September 2015

E E R F wind

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The Lady of the Lakes English Channel Swimmer Bridgette Hobart Janeczko Takes on the Finger Lakes to Promote Her Alma Mater

By Brendan O’Meara

Sunrise Sunset Teach a Kid to Fish Family Tales www.mountainhomemag.com

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Volume 10 Issue 9

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The Lady of the Lakes

“Mags, You Have to Tell the Garage Story!”

By Brendan O’Meara English Channel swimmer Bridgette Hobart Janeczko takes on the Finger Lakes to promote her alma mater.

By Maggie Barnes

You gotta love family—and the moments they will never let you live down.

26

Sunrise, Sunset

By David Milano

6 Get ’Em Hooked

42

By Don Knaus Try fishing for family fun.

Back of the Mountain The dream of summer.

By Sarah Wagaman

21 Egging You On

By Cornelius O’Donnell Have eggs on hand and you’ll never want for a great meal.

Cover by Tucker Worthington; cover photo by Sarah Jean Condon, The Citizen. This page (from top): Courtesy Bridgette Hobart Janeczko; Don Knaus; and Suzan Richar.

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Contributing Writers Maggie Barnes, Patricia Brown Davis, Alison Fromme, Holly Howell, Roger Kingsley, Don Knaus, Cindy Davis Meixel, Fred Metarko, David Milano, Gayle Morrow, Cornelius O’Donnell, Brendan O’Meara, Roger Neumann, Gregg Rinkus, Linda Roller, Kathleen Thompson, Joyce M. Tice C o n t r i b u t i n g P h o t o g r ap h e r s Mia Lisa Anderson, Bernadette Chiaramonte-Brown, Bill Crowell, Bruce Dart, Ann Kamzelski, Nigel P. Kent, Ken Meyer, Tina Tolins, Sarah Wagaman, Curt Weinhold, Terry Wild S a l e s R ep r e s e n t a t i v e s Michael Banik Linda Roller Administrative Assistant Amy Packard T h e B ea g l e Cosmo (1996-2014) Yogi (Assistant)

ABOUT US: Mountain Home is the award-winning regional magazine of PA and NY with more than 100,000 readers. The magazine has been published monthly, since 2005, by Beagle Media, LLC, 25 Main St., 2nd Floor, Wellsboro, Pennsylvania, 16901, and online at www.mountainhomemag.com. Copyright © 2010 Beagle Media, LLC. All rights reserved. E-mail story ideas to editorial@mountainhomemag. com, or call (570) 724-3838.

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The Lady of the Lakes

English Channel Swimmer Bridgette Hobart Janeczko Takes on the Finger Lakes to Promote Her Alma Mater

By Brendan O’Meara

Up for the challenge: Bridgette Hobart Janeczko, accompanied by her husband Bob, swims Canandaigua Lake, the first lake in her bid to swim all of New York’s nine swimmable Finger Lakes in one season.

6

when I’m sixty-one, it’ll be fifty years in swimming and I’m going to do the English Channel.”

She grew up near the shores of the Finger Lakes, fresh waters where the weeds in the shallows reach out and brush your underbelly as if to pull you down beneath the surface.

Hobart was never short of ambition, always an “achiever,” as friends were wont to call her. And everyone

who read the story about her determined goal of swimming for twelve, thirteen, fourteen straight hours from England to France left hoping that she would, in fact, complete the swim.

Her step-grandmother, a fiery woman whose evershortening cigarettes crackled a brilliant orange right down to the filter, clipped the article and stowed it away where it would remain for close to thirty years.

See Lady of the Lakes on page 8

Alex Shukoff

B

ridgette Hobart, a young woman with natural skill for swimming open water, found her stroke. Hobart was so fluid it was as if she was part of the water. In 1979, still in high school, she was aptly named Athlete of the Week by the Press & Sun-Bulletin, the newspaper from her hometown of Binghamton, New York. She told the reporter with the optimism shared by the youthful, “So

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The morning after: Bridgette Hobart Janeczko holding the pebbles she collected at her landing spot in France, a tradition for swimmers who have crossed the English Channel.

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Lady of the Lakes continued from page 7

The open water seemed boundless and a frontier worth exploring. Back when Hobart told the newspaper about her goal, open water swimming hadn’t been the ubiquitous test of endurance it is today, but rather an esoteric, fringe sport left to people with a gift for fish-like ease in the water.

Man has looked to the West and in that gaze saw a destiny worth manifesting. Man has looked up at K2 and Everest with thoughts of reaching the earth’s ceiling. And, long ago, man looked out across vast expanses of open water in pursuit of the distant horizon, a Siren’s call luring him farther out to sea.

In the late 1800s, man saw a new aquatic challenge, a new test. He looked out over the English Channel and knew France and England were separated by such a narrow strip of water that it could be touched if they had courage enough to stretch past known comfort, to reach.

Years ago, in 1926, a twenty-one year old named Gertrude “Trudy” Ederle, daughter to a New York City butcher, had not only the natural gift of swimming the American crawl, but an uncanny, inversely proportional reaction to distance swimming: the farther she went, the stronger and faster she became. That year she became the first woman to swim across the English Channel.

People had tried—and mainly failed—at swimming the Channel. It was only natural that a distance swimmer of her silken abilities be coached to swim the Channel, to See Lady of the Lakes on page 10

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Lady of the Lakes continued from page 8

become the first woman to navigate the frigid water separating the two historic rivals in the great battles for balance of power from the Battle of Hastings to Napoleon’s conquests.

Once bitter enemies, the two had become fierce allies in the War to End All Wars that had ended on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month just eight years earlier.

Mines, relics of the Great War, still trolled below the surface, a bellicose reminder of how dangerous the Channel can be. Threats always lurk below the surface.

Ederle failed in her first attempt amid heated controversy. Did her Channel coach sabotage her run out of jealousy as a bitter old man who couldn’t stand how someone could swim the Channel using the American crawl, let alone a woman?

She would try again, in 1926, 10

and this time make it from the shores of France to the beaches of Dover, England, becoming the first woman— and the fastest person—ever to swim the roughly twenty-four miles from coast to coast.

Ederle showed what was possible and proved to be an element of disruption opening the door for the future.

• Time.

Tides rushed in and erased the footprints. Sea foam lathered beachfronts and dissolved into the surf as quickly as it surfaced. Sea mammals and fish slipped through the deep and turbulent waters. Jellyfish bobbed on the Atlantic currents, sinking low in colder weather and rising up like venomous bubbles in the warmth of day. The Channel Swimming and Piloting Federation says, “It is

Courtesy Bridgette Hobart Janeczko

At the finish: Says Bridgette Hobart Janeczko of her Cayuga Lake swim,”Claire [de Boer, above right] surprised me at the end by hitching a ride out to my support boat and jumping in as a support swimmer for an hour, then met up with me after my finish...Claire is the first woman to swim Cayuga lake—31 years ago—so it was awesome having her come and support me.”

incredibly rare for a Channel swimmer to be significantly affected by jellyfish. It is more of a psychological worry, rather than a real risk.”

Young mothers delivered babies, old mothers passed away. Couples married, couples divorced. Space shuttles blew up, buildings burned down. Jobs took hold and didn’t relent and dreams once so vivid and within reach, were pulled out with the riptide and down into the depths, swept away by ocean currents.

Bridgette Hobart Janeczko, a CPA and president of Paradigm Technology Consulting, joined the rat race and saw her visions of open water swimming flutter away as more pressing engagements filled her ledger. She went through different phases: bodybuilding, running, but swimming, something so prevalent in her youth, rarely came up for air.

Her grandmother, still pulling long drags off her cigarettes in 2007, developed lung cancer and didn’t have long to live. She told Hobart Janeczko not to give the terminally ill get-well cards because, “That’s denial.”

Hobart Janeczko, then fortyfive, didn’t give her grandmother get-well cards, but she did visit her in Binghamton most weekends. That’s when she rummaged through old newspaper clips and saw the quote from the Press & Sun-Bulletin, “…I’m going to do the English Channel.”

Her grandmother read the part that said, “So when I’m 61…” and told her granddaughter, “You better get going on that. If you manage to find time to come to Binghamton to watch me die, you might as well start swimming again.”

Hobart Janeczko said she’d keep her word.

And so she did.

• Hobart Janeczko slowly reacquainted herself with the sport in warmer temperatures. Twelve miles in Key West, twenty-four miles in Tampa Bay, ten kilometers in Bermuda. Each climb north brought the temperature of

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Lady of the Lakes continued from page 11

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the water closer to the Channel.

While training, Bob Janeczko, her husband of thirteen years, paddled beside her in a touring kayak and provided her with food and water, keeping her safe from boat traffic and monitoring her stroke rate, sixty per minute being perfect.

He wouldn’t paddle in the Channel, but he’d keep an eye out all the same from the pilot boat.

The waters of the English Channel were fifty-two degrees as Hobart Janeczko plunged into them near Dover, England.

It was July of 2013, six years after the passing of her grandmother, whose dying wish was for her granddaughter to swim again and find balance in her life.

Hobart Janeczko started brilliantly, one stroke right after the other in perfect rhythm. Her husband counted her strokes: sixty per minute, sixty per minute, sixty per minute.

One hour passed, two, three, four. She reached the terrible middle where Dover is no longer in view and neither is Cap Gris Nez on the French Coast. Janeczko kept his eyes fixed on the water: sixty per minute, sixty per minute.

Perfect.

Hobart Janeczko kept swimming, noticing below her the viscous blobs of jellyfish. They were everywhere, like zombies that hadn’t noticed fresh meat nearby. So she swam over them, stealthily as a shark.

Five hours in, six hours in, and the water warmed as the sun beat down on the surface. Sensing the newfound warmth, the jellyfish floated to the surface. Hobart Janeczko, once swimming above them, now swam amongst them.

Janeczko recalls, “I believe we had been seeing jellyfish already by the time we got to that six-hour feed. Within minutes of that, though, they were there in real numbers—a jellyfish every few feet for as far as I could see in every direction. No way to avoid them—so Bridgette was just swimming through them.”

Thousands of them spread over the surface of the water and the ones nearest her made their presence known. The jellyfish stung her again and again, but still she kept on to what she thought was her constant rhythm, sixty strokes, always breathing on the right.

Her husband kept count: Sixty strokes, sixty strokes, fifty-some strokes. Ten minutes into the field of jellies, he counted forty-eights, forty-nines. Something was amiss. Her left side was greatly impaired. A handicapped left side means she can’t fully turn her head to breathe on the right side.

It didn’t take long for Janeczko to see what was happening: the jellies’ stings had paralyzed his wife. If he didn’t step in soon, there wouldn’t be a way for her to get a full breath; she could even drown.

He hustled to the pilot and told him that the swim was over, that he had to pull her out. The pilot looked incredulous because the great pace Hobart Janeczko had made up to that point had been textbook Channel swimming. See you in France.

See Lady of the Lakes on page 14

12

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Lady of the Lakes continued from page 12

Once a swimmer is touched by another person the swim is over, and Janeczko could stand back no longer.

“From where I was standing, it was an easy call,” he says.

Six hours into the swim, from the water mined with thousands of jellyfish, Hobart Janeczko was pulled aboard the boat, which turned back toward England and away from Cap Griz Nez. She didn’t know she wasn’t in France. “Where are we?” she asked.

“We’re halfway,” Janeczko said.

They gave her some tea and some Benadryl. The approximately two-hour trip back to England stung worse than the jellyfish.

She vowed to return.

• More focused than ever, but saddled by a fear of the everpresent jellyfish, Hobart Janeczko waited one year, and, on September 14, 2014, at age fifty-two, she made her second trip. This time she came equipped with a team that had an Australian swimmer and pharmacist who could wield an epi-pen should the jellyfish strike again.

The water was warmer by a few degrees, and her stroke rates were as steady as her heartbeat. While charging through the changing shifts in current, Hobart Janeczko had the knowledge and confidence of significant long swims behind her. She had completed the 28.5-mile swim around Manhattan in eight hours and twenty minutes. She slayed the Catalina Channel’s 20.2 miles in eleven hours and twenty-seven minutes. Should she complete this English Channel swim she would become just the 102nd person ever to complete this Triple Crown of open water swimming.

Sixty strokes per minute, sixty per minute, Hobart Janeczko passed the six-hour mark marred by the jellyfish a year prior and kept on. Devoid of the drama from the previous year, her stroke held pace as she drew closer and closer to France.

The skies were clear with a little haze frosting the air.

The lighthouse on Cap Gris Nez stood proud like a waiting sentinel. Seagulls cawed overhead as the sun set behind them to the west.

Hobart Janeczko didn’t make landfall on a sandy shore, but instead found natural land on rocks. Her body had knifed through the water for thirteen hours and twenty-eight minutes. She breached the water and crawled atop the rocks and raised her hand up to the sky.

• What next? What can follow the most iconic open water swim in the world? What could possibly hold more meaning?

For Hobart Janeczko, a graduate of Nazareth College in Rochester, New York, and someone who grew up near the Finger Lakes, her next task would be decidedly domestic.

She would swim all nine swimmable Finger Lakes (two are See Lady of the Lakes on page 40

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Elizabeth Young

“Mags, You Have to Tell the Garage Story!”

You Gotta Love Family—and the Moments They Will Never Let You Live Down

By Maggie Barnes

F

amily stories are universal. We all have them, and they fall into two categories. There are those that showcase us at our finest: acts of great courage, intellect, or devotion to mankind. And then there are those that suggest it is truly shocking that most of us manage to dress ourselves on a daily basis.

Welcome to the Holy Grail of category number two.

We had been married only six months. This simple fact does not alleviate me of any of the wrongdoing to come, but it’s a ploy for sympathy to claim the role of a newlywed. Ignore the fact that I was far beyond the age

of majority. Think “Gidget” and I will come out better.

At the time, my beloved was chief of our city’s fire department and a state fire instructor. It was April, a month in the northeast that can contain scattered days of sunshine and warmth.

This was not such a day. It was cool and overcast. As I tended to the dishes after dinner, Bob was headed to the garage. “The state sent me new turnout gear. I want to look at it.”

Simultaneous to that statement, the phone rang. (Pay attention, children, and you will learn some history. Back then it was a wall-mounted device with a tethered system that only let you go

so far.) It was my sister. I have two, the first friends I ever had in life and still incredibly dear to me, and we like to talk.

Our garage was not attached to the house at that time. There was a space of maybe six feet between the back kitchen door and the one-car structure. It was an old building. Can we agree that, to this point, you haven’t heard anything that could possibly be blamed on me?

Good. That’s about to end, so let me find a bit of warmth in this moment.

I currently have an ache in the bottom of my belly and my hands are starting to sweat. We must be coming to the good part.

Bobby raised the garage door, See Garage Story on page 18

16

17

Garage Story continued from page 16

stepped into the darkening interior, and started toward the large box next to the car. A moment later, the aging overhead door popped a spring, jerked off its tracks, and slammed shut behind him.

You are already ahead of me here, aren’t you? Well, stay with the tour. It’s better than your imagination.

Bob could not lift the door without the mechanism being in place, and there were no other doors in the garage. The only windows were the line of small panes in the door itself, facing the rear of the house. Through this glass he could clearly see into the kitchen.

After a moment of examination of his situation, my ever-logical husband resigned himself to the fact that he was truly, completely, and inarguably trapped. No problem, he reasoned, for my bride of six months—remember that?—will come get me out as soon as she realizes what has happened.

This is as good a time as any to let you know that my husband was garbed in only a t-shirt and shorts. A minute turned into fifteen, fifteen turned into thirty. As if the universe was taunting him, Bobby could see me, bathed in the warmth of the kitchen, steam from the dishwater still dissipating from the windows. I walked back and forth, phone firmly to my ear and mouth running like a Porsche 911.

He weighed his options. He could beep the car horn to get my attention.

Then what? I had less chance of opening the door from the outside than he did. If he did catch my eye, what action would result? Calling the fire department?

His fire department? “Hey, Chief!

(Giggle.) Need some help in there?

(Snort, guffaw.) I’m glad we brought the camera. (Hee-hee.) You taught us how important documentation is. Smile!”

Nope, a 911 call was not the answer.

Time rolled on. Pacing and analyzing can be strenuous activities, but they do not produce warmth.

Bob’s feet were icy and his legs were starting to tremble. He took the only action available to him. He broke the 18

seal on the box from the Empire State and donned his professional uniform: bunker pants, turnout coat, and boots.

Perhaps it was the act of dressing like a first-responder that reminded Robert of the only tactical advantage he had: the chainsaw.

Bobby cut a hole in the sidewall of the garage. I don’t mean a modest hole that he could shimmy out of on his hands and knees. I mean a huge, gaping slash that Abraham Lincoln could have walked out of, complete with top hat.

How much would you have paid, dear reader, to be there when the blade of a chainsaw thrust out from inside the sealed garage and a fully dressed firefighter emerged?

Total time in the garage: one and a half hours Status of new wife: clueless.

Yes, I was still on the phone when Bob dragged back up the kitchen stairs, in his turnout gear, lugging the chainsaw. A fine layer of dust was splattered around the world’s bluest eyes as he stared at me and said nothing.

I s t a re d b a c k i n c o m p l e t e astonishment and confusion. Having no idea what had happened, I did make my only decent decision of the night and ended my conversation.

“Joanne, I have to call you back,” I said with forced cheerfulness. I hung up and turned back to my silent husband.

There was enough dead air between us to sing two choruses of “Stand By Your Man.” Then he spoke.

“Would you like to know where I have been for the last hour and a half?”

“Sure, if you want to tell me.” My voice sounded as thin as cheap vodka.

“I’ve been trapped in the garage.”

“Oh.” (Give him two arms to cling to, And something warm to come to, When nights are cold and lonely…)

None of what I was looking at made sense to me, and I was calculating like mad in my head. Of all the routes I could have taken, I went with, “Why

are you wearing your turnout gear?”

“Because,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “I…got…COLD!” With that, he clunked his way back down the steps and out into the now dark night.

The evening ended in complete silence. He spoke not a word. We went to bed and the light was snapped off. I laid in the gloom, wondering if an annulment was still in play at the six-month mark and dreading the hassle with the DMV of changing my name back.

I felt a vibration and realized that his side of the bed was shaking. I leapt for the light and turned to find Robert in the throes of a classic case of silent laughter. Every inch of him shook, but there was yet no sound. A moment later, he erupted in a noise of pure glee and propped up on his elbows.

“I felt like such an idiot!” He roared.

“I got laughing so hard I couldn’t pull the starter cord on the chainsaw!” He spilled over like flood water for the next half hour; thinking about the fire department responding, scouring the garage for anything to use, watching me act like a teenager with a first phone while his toes went numb.

Visions of returning wedding gifts dissolved as my eyes watered from laughter. We settled down to sleep, holding hands.

As a coda to this epic family tale, when we built the new garage, Bobby included three—count ’em, three— doors, multiple windows, and what I suspect is an ejector platform to get out through the roof.

As for my phone call? I hit her back the next morning. We still had stuff to talk about.

Hey, I kept Bob in sight the whole time!

Maggie Barnes works in health care marketing and is a resident of Waverly, New York. She is a 2015 recipient of the Keystone Press Award for her columns in Mountain Home.

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Don Knaus

Teach a kid to fish: And you’ll have a fishing pal for life.

Get ’Em Hooked Try Fishing For Family Fun

By Don Knaus

I

f you’ve ever dangled a line from the end of a pole and tried to snag a fish on a hook, you’re an angler.

Otherwise known as fishing, the object of angling is to catch fish—preferably edible piscatorial delights—fish you can eat, if you want. And if you’ve ever been fishing and were successful, you surely remember catching your first fish. That initial success no doubt remains as a pleasant memory.

I remember my first fish. It was a trash fish—one we didn’t keep to eat.

I didn’t get to look at it very long as it was worthless and, at least for Dad’s purposes, not deserving of the bother.

He promptly tossed it into the weeds far beyond the streambed as though killing that single fish would help to rid the creek of chubs, daces, and whitefish.

My lovely bride had never hooked

a fish until she met me. Her dad was quite an outdoorsman: great hunter, good fisherman and all that, but, back in those Dark Ages, girls just didn’t hunt or fish. We were less than a year into wedded bliss when I took her trout fishing on opening day. Worms were the day’s bait. She grabbed a nice garden worm, but I impaled it on her hook to save time. As I worked to bait my hook, she threw in. I looked up and noticed her rod tip dancing a jig. I yelled, “Yank it out! You’ve got one on!”

She jerked the rod straight up and the hooked fish sailed in an arc, coming to rest somewhere in the vicinity of my nose. I unhooked the fish, slid it into her creel, re-baited her hook, and said, “Okay, swing it back into the crick.”

She did.

I grabbed my bait box but was

deterred by another trout flapping at my chin. We repeated the process until her creel held the limit. Then, and only then, did I get to bait my hook and fish. So, her first fish being followed by seven more in quick succession, she went angling with me until the girls came along.

Ah, the girls! By the time our daughters were five and seven, my dad had become a deputy waterways conservation officer (fish warden). In those days, the in-season trout stockings were so secret, information about them required an FBI security clearance. I begged Dad to let me know when the Fish Commission was going to stock Asaph Run. I knew several spots where our gals had a chance to nail some fish. Dad refused to state the stocking schedule—even for one little stream— See Get ‘Em Hooked on page 23

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Get ‘Em Hooked continued from page 21

even for his granddaughters. But, somehow, I found out that the Fish Commission had replenished the trout in Asaph and took my gals. The wife came along to referee. I put a salmon egg on the hook for Number One Daughter, turned my back and faced Number Two. Peripheral vision caught movement behind me. Number One had already tried to toss the bait into the water. I growled, “Will you wait until I can help you get the line into the crick?” After all, she had never hooked and landed a fish. I was caught between baiting a hook and correcting another child when a nice trout was jerked out of Asaph and flapped into my face. The wife just laughed—but not too loudly. Both my gals caught their first brook trout that day. In half a dozen years, Number One Daughter had gravitated to volleyball, cheerleading, fashion, and boys. She left the outdoors. Her sister fished with me for another score of years and took up hiking and camping as well.

Now Number One has daughters. The youngest is way too busy to take to angling. I wanted her five-year-old sister, Regan, to have a chance to fish with Papa.

Fade to a dock on Keuka Lake. I had fashioned a “license” for her and attached it to a spare fishing vest. I slipped it on Regan and handed her a pole and reel I had purchased at Cabela’s “just for her.” She wasn’t all that impressed, but, as her mother keeps reminding me, “She’s only five, Dad.” I baited a hook and threw out into the lake. I had attached a bobber, thinking that it would be easier for a kid to tell when there was a bite. I called, “Regan. Don’t you want to come out and fish with Papa? Try your new pole?”

The bobber sank. I reacted and jerked the pole, hooking the fish. (If you’ve ever fished with a kid, you know how it is. You hook a fish and then hand the pole to the kid. The kid feels the fish and reels it in, making the “catch.”) Well, that’s what happened and Regan reeled in a small yellow perch. She danced around the dock and ran to her mother exclaiming that she had caught one. I smiled and threw in again. Same scenario. She reeled in a nice rock bass.

I tried to let her watch the bobber. She confused the red and white bobber with a red and white buoy. So I hooked the fish again and she reeled in a nice crappie. Then she left, apparently bored with the activity. (Besides, there was the opportunity to splash water in her little sister’s face.) I caught a half-dozen more pan fish. As I reeled in each fish, Regan bragged to my wife, “I guess I’m a good teacher. See! Papa learned how to catch those fish from me!” I labored to filet the “fish meat” which the kid ate for supper. You see, I had learned almost sixty years ago that a kid ought to be able to eat a first fish.

Fast-forward five years: we’re after brook trout, Regan’s first trout.

See Get ‘Em Hooked on page 25 23

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Get ‘Em Hooked continued from page 23

I watched the tip of her spinning rod jiggle. Then again, barely noticeable, the tip went bip…bip…bip, bip.

Regan whispered, “Papa, I think I have a bite.” I knew that a trout was biting her bait. At bip…bipbipbip, I said, “Set the hook. Jerk your rod!” I was a little too anxious at the thought of my granddaughter landing her first trout. Maybe I spoke to loud, too excitedly. She jerked, alright. The bait, the hook, the sinkers and leader whizzed past my left ear.

The granddaughter looked disappointed. I smiled, and then she laughed.

Regan modeled her mother’s personality to a T. Both are perfectionists. I worried that this simple mistake would sour her on angling. “Listen,” I said, “when you’re fishing, you are going to make mistakes. I’ve been fishing for sixty years, and I still make mistakes. Just keep trying. We’re here to enjoy the outdoors, the fishing, and, most importantly, each other.” Apparently, I didn’t need to deliver that sermon to her sister. Younger sister Reese was twenty yards downstream, supposedly waiting for me to help her. She was on the ground rolling with laughter at Papa ducking fish.

I remembered a similar scene more than fifty years ago.

My rod tip danced and Grandpa shouted, “Put the iron to him! Set the hook!” My Old Man had gone upstream with Uncle Bully and left me with Grandpa. We were working down the brook to the camp. Grampa, who didn’t have a lot of patience with most situations, calmly said, in almost a whisper, “That’s okay. You missed him, but maybe he’ll take the worm again. Looked like a good one. Here…lemme bait yer hook for ya. Then toss it right back in. Don’t feel bad about missing that trout. Your Old Man missed thousands of trout in his day. Me, too.” Grandpa pushed the point of a size six hook through the worm’s mating band, jabbed it through the midsection, and buried the point. “There you go. Now just put ’er right where you did before.” I did. At the bite, I jerked, and a brook trout whizzed past Grandpa into the brown leaves on the bank. I’d scored my first trout.

Regan tossed into the water but barely touched the edge.

“Honey, you need to get it out further. Here, let me help you.” I reached for the rod, intending to place the bait for her.

She swerved the rod out of my reach and scowled. She was going to do it herself. And I’d seen that look before—thirty years ago on a small brook trout stream that had just been stocked.

Yes, family fishing can be fun—for generations. Families that fish together, stay together…if they don’t drive each other mad in the process.

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Retired teacher, principal, coach, and life-long sportsman Don Knaus is an award-winning outdoor writer and author of Of Woods and Wild Things, a collection of short stories on hunting, fishing, and the outdoors.

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On still nights brisk air spills off the ridges into the lowlands. At sunrise, Caitlin Hollow becomes a river of fog.

Sunrise, Sunset

By David Milano

S

ix a.m. The air is still and full, the ground dewy. A few fragile wisps of fog hang lazily in the low pasture, hopelessly defiant of the early morning sunshine. Finches dart between the trees, dispensing clicks and warbles that mingle buoyantly with the sharp buzzing of cicadas and the softer chittering of crickets and grasshoppers. An apple unceremoniously thuds to the ground.

It’s late summer, another in a string of serenely bucolic mornings.

We savor the days by getting up extra early to tend the garden or take a comfortably unhurried walk in the woods. It’s a peaceful time of year, naturally civilized, even benevolent, a time to revel in an atmosphere so perfectly suited to human beings that we can only conclude that these days there is really no weather at all.

But there are also quiet warnings in 26

the coolly seductive morning air— boding promises of a darker, less congenial time to come. Embedded in each balmy, winsome dawn is the primeval trundling crank of change, almost imperceptibly revolving, edging us gently but inexorably toward winter. We feel it most in our memories, in the distantly familiar chronicle of creation slowing down, contracting, pulling its life inward.

And we see it, fresh and new, in the augural dappling of Juneberry trees, the returning webs of ground spiders, and the flashy reddening of sumac leaves. We feel it, and we know it, deep in our bones. Soon the world will remake itself into a place cold, quiet, and stubborn, and everywhere we will see the color of old pewter.

But that is not yet. Now we are in the last days of summer, the spectacularly affable remnants of the vacation season, the ephemeral

interval between hot and cold. It is the time of easy temperatures, garden harvests, afternoon naps in the hammock, and, best of all, the brilliant, often overwhelmingly beautiful bookends of the day— s u n r i s e a n d s u n s e t — n a t u re’s celebratory festivals of contrast to the looming winter season. Silky and translucent or spectacularly vivid, late-summer sunrises and sunsets simply will not be ignored. They appear, and we can only respond, standing reverently at windows and on hilltops in awe and wonder, and stashing away images that will later help allay the burdens of winter snow and ice.

IRMA Award-winning writer David Milano is a frequent contributor to Mountain Home.

David Milano

…same frame, same day, at sunset. Brilliant blue sky and scattered mounds of puffy clouds—harbingers of a splendid tomorrow.

“Hey Dave, come look out the window…” The camera, as always, was inadequate. Better was the murmured, “Oh my goodness.”

27

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WELCOME TO

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Welcome to Corning’s Gaffer District

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䘀椀渀最攀爀 䰀愀欀攀猀 圀椀渀攀 ☀ 䈀攀攀爀 吀愀猀琀椀渀最Ⰰ 㔀ጠ㠀瀀洀 䰀椀瘀攀 䴀甀猀椀挀 琀栀爀漀甀最栀漀甀琀 琀栀攀 䜀愀昀昀攀爀 䐀椀猀琀爀椀挀琀 倀攀爀昀漀爀洀愀渀挀攀 戀礀 䰀愀漀 吀椀稀攀爀Ⰰ 㠀瀀洀

匀䄀吀唀刀䐀䄀夀Ⰰ 匀䔀倀吀䔀䴀䈀䔀刀 ㄀㤀 䌀漀爀渀椀渀最 䘀愀爀洀攀爀猀 䴀愀爀欀攀琀Ⰰ ㄀㄀愀洀ጠ㔀瀀洀 䰀椀瘀攀 䴀甀猀椀挀 椀渀 䌀攀渀琀攀爀眀愀礀 匀焀甀愀爀攀 䬀椀搀猀 䄀挀琀椀瘀椀琀椀攀猀 倀攀爀昀漀爀洀愀渀挀攀 戀礀 䴀愀爀欀 圀椀氀氀猀Ⰰ 㔀瀀洀

䘀伀刀 䴀伀刀䔀 䤀一䘀伀刀䴀䄀吀䤀伀一 嘀䤀匀䤀吀Ⰰ 䜀䄀䘀䘀䔀刀䐀䤀匀吀刀䤀䌀吀⸀䌀伀䴀⼀䔀嘀䔀一吀匀 猀瀀漀渀猀漀爀攀搀 戀礀㨀

29

&

DRINK

Suzan Richar

FOOD

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Egging You On

Have Eggs on Hand and You’ll Never Want for a Great Meal

By Cornelius O’Donnell

A

lmost always, when I open the refrigerator door, my eyes dart to the flip-top egg keeper.

I often count the eggs in the carton.

“Oh no,” I moan, “only three eggs left.”

I feel an odd sense of panic and put a sticky note on the inside of my front

30

door—or perhaps on the car keys on the hall table. “Eggs!” it screams, and I make sure I grab a dozen of them before returning home. Why am I so paranoid? Easy. Eggs are insurance.

With them I can always rustle up a meal any time of day.

It’s no secret that these beautifully shaped ovals are the most versatile of all raw ingredients. “No other article of food offers more amplitude for the inventive genius of a creative cook than the egg…one of nature’s supreme gifts to man” (and woman) as well as “one See Egging You On on page 33

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Egging You On continued from page 30

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of the least expensive and versatile combinations of nourishment and flavor.” I quote Ann Seranne, a leading food writer in the ’40s and ’50s (a co-founder of Gourmet magazine, no less), and it is from her book The Art of Egg Cookery, published by Doubleday in 1949.

She followed this some years later with The Complete Book of Egg Cookery, published by Macmillan in 1983. I treasure both and keep them handy. If you can track down copies, grab them. I also love Rudolph Standish’s book on omelets. He used to make them at pretty swanky affairs back a few generations.

Read the introductory copy in any of the books (and there are many more on “eggs”) and in the case of Complete check out the answers to anticipated questions; you’ll know egg-zactly (ouch) what the egg can do and what the techniques are for bringing out their finer points.

Trail-Wide

Buy Local These days we are conscious of the value of sourcing ingredients close to where we live. I’m fortunate to have friends who raise chickens just over the hill from me, and they are generous to a fault in showing up with a dozen eggs when they come over this way. And their chickens are free-range, meaning they peck away at what hides in the turf and get some exercise. You should see the color of the yolks (almost orange) and the taste!!!

There is a difference.

And freshness is truly important here. Where to find the freshest eggs? I find that pestering the staff at my local Cornell Cooperative See Egging You On on page 34

33

Egging You On continued from page 33

Extension (check your phone book) is one source of info. And many local egg producers set up shop at your nearest farmers market. Interview the farmers. These fine folks know where to find food products, and they can offer wonderful advice on how to cook eggs as well as the produce they sell. Ask and ye shall find.

How Many Eggs Are Too Many?

I can’t keep track of federal nutritional guidelines, can you? But I hear that eggs have been taken off the blacklist (one or two a week I once read) and now you can have them in moderation. I sure flouted the old rule every week because for me, w-hen (help!) I can’t decide what to eat, I fix breakfast, no matter what the hour.

34

More about that in a minute.

I’m told that eggs are an excellent source of Vitamins A, D, and the B vitamins—thiamine, riboflavin, and niacin—as well as fat. As if that wasn’t enough, they are rich in iron and phosphorus and contain some copper and calcium, as well as valuable proteins. The protein in eggs is complete, furnishing all the amino acids essential for building and maintaining body tissues. Perhaps my sometimes-urge for eggs at midnight is because they are easy to digest. There are about seventyseven calories in each egg, and two eggs supply 17 percent of an adult’s recommended protein allowance.

It’s good to know that the special egg compartment in your refrigerator is there for a purpose. Eggs are porous and can pick up the taste of other

items in the fridge (sauerkraut or chili, etc.) if stored uncovered. I give in to my paranoia and put the eggs, still in the carton, in the home where they belong.

The Doctor Is Out, the Cook Is In It’s early morning at my place: I stumble out of bed and head for the kitchen and my Keurig single-cup coffee machine and, while it revs up, I hit the front door to retrieve the paper. It’s no secret that breakfast is my favorite meal whether at home or in a café.

I alternate having fruit-topped cereal one day—and, flying in the face of all the scare headlines, I use whole milk—not a large amount, but just enough to start to soften the

cereal. And I reluctantly admit to sometimes dolloping the top with just a smidge of heavy cream. A tiny bit of sugar. The nutrition police are coming any moment.

Let ’em.

On alternate days I go for eggs in some form or other. If I feel like it, I separate three eggs and, using a whisk, I beat the yolks and whites separately—I mean beat. I use a smidgen of butter (yup, real butter) in my non-stick eight-inch pan that, after several years’ use, looks like it went through a war zone. I heat the pan briefly and when a drop of water jumps I drop the softened butter and little bits of whipped cream cheese into the pan. I combine the beaten whites and yolks using easy strokes with a rubber spatula and pour this over the pan contents. I continue to softly stir the eggs until they are barely cooked. Onto a plate with some toast or toasted English muffin, top with snipped chives or green onion and—voilà—soft eggs.

Often I’m not in fancy mode and just drop the three whole eggs over the cheese and butter and, practically turning off the heat, just slowly stir until they are almost done—no more than about two minutes.

Leather eggs are an anathema.

Frittata Frenzy Many (many) years ago my wonderful employer came out with a line of cookware called Visions, and the line included a ten-inch skillet (measured side to side at the top rim) with an integral handle.

I was heading for San Francisco to do some in-store programs (most of the department stores are now defunct—or suddenly Macy’s!). I took a sample skillet with me. The store had a newly-hatched supply of these, and I asked my cooking gurus out there what they would cook in these top-of-stove and in-the-oven pans. I hardly had time to stir my coffee when I heard the chorus: “Frittata.”

We raided my friend Loni’s fridge and came up with the vital ingredients—eggs, of course—and all sorts of leftovers—grilled vegetables, a piece of salami here, some prosciutto there, and the fresh herbs that were just outside the kitchen door.

Here’s an approximation of what we cooked, and almost anything goes. In fact, I learned that in Italy leftover pasta is often used as the bottom layer of the dish. Sliced, cooked potatoes work great here, too.

If you have a garden reaching its potential, making frittatas is a fabulous way to go (and if you’ve got a hen house out back, that’s even better). Carefully wrapped, a room-temperature frittata can go to a picnic!

See Egging You On on page 37

35

36

Egging You On continued from page 35

Zucchini Frittata I used one of Ann Seranne’s recipes to give you the basic idea. You can vary the ingredients and make the dish your own. Just remember to use one egg for every inch of pan width. To warm refrigerator-cold eggs, place them in a bowl of warm water from the tap for about 10 minutes while you get the vegetables cut, etc. Here’s a good tip: crack the egg on a flat surface rather than the side of a bowl to avoid contamination from a bit of shell. And do each egg separately to be sure they don’t have unwanted bits.

To peel the tomatoes, drop them into a pan of simmering water. Count to 10 and remove them. The skins should slide off.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

3 tablespoons butter 1 small onion finely chopped (or grated) 2 small zucchinis, sliced or cut in small cubes ¼ c. finely diced ham or Canadian bacon (optional) Big pinch of dry oregano, or basil or tarragon 10 eggs, preferably at room temperature ½ c. heavy cream or half and half ¼ c. finely diced fontina or provolone Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste 1 large ripe tomato, peeled and thinly sliced Chives and maybe a spritz of Parmigiano cheese In an ovenproof 10-inch skillet, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the onion, zucchini, and oregano and sauté, stirring often until the zucchini is partially cooked.

Combine eggs, cream, cheese, salt, and pepper until blended. Pour over the zucchini in the pan and move the mixture to allow the eggs to get acquainted with the vegetables.

Turn the heat down to medium-low, cover the pan with a lid, and cook for about 12 minutes until the eggs are partially set. Uncover and arrange the tomato slices in a circular pattern on top. (Sprinkle with a little Parmesan or other Italian grating cheese if desired.) Bake for about 10-12 minutes or until the center is firm but the top is still creamy. Loosen the frittata around the side of the pan with a thin spatula; cut into wedges to serve.

Serves 6 Be a good egg—invite the neighbors!

Chef, teacher, author, and award-winning columnist Cornelius O’Donnell lives in Elmira, New York.

37

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Lady of the Lakes continued from page 14

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un-swimmable since they’re used for drinking water) in one season.

One man, Russell Chafee, had reportedly swum them all in the 1950s and 1960s, but never in one season. He’s credited as the first man to swim Cape Cod Bay, and now Hobart Janeczko planned to swim all the lakes he did in a tighter window.

She conquered the 8 Bridges Swim down the Hudson River, seven days, seven stages, one hundred and twenty miles. This became the most important measuring stick because of the successive nature of the race.

“I never doubted I could do any lake by itself, so going into the 8 Bridges, I learned I could swim over time,” Hobart Janeczko says.

For this Finger Lakes swim, which she named the Nazareth Finger Lakes Challenge to promote the opening of the college’s new wellness and rehabilitation institute, she recruited her roommate and swim teammate from college, Linda Annable, to ensure all wrinkles were ironed out. Annable, a sprinter in college, counted laps for Hobart Janeczko by holding signs under the water.

“She knows I’m organized,” says Annable. “Give me a task and I get it done. I’ll follow the rules. The last time on the boat there was too much weight on the boat. I try to be like the airlines: limit certain bags, you can’t take this, you can’t take that.”

Hobart Janeczko has completed nearly half of the lakes already, with Cayuga being the longest to date. She had started at night and needed to wait for some partiers to speed their boats off the lake.

She swam through the dark and through weeds, but no jellyfish. Cayuga Lake’s near thirty-eight miles took twenty hours and thirty-three minutes. The August Cayuga swim followed Canandaigua, Keuka, and Skaneateles lakes in July.

Seneca Lake is the last of the majors, about the same length as Cayuga, and, according to Janeczko, is “the long pole of the tent. It could be pretty cold. This is the big part.

She gets Seneca done, she’ll do the other ones.” Scheduled for the end of August, it will be followed this month by the smaller lakes Honeoye, Conesus, Otisco, and Owasco.

Endurance swimming isn’t so much a physical sport as a mental one. How else can she swim for over twenty hours and not lose her mind? She breaks it up into thirty-minute chunks and, like any good swimmer, just relaxes in the water, “like a noodle,” she says.

If you let it, the water will support you, hold you up, and carry you to shore.

Award-winning writer Brendan O’Meara is the author of Six Weeks in Saratoga: How Three-Year-Old Filly Rachel Alexandra Beat the Boys and Became Horse of the Year.

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B A C K O F T H E M O U N TA I N

The Dream of Summer

By Sarah Wagaman

Herons can be a challenge to photograph—well. As this heron took flight I was able to (barely) follow him through my lens. Sometimes I get up early to search them out in the swamp near Hills Creek Lake. This guy I found by the lake itself. My kids are amused and think he recognizes my car by now, but sometimes I think he humors me.

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