LOCALadk Magazine

40 Summer 2018 LOCALadk Magazine LOCALadk There were backwoods Adirondackers more famous than Raquette Lake's Alvah Dunning, but none who better repre- sent our concept of the classic Adirondack guide: untainted by education, bursting with caustic charm, and wholly in- capable of making sense of the modern world. Dunning fa- mously confused Grover Cleveland with the Cleveland Bak- ing Company, and wrote the president of the United States requesting a tin of baking powder. He disbelieved the Bible, because he had "seen it rain for forty days and forty nights in the Adirondacks and it didn't raise Raquette Lake more'n a foot." He hated the government, or what he knew if it, which wasn't much. At the turn of the 20th centur y — the far-off sounds of encroaching development being too much to stom- ach — he bagged it all and moved west, only to be chased back to the Adirondacks by the ever-expanding rail lines. Al- most fittingly, he built himself a cabin that was demolished to make way for the new Raquette Lake railroad depot. Dunning even had a measure of contempt for his own pro- fession, which, he believed, encouraged the multitudes to run roughshod over his beloved forests. Dunning was asphyxiated in a Utica hotel room in 1902 at the ripe old age of 86. Some say that, unfamiliar with gas lighting, he blew out the flame as if it were a candle. Others believe he failed to fully close the jet. Either way, Dunning always believed civilization would be the death of him, and he was right. If Dunning were put out, literally, by a gaslight, what would he think of such technology as GPS? Or fish finders, Gore-Tex, trail cams, Google Earth, elevation apps and – heaven forbid – electric boot warmers? Yet as Adirondack guiding enters what might be called its latest incarnation, today's guides are embracing the modernity that Dunning rejected. In the information age, guiding has become an information indus- tr y, with less physical contact (which, not being a people per- son, would have been fine by Dunning) and more advice and counsel for vacationers who increasingly want to do things on their own. Today, hands-on guiding is still required for extreme sports, and available for more mellow pursuits. But with a bottomless well of information available on trails, condi- tions, and techniques, the modern guide is now apt to rent out a canoe or a pair of Microspikes, and perhaps suggest some good routes or camping opportunities before watch- ing the Adirondack adventurer head out on her own. It's a change that some guides lament, some happily accept, but all agree is a fundamental shift from guiding not just as it was in the 1880s, but in the 1980s as well. Today, guiding encourages conser vation, not depletion. Growing up in the southern-Adirondack community of Pise- co in the 1960s, Bill Amadon was aware of a small handful of guides in the traditional fields of hunting and fishing, but it could hardly have been called an industr y. Those explor- ing the Adirondacks in 2018 are more likely to paint or snap photos, and guiding in these disciplines has become com- monplace. Because of this, Amadon, the trail steward for Champlain Area Trails in eastern Essex County, said he sees an expanded role for guides as messengers for the health of the Adirondacks and the planet. It's a new approach, but with notes from long ago. Amadon prefers to take clients off the trails, to remote waterfalls or old-growth forest. He also emphasizes histor y, explain- ing the ruins of an old logging dam, or of a homestead that decayed when its patriarch failed to return from the Civil War. These experiences connect visitors with the past and increase the likelihood that they become involved in protect- ing the future. It's an evolution that's been about four decades in the making. For much of the 20th centur y, the heavily logged and burned-over Adirondack Mountains had led a sleepy exis- tence. But just shy of 78 years after Dunning's death, the 1980 winter Olympics shone a spotlight on the peaks, coinciding with a new interest in American environmentalism. Tourists began to show up, and they needed help finding their way. By 1981 there was enough interest in guiding that the informal New York State Outdoor Guides Association officially incor- porated and began advocating on behalf of quality guides. So, a group of individuals with a love for the mountains, but little idea of how to make a living there, suddenly sensed an opportunity. In 1983, Tupper Lake's Rob Frenette, armed with a de- gree in boatbuilding and no firm career plans, began rowing tourists round Dunning's old haunts from the Fulton chain Today's Adirondack Guides By Tim Rowland Bill Amadon

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