The drive through upstate New York is, in itself, a worthwhile affair. Glorious views over waves of mountains and valleys defy even the most jaded traveler’s desire to scream, “Are we there yet?” Getting there is only half the pleasure.

But, a pleasure it is. As the car rumbles through the fringes of the Adirondacks, we are watching the exit signs but mesmerized by the flow of the land. One cannot help but begin to mold and form the event into an almost literary frame. Here, in the lush greenery flanking the highway and the oddly-familiar place names—Schroon Lake, Saratoga—a subtle transformation takes place. This is a birthplace, and the sense of potency is impossible to miss.

No historian, I still found myself pulling up from some deep sensory well images and memories that transported me to another place. My experiences with the French and Indian Wars and The Last of the Mohicans are not fresh in my memory but more like a lingering shadow resting squarely beneath a “Grade 8 Social Studies” sign, yet there is an undeniable sense of the ancient that pulses through the whole area.

The approach to Lake George Village and then the lake itself tends to encourage neck-craning, as the mansions, condos and cottages of locals and vacationers seem to sprout before your eyes. The lake—the largest and most historically-important in the Northeast—is spectacular. Fir-crusted mountains rise from its shores like barricades against the attempts of the world to corrupt its breathtaking beauty. The lake—oceanic in size, but still and steady as a reflecting pond—grows in all directions. Mansions huddle on its shores and perch like fabulous birds on private islands, dwarfed by their surroundings.

Still, nothing prepares a visitor for The Sagamore—not “The Sagamore Hotel”; just “The Sagamore”. Say those words, and people know whereof you speak. Built, burned to the ground, rebuilt twice, the hotel is a throwback, an elegant and amazing reminder that wealth will always leave its extravagant mark. The size of the place is astonishing, and there is about it a pervading sense that a luxury liner put in to port and was stranded there. It is a city in white, startling against the blue-green and grey of the surrounding mountains, and the architectural scope of the place is stunning. Five millionaires from Philadelphia created this gated sanctuary in the nineteenth century. Presidents and governors, movie stars and the merely rich have walked its paths and stood gazing at the lake from the building’s porticos and porches, and their spirits seem to whisper still from the shadows in every room.

“Proper dress” is required for dinner, but the reminder is not necessary. There is something about the building standing watch on its promontory in the middle of the private island retreat that makes one want to float in a cloud of silk and tulle; that cries out for a well-cut suit and boutonnière, as if even the furniture would frown at anything less.

As if prompted by the presence of The Sagamore hulking on its island at the northern lake edge, all of the town of Bolton Landing has a classical and ethereal quality. It takes a moment to realize that the signs on the shops all match, all of them carved in the same style and in the same scale, as if one artist had simply announced, “I will do this, and I will do it all my way.” And the flowers! Everyone knows small towns which harbor a square with gardens of some sort for decoration and to break the monotony of concrete sidewalks and store fronts. No one is prepared for the sight of a town entirely planned and planted with the most glorious flower gardens in every possible location. The street lights and signs, the trees that line the main road, the sidewalks and storefronts are surrounded with delicate color from spring through fall. In Bolton Landing, the landscaping is understated but omnipresent, as if the town had been painted in the night by the hand of an Impressionist.

Back in the 1980’s, when jobs were scarce and wealth a fleeting thing, The Sagamore closed its doors for a few years and the entire area softened a bit and grew quiet. The doors are open now, and to pass through them is to step into a place where Now and Then meet, shake hands, and pass on side by side. Children are welcome, but are always seen, never heard. None are permitted in the formal dining areas after a certain hour. Bathing suits are not appropriate in the public areas of the building or outdoors where they may be viewed by passersby. Music wafts on the breeze from the lake front, barely ruffling the well-dressed ladies lounging on beautifully-crafted Adirondack chaises under oaks and sycamores that are as old as the island itself. The place is awash in flowers. Horse-drawn carriages sway into the parking areas, and the mahogany on the private cruise boat tied nearby gleams with wax and polish. Polished brass fixtures reflect the sun from every corner. The lakeside dining room bustles with activity as the staff prepares for the lobster buffet which is one of The Sagamore’s most popular events. The staff is deferential, courteous, almost apologetic, and endearing at every turn.

We leave the lakeside dining room with treasures. For our high-dollar spending we have earned imprinted beer glasses and wonderful commemorative aprons. We take home the courtesy umbrella with the hotel’s logo printed in white on a Sagamore green field. The white-on-green theme is ubiquitous, undoubtedly a subtle reminder that the white hotel stands on Green Island. We return to our room for a last rest in the wonderful caned wooden rockers on our private porch hideaway, then we bid farewell to a place that is many places in time at once, and to which we will return time and again.