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It’s an old story of Eastern philosophy that’s been beaten into a stereotype: For inspiration, go see the master on the mountain. That’s good advice, I found, even for a flatlander like me. Getting there was half the fun and worth all the glorious pain.

The master is Fred Warner of Upper Jay, a brilliant musician who bills himself as an Adirondacks composer. For years, Warner has been heading up Jay Mountain to a spot he calls Jayhenge, because the large glacial boulders remind him of Stonehenge. On the wind-swept ridge, he sits on a primitive bench made from two rocks and a stone slab (it’s right out of The Flintstones), soaks in the panoramic views of the High Peaks and listens to the wonders of nature that surround him. When he gets back to his home studio, he composes neoclassical music based in part on sounds heard on the mountain.

We decided to make our trip to the top a bit of a musical summit. While Warner plays some 19 instruments, I play only one: fiddle. He was kind enough to bring his own fiddle along with his friend Julie Robinson, who would accompany us on guitar. With their assistance, I hoped to find what Warner has found so many times on Jay Mountain: musical inspiration.

Warner agreed to meet us at Jayhenge. For me, that meant an arduous climb to a 3,600- foot summit. I used to jump out of airplanes at that height and higher, so there was no fear of being so far above the rest of the world. The problem was that there was no Cessna to take me up, and the descent takes a little longer when you’re not in a 120-mph freefall.

Although I had never climbed a mountain, I didn’t see anything daunting in a sylvan hike of about three or four miles. I run six miles a day, so what’s three miles? And I knew I was in good hands as I set out with two crackerjack hikers: Adirondack Explorer Editor Phil Brown and Adirondacks photographer Carl Heilman. They promised to be patient with a novice toting a fiddle in his borrowed backpack.

And at the mountaintop, the master waited.

All of us are born with gifts from nature of one sort or another. In Fred Warner’s case, one of the gifts is an uncanny ability to hear the subtle sounds in our midst and translate them into beautiful music. Now 50, he recalls that years ago a professor at Ithaca College, where Warner studied composition and piano, told him that there is music in everything. “One day I walked outside and heard this tremendous section of brass,” he said. “I could hear all the music, and started getting ideas. Then I realized I was listening to a snowmobile.”

There are no snowmobiles at Jayhenge. There are no motors of any kind. This is a place left behind by civilization, and that’s a large part of its appeal to Warner. “It’s the quietness,” he reflected. “I can still my mind. No Harley-Davidsons driving by, no tractor-trailers, no sirens.”

There are, however, birds that trill, breezes that whisper, grasshoppers that beat their wings like castanets. Such natural sounds helped inspire Warner’s two CDs, Blue Almonds and Namaste. “The intervals in birdsongs are of great interest to me,” he said, cocking his head to listen to a minor symphony of insects among the tufts of wild blueberries. “I use a lot of the texture, very subtle stuff in the background [of his music].”

Warner, who works as vice president of a company that does electrical and building inspections, grew up in Jay with music all around him. His father, Albert Warner, was a fiddler. His mother, Shirley, plays classical piano and cello, and his aunt, Pauline Hixson, toured Europe as a concert pianist. When he was barely a toddler, his mother nudged him toward a musical career. “She used to push me up to the piano in my high chair,” he recalled. “I would noodle around on the keyboard for hours.”

As I made my way up the trail, I soon discovered that running and climbing use different muscles. Within a half-mile, I was drenched with sweat, and my calves were tighter than the strings on my fiddle. I’d worn running shoes instead of boots, a blunder that would make fellow travelers who were less kind than my colleagues hoot at a rank novice’s stupidity.

Nature has a wonderful way of making things difficult for those of us who dare to tread in sacred places. It was so steep in spots that I had to pull myself up by trees. And I encountered one obstacle I’d never dreamed of: blowdown. Climbing over a once-majestic birch, now fallen across the path, I left part of the seat of my pants on a broken branch. In one swampy section, I nearly got sucked into the good but pungent earth.

My guides were more than patient as I slipped, fell, crawled, rolled and dragged myself through the worst spots. After 3½ hours of glorious torment, just when my back was screaming that it had had enough, I heard the strains of the old fiddle tune “The Cuckoo’s Nest” from a ridge up ahead.

At last, the master was in earshot.

I knew Warner was a serious musician. I’d heard his beautiful compositions on his CDs. I’d wondered how he’d get along with a dance fiddler with no musical education; in fact, even though I’ve been playing at concerts and for dances for many years, I can’t read a note of music.

As soon as I heard Fred playing “The Cuckoo’s Nest,” I knew we’d be a fine musical match.

He hasn’t always played fiddle, even though he is the son and grandson of fiddlers. His father had wanted him to fiddle as a youngster, but he wasn’t interested. When he went to Ithaca College, however, he heard a violin major sawing away furiously at fiddle tunes and asked her to show him how it’s done. Of course, for him it came easily.

“I hung out with her for a few weeks,” he recalled. “I learned a few tunes my father played, like ‘Soldier’s Joy’ and ‘Orange Blossom Special.’” Next time he went home, his father started giving him the usual lecture, imploring him to follow the family tradition and learn to play the fiddle. “I said, ‘Oh, gimme that thing,’” he recalled, laughing. “And when I played, tears came right down his face, he was so happy.”

"WE INSPIRED EACH OTHER"
Julie Robinson met Fred at a bluegrass festival in Maine about four years ago, and he changed her life. “For three days, I’d been asking people at the festival to show me some things on the fiddle,” she recalled. “When I finally met Fred and asked him, first thing he did was sit down and start to explain music theory to me. And I thought to myself, ‘This is the guy I want to teach me.’”

Their friendship inspired both teacher and student. A few months later, when Warner was working on a documentary soundtrack, he called and asked her to come to his studio to help. She was living in Pennsylvania at the time, but not for long. She moved to the Adirondacks and now plays with Warner in a side project, a bluegrass duo called True Blue. “I love it up here,” she said, stooping to pluck blueberries. “Eating the berries, climbing the mountains—I’m putting my roots down deep, getting into the dirt.”

As Julie tuned her Martin backpacker guitar, she added, “It’s a real spiritual experience, coming up here. Between the two of us we have a creative flow, a creative energy. We inspire each other.”

Fiddling is a sideline for Warner, who pours most of his creative energy into classical-inflected compositions. He’s written about a dozen pieces on Jay Mountain that can be heard on his CDs. “I get the ideas, the motifs here,” he explained. “I take them back and work them out in my studio.”

Looking around, I thought it would be hard not to be inspired by this place. Phil pointed out some of the mountains that form the jagged horizon: Hurricane, Giant, Dix, Gothics, Marcy, Algonquin, Whiteface. I was awed, humbled. How fitting a place to finally meet the master. I must have made a sight—red-faced, panting, trousers shredded—but we hit it off well.

Photo by Carl Heilman II

Author Mike Jarboe warms up his fiddle before his musical summit with composer Fred Warner.

The tunes came, one after another. It turned out that we had a lot in common in our repertoires: “Soldier’s Joy,” “Mason’s Apron,” “Mississippi Sawyer,” “Red-Haired Boy,” “Kitchen Girl.” He taught me a tune; I showed him my version of “Sail Away Ladies.” With Julie keeping a solid rhythm on guitar, we sent our music over the mountains, passing along the joy of tunes that have been played for centuries. There was nobody to hear us except the mountains, but somehow that seemed appropriate. Fred was paying them back.

The fiddle summit was a success. As I packed up, I took another look around at the scene of breathtaking beauty. “Listen to the music around you,” Warner said. I faced a stiff mountain breeze and held my bow aloft. To my delight, I heard something I’d never heard: a humming sound as the wind forced its way through the horsehair. Indeed, there is music in everything.

The student had learned his lesson well. Now, all I had to do was get down the mountain. But that’s another story.