Not Exactly a Teddy Bear's Picnic
[Holding onto our humor is essential. So, here is a post of when things went wrong but everything turned out just dandy.]
“Bear Mountain is situated about 40 miles from New York City in the rugged mountains rising from the west bank of the Hudson River.”
One autumn Sunday, Dad and Mom decided to take us kids on an adventure by driving from our New Jersey home to spend a day at New York State’s Bear Mountain State Park. This was unusual because our family was not big on spending time outdoors. We treated snacking on our screened porch as roughing it. Our journey began that crisp fall morning right after Dad made a special run to obtain dry ice that he would use to pack Mom’s sandwiches, desserts, and drinks in a plastic cooler.
“Dry ice keeps food and drinks really cold,” Dad explained.
I recall that we travelled on the Garden State Parkway, crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge, drove up the Palisades Interstate Parkway, and traversed the Bear Mountain (suspension) Bridge. We arrived at the park after about two hours. The parking lot was adjacent to a rustic lodge surrounded by numerous picnic tables and charcoal grilles. We were a bit tired, ready to stretch our legs, and enjoy lunch. After a brief walk around the frozen grounds, we realized that this higher, northerly elevation was a lot colder than the weather was at home. A slight breeze was sufficient to thoroughly chill us. The sky was cloudy, the trees had lost their leaves, and dull, gray rock outcrops gave the area a bleak aspect.
We cut the walk short and demanded lunch. Dad set picnic plates, forks, napkins, and cups on one of the outdoor picnic tables where we huddled in our light coats. Mom began to unpack our food from the cooler. Each of us received a brick-like sandwich, a frozen cupcake, and an ice-cubed soda can. After tossing our foodstuffs back and forth, we returned the inedible lunches to the cooler.
“Well, the dry ice worked perfectly,” Dad self-deprecatingly joked.
“Walter, have you ever done this before?” Mom inquired.
“No. But I imagined that it would work. I got the idea from the ice cream trucks that travel through our neighborhood during the summer. A Good Humor guy told me that they use dry ice.”
“What now?” Mom asked.
“Maybe they sell foodstuff in the lodge,” Dad suggested.
Sure enough, we found vending machines that sold crackers with spots of peanut butter or some sort of cheese whiz along with cups of coffee. We were not fussy. After making our purchases, we ate our humble picnic in the car on the way home because the lodge was unheated. By the time we got back to our house, the late afternoon had become sunny and a lot warmer. Dad unpacked the cooler and dumped the dry ice onto the street. Suddenly, the ice cracked, popped, and smoked. It jumped around the street as it ferociously melted. We squealed with delight at this fireworks type display.
Later at an early dinner, we agreed that the trip had been horrendous. We joked about Bear Mountain being a “bare” mountain where we barely survived. We agreed that Dad’s dry ice idea had turned out to be fun after all.
Although we were never again tempted to enjoy the great outdoors as a family, doing things together meant a lot – perhaps even more so when our Teddy Bear Picnic didn’t go exactly as anticipated.