Back in 2019, I had what felt like an impossible idea. I turned to my husband, Xavier, and said, “I want to go back to Alger Island.”
Alger sits on Fourth Lake in the Adirondacks, a place you can only reach by boat. It had been one of my favorite camping spots for years. Before my accident, Xavier and I camped all over New York State, sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with our boys in tow. We’d pitched tents on so many patches of earth, each one a new adventure.
After my accident, we still camped, though it was more complicated. I wasn’t sure Alger would ever be possible again — the roots, the uneven ground, the challenge of getting from the pontoon boat to the lean-to shelter. But Xavier and our friend Frank did a recon trip and found the perfect spot. Flat enough, accessible enough, possible.
On June 29, 2021, we packed up the car with all our gear and set off for the mountains. The drive took an hour and a half, and then we loaded everything onto the rented pontoon boat. The ride over filled me with joy. The sky was painted blue with wisps of clouds, the air carried that clean Adirondack scent of pine, and the wind on my face reminded me of all the summers past. I couldn’t stop smiling.
What made it even more special was the community that gathered. Fourteen people — family, friends, my sons — came along. We’d camped together for years, so everyone knew the rhythm: potluck meals, shared chores, long talks around the fire. On Alger, phones don’t work, so there were no distractions. Just us. Fully present.
For five days we lived the way we always had: laughing around the campfire, grilling meals, boating, playing games, and soaking up the simple joy of being together. Some swam — something I long for but can’t do anymore — and even watching them filled me with peace.
Alger was more than just a camping trip. It was a homecoming. Proof that with love, planning, and determination, the places you think are lost to you can still be found again.