads that act as aisles taking you to the lower rows. Still, most of these places are still stuck several rows behind the front, as the houses that align the shore take precedence. Fair enough; I don't begrudge anyone a prized view. 
But for you, the traveler looking for a place to rest and enjoy the water, you must look hard for the beach turnoff, because it comes and goes quickly. We wound up driving back and forth getting annoyed at the happy sign that told us the Northampton Beach was right down this road. After all, we'd seen one sign on NY 30, and that was it. Now we were driving past modular homes, trailers, and beachhouses all crowded together, craning for their view of the beach. We drove past a golf course, complete with carts driving on the road like it was their own bumper car ride. Still, no additional signs pointing us anywhere near a beach. If they just wanted us to go away and not bother the locals it wasn't the best idea, because we were stuck here driving back and forth looking for the beach. We were caught in a limbo between the main road and our destination, the whole rock and a hard place, or in this case, a wood and an iron. Would you like tee with that?
There was a large parking lot that showed up like a bit character in a movie, heading in the direction of the beach. We didn't know what it was, because no sign seemed evident, but since this place seemed to be a better contender for public beach parking than someone's driveway, we decided to give the place a try. Better than driving back and forth looking like someone who misplaced the putting green. Deeper we drove until we saw the water come closer in view. There were larger parking spots for those with boats and smaller ones for those without, most of them being empty. Shade surrounded everything, and towards the front the lot gave way to dirt. With the drier weather wearing it smooth, it seemed no more different than parking on the concrete further down. If this wasn't the beach we were looking for, it was an adequate replacement, because there was sand and water and that seemed good enough to me right now. 
Even though it was later September, just on the verge of autumn here in northern New York, the temperature was in the low eighties, creating a state of deception that made one want to jump in the water despite the autumnal attire of the trees. Instead, we walked the perimeter of the beach and stood by the shore as the lake quietly lapped. It sounded like a puppy drinking water, nursing itself in the rhythm of a whisper. Everything was set up for a perfect fantasy of being at a deserted beach, except for the inconvenience of a jackhammer dominating the floor with an angry insistence. As we walked, we saw some kind of construction being done by state workers. I didn't really register what they were trying to do, only that they were trying to do it. The yelling of the machinery, albeit in the distance, was a reminder of the arts and crafts entailed to keep this quaint piece of nature available to beach goers like myself. Besides, we weren't supposed to be here anyway. We were supposed to go the way of all tourists, home. This was off-season, like going to a store after hours. What do you think the hired help do when the doors are closed to the public, sit in Zen silence?
The indifference of human actors took nothing away from the beach itself. Even in this restful state, the sand felt soft and welcoming, the water sparkled in the sun, and the trees provided shade and shelter. If you wanted, you could go to those woods where the picnic tables were, and no one would even see you on the beach. We went back and forth between the trees and the sand, encountering only one person as we walked the shore. As we came to the end of the beach, we encountered a channel where the water streamed from. A concrete boat ramp was there, and boaters congregated here in groups and with their toys, their energy reflecting and eagerness to shed this adult mode of looking responsible with their cars and being kids on the water with their boats. 
Concrete led us back to where we came from, to the parking spot that awaited us, and our meeting with the beach was over for now. But it still was there. Summer might be over, and we might leave, but the beach was still there no matter what the season. Hiding in the woods away from the state highway, it continued its journey as did all the tourists who encountered it, ready to play when the guests came to visit it once again.
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