Let me just start by saying: I love NYC — New York City. I love the smell of pretzels and ambition in the air, the taxis that accelerate like fighter jets, and the people who can simultaneously order a bagel, negotiate a merger, and yell at a pigeon. But here’s a question no one dares ask at a Manhattan brunch table: Why would anyone voluntarily subject themselves to the perpetual game of urban pinball when just outside lies actual, unfiltered, underappreciated magic?
Let me take you on a trip, and I don’t mean the C train to Brooklyn.
Adirondack Mountains. Heard of them? No cover charge. Hike all day, no one scans your ticket. The air smells like pine and victory. You can zip-line into the mist, which feels exactly how I imagine jumping into a cloud made of espresso and bravery.
Then there’s Lake Ontario, where the Pacific salmon—yes, Pacific—somehow forgot which ocean they came from and now live here, just to confuse us and be delicious. Combine that with 70,000 miles of freshwater fishing, and suddenly your fishing license feels like a VIP backstage pass.
Lake Erie? Oh, just your average water body famous for walleye and smallmouth bass so feisty they could run a political campaign. If fishing’s not your thing, toss on some flannel and admire the rolling hills and farmland, which might just be the most photogenic in the USA. Sorry, Vermont.
Don’t sleep on the Catskill Mountains, either—where nature meets “I think I left my cell signal back at the parking lot,” and it’s glorious.
And then, of course, the thunderous majesty of Niagara Falls—two separate falls, mind you, in case one wasn’t dramatic enough. There’s an observation deck with elevators, 180 feet underground, accessible via tunnels and cobblestone streets that whisper old secrets like, “Don’t trust the pigeons.”
So, next time someone asks why you’re not in NYC, just smile and say: Because out here, the salmon are confused, the waterfalls are double, and the bass bite back.
Happy trails!
