When I am here by myself, I spend some time hiking to a small hill about halfway around Mirror Lake. It’s called Cobble Hill, and the remains of a long-ago abandoned rope tow can still be found among the woods there.
It’s small compared to the giants that surround Lake Placid. A mere 2331 feet above sea level and exactly three miles from the front porch of our house.
It is one of the many places Kathy and I would visit when she was still healthy enough for long walks. The path passes by a small lake, then climbs through eleven switch-backs to a bald summit with panoramic views of Mount Marcy and its surrounding peaks.
We hiked a lot in the Adirondacks. She liked Panther, tolerated Ampersand and Baker, but did not care for Cascade. She preferred walks that ended at waterfalls.
I do other things to help with my journey away from a terrible summer.
I am slowly working my way through her record collection, playing an album or two while eating dinner or breakfast. She liked Harry Chapin, Billy Joel, and Karen Carpenter. Godspell was her favorite musical.
Other things bring back smiles. Her favorite radio station is still pre-set as the first button on the car stereo. The new furniture that she picked out months ago, finally arrived fourteen weeks too late. I water her plants to keep them healthy, as best I can.
We buried Kathy near Niagara Falls, next to the graves of her father and her brother. I will visit as often as I can. Until then, I will remember her on sunny day walks to the top of a small hill next to a pretty lake just three miles from the front porch.