LOCALadk Magazine

LOCALadk 51 As I stand on top of the steep hill trying to catch my breath on this chillier than usual Adirondack summer day, my view is of the same graveyard she — a success- ful poet and professor — could see from her bedroom window in 1914. I've read that on many fitful nights, she would gaze out her window at the graves below and watch the "night train" departing the village. She knew what the train carried. The cure rate was not good, and she suffered from such advanced tuberculo- sis meningitis that she had been isolated in her third- floor room for over a year, alone with her poetry and her view of the Pine Ridge Cemetery. My breathing has returned and my lungs fill with fresh air again, as hers never did. I am reminded why I am here, stand- ing on top of a steep hill looking down on a graveyard. — — — April in the Adirondacks. The cold feels colder, and deeper. The dark feels darker. After being away from my mountain homeland for twenty years, I'd forgotten about "mud season." Not knowing from day to day whether I'll be slog- ging through slush or through mud, I already miss the swish of snow beneath my snowshoes as big, fat flakes fall from the sky, yet idyllic days of warm breezes and birdsong are so far away. I increase my daily Vitamin D intake and try to remember how fortunate I am to live in this beautiful area. How fortunate I am just to be alive. I realize I am in a physical and mental rut, and I need some inspiration. As I gaze into my SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) lamp, which burns on my desk all day, I understand I need a measurable challenge that will get me through the rest of this season. I look out- side my office window, which overlooks Lake Flower, and there it is. It's been staring (perhaps literally) this whole time. A Saranac Lake Cure Cottage. Most locals know that an estimated 60,000 patients between the years of 1887-1950 suffering from tuber- culosis made the trip to Saranac Lake to cure with pre- scribed rest and fresh air either at a large sanatorium or in a private cure cottage. Even non-locals may have seen that episode of "The Haunted" on Animal Planet that features one of Saranac Lake's cottages. Creepy. A college professor of mine once said about Rome, Italy, "You can't swing a dead cow ( yes, he said cow and not cat) in Rome without hitting a church." Well, in the town of Saranac Lake, you can't swing a dead cow without hitting a cure cottage. After doing a little online research, I grabbed a jour- nal and made a list (in chronological order) of fifty-five cure cottages from the historic registry, plus several more cottages that I found intriguing. My plan was to do a walking tour, each day to a different cottage. I would do a shallow-ish dive into the history of each cottage and who may have lived there and record my walks on Strava. I named it The Foot Tour of the Cure. This would be an ideal combination for my seasonal blues: walks for my physical health, history and architecture for my mind. What I didn't bargain for was the way I would be affected emo- tionally by what I found. Days one through eleven were fascinating. I, of course, learned more about Robert Louis Steven- son's stay at what was then Baker Cottage. Stevenson wrote, on Octo- ber 8, 1887, "I am at Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks. I suppose for the winter; it seems a first-rate place; we have a house in the eye of many winds, with a view of a piece of run- ning water." That, of course, would have been the Saranac River. I was having a grand time exploring the village and looking at old black and white photos of the cottages compared to what the houses look like today. On day twelve, my scheduled walk was to Noyes Cottage, built in 1898. While doing my research, I came across a photo taken circa 1916 of an unnamed family that was taken on the cot- tage's lawn. Pictured is a man in a suit with his hands folded, a girl of about ten, a boy of about seven, and a woman dressed in a nightgown, sitting in a wheelchair. Her long, thin fingers are placed on the arm of the chair, and at closer look of the photo, you can see her wedding band has slid away from the base of her left ring finger, and I can only imagine it will not be long until the ring either slips the rest of the way off, or is removed by her grieving husband. I couldn't get the image of that family out of my mind. I couldn't help wondering what was the like- lihood that this young mother survived. I'd always seen black and white photos of the cottages, patients wrapped up in coats and blankets on porches. They were oftentimes smiling, sitting in rows of chairs socializing. Or photos of groups of young people at "I find myself returning to several of the cure cottages from time to time, to pay my respects and remember those who lived in them, who suffered in them, who managed to create beauty amid despair. And that has been the lesson for me." - Ashley Treska

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