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north side of Ohayo Mountain
Sunday, July 26 2009
I awoke in rural Saugerties township at around 5am on the floor of that cabin rented by Ray, Nancy, Linda, and Adam. My head had that regret-filled spaciness indicative of a hangover, and my stomach was uncomfortable. So clambered to my feet, found my shirt and flip flops, gathered up my dogs, and drove back home. It felt a little like a drive of shame, the sort of thing one does after an bumbling sexual encounter with someone you'd never have sex with normally, though in this case I hadn't actually done anything worthy of shame. It was just that hungover feeling, driving barefoot with an unbuttoned shirt, windows open to keep the air flowing so as to drive the clamminess from my face.
Back at the house, I crawled into bed and slept much more comfortably.
In the afternoon, I met up with Deborah in Woodstock and we drove together to a book signing party at a gorgeous place up on Ohayo Mountain Road informally known as the "Bob Dylan House" for its most famous former resident (who sold it to its current residents). Deborah is part of the local photography scene, and the book being signed was a collection of gorgeous photos of wild horses. Gretchen and I usually get invited to these sorts of parties because of our connection to the hosts of this particular party, the traveling photography couple who live on Eagles Nest Road.
As these sorts of parties go, this one was fairly typical except that was held early in the day and there were more people in attendance, many of them familiar from other social networks. As always, inevitably I found myself talking about solar hydronics. It almost never happens that I encounter someone conversant in electronics or computer technology, particularly when circulating in the baby-boomer-heavy demographic of Woodstock.
The Bob Dylan House is on a pleasant site far back from the road and with great views of the Catskill Peaks to the north, although it suffers from a problem common to other houses on this side of Ohayo Mountain: zero winter sun. Earlier this year this region's lack of winter sun claimed a victim, literally, a woman I've actually had dinner with. I wish I could query Google to plot the home addresses of suicide victims so I could see how richly the points carpet the northern side of Ohayo Mountain (as well as regions such as the Pacific Northwest).
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