Prospect House - 1880s
photo by Stoddard
The one hundred yard channel that connected Eagle and Blue Mountain Lakes had been dredged by W.W. Durant for his steam boats. It was arrow straight with the banks secured by granite blocks that dropped eight to ten feet beneath the water. Along the shore stretched a profusion of white birch and aspen trees casting leafy images onto the channel. None of the dozen passengers spoke as the steamboat, The Oneonta moved slowly through the strait. Murometz and Dean sat on the stern bench stoically viewing the emerging lake scene. There appearance was consistent with individuals who might have been dragged along the Adirondack forest floor. They emitted powerful odors of bogs, campfire smoke and rotting wool. In unison they turned their heads to watch a grey hawk struggling to stay airborne carrying in its talons a diminutive raccoon with a still twitching tail.
As the Oneonta entered Blue Mountain Lake it eased off to starboard and increased speed. The captain intended to pass between two rowing boats crewed by fancy vacationers. The steamboat's wake set both small boats gently rocking and their occupants clutched the gunnel's. In the nearest boat a young woman in a wide brimmed hat waved and the young man tipped his skimmer. A long, pretty lady Murometz thought to himself. The steamer responded with a medley of whistle toots and everyone laughed - except Ox who neither smiled nor even blinked.
A wind mill and three of the turrets rising above Prospect House loomed off in the distance. The massive building was situated on a granite peninsula jutting out into the lake. It was "T" shaped with the top of the "T" including two promenade decks facing the lake. The supporting leg, equally long moved away from the lake terminating among auxiliary buildings. Murometz counted five stories and threw in an extra story of height created by the turrets. He had heard one of the passengers mention that it contained 300 rooms. The Oneonta steamed the length of Prospect House and then turned sharply to starboard, slowed and gently nudged against the Hotel's pier. Lines were secured and passengers stepped off - the two guides last. The five story wind mill flanking the pier was pumping water to the hotel - its' blades blurring as they responded to a freshening breeze off the lake.
They walked toward the Hotel passing a wire enclosure that contained four grazing deer. Prospect House seemed to bustle with guests, staff and guides mixing, chattering and then the occasional chortle. As they hiked up a flight of stairs two dogs, a black Lab with a scar on his head and a yellowish German Shepard raced down past them. The latter animal stopped for an instant - stared intently at Alex - then resumed the scramble down. On the veranda they followed signs bearing the word "Staff". Alex heard Dean mutter something about "god damn hotel guides". "What's up Ox?"
"Too many guides around - most don't know shit - they just hang around getting drunk waiting for the Hotel to send them off with paying fools. Then they'll lead them hither and yon, watch 'em shoot anything and hook trash fish."
While the guests or "rusticators" as Ox occasionally referred to them, appeared neatly dressed the guides were a class apart. Most wore their solitary outfit - heavy wool shirt, thick trousers held up by suspenders, perhaps a belt, one with a rope or bib overalls. Some added a crumpled hat or an abandoned jacket to the outfit. A few wore old army issue or laced up boots. But most footwear was nondescript and included moccasins. Their faces were inevitably masked by thick mustaches or like Ox, a full beard. Alex had a full face of stubble.
"Who are Murray's fools?"
"Where did you hear that?" Ox paused a moment contorting his face into an agonized grimace. "A few years back - the early 70s - What a fuckin mess - a preacher in Boston told everyone that if they were sick, the place to go cure was the Adirondacks. He even wrote about it - he claimed there weren't nothing that couldn't be cured by a refreshin, revitalizing stay in the mountains. Then for years it seemed like every coach arriving at a lodge was filled with coughing, gagging, bleeding,
puking dudes. Every bed, cot and rug contained someone sick, dying or fuckin dead."
"Anyone get better?"
"Hell no. The survivors mostly picked up their umbrellas and went hacking back to the city. A bunch of them wandered off into the woods, curled up on some nice moss to die." Ox looked thoughtful. "I hear there is a still a doctor over near Saranac Lake who is trying to cure people with mountain air, herbs and such. Personally I think it's a pile of bear shit."
They stopped on the lower promenade and scanned the dark blue lake and sunlit hills beyond. Adirondack weather at its' best. "Ox, how long you been a guide?"
"Almost - well on and off for maybe twenty years. Summer months are pretty good - but the god damn spring - bugs! Drive deer nuts! Winters I starve."
"Are we going to make any money at this?"
"Trust me Mister Murometz! A dollar a day - not bad. Of course you won't get that - you don't know shit - you just learning." Ox got thoughtful again. "Things have gotten better with the Hotel here - it brings us fatter clientele. Five years ago each guide had to take out at least two or more sportsmen - some real cheap bastards. Now at the Hotel many sportsmen expect their own guide - and we expects a 'graatooiittyy'!"
Alex turned back to the lake - the afternoon sun was now glaring off an almost black surface. Shadows were filling the distant valleys. One month ago he had stood down there by the lake's edge - where the deer now graze. He had heard of Prospect House but at that moment in time not a single board, nail or stone had remained of the great Hotel. Almost a century earlier, in 1915 it had been razed. A week later Alexander drown in Racquette Lake.
