On the heels of numerous newspaper reports about women exploring for the deposit of perpetual ice “caused by convulsion of nature,” written by Rev. Byron- Curtiss, the stories attracted the attention of adventurous people. The Reverend offered all who would bring a sample of the ice to his camp a notarized statement of success and a picnic at his lodge. Courtesy Thomas and Doris Kilbourn

The A. L. Byron-Curtiss Collection

IT HAS BEEN a long time since I first summited Ice Cave Mountain for a look at the so-called “ice cave” on the peak and a picnic overlooking the balancing rock. I’ve taken many hikes to it since then. It’s a favorite late spring or fall trip, but not a destination recommended during the buggy portion of the year.

A reporter, Linda Murphy, and photographer, Heather Ainsworth, from the Utica Observer-Dispatch accompanied me on a trip to the summit one autumn day. Their actions provided me some silent laughter. I had cautioned the women to dress appropriately and to be prepared to trek over a blind path — my term for an unmarked but visible (to a degree) pathway. They seemed in high spirits and alert to hazards until they realized a fact I had not paid any attention to. Almost in unison they exclaimed, “We’re in the wilderness!” When I asked what they meant, they pointed to their cell phones. They were not getting any reception. I suggested something along the lines of trying to concentrate on the beauty of the surroundings rather than the stark terror of an afternoon without a smart phone.

I remember that hike because of the sandwich I had experimented with as I packed my lunch that morning, because the women were good sports even when the walking turned rough. Irregularities became hidden traps, branches slapped them when they walked too close to each other, and briers clawed at their clothing. As I enjoyed a leisurely rest and late lunch, they commented that they were going to see where their cell phone reception would pick on their way out of the woods.

The reporters seemed uninterested in the gourmet sandwiches I’d brought for them, not really tasting them as they held their phones up in various directions, still perplexed and dismayed by their disconnection with civilization.

As we passed the North Lake sluiceway I pointed out the boarded-up State House and told a story about Anna Brown, a locally known cook. Patrons raved about her table fare and often left with a favorite recipe to try in their own kitchens. Summer residents and campers all raved about her Sunday standard of eggs, bacon, and biscuits with chicken gravy, a breakfast she used to serve in the large dining room.

I wondered what Anna might have thought about my cold sandwich. Knowing her wizardry, I think she would have given it a thumbs up. I know I did. I wrote it down, too —with a pen, on a recipe card.

Elated teenagers pose on the summit of Ice Cave Mountain after finding the famous Ice Cave. Circa 1930s.

Courtesy Thomas and Doris Kilbourn .The A. L. Byron-Curtiss Collection