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  • When the old man cut down the giant redwood next door, the buzz saw whine stung the air for four hours, hacking away at limbs. The girls ran out to plead with him. He continued sawing.

    Soon after, I boarded a plane in San Francisco for Rosie's Long Island wedding. Champagne on the deck, beachwalk at night, a train back to the city.

    I crossed the Bear Mountain Bridge in the red rental car after Nyack, a sleepy town of empty storefronts and a slope-down to the river.

    But this. The 30s erector set architecture, the stone toll booths, the sweep-views of the Hudson on either side. I swung left onto 9D, heading north through Garrison past a weathered red chapel, fields of wildflowers, stone walls into Cold Spring.

    Standing by the gazebo at the riverfront, a dark storm cloud tumbled down the valley out of nowhere. Fork lightning flashes. A thunder clap. Electric-fascination.

    I called him from the corner of the nascent storm. "This is our next location."

    Within four months we had a view of Storm King.
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