About two miles from here, there’s a tree on top of Pilot Knob Mountain where Dad and I would eat our fill of blueberries before dozing off in the summer sun wrapped in Skip and Scott’s old boy scout sleeping bags. Just us- a couple of bears storing up for winter and enjoying a moment of peace in the mountains. He had long since “mostly” retired, and I hadn’t yet heard of spreadsheets or W2s. Absolute bliss. When I have trouble sleeping, when the stress of daily life is beginning to creep in- I escape to those moments and give thanks for a tranquil piece of my soul that was gifted to me by our father.
Down the banks of Pilot Knob, just south of the southern tip of Long Island we danced Peer Gynt, the iceboat , between pressure cracks and bewildered fisherman’s tip ups. One frigid Adirondack February we registered 72 miles an hour in Peer Gynt, splinters of ice from the front blade deflecting off our helmet visors. To my horror he removed his hands from the undermount wheel in the cockpit as we careened towards the teeth of a large ridge of ice. At the last second, with my dad’s hands still in the air, the iceboat magically banked to the right, lifting a blade from the ice and narrowly avoiding disaster. As it turns out, you could steer the front blade with your feet- a fact I didn’t know since my legs weren’t yet long enough to reach the pedals. Thrilling adventure. In the thick of fast, chaotic moments on my mountain bike or skis- I remember his intense focus, the way his nose dripped in the cold and how he set his jaw and bit his tongue and I give thanks to the piece of my soul that understands the delicate balance between danger, joy, and adventure. Another gift from my father.
Along the shore of Dark Bay, nestled into the old stone foundation of 10 Woods Point Lane there is a slate patio with two tall Hemlock trees still bearing the bolts we swung from in a large rope hammock almost every night when I was a boy. And as we swung and watched the fireflies flicker, or experienced the first flakes of snow mix with lingering woodsmoke- we stared together into the infinity of stars beyond the hemlock boughs and he told his stories. Smokey and Pokey the bears were holding their annual ice sliding contest with all the animals of the big woods, or Freddy the Fish was wreaking havoc again tying the lines of ice-fisherman together, or the Kazoo of Kazoom had welcomed me, with his deep bellowing laugh, into his underground lair after I had successfully outwitted a series of increasingly outlandish guards- the final keepers being a pair of greased up pigs in skirts carrying spears. If I hadn’t fallen asleep yet, he always wrapped things up with a song. I’d sing it now if I could keep the tears at bay. In those many, many nights where we swung, suspended from those hemlocks-suspended in space and time- dad bestowed another gift. He showed how vast and infinite our imaginations could be.
Folks sometimes ask what it’s like growing up with an older father. Well in many ways I didn’t grow up with an older father. He was skiing black diamonds into his late 80s and my mid 20s. On the other hand, he made the past feel closer to me than it was to anyone my age. World war 2 wasn’t an abstract concept to which I had no connection. Dad had crossed the Atlantic and Pacific in merchant ships during the war, one of which sank in the north Atlantic. Even the invention of electricity didn’t seem so old to me. One of Dad’ close colleagues was hired by a man who worked on Thomas Edison’s Pearl street station- the first commercial power plant in the US. But I was always conscious that my time with him was limited, and as we both grew older, being with Dad was like observing the most magnificent, brilliant sunset- always aware that it will soon draw to a close but in each moment counting your blessings for being lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time to bask in its final radiant warmth.
Julian Olav Barthold
10/18/2025
