Mount Memory

June 17, 2026June 17, 2026 Beth DeFries2 Comments

When we approached the Appalachian Trail access a couple of weeks ago, ready for the rocky trek up one of New Jersey’s excuses for a mountain, we were met with a group of three young men exiting the woods.

“Be careful,” warned the leader of the posse, “We saw some rattlesnakes on the trails.”

One of the other young men behind him snickered in response, which assured me they were just messing with us.

“Oh, ok. Thanks,” we said.

We continued on our way into the cover of the trees, boots in dirt, digital trail map in hand, the idea of seeing rattlesnakes on such a well-traveled route too unlikely in our minds to actually be afraid. We pushed the thought deep to the bottom of our mental daypacks. It wasn’t until later that it dawned on me that laughter is an often employed mask for nerves.

But more on that to come.

The Appalachian trail led us for a short while along the shallow, meandering Dunnfield Creek. The creek was dammed in spots with fallen tree trunks and boulders. On previous sweltering hikes, the creek has been a draw for people wanting to cool down in its babbling waters, falls, and pool basins interspersed throughout the water’s winding path. We did not encounter any bathers as we covered this beginning part of our route in the forest.

The trail forked just after a small waterfall, continuing flat along the creek on the left or upwards on the Blue Dot Trail to the Mount Tammany summit. We continued up, following All Trails with slight confusion, painting our own blue path upon the digital topography, slightly off kilter to the dotted trail line mapped out.

Mount Tammany is neighbor to the Appalachian Trail without actually being part of the far stretching, eastern range. The little mountain holds its own though, in our opinion at least, and boasts some impressive views of the serpentine Delaware River, the Delaware Water Gap, and the broad, sturdy Mount Minsi, across the water.

Little as it may be, compared to “real” mountains we have visited, Mount Tammany challenges hikers with a steep climb no matter how you approach it. In the past, we have opted to do the trail as a loop, Red to Blue to Appalachian, then connector back to Red. We have come to learn that the Red Dot Trail ascent is abundant with steep boulder scrambles, the rock faces painted with trail arrows that point straight up to the sky. Hiking the Red Dot Trail requires frequent stops to catch our breath and and ease our heart rates. This time, we thought we’d go a little easier on our bodies and take the Blue Dot Trail as an out and back instead, making our route closer to 4.6 miles instead of the 3.7 the loop would be.

After a couple of water and Gatorade breaks, we continued up along the trail, chatting as our breathing allowed, sweating as is only acceptable while exercising in the great outdoors. The trail turned from rocks to dirt and roots in shades of gray for a brief stretch. I was slow to process an odd sound I was hearing. Is that cicadas? I thought. Something pulled a warning from the back of my mind and the memory came into full consciousness just as my gaze fell upon the creature slithering across the path, just steps in front of us.

“Hang on,” I said, stopping ahead of Mike, “Rattlesnake.”

We took instinctive steps backwards and watched as the timber rattler, about four feet long and three inches wide finished crossing the path, the markings and tone of its skin the perfect match to the dusty landscape. The rattle at the end of its tail vibrated rapidly in warning.

We skirted wide and hurried along the path, stealing a few wary glances behind us.

“I thought those guys were just messing with us,” I confessed to Mike with a little laugh to downplay my apprehension, more vigilant for slithering bodies as we climbed the next steep stretch.

“You know? I’ve seen two rattlesnakes in the wild in my whole life,” I said, “And both were in this area, the Delaware Water Gap.”

“Really?” said Mike.

I remembered the ancient looking rattler my camp group came across hiking on some trail in the Delaware Water Gap when I was a kid. We didn’t realize it was there until we were right beside it. It didn’t rattle, just rested, coiled on a dead tree stump. I don’t think Miss Rochelle liked it much at all. A hiker’s dog had joined us on the trail at some point and stayed with us until the end, making us all feel a little safer and lighter.

I don’t remember how old I was in this particular memory. I don’t remember being scared. I just remember the green of the forest and a light mist and that wise looking snake as Miss Rochelle led us cautiously past it.

To tell the truth, I thought I’d be a lot more shaken encountering a rattlesnake than I was this time around. I kept an eye out as we hiked on, thinking just be careful where you step and keep your ears open for that warning like a shaker full of glass beads.

We reached the summit of the mountain which doesn’t have much of a view at all and hiked a little ways beyond to access the vista point further down the trail. We hiked down the rocks a bit to better take in the view once we got there, but chose not to descend to the lowest rocks of the vista point which have the most unobstructed views but feel the most treacherous.

We could see the river well from where we stood, as well as the beach where we waited over an hour in sweltering heat last fourth of July to be shuttled back to our car from our kayaking trip downriver.

I remembered the view from Mount Minsi across the river, looking upon where I stood now.

I remembered taking in the view from Mount Tammany’s vista point on a cold day in March 2021 when the trees were bare, the views expansive and toasted in winter’s varying hues of brown. I remember being on the mountain two hours from home and feeling like the hike was as exhilarating an adventure as any amid the Covid lockdowns, precautions, and hierarchical vaccination availability.

I remembered the struggle to climb up the mountain’s Red Dot Trail back then with more weight on my body.

I remembered that picture from Chicago and that feeling of luck to have a switch flip in my head after thirty-two years in the dark when it came to knowing how to be kind to my body.

I took a deep breath of fresh air, filling my lungs with the good stuff, and held it before letting it out. We took a few pictures to bookmark the memories of this particular journey up the mountain, reflected on the view a little longer, and turned to make our way back down the mountain.

We navigated the rocky trail back down, our stabilizer muscles earning their keep as we balanced on the loose rocks and knobbly roots underfoot.

“This is about where we saw that rattle snake,” I said when we reached the brief, flat stretch of trail.

We continued down, down, down.

Just before we reached the fork by the little waterfall, Mike pointed something out up ahead and said, “What is that?”

“What is what?” I said, looking up.

A dark creature crossed the trail ahead.

“There’s another one in that tree,” said Mike, pointing.

I looked.

“What is that?” I said, “It’s like some kind of weasel almost.”

Mike wondered if it was an otter. I wondered if otters can climb. Fun fact, turns out they can, but it’s irrelevant information to this creature.

“They’re not bears, are they?” said Mike.

The fear hit then at the suggestion, looking at the creatures, about five of them, each with dark fur and 3 feet or so long. Baby bears? I thought. Mom’s nearby if they are.

“Maybe they’re bears,” I echoed, “We need to be careful.”

They didn’t look like bears though, but when you see an animal you can’t quite make sense of in the wilderness, maybe it’s good to err on the side of bear. Know what I mean? I started backing up the trail.

“No way,” said Mike. His confidence was enough to disperse my fear.

I suggested weasel. Mike was still on otter. Whatever they were, they continued across the path and into the trees out of view and we continued on our way back down to the little waterfall and along the Appalachian trail and Dunnfield Creek. Our research later on yielded the answer to be fishers which sort of look like what you might get if you were to combine the genetic makeup of a weasel, otter, and bear.

The bathers were out now in the creek, seeking a reprieve from the day’s heat in the cool water. We swatted at clouds of insects as we traversed rocks and roots and mud on our way back to the trailhead. We stepped onto the pavement of the parking lot and took the connector back to our car where others were waiting to park and were eager to stake their claim on our spot.

We had our next destination ready in mind as the dirt from our boots nestled into the floormats of our car. I plugged in Shawnee Craft Brewing into the GPS and was already looking forward to a crisp, cold beer and some pizza in air conditioning, the rewards of exertion and wildlife encounters on Mount Memory. We headed across the river to the rustic yet civilized reprieve of the Poconos.

We left Mount Tammany behind, but we’ll be back. I’m certain. And next time we reach the top, we will have more to pile on the cairn of memories on that rocky face overlooking the river as it slithers through the gap between the little mountains we keep choosing to climb.

Thank You, New York City

May 20, 2026May 20, 2026 Beth DeFries2 Comments

New York City on a sweltering evening evokes a sense of truth and camaraderie that isn’t always evident in the city’s boroughs. In the heat, the city’s truest self emerges from its facade of splendor and grit, too warm to layer on the wanderlust a minute longer. It cranks up the AC, adopts a loose, languid appearance that is just enough to scrape by as presentable, and just tries to find the breathable oxygen amid the auto exhaust and amalgam of aromas and stenches permeating the air. Top notch cooking scents waft out of restaurant after restaurant on 9th Ave, quickly melding with baked trash at the curb, only to be sweetened by a hint of perfume speed walking past or a trail of wholesome sunscreen fumes.

As the city sweats, its residents pour outside and sweat with it. They plod the radiating sidewalks to and from work, home, and leisure activities. They dodge steam vents on street corners, waiting off the curb to cross before the walk sign illuminates. They’re wary of darting critters on garbage collection eve as the rooftops across the Hudson tug the sun lower and lower.

Last night, I went in to meet some friends for dinner and, having arrived early, took to winding my way through Hell’s Kitchen in the heat. It was ninety-four degrees and felt over a hundred on the long stretches between avenues where the cross-breezes were blocked by neat rows of buildings.

I popped into Deacon Brodie’s tavern on restaurant row to cool down in the dark and ordered a crispy, cold Modelo which I sipped as I tried not to puddle too much on the leather-upholstered bench where I sat. As my brain simmered, the understanding dawned on me that everyone seated in the bar had most certainly walked in drenched as well and after that, I melted freely and unnoticed.

My brain wandered through memories of past summer days and nights on auto-pilot as it used to when I lived in Brooklyn, navigating by the internal compass that every New York resident develops in order to get by. North, South, East, West. Uptown, Downtown, Brooklyn, Manhattan, etc. It’s the kind of auto-pilot that used to get me to the L platform after work in the heat of July and August without remembering the two-street-spanning underground walk from the 1. Most of my attention usually went into wondering what the real-feel temperature was in the station. 110F? 120F? In the words of my late nana, “Does anybody have a meat thermometer? I want to know when I’m done.”

The nostalgia was strong yesterday as I cooled down in what looked like a miniature version of our old local, Harefield Road, which we decided was still our local when we moved about a mile away from it back when we still lived in Brooklyn. We did that because, in a city as everchanging as New York, if you don’t treasure the things you love, they tend to disappear. In our experience, after too long, doors that once opened to a place that made the city feel more like home, were found chained or covered with paper, sometimes pasted with orange tax evasion signs, or sometimes with a note from the former owners thanking their loyal customers for a good run.

I shook the nostalgia from mind as my friend Katherine walked in, showing she’d gotten my text about being early and where I’d decided to wait out the time till dinner. Katherine is one of a few very good friends who stuck from my time working in New York in my twenties. When I moved to New York, I felt a strong need to make friends of my own, as grateful as I was for Mike and the people who I saw as “his friends” at the time, though they are mine too now. The most obvious place to make friends was through work.

My process was to throw my personality at the wall (the wall being co-workers and acquaintances) and see what stuck. As the years have gone on, I am sad to be on the other side of learning that some friendships don’t stick like others. Whether it’s a general lack of initiative to coordinate or attend that happy hour or draft that text or email, or fail to get a regular catch-up going, friendships end up slipping through the cracks. I often wonder how friends, who I haven’t seen in a while, are doing. I try not to wonder if they’d still classify me as a friend or if they have a metaphorical sign posted on a metaphorical locked door somewhere. Thank you. We had a good run. I’ve grown up a little every year and with growth comes understanding, be it bitter or sweet. I can walk away with memories of good times past, content enough.

I am especially grateful for the sticky friendships though, the people who willingly catch up with me regularly, who care to know what I’m up to, what I’m struggling with, and what’s going well. They bolster and share their own experiences and goals and I am happy to be part of that. From talking to people among my New York circle over the years, a sense of isolation and overwhelm seems to be a common experience for the city’s new arrivals. I am happy to have overcome that in my own experience and to be someone who helps fill out other people’s New York community.

Analisa filtered in next and we headed around the corner to dinner at Elephant Ear and were seated, acceptable enough in our stickiness, that all too familiar residue of New York City heat and pondered the spiciness of the Thai menu items as we waited for our cold drinks.

Ashley came last and the gang was back together again, giving the latest updates for the month, not needing to do the whole “So, what’s new with you?” opener because we’ve seen each other recently enough to have that bit covered. The thing that was new, however, was the temperature, the drastic transition from the east coast’s bitter winter to an abbreviated spring, only to be thrust into August in the middle of May. Oh goodness gracious me.

After dinner, we parted ways and I headed to Bryant Park to meet up with Mike. I entered on the corner of 42nd and 6th and suddenly felt like I was in my twenties again. The lawn was dotted with people sitting on picnic blankets, hoodies, and beach towels. The cafe tables lining the gravel path around the grass were occupied with friends chatting and lounging in the slightly cooled after-dark temperatures. Readers were immersed in their books which lay open on their laps or in the grass. And patrons of the outdoor bars sipped, snacked, and conversated.

A hot evening in Bryant Park is a guaranteed time machine for me back to fond memories of my early days in the city. Meandering the paths with Mike. Listening to a live band playing. Strategists taking chess too seriously. The library, up-lit and impressive, sheathing its collection of knowledge, history, and adventure within. When the heat becomes more palatable after sunset, you can’t help but love such a place. At least, that’s how it is for me.

If you ever get to experience the magic yourself, I hope you won’t take it for granted. Just sweat and let your mind unwind. You can’t fight the grimy residue and really, it’s part of the experience anyway. Only when you are seasoned with salt and damp with sweat do you become part of the tableau for everyone else, worthy of such a unifying experience with the people around you, the New Yorkers who call the city home and the visitors who spend their time and money to make the trip there happen, perhaps only once in their lifetime.

So, this one’s for New York in the heat, for the loveable beast of a city that I once called home. For the place that pulls on my heartstrings in moments when I least expect it. For the place that reminds me how who I was and where I lived helped to make me the person that I’ve become. So, thank you, New York City. We had a good run.

Cozy Posts · Nostalgic Posts

My Desk

December 5, 2024December 5, 2024 Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Well hello there, you! This morning, I am sitting at my desk in what we call “The Big Room”. The desk, a scuffed up IKEA dining table bought by Mike’s roommate sometime in 2011, has served many functions over the years and has more than a few scars to show for it. It is imbued with the soul that comes from years of multipurpose use. It has served as a dining table, a catch-all for clutter, a boardgame and puzzle surface, an art studio, an interview office, a Friendsgiving buffet, a Christmas tree stand, and a TV stand, among other things I can’t recall. I am sure it is embedded with heat stains and maybe even a little grease from Williamsburg Pizza boxes and the condensation of water rings from ice cold bottles of Lagunitas IPA and Bell’s Two Hearted, fresh from the bodega down the street on Union Avenue.

When we first moved back to New Jersey, we used it as our dining table for a little while until my parents visited briefly during the pandemic to drop off some essential supplies and my mom laughed at how small it looked in the space. And so, our little, old table was retired from high traffic use and replaced by a newer, bigger, blander model from Amazon. I squirrelled the old one away in the laundry room for a while until its current purpose dawned on me. Afterall, every writer needs a desk. Wasn’t I a writer once?

Nestled in the corner of the Big Room, topped with a jar displaying two Harry Potter wands that my cousin and her husband made for me, a rock my sister brought back from Ireland, some 40-watt soft-white lamplight, and a pink, paper box of my nana’s that contains my writing books, this space is my main access to creation. It is rare that I sit at my desk and feel any sort of writer’s block. It has helped me through blog posts, fiction projects, plot holes, a play, poems, greeting cards, resumes, cover letters, emails, and even text messages. When I’m feeling unmotivated and uninspired, the awareness to sit down at my desk weighs on me and pressures productivity. And, like the drunk, scarred, slob that it is, it isn’t quiet about it.

I like writing in the Big Room with the curtains drawn and the table lamps on. It’s cozy and dark and when I turn the heat up or bundle up in chunky-knit sweaters and sweatpants with a mug of tea near at hand, it’s even warm. Perhaps the best characteristics about the room however, for the purpose of writing, are that we don’t sleep in here for much of the year and that I can close the door to distraction.

In his memoir, “On Writing”, Stephen King mentions the importance of writing a first draft with the door closed. I am easily distracted and when my focus is interrupted, it starfishes onto something new and the suction can be a force to be reckoned with. If I am sitting up in the main area of our home, my closed door is represented by a large pair of headphones. That being said, being able to close a physical door comes in handy for me.

The Big Room is usually where we put guests when they come to visit. It has more space for luggage, kids, and pets. It even has a desk and a comfortable chair. I originally intended for the Big Room to be “our room” and hung our two framed wedding pictures on the wall, but by the time it got really cold our first year of living here, we learned pretty quickly that the little room holds heat in much better and so we make an annual migration in the fall and spring between the two. And so, our guests are stuck with us looking all glammed up when they stay in the Big Room. I guess I’ll just apologize for our not looking quite that pretty all the time!

Anyway, I’m using this post as a warm-up to jump back into a fiction project and I feel like it’s time to switch gears now. I’ll take a little break and make some tea and then come right back and get to work. Old Pizza Stains McDenty Face has me on the clock and my attention’s good and starfished.