by Jessica Kuzmier

     One of the greatest benefits of local traveling is that you can pick the destination you want to see, then just get into the car and go. You don't have to check out State Department warnings. No lines at the airport either. Just pick your destination, and as long as you can get your family sitting in one place for more than two minutes, you can pack everyone up and begin your journey. You could even change your destination without losing expensive deposits. That is how my husband and I wound up going to John Boyd Thacher State Park one particular Sunday in April.

     John Boyd Thacher State Park is located outside Albany, New York. Some of its main attractions are wide views, limestone caves and a waterfall. But what it is most known for is Indian Ladder. This is an irregularly formed escarpment that the native peoples used to make their way through the rugged terrain. Because of all the rock formations, my husband and I decided to visit the place in early spring, before the foliage muted the views. By the map, it was hard to tell if the Indian Ladder was actually in Thacher Park or not. If we could access it, that sounded like it was a cool thing to experience.



     The day we started out for the park was clear, but somewhat hazy, which could be a debatable situation for the quality of photography,. But it was certainly good enough for a drive out to the area. We weren't exactly sure which park we were going to, seeing that Indian Ladder was the ultimate destination, so we could just go somewhere else if the weather was too oppressive. It was a Sunday, which could mean large crowds, but we started out in the morning. If we got there early enough, maybe most of the people would still be at church, Sunday brunch, or sleeping off Saturday night.

     The trip there turned out to be an adventure in itself. To get to the park, we had to drive on minor state highways that seemed to have been designed for extreme driving Hairpin turns hidden in bushes popped out of nowhere; the glare of haze added to the adventure. To add to this, we started to run low on gas. Inexplicably, despite the proximity to Albany, there seemed to be no gas station. The hairpin turns acted as bookends to small hamlets. So at first, despite the obstacle course, civilization acted as a hope for refueling. But hamlet after hamlet passed with no service station. I felt like I was in California, where they have signs saying, "no services for fifty miles", except someone forgot to put up the sign here. So up and down, up and down, swerve here, swerve there, with the fuel gauge dipping precipitously below E. And yet, the hamlets were fairly well populated. I wondered where these good citizens obtained their fuel. Maybe they all worked in Albany and just fueled there. In the meantime, running on fumes was causing more adrenaline than the idea of climbing down a limestone path.



     Eventually, only a couple of miles outside the park, we found a fueling station. There were directional signs pointing to the various parks, and none for the Indian Ladder. There was a place called Thompson's Lake State Park, and a sign for Thacher State Park, but no signs for the Indian Ladder. Since my atlas promised great views in Thacher, it seemed like it would be the best place to start exploring. If it wasn't any good, we could always head over to Thompson. After driving around in circles a couple of times, trying to configure exactly which road led to where, we arrived in Thacher State Park in the late morning.

     By making the trip in April, we could still get in for free, as the state charges a fee from the first weekend in May until Columbus Day. And the Indian Ladder that I had been looking for was part of Thacher Park. Unfortunately, because we were here in April, it meant that we couldn't explore it; Indian Ladder wouldn't open until May 1st because of melting snow. Looking over you could see pockets of ice still there; the sun had not quite dissolved it. It was easy to think that back in the old days the Native people wouldn't have had these types of bureaucracy, to get trapped into idealizing the "old ways". But I knew enough of history to know that if the passage was too difficult, "back in the old days", people, white, Native or otherwise would have said to hold off until better weather. We moderns may not be all that different in that respect.



     So instead, we parked our car and headed towards the cliffs, which were hidden behind rows of trees. You could have a picnic by the parking lot and be completely oblivious to any of the panorama that resided behind it. Because it was so hazy out, it looked like the woods were hiding a beach rather than a limestone cliff. There was a path by the lot, which we followed until we reached the top. This led to another path, one that ran parallel to the cliff with the views. At every step, you could stop and admire the vista. The cliff jutted out, and then past the sheer drop, you could see miles and miles of green pastures and farms. It looked like the Continental Divide smashed up against the Great Plains.

     In fact, to some extent, this is exactly what it was. Somewhere around four hundred million years ago, there had been a sea in this region. The limestone that had been formed was due to the sedimentary deposits Through time and erosion, the sea had gone, and the land was uplifted, creating both the limestone cliffs of Thacher Park, and also the plains that were evident below. There were various caves in the region, which had also formed due to erosion. Some of the caves were known as "Tory Caves", where British troops hid during onslaughts of the patriots during the Revolutionary War.



     Wildlife had been fossilized in the limestone, but also was present now. We'd made it early enough to miss bug season, but there were many turkey vultures circling within the cliff, their hovering glide coming and going with their silent rhythm. I don't know what they were stalking, but the area down below was remote enough that there was probably enough wildlife for them to have a good meal. They seemed to follow us until we circled the bend that led towards the waterfalls. Then they disappeared in a manner that was just as silent as which they came.

     As far as the waterfall, it was easier to hear it than see it. From a distance it almost looked like calcified limestone, as though it had been petrified in time with everything else. There were still patches of ice all around, and at first, not really seeing the movement of the falls, I though I was just seeing a vast sheen of ice. Only as we moved closer and the sound became that much more distinct did it become apparent that I had been viewing the waterfall. The air felt still, and in each place I stopped I felt as though I could stand and stare into the distance for hours, with the mesmerizing sound of the falls beckoning to me.



     And beckon it did. Eventually the trail circumventing the cliff put you directly in the path of the waterfall. Although it was cordoned off so you couldn't jump in a barrel over it, it was only a wood post fence right near the point of drop-off. You could get right up to it and sense the sheer drop of the fall, watching the water as it catapulted far below. To cross the falls, there was a wood bridge if you didn't want to navigate the wet river stones, which is what many people chose to do.

     As we reached the end of the trail, the park was getting more crowded. People sat on the grass talking about work, happy to pass a day in the sun. Couples passed by us on the path, the men relating some business deal that was supposed to go down the next day. People with families opened up picnics, and some people looked through coin-deposit viewfinders to see how far they could see. They stood and talked for awhile, but then moved on. People who brought their dogs caused much excitement for our own dog, who wound up tying his leash around a picnic table in glee. It was amazing that only about a half an hour earlier it was so quiet. But it was Sunday, and those around Albany had showed up for a nice day at the park, just as we had. The sun beat down and gleamed across the canyon, illuminating the waterfall. We hadn't gotten a chance to climb down the Indian Trail, but what we witnessed instead more than made up for it.