620 - Kaaterskill Falls
Today we visited Kaaterskill Falls- a New York cascade haunted by a tenacious hound.
A plaque rests at the top of the waterfall, reading:
“To the Memory of VITE, The Bayard of Dogs, Sans Peur et Sans Reproche. Killed June 19, 1868, by Leaping from the Platform Above the Falls to the Rocks Beneath.”
It's a tragic tale of a dog that jumped in an attempt to reach his owner, who was hiking near the base of the falls at the time. Legend has it that every June 19th, if you visit in the dead of the night, you can hear his howls intertwined with the roar of the falls.
A shiver went down my spine as we pulled up to the trailhead, around 10:15PM. The parking lot was empty minus the swinging door of a port-a-potty, which slammed open and closed like a car door in the wind. Our plan was to car camp in the lot until the morning, when we’d head down to the waterfall to get a photo.
That was assuming, of course, that we didn’t get mauled by a ghost dog in the middle of the night. The idea of being stuck in a car with a malicious dog roaming the area felt eerily similar to the plot of Stephen King’s Cujo. Except instead of a 1978 Ford Pinto, we were in an ‘07 Toyota Prius.
I locked my doors at the thought of it. And as I brushed my teeth, I could hear the subtle roar of the waterfall in the background. It was just through those woods, across the lot. I put my toothbrush back into my bag and climbed into the covers.
Suddenly the port-a-potty door slammed again and a thought struck my mind.
I haven't worked out. Which, if you’ve been following these adventures closely, you’d know I was on a three year streak. A vicious one, at that. The amount of times I’d found myself remembering in bed was damn near remarkable.
To recap, in order for a workout to count towards this daily streak, one of the following workouts must have occurred:
Run: 3+ Miles
Hike: 5+ Miles (and/or) 1,000ft. Elevation Gain
Climbing: 90+ Minute Session
Arm/Legs: 30+ Minute Intensive Session
I impulsively checked my watch, praying the small hike we’d done this morning would count. 3 miles with 778ft of elevation gain. Fuck.
Alara asked what was wrong as I sighed and climbed back into the front seat. I put on my hiking shoes and opened the door, stepping out into the cool night air.
I just needed 222ft of elevation. The road we came in on was all downhill, which meant I could simply walk up the road until I hit the benchmark. Assuming, no ruthless hounds decided to swing by.
Since we were deep in the forests of the Catskill Mountains, the road was dark from the cover of mangled trees. Leaves kept rustling past my feet, anxious to get to their inevitable resting place.
It was at this point that I realized that the feeling of fear is like a root. It slowly enters your body, pushing aside your organs, until you can’t help but tense up from its gnarled grip.
I kept walking.
A soft light appeared in the distance as sweat began to appear on my arms, sticking to the jacket that was pushed against my body from the wind. As the light got closer, I realized it belonged to a lone electrical pole.
The wind was playing tricks on my eyes as the branches danced in the light, creating the illusion of a dog prancing through the trees. I rubbed my eyes while my heart began to race. Jesus Christ. I need to go to bed.
I looked down at my watch, seeing I’d hit 260ft- a couple stories past my goal. I turned around without looking back, steadily hauling ass back to the car. Nothing was chasing me. Nothing was chasing me.
Nightmares plagued my mind that night as I somehow felt the ominous presence of this mistaken dog. Morning came as swift as the night flew by. I awoke to sun rays leaking through the windshield, alerting us that it was time to see this cursed waterfall that’d shaped my night so thoroughly.
The morning forest was cheerful, but I felt strange from my lack of sleep the night before. I couldn't help but feel like the sounds of the water were playing tricks on my mind as we walked around. I kept wanting to hear that howl of a dog, even though I knew I wasn’t hearing anything. Eventually, I landed on this photo composition:
After that, I couldn’t have been happier to get out of there.
But what stuck with me as we drove away was the idea that this feeling of horror wasn’t from the ghost dog itself. What if it was the personal horror of almost missing that workout streak- something that’s been a mental crutch for me for several years now.
It might sound ridiculous, but this streak is what pulled me through so many difficult, stressful life situations. Not religion, not drugs, not escapism, but hard workouts.
Was this dog’s devotion to his master a metaphor for my devotion to working out? What would happen to me if I ever missed a streak? What would that do to me psychologically?
I shook my head and turned onto the freeway. I’m not sure I ever wanted to find out.
