Manitoga

Dylan Culp

You can see remnants of Manitogas past everywhere. For years and years the land was a granite quarry (some say the lions that guard the New York Public Library hail from Manitoga). These years are regarded as dark ages. Miners drills raped the land, sucking it clean not only of usable rock, but all of its natural personality. Manitogas former life is somewhat facetiously recognized through scattered memorials. Some rocks have been left untouched since the miners took their leave; rusty chain links are still embedded in the ground. The creator of Manitoga, Russel Wright, had all of this in mind. While he sought to harmonize nature and man he still wanted to keep these reminders of the past, almost as warnings to future generations, red flags to show what can happen if we let things go wrong. I always point out these things to my campers. I must have been four or five when I visited this place for the first time. At that age I had no appreciation for natural beauty, and thus the wonders of the environment around me were relegated to the background. A simple backdrop, thats all it was.

And now that Im old enough to actually appreciate Manitoga for its beauty, Ive been here too long. My time spent there, be it during summer camp or just walking on my own, normally doesnt consist of awestruck observations in the woods or at the pond. Like before, its usually just a backdrop, a blank one, often neglected because of preoccupation with other matters. But this regular immunity to Manitogas charm makes those rare moments, those times where I can sit back and take in the place, even better. When that backdrop gets more detailed, filled with plants and animals and sounds and feelings of every shape size and color it really stands out. And its a fine piece of art. I loved the trail markers. Each was made of wood, carved with a symbol, and painted over with a distinct color. There was a human element to them. The marker for the longest trail, an uphill trek to Lost Pond, was painted blue and had three curved lines on top of one another. The colors were attractive to the eye but subtle enough to recede into the background if needed. They were there for us, but never the first thing that caught the eye. But during my years at the camp I would see as these wooden trail markers met their demise. Some rotted, others lost their color. Many of them seemed to disappear out of nowhere. And during the first hike of one year, what is the first thing I see? A bright red plastic circle, right out of the box. And with a rusty nail right through the middle, embedded violently in the trees midriff. Russel Wrights house, Dragon Rock, is a home in which Id like to raise my kids. It takes a few seconds to locate it from across the Quarry Pond. To this day I still find it blending into its surroundings, its glass windows reflecting the swarm of green around it. The house recedes into the background; its like it was never there. The waterfall is loud but never overbearing, and a close look reveals small fish hiding in the shadows of the murky pond. From this lookout spot there are two routes to the house: the shorter,

through a terrace of ferns and across the steppingstones where the pond becomes a creek; the longer, up a rocky ridge into a sea of laurel and hemlock and then across a wooden bridge, above where waterfall becomes pond. My choice of route changes from day to day. The house itself is now divided. Half of it is office space. My mother works here. Ive always found it odd that her office used to be someones bedroom. But the living room and kitchen are preserved as part of the museum. The walls of this part of the house are completely glass, as are the sliding doors. The floor is made of the same rocks as the patio outside. Ferns grow out of it and pine needles cling to the deep green walls. In here its very quiet, except for the muffled whoosh of the waterfall. On occasion a jarring noise will escape from the office, a ringing phone or a shout for assistance. My favorite place at Manitoga is a short walk from the house. A few minutes uphill theres a clearing off the side of the path. In it there are four large boulders next to each other, almost huddled together in fear of the trees around them. From this clearing youre supposed to be able to see the Hudson, but the trees have grown far too much and impede the vista. The groundskeeper gets around to trimming them every few years. She likes to let them grow out. It doesnt matter to me. I go there for other reasons. After a few pushes off the ground Im up. I normally recline on the mossy surface, finding the rock oddly comfortable. Usually I try to nap but find it impossible. The forest is too loud. Wind blows the trees in every direction, they moan under its burden while their leaves rustle harmlessly. From the boulders you can barely hear the waterfall, a muted purr from this distance. And the chorus of bugs. For the first few minutes they bombard the eardrums with their incessant chatter. But as the ears adjust they too slowly fade into the background.

Last summer I was on a hike up to Lost Pond. As usual, there were a few kids that fell behind, and I volunteered to bring up the rear. Most of the other counselors dont enjoy this job, but the slower pace makes it easier to appreciate the natural beauty. I walked a few feet behind the last camper, looking up to the trees and down to the ground, the places our eyes normally ignore. While walking by a monstrous tulip tree I felt something under my foot, too sturdy to be a stick, too smooth to be a rock. A revealing kick unearthed the familiar wooden tone and three simple curves from the outer layer of fallen leaves. Smiling to myself, I picked it up, put it into my pocket, and caught up with the rest of the group.