This wasn’t The Big Apple, Long Island, or the Hamptons. And this certainly wasn’t Central Park. It was New York as it should be: raw, rugged, empty woods. This was the New York of 400 years ago.

We carefully picked our way along a narrow trail, following the banks of a boulder-strewn stream that rushed cold and clear out of the woods. The late afternoon sun filtered in in all shades of green through a canopy of interlocking maple, birch, walnut, and ash. Streaks of malachite light snuck through the dense leaves and bounced off dogwoods and hawthorns growing in open patches.

The afternoon air hung thick and still in the hushed woods. We started to sweat as we balanced a canoe over our heads, slowly making our way upstream.

It wasn’t all paradise. Black flies and mosquitoes, frenzied by the heat, swarmed our faces. Deerflies — and the even larger horseflies — took advantage of our hands clamped to the gunwales, and fed eagerly until our fingers bled.

Beware what the beaver built

It wasn’t an easy task, carrying a canoe to navigable waters of an unnamed stream somewhere deep in New York’s Adirondack Park. When the alder thickets became impenetrable, sinking to our hips in muck and peat, we launched the vessel into a stream no more than four feet wide and deep. An annoyed beaver slapped its tail and dove confidently under our boat.

We enjoyed about 10 minutes of leisurely floating among thickets and across a flooded beaver meadow. Spruce fringed the bog and old deciduous forest covered the rolling hills.

Near the terminus of every beaver pond, a beaver dam awaits. We would've nearly been fine, jumping the stack of wood, piled by generations of obsessive rodents. But my companion stood up to get a better view at a crucial moment. Sixteen feet of molded aluminum lurched over the impressive dam, hung in the balance for a moment, and then the force of the water won.

I tore most of my clothes scraping down a wall of sticks chewed to spikes. The overturned canoe hung in the first alder downstream.

Exhausted from both the hike out with an extra 50 pounds and from hammering the dents out of the aluminum back in camp, we swore to stick to flat water. With the large Cranberry Lake within footsteps, that wasn’t difficult.

We were living right at the edge of an immense wilderness area in the western part of Adirondack Park. To put it mildly, we rarely saw anybody in our part of the woods. During the evenings, I’d take a kayak out on the leaden lake and listen to loons yodel at the sunset.

It's kind of a big deal

Adirondack Park in upstate New York was originally created in 1892 to protect the watersheds of the Erie Canal and Hudson River. Over the last 100 years, the park has grown in size, and now dwarfs many major national parks. It is the largest park in New York State, and the largest state-level protected area within the contiguous United States.

Within the park boundary lie more than 3,000 lakes and 30,000 miles of rivers and streams — plenty of elbow room for anglers, paddlers, and picnickers.

The majority of visitors do not drag canoes into the woods to paddle down beaver ponds, but enjoy the forest, meadows and mountains from the more than 2,000 miles of hiking trails, one of the largest trail systems in the nation.

Small but mighty

Peakbaggers will find comrades among the Forty-Sixer Club, which celebrates the 46 summits above 4,000 feet found in the Adirondack Mountains. Four peaks actually fall just below the 4,000 mark, but are still included for tradition's sake.

The hardcore climb the highest peaks during deep winter. While thin air, snow or ice are not an issue in these mountains during summer, long approaches, steep terrain, and sometimes trail-less sections make for tough, worthwhile adventures.

I experienced the long approaches firsthand while hiking Mt. Marcy — the mightiest and highest in all of New York at 5,344 feet.

By the time I reached the base of the mountain — an obvious increase in incline, as the path seemed to shoot straight up into thickening spruces — I was already wiped out. A pre-sunrise start followed by three hours of solid hiking was apparently just the warm up.

When I finally slumped down on the summit, after what seemed an inordinately difficult effort for a wee 5,344 feet, I watched high clouds drift lazily over more than 30 viewable peaks. Ponds and lakes gleamed far below. Except for a distant fire tower and several slumped over peak baggers, there was no sign of humanity.

He'll be coming down the mountain

Splayed on the ground, trying to rest my burning muscles, I was able to get close looks at the minute and unique vegetation of the granite summit.

Plants usually found in arctic latitudes thrive here on the bare peaks, in climates akin to areas much further north. I was able to look at a four-by-four-foot patch of alpine tundra. The plant community is fragile and the scraps of moss, lichens, and miniature flowers had their own warden, who climbed up on a daily basis and educated the exhausted hikers.

On weekends, French becomes the second language on the trails, as hikers from Montréal flood the woods. Eager for some hills, visitors leave flat Québec and tackle the steep trails of the Adirondacks.

Sprinkled among the lakes and high peaks lie the towns of Lake Placid and Saranac Lake, full of tourists wandering from shop to shop, crowding restaurants, and admiring the scenery from the comfort of terraced cafés.

For hikers and anyone returning from the wilderness, it’s a great place to find a pizza joint and reconstitute lost muscle tissue — while looking at the far away peak tackled that day.

Try to catch a cheap flight to New York City (well, maybe enjoy the city for a day), and make the five-hour drive to the Adirondacks for a long, long weekend or weeks of hiking, paddling, and wilderness exploring. There are plenty of lodges, hotels, and endless camping opportunities available within the park.

The park overall does not have a traditional feel, as many small towns and lots of private lands are interspersed with preserved lands and wilderness areas. There are no entrance fees, but visitor centers can help with planning.