A Pretty Picture
A philosopher of old said, “The mountains and streams belong to those who love them.”
Not long ago, we took a walk up Kaaterskill Creek into the clove. We started in Palenville and finished at the top of Kaaterskill Falls. It was like hiking through a Hudson River School painting, at least at the start. The forest primeval muffled any sound of traffic along the mountain road above us. The creek babbled with the innocence of a fresh-washed baby. A lone eagle descended out of nowhere into the gorge, soared over us, then disappeared into the sunny emptiness overhead. The falls and fells of our situation led to some wild imaginings. We envisioned a gilded frame being fitted around our excursion here in the clove, rendering it a pretty picture hung on a museum wall alongside the masterpieces of Thomas Cole and Asher Durand.
Picture it now: our hike installed in a gallery in the American Wing of the Met! A few visitors are gazing longingly upon this quintessential American scene, something lifted from the pages of James Fenimore Cooper. To those poor souls in the museum, we inside the picture must appear the epitome of good fortune, living as we do remote from the ills of the urban world. All those “city people” want is a little vacation “in the country.” One of them pulls out a phone and takes a picture of our pretty picture—with us in it—and posts it on Instagram.
Soon more visitors are standing in front of our picture and gazing at it admiringly. More photos are taken and posted to Instagram. More people show up to see our picture. (Never underestimate the power of a good hashtag.) More photos, more posts to Instagram, more people. The museum gallery has become so crowded, the authorities are trying to limit access to our picture, but the crowd is way larger than anything they’ve ever had to deal with before. Visitors continue to squeeze in. Everybody wants to see our pretty picture! The crowd has become a mob, the gallery a mosh pit. Many of the museum visitors are hauling picnic gear with them: coolers, cases of beer, portable tables, beach chairs, hibachis, volleyball nets, babies, blankets, towels, and diaper changing kits! The visitors are pressing closer and closer to each other, and to our pretty picture. Nobody is wearing a mask.
Now something truly weird happens.
The gawkers are packed so tight into the gallery that those closest to our picture are being pushed into it. They somehow cross the image plane to the other side and into our beloved world! The first visitor to arrive on our side is a big shirtless guy, about fifty years old, holding a beer. He looks at me and my friends and says: “Where’s the Rat Hole?” Before we can hazard an answer, a large group of teenagers in bathing suits appears through the gateway of our pretty picture. They ignore us. Many of them are holding beers. More teenagers follow. One of them—a guy cradling a large bucket of fried chicken—says, “Hey! Let’s go find Fawn’s Leap!” Next to come through our poor picture: a large extended family. They are lugging enough stuff to furnish a good-sized house. They like what they see in front of them—a particularly bucolic stretch of water. “We love it here!” They start setting up their portable household on the shore. Little kids appear—dozens of them. Where did they come from? They start splashing in the creek. We all know what else they’re doing. Now arriving is a young couple wearing flip-flops on their feet. They are looking for Kaaterskill Falls. “It’s our first date,” one of them explains to no one in particular. By this point my friends and I are losing count of all the people thronging onto the scene. Kaaterskill Clove has become a gurgling cauldron of carousal and waste-making.
Okay, stop.
We halted our imagining of the scene that day, but it didn’t stop the people from coming. They don’t need our pretty picture anymore. They all have phones and take their own pictures and post them on Instagram. And while their pictures might seem less pretty than ours—what with all the beer cans and chicken buckets and used diapers that now fill their frames—they do capture the sweet memories of a fleeting summer and good times spent together.
©John P. O’Grady
Originally appeared in The Mountain Eagle on July 31, 2020
