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"Towards you, towards you, pull it towards you," my father yells to my mom, referring to the tiller that sits on her lap. We're aboard my dad's 22-foot Catalina, sailing at a good 15-knot clip across the cerulean waters of Lake George on our way back to his dock. Mom's steering, dad's barking orders, and I'm on the bow of the boat, ready to jump onto terra firma, but first I have to listen to my parent's banter, a routine I've witnessed far too many times.

"What the hell are you doing? Aim for the house," my dad bellows, pointing to the small white house that stands on the hillside above our dock. My father's voice always seems to rise a notch or two in volume every time he steps foot into his sailboat. That's usually what happens to former Lieutenants in the Navy. They resign their commission in the military, buy a small boat of their own, and quickly ascend to the rank of Admiral. Nevertheless, my mom always remains as cool as the water in this lake, easily gliding the boat into the dock without a scratch. Once the lines are tied, she stands up, and ends with the tag line, "not bad for a Bronx girl." "Yeah, not bad," my father mutters back, forgetting that Mom also taught him how to drive.

I've been sailing the waters of this 31-mile long lake in the southern Adirondacks before I learned to walk, or so I'm told. Growing up in these sylvan surroundings, I took its beauty for granted; the verdant mountainside that slopes to the lake's edge on either side, the pine-studded islands that provide perfect anchorage for boaters, the narrow width that's easily mistaken for a long rambling river. Years later, I've had the good fortune to visit many of the world's most noted lakes - Tahoe, Como in Italy, Taupo in New Zealand, Lucerne in Switzerland, but given the choice, I'll take Lake George on a weekday (on summer weekends, the influx of motorboats and jet skies make the lake seem a lot smaller).

This late summer day we sailed from Bolton Landing through the many islands that dot the Narrows to one of our most beloved spots on the lake, Commission Point. We found our customary picnic table that juts out onto a spit of land, creating the perfect vantage point to view the mountains that rise from the opposite shores. After our usual lunch of salami, rye, and Freihofer chocolate chip cookies (an upstate New York favorite) we took a dip, and then went on a walk though the woods to Paradise Bay. On weekends in summer, this small inlet is far from paradisiacal as half-drunken yachtsmen swim from cruiser to cruiser creating a ruckus. Yet, on a Tuesday in late August, no one was around and the only sounds heard were the low hum of crickets sleeping. We strolled on the soft forest floor, moist from moss, past a thicket of birches and evergreens that might have been standing during the days of the Revolutionary War. Pine needles dusted the ground, creating a sweet smell that my lungs yearned to inhale.

It is this same healthy air that transformed the Adirondacks into a salubrious retreat in the 1870s, bringing tens of thousands of people to the region. In 1869, the Reverend William H.H. Murray published a book called ‘Adventures in the Wilderness; or, Camp-Life in the Adirondacks’, which extolled the therapeutic value of the woods on both mind and body. The book went through ten printings in three months as "Murray's Fools" flooded the Adirondacks, including numerous tuberculosis victims in search of the "mountain cure." By 1880, there were more than 200 hotels to house the visitors.

One of those hotels, the Blue Mountain House, is now the site of the Adirondack Museum, arguably the best regional museum in the country and a worthwhile introduction to the history of the area. Enter the grounds on the hillside overlooking Blue Mountain Lake and you can still see part of the log hotel built in 1876. In the Boats Building, birchbark canoes from the 1840s and the much wider guide boats used in the region at the turn of the century are on display alongside numerous other 19th century vessels. The guide boats, a little larger than rowboats, were used to escort affluent visitors on the network of waterways that form a vast web of blue throughout the Adirondacks. "The Adirondacks, that Venice of the woods, whose highways are rivers, whose paths are streams, and whose carriages are boats," said Murray in 1870.

Although it took 26 hours or more on railroads, stagecoaches, and steamboats to get to Blue Mountain Lake from New York City in the 1870s, the remoteness of the Adirondacks proved to be more of an attraction than a deterrent. The wealthy elite, including J.P. Morgan, William Whitney, and Alfred Vanderbilt bought large tracts of lands and built themselves "great camps," sprawling collections of handsome log buildings with massive stone fireplaces. To make traveling more pleasurable, they would create their own private railway car, complete with brass railings, shower, card room, and bed. A fine example of this is on view in the Age of Horses Building.

Just up the road from the museum is the trail to the peak of Blue Mountain. I took this path on my 30th birthday to crown the feeling of freedom I felt in my twenties. Now, two years later, I chose to take the same 2-mile trail again. It was a cloudless day and the bright sun beat down, forcing me to stop and hydrate my body every so often. Sitting on a pile of rocks and peeling an orange, I met another hiker, Bob Hanley from Scipio, New York. We started a conversation and soon began climbing the remainder of the mountain together. Less than three-quarters of the way to the top, I began to feel winded, though I remembered the hike to be fairly easy on my last ascent. Then I looked over at Bob, who was running up the rocks like a Kenyan long-distance runner, and I realized the pace had greatly accelerated. Bob was 66 years old and sprinting up the mountain without a drop of water. I was less than half his age and had just written a book about outdoor sports in New England, yet there I was panting and sucking on my canteen like a baby on a bottle. The old adage "you can't judge a book by its cover" certainly applies to hikers.

"It's a good day to be alive," Bob said when we reached the summit in less than an hour. Soaked with sweat, I tore off my shirt, took another gulp of water and then stared at the surroundings. I had to agree with him. Anonymous mountains tumbled over one another, their slopes forming a sea of green. The waterways Reverend Murray spoke of carved their niche into the blanket of pines. Blue Mountain Lake stood before me, a speck compared to the much larger Long and Raquette Lakes that shimmered in the distance. These names I remember from my adolescence when I canoed a string of lakes, ponds, and rivers nearly 100 miles from Old Forge through Blue Mountain, Long, and Raquette Lakes to the Saranac Lakes in the north.

Atop Blue Mountain or any other peak in the Adirondacks, one easily senses the enormity of wilderness that defines the region. The Adirondacks is the largest park of any kind in the lower 48 states. It is larger than Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, and Olympic National Parks combined. It is larger than the state of New Hampshire, larger than six other states. It’s six million acres contains more than 2,800 ponds and lakes, 1,500 miles of rivers. Indeed, ninety percent of all plants and animals that exist north of the Mason-Dixon line and east of the Mississippi River can be found somewhere in the Adirondacks.

Yet, for several reasons, the Adirondacks has remained a covert secret cherished mostly by northeasterners. Like most tourism in New York state, it is overshadowed by the large metropolis that sits in the south. More importantly, unlike Yellowstone, Yosemite, or even Acadia on the Maine coast, the Adirondacks is a state park. It's not even entirely government owned. Within the "Blue Line" delineating the State Park’s boundary is a mix of public and private lands. Thus, despite its immensity, the Adirondacks will never have the popularity or crowds that swell the national parks in summer.

Even if people have never heard of the Adirondacks, they usually know its most famous village, Lake Placid, home of the Winter Olympics in 1932 and 1980. Situated in the northern half of the park, Lake Placid serves as an outpost of civilization for people who are about to venture into the forest or have just returned and are in dire need of a decent meal. Small galleries and restaurants line Main Street. Eastern Mountain Sports and Jones Outfitters stand across from one another, offering any accessory you've ever wanted for roughing it outdoors. For souvenirs, there's Peacock & Peacock, featuring an eclectic mix of antiques, crystal, and baby clothes. Perhaps the most intriguing shop is With Pipe and Book, a combination pipe and book store. Rare maps and almost any book imaginable on the region can be found here.

Several miles outside of Lake Placid sits the Adirondack Mountain Loj, a rustic retreat built by the Adirondack Mountain Club in the heart of the High Peaks region. Here, New York State's tallest peaks like Mt. Marcy (5,334 feet) and Mt. Algonquin (5,114 feet) dare hikers to make their ascent. The Loj sits on the shores of Heart Pond, just off Route 73, a serpentine road bordered on both sides by cascading creeks where men are often seen standing in waders, water up to their knees, fly-fishing. Dozens of cars line the route, parked near the common wooden trailhead sign. This road is a mecca for hikers who have their choice of more than 2,000 miles of trails that run rampant throughout the park.

The following morning I woke up early and took one of those trails from behind the Loj to the short summit of Mt. Jo. Called the Indian Pass, the mile-long trail took its time meandering over extended roots and uprooted birches. Slated sunlight started to pour in through the deep forest just as I clambered over the final rocks to reach the top. For such little effort, the rewards were great. Marcy, Algonquin, and Mt. Colden towered above me, standing broad shoulder to shoulder. Everywhere I turned, a collage of green and blue rolled towards the horizon, unfazed by the hand of modernity. My life might be sprinkled with memories of this large park, but even if I live to be 100, I'll never get a grasp on it. It's simply too big, too wild, too sparse, the reason I return season after season, hiking boots or canoe in tow, for another session of solace and repose.

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