I decided to visit my old friend Kelly Flanagan at his place in Cherry Valley, New York because I liked the name, it would undoubtedly be cooler than where I live down in steamy Annapolis, and I hadn’t spent more than a handful of days with Kelly since we first became friends at the Naval Academy back in 1972.
Cherry Valley sits at an elevation of about 1,500 feet in the shadows of the Appalachian Mountains. It’s mostly small, well-kept farms — corn, wheat, dairy, horses, fruit orchards, and maple syrup operations — dotted with lakes, streams, and creeks. It’s a wet, verdant land where summers are short and winters never seem to end. It reminded me a lot of Scotland.
The 1,200 or so people who call Cherry Valley home are tough, conservative, and friendly. Trump is quite popular. But all sorts of artists and writers have taken up residence in the area since its establishment in 1791, including Jack Kerouac and Willa Cather. Andy Warhol Superstar Candy Darling, who was the muse for Lou Reed’s infamous song “Walk On The Wild Side” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjbs7quVuD8 is buried in the historic Cherry Valley Cemetery. There are lots of theories as to why, but nobody really knows for sure. The grave draws counter-culture pilgrims during the warmer months like moths to a flame.
The village became an oasis for many of the Beat poets in the 1960s, including Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Gregory Corso, and William Burroughs who barely survived their first winter there in a communal farm house — still owned by the Ginsberg Estate — and were saved by some of the locals who took pity on the drug-crazed interlopers. Cherry Valley epitomizes the phrase “eccentric rugged individualist”.
The town’s biggest claim to fame is the Revolutionary War massacre of 1778, when British Loyalists and Iroquois Indians wiped out almost every man, woman, and child in Cherry Valley. Those that were spared were sold into Indian bondage. But the ending of the story usually gets lost in the shuffle. In 1779, the Colonial Army’s response to the massacre was terrible and swift. General George Washington commissioned the Sullivan Expedition which annihilated over 40 Iroquois villages in central and western New York and drove the women and children into refugee camps at Fort Niagara. And for all intents and purposes, this savage act of retribution removed the Indians from that part of New York forevermore.
It took me eight hours to drive from Annapolis to Cherry Valley; a bit longer than it should have because I went west through Gettysburg rather than Harrisburg. But these days it really doesn’t matter what route you choose because every road is under construction and it’s a stop-start barrel of fun wherever you go. I went east on my way back and hit the Harrisburg and Baltimore metro traffic, and it ended up being only thirty minutes faster. Pick your travel poison.
I arrived in Cherry Valley at 5:30, just in time for the Thursday Bluegrass concert to benefit the local Food Bank. The show was held in the small city park on Main Street, right across from Kelly’s apartment. Everybody in town was there and it was a great way for me to quickly get with the Cherry Valley program. The owner of the Tryon Inn was serving chicken platters as a light rain fell and local musicians played some foot-stomping mountain music. People of all ages danced in their rain gear and no one seemed to mind the wet weather. We sat out of the rain on the Coyote Café patio listening to the music and drinking beer as an incredible lightning storm lit up the eastern sky for several hours.
We awoke surprisingly early the next day with what would become the morning routine: grab an outdoor table right outside my front door at the Coyote Cafe. Order a yummy breakfast burrito. Chat it up with the locals who all started their day at Cherry Valley’s social center. And figure out our game plan for the day.
After breakfast Kelly and I piled into a muddy red farm truck owned by “The Twins”, two young ladies who split the year between Cherry Valley and West Palm, and who considered Kelly their goofball uncle. We cruised down Highway 166, the scenic valley road paralleling the meandering Cherry Valley Creek, to the sleepy village of Portlandville, for some lazy kayaking and swimming on the upper stretch of the Susquehanna River. This far upriver, the mighty Susquehanna resembled a placid creek with clapboard waterfront cottages and little or no current, which made for easy paddling. After a couple of miles the usual afternoon storm clouds began rolling in and we turned around. Unfortunately, a kick ass deluge hit us like a fire hose less than five minutes before we made it back to the dock. But it was a warm rain, so it was no big deal and by the time we pulled the kayaks out of the water, the sun was blazing and steam rose from the surrounding farm fields. It was classic Scottish weather.
Later that day we drove over to a truly unique restaurant just outside Cooperstown called Origins. It consisted of a funky, haphazard building in the woods housing a bar, dining area, and dance floor with an organic farm and nursery attached to the building. There were tables, sofas, and comfy chairs for dining or just hanging out scattered throughout the nursery. And the menu changed every day based on what veggies had just been picked and what animals had been recently slaughtered. Man, you talk about fresh. I thought I was back in Barcelona. And when we finished our meal it was time for some crazy dancing. Turned out it was a full moon and some local dj’s mixed their latest chill, techno-dance tunes as the local hipsters bopped & bounced frenetically to the catchy beats. It was a surprise ending to a magical day.
And we still had four more days to go!
