The Rockefellers and Guggenheims loved nothing more than a weekend in the Adirondack Mountains. But, as our writer discovers, it was still a life of unparalleled luxury.
As I drive down the dirt road, the wilderness stretches out before me like a dreamscape – shadowy and silent in the twilight. The five-hour drive from New York City has dulled my senses, but as my old car noisily announces its presence, I notice a dark form ambling along the road. I’m making a pilgrimage to the Adirondack Mountains in upstate New York, bedding down in isolated wood cabins and rooting around in the forests. And that dark profile ahead is a black bear.