Between a Rock and a Safe Place
By Paul Greenberg, Safina Center Senior Fellow
Photo by Paul Greenberg
It was the rock that caught my eye. Dappled with lichen and lighted by the afternoon sun, it appeared to be the perfect place for contemplation. A spot where you could sit and write your novel, ponder your place in the universe, and perhaps reach some kind of equilibrium with the planet.
I came upon the rock right as I was about to give up my hunt for land. Like many people in the last few years, I cannot stop thinking about escape. Escape from the pandemic, escape from the bad news of climate change, escape from the constant dread of what was to come next. I found myself imagining an ideal corner of the world where I might at the very least have a few moments peace from the human onslaught that seems to be upending everything that we think of as natural.
And so, I began looking for that corner in the Adirondack Mountains of New York state. Why the Adirondacks? As I explained in an article for Adirondack Life Magazine the Adirondacks appear to be something of a safe haven. North enough to insulate themselves from ever harsher summers, high enough to have an additional buffer—things get a about 1.5 Celsius cooler for every 1000 feet of elevation—the region is a good bet for at least some modicum of coolness.
There’s also the issue of water. In an era where aquifers are emptying and demands increasing from all sides, a well-watered place may be as important as a cool place for any kind of future redoubt. The Adirondacks have abundant lakes and rainfall well above the national average. Most models predict an even wetter Adirondacks in the future.
Of course, too much water can be just as bad. 2011’s devastating Hurricane Irene turned the quaint, trout-famous Ausable River into a raging torrent as wide in some places as the lower reaches of the Mississippi. Homes were swept away. Entire villages were turned into islands.
So whatever piece of land I’d pick would have to be relatively free and clear of all that.
The problem was that many people had had the same ideas. Throughout 2020 and 2021 a land rush the likes of which hadn’t been seen in the North Country since 9/11 swept over the sparsely populated landscape. Parcel after parcel was selling out from under my feet. No sooner would I come upon an acre or two that was in the sweet spot of close to a river and high enough to avoid a flood than it disappeared from the market. I started to resign myself to the fact that I might never own a retreat.
And that’s when I came across the rock, tucked on a parcel beside a country road a hundred feet above the Ausable River. A rusty For Sale sign nailed to a birch posited its availability. A rock is supposedly an inanimate object. But I could hear it clearly speaking to me. “Come here,” it said. “Sit here with me. I’ll listen.” I sat. I listened. I spoke. I made up my mind.
I made some calls. I did some research. There was an issue with the deed. A couple from Queens had bought it decades ago, planning a retreat of their own, no doubt. In the intervening time their Flushing neighborhood had been soaked in Hurricane Sandy. Then the husband had died. Then the wife. Neither ever made their escape to the Adirondacks. The taxes had been left unpaid and the town had repossessed the parcel. If I bought the land, I’d have to wait a year for the title to clear to make sure no one rose up to reclaim the lost legacy. I made a cash offer. It was quickly accepted. After a year everything fell into place. The land and the rock were mine.
Except there was just one problem. After the surveyor did the final map the line he drew to mark the eastern boundary fell two feet shy of the rock.
My rock it turns out is not, and will never be, my rock. The rock sits in the set-back between me and my nearest neighbor. Both of us have the right to look at the rock but neither of us have any agency over it.
Fair enough. Because when you think about it, who really and truly can say that they own a piece of land? Land precedes us and silently endures long beyond our short tenure. This is all fine with me.
Just because I don’t own that rock, doesn’t mean we can’t still talk from time to time.