Category Archives: Legends

Lake Monsters of the Adirondacks: My Family’s Monster‑Free Record

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Beautiful Lake George surrounded by lush green hills, framed by leafy branches in the foreground, with a small sailboat visible on the water under a clear sky.

Growing Up Between Two Monster Lakes

My family has spent a lot of time on the two Adirondack lakes most famous for monster sightings. My mother grew up in Ticonderoga, right between Lake George and Lake Champlain, and I spent my childhood on Lake George. We used to road‑trip to Vermont and often took the ferry across Lake Champlain. If Champ was going to make an appearance, we were giving him every opportunity.

He never did. My mother never saw him either. Not even a suspicious ripple.

Champ is the celebrity cryptid of the region — the Adirondack Nessie — and people have been reporting sightings since the 1800s. Meanwhile, my family crossed that lake so many times we practically deserved a loyalty punch card, and still: nothing. Not even a polite bubble.

Champ: The Famous Monster Who Never Showed Up

Champ gets all the attention. Books, documentaries, blurry photos, breathless eyewitness accounts — he’s the star of Lake Champlain. And yet, despite all those ferry crossings, neither my mother nor I ever saw anything that even hinted at a lake monster.

Plenty of waves. Plenty of logs. Zero monsters.

Georgie: The Lake George Monster We All Joked About

Lake George has a monster too, though it’s a much quieter legend. Growing up, we kids always joked about “Georgie,” the Lake George lake monster. I assumed Georgie was just the local version of Champ — a long‑necked creature lurking in the deep water, ready to pop up and terrify boaters.

 

I never knew Georgie had an actual origin story. Apparently most people don’t, because Georgie tends to get lumped in with Champ and Nessie as if he’s part of the same folklore family.

He isn’t.

The Wild, Forgotten Origin Story of Georgie

Georgie was a hoax — and a spectacular one.

Back in 1904, painter Harry Watrous built a ten‑foot lake monster out of a cedar log, complete with a skinny neck, big eyes, a wide mouth, and hemp‑rope whiskers. He created it to get revenge on a newspaper editor who had tricked him with a fake giant trout.

Watrous anchored his monster in Hague Bay and rigged it with a pulley system so he could make it rise dramatically out of the water whenever he felt like causing chaos.

And he did.

Panicked boaters, screaming passengers, parasol attacks — Georgie caused absolute mayhem. Watrous revived the monster again in 1934 just to “spoof the world” one more time. The original Georgie still exists and lives at the historical museum in Hague.

None of this made it into the version of Georgie I grew up with. To us, Georgie was just the Lake George monster — the one we joked about while swimming or boating, the one we pretended might be lurking under the dock. The prank faded, but the idea stuck.

My Family’s Real Lake Sightings (Everything Except Monsters)

And despite all that time on the lake, I never saw Georgie. My mother never saw Georgie. And my brother — who has spent more time on Lake George than anyone I know — has never seen Georgie.

This is impressive, because my brother has seen everything else.

He’s seen rattlesnakes swimming across Lake George. The lake’s had rabid beavers. He’s seen deer swimming across the lake like they’re training for a triathlon. He’s seen strange wakes, odd shadows, weird currents, and fog that makes the lake look like a horror movie set. There have even been water spouts!

Island Camping: Prime Monster Hours, Still No Monsters

My brother also camps out on the Lake George islands during the summer, which means he’s out there at night — prime monster hours. If Georgie were real, my brother would have had front‑row seats.

But no. Not a single monster sighting.

If Monsters Exist, They’re Avoiding Us

Between Champ and Georgie, the Adirondacks are supposedly home to two lake monsters. My family has spent generations swimming, boating, camping, ferrying, and occasionally dodging rabid beavers — and we’ve never seen one. Not even a hint.

If the monsters are out there, they’re clearly shy… or they’ve decided my family isn’t worth the trouble.

Mohican-Paradise-Bay-

 

RIP Dolly Parton

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It is with a sad heart that we shre the news of Dolly Parton‘s passing at 80. Music icon, philanthopist, Dolly, you werre loved in life and will be much missed. Your beautiful music will continue to bring joy and pleasure for years to come. RIP June 19, 1946 – Aug 26, 2026

Music icon Dolly Parton with her signature smile and blond hair

The Arounddustyroads team and family send heartfelt sympathy and love to all of Dollu’s family, friends and fans at this time of loss.

RIP Old Major

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Old Major, the ancient Sherwood Forest oak, standing leafless with metal supports holding up its massive, hollowed branches against a cloudy sky

🌳 Saying Goodbye to a Living Legend

It’s always sad when someone — or something — passes away. We humans understand that our time on this earth is finite. We lose loved ones, we lose pets, from the humble goldfish to the faithful dog or cat who leaves a hole in our hearts.

But how often do we stop and think about the other living things around us?
The ones that stand quietly, century after century, asking nothing from us except space and sunlight?

The trees.

Trees, Time, and Childhood Imagination

Trees are surprisingly long‑lived. When I was growing up, I had quite the imagination. I can still remember debating with my next‑door neighbor about whether fairies were real. Oh, how I wanted them to be — delicate little beings with shimmering wings, flitting among the flowers.

And that brings me back to the trees.

I always imagined the fairies living in the woods, tucked into the roots and branches. I wondered what stories the trees could tell if they could talk. The giant sequoias, for example, have been alive since the time of the dinosaurs. They’ve watched humanity grow and evolve — from four legs to two, from naked wanderers to suits, ties, and haute couture.

Which brings me to the subject of today’s post.

Who Was Old Major?

Old Major was an oak tree — a giant of a tree — estimated to be between 800 and 1,000 years old. He was a character in the Robin Hood legend, already ancient even in those stories. According to folklore, he sheltered Robin and his Merry Men inside his hollowed‑out trunk.

That’s what old oaks do. They grow and grow, and as they age, they begin to hollow out. Old Major was already entering his twilight years when Robin supposedly hid inside him. But he still had life left to give.

A Sentinel of Sherwood Forest

I don’t know how thick Sherwood Forest was in Robin’s time, but today Old Major stood alone — a massive sentinel in the clearing, drawing Robin Hood fans from around the world. He was the kind of tree you don’t just look at; you feel him.

Sadly, the old man of the forest has finally passed on.

The Final Spring

This spring, no leaves burst forth on any of his branches.
The horticulturists watched and waited, but no sap ran beneath the bark.
Old Major, the Robinhood Tree was dead. His long life had finally come to an end.

I don’t yet know what, if anything, is planned to memorialize Old Major. Sometimes new trees are grown from the acorns of the fallen, allowing another generation to begin. Perhaps that will be his legacy.

What Brought Him Down?

The usual things:

  • Age
  • Poor soil conditions
  • And the big one: climate change

Ancient trees like Old Major evolved in a stable climate. The rapid changes of the last 50 years have hit these elders hard — hotter summers, sudden storms, droughts, and unpredictable temperature swings.

Even giants have limits.

A Life That Spanned Centuries

No matter the cause, it’s still hard to say goodbye to something that began life in Medieval England. Old Major survived:

  • The Black Death
  • The Industrial Revolution
  • Two world wars
  • The rise and fall of countless monarchs

And along the way, he became a character in a legend.

Not many living things can claim that.

A Final Farewell

So we say goodbye to Old Major — not just a tree, but a witness to history, a keeper of stories, and a quiet companion to generations who walked beneath his branches. He stood through plagues and wars, through kings and commoners, through centuries of change that would have bewildered the world he was born into.

In the end, he reminds us that even the oldest giants must eventually rest. But what a legacy he leaves behind: a place in legend, a place in memory, and a reminder that the living world around us has its own tales to tell, if only we pause long enough to listen.

 

 

Secretariat – When a Horse Becomes a Legend

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Gone but not forgotten. “Bronze statue of Secretariat at Claiborne Farm in Kentucky, commemorating the Triple Crown winner’s historic career.”

 

A Tribute to Secretariat: America’s Super Horse

Now that Derby Day has come and gone for another year, I find myself thinking not just about the newest winner, but about the horse who still casts the longest shadow over the sport. Secretariat. Big Red. The legend who didn’t just win races — he redefined what greatness looked like on four legs.

Secretariat wasn’t simply fast. He was the Gretzky or Jordan of the racetrack — the kind of once‑in‑a‑generation athlete whose records don’t just stand; they dare anyone to even try. More than fifty years later, his times in all three Triple Crown races remain untouched. No other horse has come close.

The Making of a Legend

Born on March 30, 1970, Secretariat grew into a 16.2‑hand, 1,175‑pound chestnut with a stride so fluid it looked like he was skimming the ground. His conformation bordered on flawless, and during his three‑year‑old season he powered himself with 15 quarts of oats a day — fuel for the engine that would change racing forever.

In 1973, he became the first Triple Crown winner in 25 years. And he didn’t just win those races — he shattered them. His records in the Kentucky Derby, Preakness, and Belmont Stakes still stand today.

The Belmont That Became a Myth

Even if Secretariat had never run another race, the 1973 Belmont Stakes would have secured his immortality. That day, he didn’t just win the Triple Crown — he obliterated it.

He ran the mile and a half in 2:24 flat, the fastest time ever recorded at that distance. And he won by 31 lengths. The camera literally couldn’t keep the rest of the field in the same frame. It remains one of the most astonishing athletic performances ever captured on film.

A Horse Who Became an American Icon

Secretariat wasn’t just a champion; he was a cultural phenomenon. Magazine covers. Headlines. Crowds who came simply to watch him walk. He was syndicated for millions under the agreement that he would retire after his three‑year‑old season — a decision that allowed him to begin a second career as a sire.

His influence is still everywhere. Nineteen of the twenty expected starters in the 2026 Kentucky Derby trace back to him. His bloodline continues to shape the sport.

He even made ESPN’s list of the 50 Greatest Athletes of the Century — the only non‑human on the list.

The Heart of a Champion

When Secretariat died at age 19 from laminitis, the necropsy revealed something that felt almost poetic: his heart was two and a half times the size of a typical Thoroughbred’s. Not diseased — just extraordinary.

Most racehorses are buried with only their head, heart, and hooves. Secretariat was buried whole at Claiborne Farm in Paris, Kentucky. Because how do you separate a legend into pieces?

The Legacy That Still Gallops On

Secretariat earned over $1.3 million on the track — more than $7.7 million today — and commanded a $70,000 stud fee. But his true legacy isn’t measured in money. It lives in the records that refuse to fall, the bloodlines that still dominate, and the way his Belmont replay can make even a casual viewer feel goosebumps.

For those of us who grew up horse‑crazy, Secretariat wasn’t just a racehorse. He was the embodiment of every dream we ever had about what a horse could be.

He still is.

Big Red forever.

 

 

 

The Five‑Second Rule and Other Delicious Lies We Tell Ourselves

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✨ The Myths, Legends, and Laughs of Kitchen Folklore

There are a few myths and legends that sneak into everyday food handling. One that comes to mind immediately is the Five‑Second Rule. Ever heard of it? I seem to run into it constantly. I’ve even heard it mentioned in TV programs like The Simpsons—and believe it or not, Julia Child herself once scooped up dropped food on camera. She never said the rule out loud, but that moment alone helped cement it in modern kitchen culture.

The Five‑Second Rule: Convenient, Comforting… and Completely Wrong

For anyone who’s never watched TV or has their head buried like an ostrich, the Five‑Second Rule is the belief that food dropped on the floor is safe to eat if you pick it up within five seconds.

Unfortunately, science has rained on that parade. Studies show bacteria can transfer to food almost instantly. How much depends on the food, the surface, and how dirty that surface is. The myth sticks around because it’s a handy excuse not to waste food—but it’s not exactly a food‑safety strategy.

Understanding the risks helps us make better choices and reminds us that hygiene matters more than wishful thinking.

The Jelly‑Side‑Down Curse

Another favorite saying is that toast always lands jelly‑side down. Don’t laugh—think about it. I always assumed the extra weight of the butter or jelly caused the flip… or maybe it’s just a breakfast version of Murphy’s Law.

But there’s actually physics behind it. Toast usually starts jelly‑side up on a plate. When it slips, it only has time to rotate about half a turn before hitting the floor—landing jelly‑side down. Not bad luck. Just gravity with a sense of humor.

The Pancake Theorem: The First One’s Always a Dud

There’s a whole plethora of kitchen sayings, but one of my favorites is the Pancake Theorem:
“The first one’s always a dud.”

As someone who struggled for years to make the perfect pancake, I can confirm this one from personal experience. I’m happy to report that with improved kitchen skills, I now make pancakes from scratch—company‑worthy ones, no less—and I’ve finally overcome the first‑pancake curse.

Why does that first pancake misbehave? A few reasons: the pan isn’t evenly heated yet, the oil hasn’t settled, and the batter is still adjusting to the temperature. So the first one comes out pale, blotchy, or shaped like a map of New Jersey. It’s folklore backed by kitchen physics.

A Final Bite

So, my friend, tuck these sayings away for a quick kitchen chuckle. Just don’t rely on the Five‑Second Rule. That’s one myth best left on the floor—preferably with the jelly‑side down.