Lenny Ackerman

Conversations III

March 2022

Last Friday after exercise class, I headed over to Aioli’s, my favorite sandwich shop. I was looking forward to more than just my usual lunch of chicken salad on a Greek salad. I planned to interview Melanie, the owner, the behind-the-counter master of the universe, as she has an interesting life story and I wanted to learn more about it. I was hoping to write something about her in these pages. But by the time I got to the restaurant at noon, the first-come-first-served line was out the door and Melanie was “in the weeds” as they say. I finally made my way over to her and she cheerfully advised me to be patient and have my lunch, that she would try to come over to my table during a lull. So, I found myself a seat next to a group of ladies. I noticed they were all in tennis gear. They assembled more tables together as their number increased in a steady flow, each carrying their lunch over from the counter. I was focused mostly on my salad and was almost done when one of the women near me asked me if they could use my table. I glanced over at Melanie. She had customers three deep at the counter. I turned back to the ladies, tipped my hat, and said, “of course!” However, as is my custom being a lawyer, I made it a negotiation. “I will happily give up my table if you agree to let me interview you for a column I am writing.” The women looked at me quizzically and whispered to each other. The one closest to me said, “Sure, but don’t get too personal.” “Certainly not,” I responded. I was now looking for an interesting hook for a column about the tennis ladies who lunch at Aioli’s in West Palm Beach, Florida. It might be a challenge, or it might be journalistic gold. You never know until you scratch the surface.

The first thing I learned is that they had all just finished a grueling three hours of tennis in 80 degree heat and humidity. l was impressed. I asked each one where they were from. They were forthcoming and enthusiastic, considering they were probably eager to enjoy their lunch and had little interest in my entreaties. The states represented included Michigan, Georgia, West Virginia, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and New York, plus an international contingent from Ireland and Canada. A geographically diverse group of women all brought together by their shared passion for tennis. And they had history–their group had been playing together for 20 years. In fact, two of the women were mother-daughter doubles teams. As I started to inquire further, one of women offered up that she was originally from Long Island. “Where?” I asked. “East Hampton,” she responded. I was taken aback. I decided to have a little fun. “Do you know Lenny Ackerman?” I asked. She looked at her friends before responding, not sure where this line of questioning was headed. “He is a lawyer in town,” I added. “Yes, 1 do know who he is. He is my parents’ attorney,” she said carefully. I debated how long I should carry on with the charade. l concluded the longer it went on the more embarrassing it might be for all parties. “I am Lenny Ackerman,” I confessed, grinning. The table erupted in laughter. “Oh my gosh,” she said, “what a small world!” She was incredulous that she would meet her parents’ attorney at a tiny restaurant with her tennis group, so far from her hometown. She and I had an animated discussion
about the people we knew in common, and 1 am certain that after I left she called her parents to let them know who she just happened to bump into at Aioli’s. Conversations with strangers can yield unexpected results. No matter how far we may roam there are connections everywhere, if we take the time to find them.

Camping with Brooke

March 2022

Recently I started watching an excellent television series called “1883”. Set in Montana during frontier days, the show called to mind a trip I took almost 40 years ago with my youngest daughter, Brooke, then 13 years old. It was summer of 1985. We ventured out west to Choteau, Montana, for a stay at Circle 8 Ranch, a Nature Conservancy property at the entrance to the Bob Marshall Wilderness Area. Brooke, the youngest of my children, was easy to coax into a 10-day camping trek on horseback, with a group of strangers who, like me, were looking for adventure. She was as dauntless at 13 as she is now in her S0s. We were a great father-daughter team for this type of excursion. My late wife, Judie, and my oldest daughter, Kara, would have nothing to do with such a trip. Their outdoor adventure during that time would be a stay at the Westbury Hotel in New York City with shopping outings on
Madison Avenue. I had learned of the Montana trip through my board membership at the Nature Conservancy in East Hampton, New York. At the time, I knew little of that part of the country, but the trip seemed like a terrific, once in a lifetime opportunity for us to learn about it.

The flight out to Great Falls, Montana was uneventful. We were met at the airport by a Circle 8 Ranch van for the three-hour ride to Choteau. During the drive, we chatted with the other passengers who were some our camping companions to be: an older couple in their 80s from California, retired but still active outdoorspeople, and a young family with two children-the father was an investment banker and fly fisherman. There would be ten total in our group, a mixture of city folk, suburbanites and country dwellers, all with one thing in common: the desire to experience and be tested by nature and the elements in some of the most beautiful country in America.

Orientation began almost immediately on arrival at the ranch because we were setting out on horseback the next morning. The planned trek was five days out and five days back through the magnificent Bob Marshall Wilderness Area. We would pitch tents at day’s end and cook our meals by Bunsen burner. One of the cowboy guides advised us not to unpack all our luggage, as there was only room for the bare necessities. Brooke and I went through our suitcase and left behind most of our clothes, keeping only underwear, socks, jeans, shirts, rain gear and dop kits. Pack horses and mules were already loaded on to the trailers for the ride to the entrance to the reserve. They would carry the tents, food, medical kits and cooking utensils.

In the morning, we had a quick breakfast and met up with our group and the guides, then were transported to where the horses were waiting for us, ready to go. Once everyone was settled into their saddles, we ventured off, into the wild. We had no phones as cell phones didn’t exist then, and though we were as prepared as we could be with rations and supplies, we were, nevertheless, truly alone in the ever-deepening wilderness. The cowboy guides all carried revolvers and rifles to ward off predators and grisly bears. There was no venturing off alone, even to the “latrines” off the campsite. This was no casual walk in the woods, but a total immersion experience in nature.

After the first day on horseback, I was unable to stand up. That evening I took a “bath” in bengay, which only helped a bit. Brooke was a trooper on her horse, Cody, who was excitable but steady on the tough trails up and down the mountains. She only cried once, and it was during a hailstorm that tested all the adults as well. After a few nights of camping, we became accustomed to the routine but when the cowboy guides asked if we wanted to spend a couple of nights in one place to relax from the riding we ALL said yes.

Despite the hail we encountered, the July weather in Montana had been very dry. The cowboy guides constantly reminded us about the risk of wildfires. The cloudless skies ensured our portable solar powered sun showers provided plenty of warm water when it was time to clean up. Most days the weather was clear with views for miles. The majesty of the mountain range along the Continental Divide is something I will never forget. We trekked in areas of such magnificent flora and fauna it was as if we were passing through an impressionist painting. I brought a fly rod along and at our campsites, always near a stream, Brooke and I would cast into the crystal-clear mountain water for trout. There were a few nibbles, then caught and released. Fishing in that idyllic environment instilled in me the sense of joy I feel every time I engage with the sport, no matter where I am casting my line.

Living apart from the civilized world for that brief time left lifelong impressions. Brooke and I strengthened our father-daughter bond, and for Brooke it was also a maturing experience. Her love of the outdoors that she always had, having grown up in East Hampton, deepened, as did her respect for nature. These days Brooke and I continue to share active, outdoors experiences, most often in Maine at my fishing camp, where she visits regularly with her own young family. Now we impart our love of nature to the next generation. For me, the trip to Montana was the beginning of what became my passion for flyfishing throughout the world, as well as for simple walks in the woods, always in search of fresh water and wild fish.

Conversations with My Father

February 2022

The headlines in the New York Times today of the impending invasion of Ukraine by Russia opened up a flood of memories from my childhood: the radio playing melodic cantatorial music in Yiddish on Sunday mornings, my father listening intently while he read his Yiddish-language newspaper. It was the one day of the week he was not working his parking lot. I remember seeing him sitting there, listening to the music, his face wet with tears. I must have been five or six years old at the time and was shocked as he was not one to show emotion outside of his fiery temper. Cautiously, I asked why he was crying, and he responded, his voice twisted in pain: “You don’t know how lucky you are to have been born here!” He’was born in Ukraine, and it wasn’t until years later that I was able to piece together some of my father’s history. Few words were ever spoken in my family of the past. It was simply too painful. I learned that the letters so faithfully exchanged between my father and family members still in Ukraine – his father, mother, siblings, nieces, nephews–stopped after 1941, his entire family there having perished at the hands of the Nazis.

My father had grown up in a shtetl village called Kupel in Podolia. It was a region with a tumultuous history, and at various times in the first half of the last century was divided and claimed by the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Russia, Poland, Nazi Germany, the Soviet Union, and Axis Romania. In the chaos following the Russian Revolution in 1917, there were pogroms, during which Jews were targeted by the White Russian Army, and Jewish youths were kidnapped to use as cannon fodder. His older brother had gone to America before the pogroms, and was settled in New York. So in 1918, at the age of 12, my father concluded that if he were to survive, he would have to follow in his brother’s footsteps. He fled Ukraine on foot, hiding out and stealing food from farms along the way. He made his way to an unknown port and stowed away on a ship, ending up in Argentina, where he lived and worked for the next five years, all the while planning and saving to get to America. His immigration documents, preserved in the U.S. National Archives, show he listed himself as a “salesman” in Buenos Aires. At the age of 17, he went to the American consulate in Buenos Aires and applied for a visa to the United States, signing a document entitled “Declaration of Alien About to Depart for the United States.” This time he went as a “passenger” on a vessel called The Hamburg, as listed on his Alien Registration Form, which was completed upon his arrival at the Port of New York. From there, he made his way to Rochester, set up a business as a “proprietor of a parking station” and the rest is history.

Years later my father retired to Miami, exhausted after years of working outdoors during Rochester winters. I would visit with him and accompany him on his various errands. Jn the Cuban grocery he would negotiate over a cantaloupe in fluent Spanish. In the kosher butcher shop he would speak Russian or Polish, depending on who was working the counter that day. He was also fluent in Yiddish and English. I asked my dad how he knew so many languages and his unforgettable response was, “Lenny, when I would wake up in the morning as a child, I would hear my parents speaking and depending on who was in control of the border at the time determined the language of the day. Some days it was Russian, other days Polish or German. I learned to speak with the occupiers.” The only consistent language of the father’s youth was the one spoken in his home between family members, their language of comfort: Yiddish. The cantor singing Yiddish songs brought tears to my father’s eyes, as he sat in his favorite chair on a Sunday morning, as he recalled a youth long ago in a country far away.

Some Lessons of Covid

February 2022

The lessons of Covid are many, and the sheer numbers are staggering- of lives lost, long-term health compromised, jobs disappeared, economies ruined. It all paints a tragic picture of our age. On a smaller scale, the effects of life under Covid are more personal, yet just as powerful. My interest is in the individual. How has Covid affected those close to me, both in terms of behavioral changes and mental health-often the same thing? The answers I get vary as much as the people of whom I ask the question, though there are underlying similarities. The common theme seems to be the reduced level of human interaction and the losses associated with that.

My recent conversations on the subject with friends have been revealing. There is talk about the emotional strain of coming out of the pandemic only to be faced with the prospect of new variants, preventing any chance of a return to “normal.” The issues run deeper than having to forego a longanticipated trip, or planning celebrations with family members. Especially now that some of the travel restrictions have eased, people are getting around more. But there is a general uneasiness and the habits of quarantine and living under the threat of a new variant linger. One of my friends said she has watched more television in the last two years than in the rest of her 70 years combined. She expressed regret that she wasn’t spending more time reading or painting or perhaps cleaning out old closets-something more active and productive. Motivation is sapped away by the endless protocols that have also protected us. Social lives have been scaled back, friendships sustained by video conference or phones, or not at all. loneliness may be a pandemic on its own.

Last month I visited some of my oldest friends, a couple who live in New York City. The husband, a retired physician, is less active due to health issues than he was pre-pandemic but his wife of 50 plus years lamented about the lack of socializing. Her indoor tennis and card games were cancelled. Though she knows things have opened up a bit, she now spends more time cooking and cleaning, out of habit. People have gotten out of the routine of socializing. Face to face contact with friends and family has been curtailed and is only slowly making a comeback. While in the city, I noticed the restaurants were packed despite the close seating and the wet, chilly weather. Many restaurants have the enclosed, individual outdoor seating, constructed of plywood and decorated with artificial plants. There were mostly young people out and about, presumably all vaccinated–a New York requirement for indoor dining. I was pleased to be able to do my usual New York City routine: a haircut and shave at my barbershop on Lexington (everyone masked), followed by a stop at Hunter College bookstore for a slow circuit around the stacks (again, everyone masked). I vowed to keep up my old New York City routine as long as I can.

While in Manhattan, I had the opportunity to sit down with my 11-year-old grandson, Billy, to ask him about his thoughts, observations, reactions -and those of his friends-to the changes brought about by Covid over the last couple of years. “It is so, so different, Grandpa, learning at school instead of zoom class at home,” he said. “School is normal!” During quarantine, he continually complained about the lack of socializing and he spent a lot more time on his phone. Fortunately, his school recently reopened-with protocols in place-providing convenient cover for meetups with friends during lunch break and between classes. Playdates are happening more frequently now, except of course when a family member tests positive. Though he and his friends miss the socializing during school shutdowns, he admitted that, “When school is closed, we can sleep in later,” pointing out one of the few positives. As attractive as it might seem to sleep late every morning, Billy said he would gladly get up early to go to school and be with his friends, rather than hanging out in bed the extra hour. Traveling to and from school on the bus is also an opportunity for socializing. Billy attends a private school on the West Side so he “commutes” from his home on the East Side. He uses the time to catch up with his friends and plan activities. Schoof bus time was sorely missed by him during quarantine. Many of Billy’s friends from last year’s public school are being home schooled since the parents found the school system’s response to Covid so chaotic and disorganized. Private schools were open sooner and their closures have been more limited. It will be some time before we understand the long-term effects, if any, of the Covid disruptions on children, but my talk with Billy was a hopeful one, and a reminder of the resilience of youth.

Life during quarantine is a good time to reflect on family values and relationships. Confined to a limited space for months at a time, the closeness eventually reveals who we are as a family and what we really think of each other. But what about all those missed dinners and matches and classes and
coffees with friends? What about the lost jobs? A recent article in the New York Times called upon readers to leave any regret behind for the missed opportunities caused by Covid. On the other hand, the book The Myth of Closure by Pauline Boss, explores the idea of “social bereavement” and how with certain losses, closure is unattainable. We grieve as a community over the changes wrought by the pandemic. Sometimes, the loss never ceases. Loss is never perfect. We all experience the phenomenon differently. For me, I deal with the issues of loss and closure by looking beyond and anticipating impact. We rely on science for the facts, and we look to our family and friends for support and understanding, so I stay in touch whichever way I can. Even a zoom call with a friend can make all the difference.

A Winter Break Part II

February 2022

At the end of my last column, I had just dozed off from exhaustion after a full morning of travel by plane, truck, and snowmobile, en route to my Maine camp. I’d had an early departure from Florida, arriving by nine, then drove the hundred miles or so from the airport, only to find the last mile under
five feet of snow. My plans to go snowshoeing when I got to camp were thwarted for the time being, but when I woke up from my nap, I was rested and ready to go.

I saw the snowshoes propped up against the fireplace screen where Greg had left them, after retrieving them by ladder from their place above the front door. I picked one up and examined it. My friend Lori had purchased the snowshoes for me at a thrift store, to use as decor when I first moved in, and they were clearly from another era. The wood was shellacked, the leather lacings were brittle and I looked skeptically at the bindings. Would they hold up once I was out on the snow? J would soon find out. Greg came up from the dock and showed me how to lace up over my boots. I do not have snow poles so used my fishing sticks in their place.

The trail up to Sucker lake is lined with red plastic tags tied waist high to trees and they were still visible at the entrance to the trail, despite the accumulation of snow over the past several months. As I made my way across the road, I turned and gave Greg the thumbs up. We had arranged for him to pick me up at the trail head at Route 1 after I had circled the lake. The silence in the woods was
deafening. I could hear my breathing as I crunched through the snow. The shoes seemed to be holding up as I slowly and carefully progressed. An occasional small animal ran across my path without even a glance at me, as if I were one of them and not to be feared. The sun, still high in the sky, warmed me as it illuminated my path, the bright light reflecting off the snow and the glistening ice crystals. I reached Sucker Lake in a short 30 minutes. The trail around the lake had been plowed down by the regular use of snowmobilers. The walk was now a bit easier for me on the packed snow. It was much slower than in the summer when the only concern is not to slip on pebbles or fallen tree detritus. I still had to be wary of protruding rocks and those hidden under the snow, which could rip up my bindings. The lake was frozen over. I was tempted to walk out on the ice to the island that Greg has taken me and my friends to many times for picnics. But I had to be cautious. I wasn’t about to take a spill now. I was alone and it seemed no one was around for miles. I erred on the side of caution and stayed on the trail circling the lake. After a while, I stopped for a rest and texted Greg to give him enough time to meet me at the parking lot at the trailhead on the other side of the lake. It was the same trailhead I had taken a few
years earlier and got lost. I didn’t want to relive that adventure. I was proud of myself that I had made it so far without mishap. Let’s keep it that way I kept repeating to myself.

After a while, I peeled off my jacket and tied it around my waist. I had only gone another few paces when out of the woods came a huge buck with a massive rack. He stood not ten feet away from me, his dark fur contrasting sharply against the brilliant white background. His breath steamed from his nose and mouth. His eyes were black and foreboding. We stared at each other, both of us motionless. Not a movement. I was frozen in place. I was certain he was as startled to see me as I was him. So far, the snowshoe walk had been peaceful and uneventful. Now here was a 300 lb. creature that may
perceive me as a threat and charge. I had no idea what to do other than stand still. I recalled reading that if a bear approaches you are to curl up on the ground. Again, I erred on the side of caution. I
untied my jacket and sat down. I tucked my head inside my jacket and wrapped my arms around my body. After counting to 100 I peeked out and saw that the buck was indeed a friendly. He was busy nibbling something from a bush and had lost interest in me. I rose to my feet and proceeded south to where I would meet up with Greg. I now had a good story for him and my friends back home. How many people come face to face with a giant buck on their Sunday stroll-while wearing ancient snowshoes?

Winter Break

February 2022

It was winter break so to speak. Patti thought I was crazy. I was headed to camp from the airport in Bangor and the February sky was bright blue, wisps of clouds here and there the only reminders of the recent snowstorm. Exiting on I 93 I travelled north. The snowbanks along the side of the road grew steeper as I neared Danforth. I was feeling adventurous, and decided that when I got to camp, I would take down the old thrift store snowshoes that have been hanging over the doorway for years as camp decor and give them a go outside for the first time. The trail up to Sucker Lake would be perfect as it was one I had hiked numerous times in the summer. When I arrived at the turn off to Boulder Road, site of my fishing camp, l saw that the snowplows had only cleared the way in to Cowger’s Lake Front Cabins, a good mile down the road from my cabin. The snow looked five feet deep against the trees along the road as far as I could see. My snowshoeing plans were now set back until I could actually get to my camp. I figured walking was impossible. I would need to hitch a ride on a snowmobile and required Greg’s help to do it. It was past noon.

Greg was 45 minutes away at his winter camp in Drew Plantation and when I finally reached him he was ruminating about fixing something or other on one of his rigs. Yes, Jimmy had a snowmobile he said, but we needed to get to River Road to find him since Jimmy’s cell wasn’t working in the cold. waited the hour or so in my car for Greg to arrive and despite the lost time my enthusiasm for a snowshoe hike was still there. Looking around at the winter wonderland was all it took. Greg finally pulled up in his truck and I hopped in. His truck was as cold as Hattie, which for Greg, a Maine native, was like room temperature. Jimmy, Greg’s buddy, was a good source for a snowmobile ride as he collected everyone’s discards in Danforth and was sure to have a powerful enough vehicle to traverse the five-foot snowdrifts. Driving back south now to Jimmy’s took some time as he lived several miles outside of town.

Jimmy came out of his house in a t-shirt like it was August. Mainers sure are different. We loaded the snowmobile onto Greg’s truck and sped back north along Route 1. Not a soul was in sight on the road or off. We made the left on Greenwood Lake Road, onto snow packed down from both snowmobilers and ice fishing traffic. We followed the camp road as far as we could to where the plowing had ended and where my car was parked alongside an embankment of cleared snow. I would have to leave it there for the time being.

We got out and dropped the snowmobile onto the road. I seated myself behind Greg for the trip down to camp, my first ever ride on a snowmobile. I pulled my beanie cap over my ears and was ready to go. Along the way the snow ahead of us was undisturbed except for a few animal tracks- heavier ones from deer, but mostly the light footprints of smaller creatures. Behind us, our tracks left no doubt about what created them. The reverberation from the loud engine caused the fir trees to shake their branches at us, dropping large clumps of snow as we passed by, sometimes hitting their intended target. We shook it off. Greg was child-like in his enthusiasm. He grew up snowmobiling in these woods. It was his winter sport. The ride was exhilarating-the rush of cold air against my face as we flew across the bright, white landscape somehow energized me and exhausted me at the same time.

Soon we reached camp. Snow had drifted off the lake against the front cabin door. It had been closed for the winter so we opened the door slowly, expectantly, letting in the first fresh air in months. We decided to make a fire to ward off the cold before preparing for the snowshoe expedition. Greg opened the damper and as to be expected a few mice scampered out I poked around to see if there was anything in the cabinets I might take as provisions on the outing but came up empty handed. Greg had a fire going in no time. The heat from the growing flames combined with the hint of smoke in the air was like a warm embrace. I settled into the deep, down sofa cushions, happy to be at my camp, memories of last season on my mind as I closed my eyes. Greg laddered up to get the snowshoes down for me, but as he likes to tell the story, by the time he got down with them, I was already snoring on the couch.

Anniversary

January 2022

It was nearly two years ago that Carl Butz and I first had a conversation about his acquisition of The Mountain Messenger newspaper. I had called him mainly to offer my congratulations, as he had just rescued the paper from closure and in doing so made national news, which is how it came to my attention. We quickly hit it off, and it was that phone call that led not only to a weekly column for me, but to an unexpected and rewarding cross-country friendship.

During that initial call, I told Carl about my late wife, who passed away in 2017, and how I had continued writing letters to her as a way to deal with my grief. I learned Carl, too, lost his wife in 2017. A phone call about a newspaper became something more, as we bonded over our mutual loss and loneliness. He suggested channeling the letter writing into a weekly column. The idea was to put down in 250 words or less, my impressions of life from where I was living at various times of year–Maine and East Hampton in the summer, Palm Beach and New York City in the winter. So, under the heading “Here Back East,” my first contribution to the Mountain Messenger, “Open Remotely,” was published on May 7^th, 2020.

Two years and 65 columns later, I look back on what has happened during that span of time, to me personally and in the wider world. I tried to put so much of it into words on a page as I experienced it –maybe I was being ambitious, but it was always from the heart. There have been concerns expressed, from friends and colleagues who thought that I might say too much in these columns, that it might harm my business—I am an attorney and discretion is paramount. But my political columns were few—about the January 6th insurrection and the Inauguration Day reading by the poet Amanda Gorman. Most of the topics are purposeful and personal — what I think about events at the time and how they affect me, my family and friends. And I write a lot about fishing—writing about it is the next best thing to doing it.

There is no denying we live in difficult times–the never-ending pandemic, inflation, wildfires. So much of it leaves us unsure about what is ahead. Yet we must look to the future and not without hope. The pandemic will become endemic, like a seasonal flu. Interest rate hikes will quash the inflationary bubble. Technology and proper forest management will quell the flames out west. With a positive view and an appetite for understanding and love we will get through it. We are not the first generation to think we are living through the worst, and we won’t be the last.

I will be visiting the Sierras this summer to fish, as I will fish East Grand Lake in Maine. My new partner in life, my sweetheart Patti, will join me. There is much to look forward to and to write about. My best to Carl and my friends in Downieville. See you soon.

Fishing with Jay

January 2022

After our inaugural fishing expedition to Beaver Kill in 1990, Jay and I embarked on a fishing romance spanning 24 years until our trip to Iceland in 2014. I returned to Iceland again in 2017 but that time as a loner. Jay was not fit to travel after a bout of illness and I, suffering from a back injury, plowed through the trip with a distressing inflamed something or other. Leading up to that last trip alone, was a wonderful series of travels with Jay and a few other friends, some now gone. Our first real expedition together was deep sea fishing in Gardiner’s Bay off of East Hampton, with Captain Paul Dixon, on the hunt for bluefish and stripers. Eventually, Jay surpassed me in his collecting of flies and gear as he had a number of friends and work colleagues in the dental profession who regularly went to the Catskills to fish on the Delaware. Jay, being a surgeon, was into the technical intricacies of fishing. I was more interested in finding sources for English country fishing attire, and of course I was into the travel.

Our next outing together was trout fishing on the Connetquot River on Long Island. More like fishing in a bathtub, with assigned beats where fish waited for meals. The fish dined on a schedule, and as long as you were on their timetable you caught plenty. Like shooting in a barrel. After that, we were ready to explore beyond the shores of Long Island. Thus began our European adventures and over the years we went to Scotland and Ireland, and to Iceland twice. We often took local trips in between–during economic recessions and off times in the real estate practice, Jay and I would do the three-hour drive to Al Caucci’s fishing establishment called Riverfront Lodge, on the West Branch of the Delaware River in the Catskills, near Hancock, New York. Caucci was an interesting fellow– a fishing guide, entrepreneur and hotelier, who wrote the basic treatise on fishing entomology or, for us simpletons, the guide to flies that attract fish. Interestingly, with Al it was technical fishing but rarely catching. It seems there just weren’t many fish. It was with Al that I first heard all the immortal fishing guide sayings that begin with “should have.” “Should have been here last week.” “Should’ve been drier—the water’s too high.” “Should’ve rained—the water is too low.” Once there was a dam release issue on that branch of the Delaware. Al must have been a bit amused watching us beginners wade in so far over our heads we had to swim back to shore.

The best part of a trip to Al’s–aside from the exceptional motel décor–was the dining. Always outdoors, weather permitting, the meals were first rate. Al would bring in talented up-and-coming chefs on the weekends, one of whom was Tom Colicchio. Later on, we would see Colicchio’s name in print in restaurant reviews, as he gained fame from his many restaurants in New York and beyond. Al knew beginner fishermen faced a lot of frustration on the water, and casting all day was tiring, so in the evening a special dinner put everything right again. There were always stories from the day’s events to tell over a meal, and it was always a happy exhaustion, from casting away for those supposed fish in the dark waters of the Delaware.

Ice Fishing with Katie

January 2022

Katie was sick with Covid for a month, quarantined with Greg in their cozy family home in Drew Plantation, Maine. After gaining some weight back as well as her appetite for fishing, Katie pronounced that she was about crazy from being cooped up and wanted to ice fish—her favorite sport after fall moose hunting. The stretch of East Grand Lake where Katie and Greg have their summer camp was not yet frozen over. They would go to the Cove on the lake instead–their sweet spot for ice fishing. In a secluded area north, off Route 1 in Danforth, the Cove provides easy access and 5 feet of ice.

The preparation for ice fishing began the day before. Greg assembled the deer blind tent for transport while Katie organized all the essentials: an ice drill, a “Mister Heater” portable unit that runs on propane, as well as rods and bait. Then, the provisions for the long hours out on the ice: a small, metal barrel with a grill attached to serve as a fire pit for hot dogs, plus water and beer. Finally, the attire: heat-lined camo snow jackets, long underwear, flannels, wool sweaters, hats, gloves with hand warmers, wool socks, foot warmers and rubber boots.

The next morning, Greg and Katie left at daybreak–5:00am– in below freezing temperatures, for their day of ice fishing. On the way, an unexpected snowstorm blew up. Typical Maine couple dream date. On arrival, Greg set up the tent with the heater then drilled through the ice so Katie could jig the fishing line to her heart’s delight. After being Covid sick for a month, Katie was now happy and energized by the outdoors. Then Katie started catching. A 17” salmon for starters followed by a 13” salmon, then a 13” trout before lunch. Lunch was Greg’s special “red hots” cooked over the coals in the fire pit. The only mishap was when Greg dropped his dog in the snow, which he rinsed off in the fishing hole. Katie said it was the best ice-fishing holiday she has had in years. A true Maine vacation day… and the best antidote to a bout of Maine Covid.

A Letter from the Publisher of the Mountain Messenger

When I made the decision to keep The Mountain Messenger in business at the beginning of 2020, I did not anticipate the action receiving attention by anyone other than the few hundred remaining subscribers. However, on the first morning after I’d given a check to the owner, I took a call from a reporter from SFGate who was following up on a Los Angeles Times story she had read about the paper’s demise. Within seconds she had her lead: 71-year-old retired widower saves local newspaper in northeastern California. The good-news story was quickly picked up by AP, so news outlets across the US and a few in Europe ran it. Within a week, I received a call from Tim Arango, a national correspondent for the New York Times based in Los Angeles. He wanted to visit Downieville for a couple of days, interview me and the local community. Would the paper really become recognized by the nation’s “newspaper of record”? Indeed it did, appearing as the only story on page A12 of the February 10, 2020 edition, and it generated a wave of public recognition. Months later, I learned how a woman in Dartmouth, New Hampshire, having reached page A12, rushed into her husband’s studio to share the news. Christian Wolff, caught in the midst of writing a concerto commissioned by a Swiss symphony (Basel Sinfonietta), a composer whose modern classical work has been likened to a spirited walk through a forested park with a friend, very pleased with the news, decided to name his concerto “The Mountain Messengers” in order to honor my action.

But it didn’t take nearly as long for me to be connected with Lenny Ackerman. No, when the man wants to do something good he acts. On the morning he first learned about the existence of The Mountain Messenger, through the article in the New York Times, Lenny sent a letter of support for my efforts. Not only did the note express encouragement, Lenny immediately purchased a subscription. Indeed, over the course of the following month he gave gift subscriptions to around 30 different members of his family and friends. Yes, Lenny was personally responsible for close to 10 percent of all the new subscribers generated by the publicity wave in early 2020. Moreover, Lenny dives in deep with something he believes in. Through his connection with the paper, Lenny has supported not just the newsroom, but his giving has extended to the local community.

Most telling of all about Lenny’s spirit and generosity is his weekly contribution to the newspaper, his “Here Back East” column. I absolutely love publishing his essays. They are well written descriptions of his experiences, both present and past, that I find consistently endearing. Yes, if his pieces make the journal read more like The Atlantic than what is usually found in a small, local paper, well, so be it.
Carl Butz

One of the very best things coming out of my decision to “save the paper” has been the fact I, along with the readers of The Mountain Messenger, have been introduced to Lenny’s realm, a place of boundless positive energy, compassion, sharp observational and communication skills, and gratitude for what the world has to offer us.

-Carl Butz
Another lover of reading obituaries
Publisher of the Mountain Messenger