On a cool, overcast March morning recently I climbed Overlook Mountain, with the intent of renewing citizenship in the Republic of Ashokan. Climbing Overlook is nothing new; I had done it dozens of times as casually as I once walked from Times Square to Washington Square. What was different was that age had crept up on me. I had become, perforce, a saunterer in Woodstock. A flaneur. Could I still hike?
I have this notion, based a little on bioregionalism, and a lot on 40 years residence in Ashokan — meaning the Woodstock Valley from Overlook to the Reservoir — that we . . .
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