46.

You have to earn it.

That's what Dix told me today.  Told me to pass it along.  Not like folks don't know, everyone here's had their a$% handed to them on a day or two in these mountains.  Had a sudden snow squall deny them a peak; had a twisted ankle on a snow-covered root end their day; had a wind 40-50 mph more than they were expecting bring them to their knees.  "Every knee shall bend" a new friend told me recently.  It certainly felt that way up in the Dix Range today.

We made it.  (I'll spare you the drama).  The Dix Range is broken from 73 to Round Pond.  You're welcome to it.  But even if you've been there, i'd consider bringing along a buddy, or a guide, or a guide-buddy - they're the best kind :)  The broken route's not quite as direct as your map's neatly dashed lines would have you believe.  That's not a dig on the trailbreakers; it's acknowledgement that there's no trail up there.  Maybe there is in summer.  Maybe there was in early January.  It's late February and the snow and wind has come; there's no trail up there.

Because i'm convinced by what i've seen that words cannot bring justice to these mountains, i'll provide just the briefest description of the day.

Cold and clear.  Better than the weather said.  Sun coming through the trees with no leaves to obstruct it, no clouds to filter it.  Inge's waiting at Round Pond to car spot.  She's Lovely to see first thing in the morning.  Happy.  Alive (!).  Better than coffee. "The mountains are magic" say her eyes. In drives Great Expectations.  Easy.  Even.  Eager.   Says he stayed at TMax last night.  A Frog will be vulturing behind us.  We fire out of the car so excited we have our snowshoes on before the TH and walk a hundred yards on pavement in them.  We set out on a blistering pace and make the base of Grace Slide in two hours.  We're soaked.  Spirits dry and toasty, we ascend.  We get lost in the col.  GPS is confuddled.  It confuddles us.  We 'shwack around and find the trail.  Grace is a gift of bare rock and sunlit views south out over a million lakes.  42.

Inge says she's cold and leaves the summit.  We don't see her again until South Dix.  She's drinking chocolate protein shake.  We're shaking the snow off our necks from the sometime trail/sometime 'shwack route we followed in her footsteps.  Have to hand it to her.  She's like a bloodhound for peaks.  She gets a scent and heads straight for them.  Me and GE are a foot and a foot and a half taller than her, respectively.  I suspect but don't say that we caught a lot more of the trail in the face than she did.  I crush a chocolate shake myself and we drop down into the col for Macomb.  43.

Macomb is bagged.  Elk Lake is a picture postcard.  We pass the Frog on the way down.  He says when he's done with this he's going to DisneyWorld.  Inge laughs at the juxtaposition.  The Frog likes a cruise, a beach, a place to unwind, and who could blame him; to each their own and thank God for that.  Back on South Dix to retrieve the bags and make the real push.  Convo is light and optimistic.  We're high on mountains.  44.

Over Puff.  Trail is lost again.  Foot and a half of powder far as the eye can see.  We stay as high on the ridge as possible until it kicks us off.  Thickest 'shwack ever where a trail was listed.  I feel like Bob Marshall on his first ascents.  I'm a kid in a snow castle, in a blanket fort.  Everything is new.  We've caught the Frog but he's nowhere to be found.  I go left again toward the ridgetop, lose sight of everyone.  No sound.  After ten minutes i call out.  Responses come from three sides.  Unbelievable this trail.  We reconvene and fight our way up.  The Frog is showing signs of frustration, no doubt already half on a beach somewhere.  Other half on the side of a 20' sheer ledge with snowshoes slipping.  GE is gassed.  Inge, as usual, up ahead and out of sight.  It's 3:00 before i see the peak with GE.  Huff and Puff - funny.  I get it.  45.

I stop for a long time on Hough.  Let GE get out ahead.  The wind is blowing but i'm not chilled at all.  Feels like home to me now.  Staring at the Beckhorn.   Epic peak.  What a way to end!  Start to get sentimental.  Never want to come down.  Sun is steadfast in the sky despite the late hour.  Locked in just behind a thin cloud.  Never want to come down.

Inge's on the ridge just below the Beckhorn.  She shouts.  I yodel.  She's with the Frog, i'm sticking with my wingman.  4:00 as we top the Beckhorn.  Camera won't work.  Figures.  Some things are too special to capture with a click.  Inge's waiting at the peak.  A hug.  GE smiles and snaps a few as i kiss the summit.  "How's it feel?" She says.  "Did i do it?"  "You did it!"  "I thought Hough was gonna kill us all," i say.  46.

She's cold and headed home.  Come on around again sometime she says.  And she's off.  Force of nature, that one.  GE and i take a long while to take in the scene.  Heading down, the view of the entire damn park is laid out like an afghan i want to curl up in.  Everywhere i've been; I can see my blue hard shell hustling over each peak.  Now i know where to look.  Know where trails go.  Know where they connect and where they don't.  What's possible and what ain't.   Know them by name.  Know that, as life goes, like the man said: "knowing how way leads on to way," if i should ever see them again.  At least like this.

And this is the sadness in the beauty.  Why when it's good your stomach buckles a bit.  And the clearest vista becomes blurry through your sightline.  I just wanted to feel like i'd been here.  Descending with that view outstretched before me was the greatest gift these mountains could have given.  i am Grateful.

Protect this place.

Would never have been possible were it not for the kindness and generosity of those who have helped me at every step along the way.  You know who you are.  i am indebted.

Take care of each other.

i'd Love to stay.  But as the man said:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.  But i have promises to keep.  And miles to go before I sleep...

And miles to go before i sleep.

Haystack, Basin, Saddleback thru Marcy, Skylight, Gray: 2.11-2.17 or, "Getting Caught Up"

---

Posted to the ADK High Peaks Forum: 2.17.15

So i've run out of time. Work is starting up again back in Boston and i gotta go. I've been pounding peaks trying desperately to get them all in, that's why i've been slacking on the TR front. So there won't be any more literary flourishes of trail escapades from me. For those of you who have enjoyed them, the last one i had time for, on HaBaSa: 2.12, is at the blog:http://baggerbros.blogspot.com/2015/...215-or-of.html For those of you who are stoked you don't have to deal with anymore of my silly threads, well...respect for sticking it out as long as you did. Here, in brief yet hopefully typo-free fashion is what i've been up to as of late.

2.11: HaBaSa - 29,30,31.

It was amazing and clear and everything became amazingly clear. Plus, coming back to Saranac Lake i received a flurry of text messages: the fundraiser for my friend Rupesh was a success! We reached the goal, which was $3000, on the same day i broke 30 peaks. Anyone else interested in numerology? i think it's cool stuff.

2.12: Day of Rest (the day before HaBaSa was Allen) and my dogs was barkin!

2.13/14: Sewards - 32,33,34,35.

Epic overnight with Stranger, Dobson, et. al. Dobson covered it in impressive and expressive detail in "From the Sewards, With Love," posted today.

2.16: Santas - 36,37,38.

I'm a Couchie man. There. i said it. Anyone who doesn't dig that trail is missing the mystery. I certainly understand why folks get frustrated with it, i mean, i've never seen a more meandering pathway in my life. At points you're literally walking in the opposite direction to get there - Fantastic! Plus, there's so many little coves and probably caves off the little sub-trails i'll bet only the pine martens and ghosts-of-hermits-past know the hidden treasures that trail beholds.

Santanoni is my favorite peak. There. i said that, too. Sure, there are closer, more jaw-dropping vistas, but the overall view from the top of that thing encapsulates everything - from the MacIntyres looking like an absolute behemoth monster, to the stripped out sides of the old mine (a clear reminder of what this entire park might have looked like if it weren't for some really cool people) it's like both the majesty and history are on full display from there. Plus i really dug the hike - here's the sum-- oh, there's the summ-- OH THERE's the summit! That range just has a lot of mystique. AND i had the ENTIRE RANGE to myself!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm absolutely smitten.

2.17: MSG - 39,40,41.

Has anybody else ever hiked this freakin route?!! Un.be.lievable!! Marcy's there the whole time, just hovering over your shoulder then popping out-BLAM-right in front of you and you're like: "Man! What a mountain!" i had the hardest time descending Skylight cuz Marcy just wouldn't stop staring at me. Tell ya what though - that Gray TH, not the easiest to find with everything south of Marcy completely blown in. Just saying. Won't tell you how far i got down toward Feldspar before i figured it out (embarrassing. We'll leave it at that) but it extended my day. Then, feeling pretty good for having gotten Gray at all, i wasn't paying attention to the trail, got snow-bound in the front of one of my shoes, went down face-first into what appeared to be a snowbank but beneath revealed a broken off stump. Cut my jaw. Missed my jugular. Barely. i took from both of these misfortunes life lessons i plan to put to use at just exactly the moment they're surely meant for 

Tomorrow: Dix - 42-46...

Fingers crossed. Inge and Great Expectations have bravely volunteered to wing-man (and woman) for my swan song. We'll be going clockwise from 73, breaking trail the entire way, and hopefully, come sundown, i'll join the ranks.

i'll let you know how it goes.

Haystack, Basin, Saddleback: 2.11.15 or, "Of Mountains and Mole-Hills"

The day after Allen is a good day to rest.  18 miles is a good little jaunt.  Take the day to sit back on the couch, rub some mineral ice on your calves and let those pups chillax.  Turn on your fave TV show and veg.  You've earned it.

But there's no TV where i'm staying.  So i figured another 18-miler was the better bet.

Haystack has a rep for being the most beautiful vista in the Dax.  The Saddleback Cliffs have a rep for being the most dangerous section of trail.  It was a clear, cold day - guaranteed to be gorgeous on Haystack and icy on Saddleback.  So i figured, if i die on the cliffs, at least i'll have gotten to see the best view in the park.  Win some lose some.

If you're one who enjoys solitude, sunlight, and silence, then hiking up a 4,000' mountain solo, mid-week, on a clear day in winter will put you in a pretty good position to find them.  In the register i was the only one headed Haystack way, and i'd read it had been broken out a couple days before, so i was in decent head space leading out of the Garden.  Of course, there were the cliffs...

The National Geographic map for the High Peaks Wilderness has over 150 trails listed by number.  Trail #1 is the Phelps Trail.  It leaves out of the Garden Trailhead and goes in about as straight a line as you can to the top of Marcy.  It's named after one of the more colorful guides in ADK history - "Old Mountain" Phelps.  Reading about the kind of character this guy was made me want to get a look at this trail since the moment i got here.  A trailblazer in more ways than one, he was one of the first people to have had the truly revolutionary idea to climb these mountains just for the plain hell of it.  Phelps himself claimed to have summited Marcy over 50 times.  So if this was the path he cut to do it there had to be a reason why.

Passing by Johns Brook Lodge on the Phelps you begin a kind, gradual, practically wheelchair accessible ascent that follows the wide John's Brook a ways, then heads up through hemlock and fir stands so vast and deep you begin to understand why the woods have always captivated an essence of mystery in the human mind.  They're so deep and dark that if they weren't so damned lovely they'd be terrifying.

The trail was packed by countless snowshoes to the junction with the Range Trail where i would break off toward Haystack.  I stopped for some trailmix and admired the comforting presence of the trail sign.  They're such humble reminders of our human aspiration to create some kind of order out of  the random chaos of the wilds.

Mother Nature had delivered enough snow to virtually erase whatever work the hiker before me had done just 48 hours ago.  No matter.  It would've taken a tank to stop me on a day like that, headed toward the top of one of the most admired peaks in the park.  (Notwithstanding that it got its name because people back in the day all agreed it looked like a big pile of grass).  Through an average of 8" of snow i plugged along following rabbit tracks all the way to the tree-line.  Then past it.  It was incredible!  I mean, of what interest is anything above tree line to a bunny?  But breaking trail, even after a short while has a way of turning things you might initially interpret as meaningful into jeering, taunting pointlessness.  Those footprints, so spread out, so light, just floating over the snow, were they doing it just to show-off how easy this is for them?

Getting up Little Haystack was no joke.  Or what i thought was Little Haystack.  When i realized it wasn't, and the knob in front of me was Little Haystack, and the actual Big Pile of Grass was beyond it, i got a little sour on Mother Nature.  And her damned bunnies.  Then i looked around and saw this:

The three bluebird days i've had i've spent on Gothics, Algonquin, and Haystack.  No wind.  Sunshine.  Clear, absolute, perfection.  I could offer two cents as to which is better and which is best, but none of that matters.  The point is they're all monumental, and to stand in the presence of views like that is to stand as close to the Life source as is humanly possible.  It's stuff lifelong memories are made of.  As i made my way over Little Haystack i looked up and there was literally a shaft of light - the remains of a contrail dropping down low, some kind of atmospheric anomaly, i don't know - but it pointed a straight sunbeam from the source to the very pinnacle of Haystack.  It lasted only a few seconds and then shifted.  Too fast for a camera.  Whatever it was, smokestack exhaust or finger of God, i made haste for the summit.  It was so breathtaking i almost forgot about the cliffs.

The trail to the col between Haystack and Basin was unbroken and deep.  Real deep.  But what's uphill blight is a downhill delight!  I slip-slided my way down the fresh powder like an out-of-bounds boarder.  But wanting none of that action on the way up Basin, i was relieved to find two tracks at the junction of Shorty's Shortcut headed up the way i was going.  Bless-ed are the trailbreakers - for they shall inherit the escalator on the stairway to heaven!

I flew up to the top of Basin.  But there was no thrill in it.  I knew i had a date with destiny at the Saddleback cliffs and there was no putting it off.  I'd been hyping it up in my mind, devouring any trip report that made mention of them.  The reports were mixed, depending on who you asked.  But no report i ever read said: "Definitely try these solo in the winter if you've never been here before."  You might call it stupid.  You might even be right.  But sometimes when people build things up you just have to go and see it for yourself, you know?  Crossing east over Basin's summit, they were exposed in all their formidable glory.

My heart began to race just looking at them.  I'm not kidding.  It didn't help that the tracks i'd followed to the top of Basin, at first view of the cliffs, had turned around and gone back the way they'd come.  But what's life if not forcing yourself to face the things that put you on your heels?  I hustled down into the col between the two peaks as fast as my snowshoes would slide.  I wanted to put as much elevation as i could between me and my only possible exit back the other side of Basin.  I reached the bottom of Saddleback in minutes, just far enough to make it harder to turn around than proceed, and readied myself for the hump up to the base of the cliffs.  The incessant snow bombs falling out of the overburdened pine branches was deterrent enough to turn someone around.  But eventually i emerged from the tunnel and hit a rock wall with yellow blazes heading up the face.  I switched to spikes as i'd been advised, then took about five minutes to try to locate the go-around or "chute" as it's called.  Finding only waist-deep snow that way i got frustrated and decided it was the rocks or bust.

Going up exposed rock isn't incredibly complicated.  You're looking for the cracks, which reveal the hand and footholds, you jam your hands and feet into them and eventually, one by one you get up the thing.  When the cracks are all filled with ice, however, handholds become tricky.  So you get creative.  Using resistance holds, pushing against the rock where you can't grab around it.  Some semi-ridiculous lower-body-yoga and creative spike grabs are necessary.  Knee insertions where feet can't reach, a couple of pull-ups from one ledge to the next, and with only a couple of imbalanced reaches of faith to make things interesting, before you know it the rocks run out and you're standing on top.

I let out a whoop.  Because that's what you do when you overcome fear - you let out a whoop.  A good one.  And death backs off a little.

My ascent of the cliffs was not without casualty.  During one of the more creative leg extensions i heard a tear that was the unmistakable sound of a pants-crotch bursting.  (If it's ever happened to you, you're well aware that that sound is entirely distinct from the rip of say, a knee or a thigh).  Oh, $100 pair of waterproof pants that will never again ward off a soaking rain!  In my elated state atop the cliffs i missed the trail off the summit and got stuck in a spruce trap, also losing a powder basket in the process.  If i could see them played back - both the cliff ascent, and the walk back to JBL with one pole sinking into the snow so deeply it looked like i was reaching for my toes, i would choose the latter as the more entertaining.

But it felt good.  I have to admit it felt really good.  In the end, of course the cliffs weren't as big as i'd made them out.  They couldn't be.  The mind is a powerful mound-builder.  Mountains from mole-hills, as they say.  Not to say that fear isn't useful.  It's important not to take unnecessary risks.  As important as it is to recognize when you're outgunned.  But humans are creatures of habit.  And we're not always aware that they're forming.  Once answering the door to doubt, concession can easily become convention; folding become fashion.  The greatest fear i carry is forgetting how and when to fight.  So i guess, as much as you're able, you take on all comers.  What doesn't kill you, as they say...

Maybe this one didn't matter.  It's just a walk in the woods, after all.

But where do you draw the line?

2.10: Allen or: "Just Beyond The Bend"

In the spirit of offering respect where respect is due, it's high time i mentioned the virtual community that enables me, a solo hiker, to head off into the woods everyday with the tools i need to make it back.  On the ADK High Peaks Forum, which i check on several times daily (call it a "Facebook for 46ers") i get detailed and up-to-date reports on trail conditions, lists of the best-performing gear, tips on shortcuts and go-arounds, and should i want or need one, i can even find a hiking buddy.  Since i've left most of the harder trails for last, and because i now know what these mountains can throw at you, the part of me that's confident hiking alone has been gradually deferring to the more practical part of me that sees the common sense in a group-outing.  So this week i made my first concerted effort to take one.

I noticed a guy going by the handle "Great Expectations" on the forum via a comment he made about Mt. Colden.  I said i thought it was kind of like the hub around which all the other high peaks spin.  He replied something about it being the center of a cosmic-geologic mandala through which the high peaks' energy flows (i'm paraphrasing here, but seriously, it was like a haiku).  I figured anyone who looks at a mountain and sees a mandala likely packs a whole satchel of thought-provoking, or at least time-killing nuggets to share on the way up a steep pitch.  I made a mental note to grab him for a long one.

Allen is the longest hike for a single peak in the park.  It's some eight miles in, a mile and a half straight up, a turnaround and return.  Most aspiring 46ers stash it pretty deep down their list, or wait patiently for a trip report that says someone has broken it out, then swoop in the next day to bear the fruits of the trailbreaker's burden.  While this practice is not frowned upon per se, there is a term for it on the forum that to my mind doesn't carry the kindest connotation.  It's called "vulturing."  Being neither judgmental of those who practice this nor above the practice myself, i was praying for some tasty carrion i could pick at.  I studied the trip reports all week looking for evidence of someone having gone that way.  No dice.  I told Great Expectations: we'd have to be full-fledged raptors on this outing or we'd be meat.  He seemed excited despite it, so we agreed to meet at the trailhead.

The rental car i'm driving has crap tires.  This had been made somewhat clear to me on my fishtailing drives around town.  It was made uncommonly clear on my 6am drive behind the plow truck on the Upper Works Road when he turned left to clear one of the trailhead lots and i began to slide, brakes fully engaged, far past him.  Gliding at 40 mph across fresh snow on tires made of Crisco i had time to think.  Time to wonder if this was the way a successful climb up the furthest peak in the park should begin.  Time to notice the sun coming up, and considering the distance we had to go, if we'd make it back before dark.  Time even to wonder how Gore-tex, with its waterproof yet breathable membrane manages to keep water out, while simultaneously allowing inside moisture to exit.  Finally i resolved that if this four-wheeled snowboard ever came to a halt again, i would stay firmly put right there, and wait for the plow to clear the remaining three miles to the trailhead.

I followed the plow as far as i could until he kept straight where i had to turn onto an uncleared road.  I seriously considered leaving my car parked right there, in the only viable place from which i'd ever get it out again - the middle of the road. Just then Great Expectations arrived, introduced himself as Matt, and convinced me i had no other option but to follow in his tracks down to the trailhead. When we got there the lot was filled with a foot of snow.  Even in his tracks i was already stuck.  Any attempt to pull into that lot would be like abandoning the car until spring.  He tried his best to carve out a flattened spot for me, and in the process became stuck himself.  We remained that way, heads cocked to the side until the plow suddenly reappeared, cleared the lot, and we pulled in an hour behind schedule.

Every inch of 6'4 and wearing sandals on his feet, Matt stepped down out of his Honda into the snow.  As a person who considers himself the outdoorsy-type, i was impressed by this bold display of comfort and flippant regard for the elements.  Then, as if he hadn't announced his presence loudly enough, he threw on a bright orange t-shirt, slung a bright orange backpack over that, and topped the ensemble off with an American flag-themed wool cap with ear flaps, a red, white and blue mohawk across the top.  Synthetic materials being basically mandatory for winter survival, your hat is practically the only item you can still be outlandish with.  I told him i appreciated that he'd done so.  But the overall effect of having topped off his sizable frame with such an audacious patriotic display instantly reminded me of the golden capitol dome of the State House in Boston.  This inadvertently triggered the knee-jerk sense of pride that's in all Bostonians, and i found myself suddenly filled with a sense of purpose that transcended mere day-hiking.  Revolution was in my veins as i signed that register!  Large as Hancock.  I hit the unbroken trail practically running.

It didn't last long.  Six inches of snow wasn't a lot, but enough over several miles to pull the Spirit of '76 out of me.  Matt took over.  Muscle memory kicked in from the last time i gave someone the lead, and i braced for the kind of pain Inge had brought down on me.  I awaited my lashes.  But they never came.  We fell into an smooth, consistent rhythm as easily as we did conversation, and the hours ticked away without effort.  At the base of the slide the snow deepened and our steady pace slackened.  Then slowed.  Then crawled.  At points we were doing maybe a half-mile per hour.  When that mountain decided it was time to go up, up it went, and that's how it stayed until the top.  Finally attaining the summit we were treated to a view of...the summit sign.  That's it.  But hey, at the risk of repeating myself from the Street/Nye report - i couldn't have been happier.  I just can't over-state how huge those signs are to exhausted eyes.  The bare summits speak for themselves; leave them be.  But for the viewless ones, that simple slab of wood makes all the difference.  (A hardy thanks to Forum-Commander Joe Cedar for recently placing it there.  Though considering how uniquely flat the landscape is up there, how accommodating and pastoral is that hollow, it begs the question why Joe slacked off only lugging that sign.  Where's the picnic table, Joe? ;)

As luck would have it the minute we were off the summit, just beyond the point-of-no-return, the windless day delivered a breeze stiff enough to blow the froth off the top, and the sun came streaming through the trees in angular rays.  My face became a solar panel - the light hitting it charged me up.  I was ready to make something go.

"I could hike another range right now," i said.

"I'm right there with you, man."

But eight miles back to the car made fairly quick work of that motivation as well.  The sun eventually went away again, this time behind the mountains in the fading day.  Matt kept peering over his shoulder, not at me, but at the surrounding scenery, like it was saying something to him and he wanted to reply, he just couldn't find the right words.  Crossing back over the Opalescent we found a skier had packed out the last leg of our return.  We rode the light until long after our headlamps could have been put to use.  It's like an unspoken thing among all the hikers i've wound up with in the woods after dark.  You wait until the last possible minute to light your torch.  Like if you can hold off turning on a light you can somehow hold off the darkness.  Like carrying on an argument too long, unwilling to concede the point.

If this day had been a debate between us and Allen - as i suppose any attempt to summit a mountain is a struggle to top it - then this day we'd had the last word.  But i had to admire the straightforward nature of its argument.  That mountain didn't dance around or deceive.  Didn't pull any punches.  Allen stands far off in the distance and dares you to come.  You have to work for it.  Across open space, through crowded trail, over water obstacles, and then straight up.  Once ascending it doesn't fuss with flip-floppy topography - washes and dells, and whatever-the-hells.  It says: "You want to stand up here?  Come right up!"

I appreciate a straightforward mountain.  As i appreciate a straightforward hiker.  Someone with a Love for the woods so deep it's expressed in the way he hits a trail (and in the boldness of the hat he wears on it :)  In the way he pauses, mid-stride, despite the encroaching darkness to take a look around, to remind himself that it's not about the struggle, but the beauty that surrounds.  In the way he looks at a mountain and sees a mandala and hits on the deeper meaning: that it's the hidden things.   The unexpected delight of a hollow found on an otherwise tree-covered peak; the jump-start sunbeams against your face give to your soul; the evening's friend who by morning looked like a stranger.  The stuff that's just beyond our plain sight, just behind the clouds, just beyond the bend, just waiting to be experienced.

If you're willing to make the journey.

"Gimpy. With A Moment To Reflect" or: "Happy Carnival!"

To review:

Returning to the ADK i was in a bad way emotionally, and went off into the mountains looking to cause the kind of physical agony that would harmonize the feeling in my body with the torrent in my mind.  i believe the syntax went like this:

I wanted to hike so hard and far that every sinew would snap, every bone burn and break.  I wanted to stand at the bottom of a canyon and call an avalanche down.

While no avalanche came, (save the subsequent, melodramatic, literary one) i met a woman on the trail who was a barrage of a different kind, who provoked me to unleash the kind of physical assault on myself a paint can full of whoopass couldn't contain.  The moral to the story being that if you're really dedicated to an idea, if you want something very badly, you can basically call it on yourself.  I believe the New Age hippie-dippie folk refer to this as "manifesting."  Some of the more grounded set might call it "getting what you ask for."  I think we can all agree that in this case at least, the most apt term might be "dumbassery."  Longstoryshort, i twisted my left calf into a pretzel and have been laid up, staring out the window ever since.

Yes, Ma, i've been stretching.  Heat and ice, anti-inflammatories, self-massage, long epsom salt baths, the works.  I'm on the uptick.  Next week's going to be a marathon series.  My goal is 16 peaks in eight days, an Everest or two in elevation.  We'll see.  By the end of the week the temperature is forecast to plummet harder than a twerking booty to a bass drop.  Further evidence of how small and insignificant are our intentions when faced with the reality of Mother Nature's.  The Winter 46 is no joke.  Respect to all that have accomplished it; deference to all who watch the newcomers like myself arrive every winter convinced we're the next on the list, who have every right to snicker silently to themselves as they watch us drag our tired asses back home licking our wounds.  

So while out of commission, i thought i'd take this opportunity to reflect on some things i've been meaning to put down about this area and the people here.  Specifically, how there doesn't seem to be one among them who is the type to silently snicker at the fools who slink away in defeat.  In fact, every person i've met, on the trail or in town, has been one of the most hospitable i've run across this side of Nepal - the Land of "Namaste" - which is saying something.  The people of Saranac Lake have to be the least cynical, most unabashedly happy and friendly Northeasterners there are.  I'm talking Midwestern humility matched with Southern charm.  I didn't think that was possible in this corner of the world, much less the North Country, where the winter wind rips hard enough to tear the skin off your nose.  Not to mention that they are also in fact New Yorkers, whom, as a native of the Bay State, i have been bred to regard with at least feigned contempt.  

All apologies to the die-hards back home - these folks are irresistible.  

Yesterday was the kickoff of the annual Saranac Lake Winter Carnival, an event that's been held in this town every February since 1947, with origins as far back as 1897.  Darcy, the woman i'm staying with, insisted over breakfast that i go into town with her to catch the woodsmen's competition. 

"Come on, it'll be fun!"  She said.  "You have to get out of this house."  Though completely content to mope and soak, i relented.  She walked, i hobbled, and beneath a gently falling snow we passed through throngs of wool-hatted and rosy-cheeked locals down to the main stage along the shore of Lake Flower to arrive right as the competition was ending.  As the crowd disbursed, only a dozen or so carved bears stood testament to the artistry that had occurred.  Not to worry though, there was a veritable cornucopia of winter variety still to come.  

We walked the lake shore passing the Arctic Mini-Golf course.  A series of snow men and castles made with integrated PVC tubing allowed for leisurely, club-toting enthusiasts to knock their neon orange balls through to the snow "green" on the opposite side.  We took in the curling exhibition where for $5 you could "throw" (?) three "stones" (?) down the ice while two designated broom-handlers vigorously swept out the path in front of it.  Onlookers clapped (un-ironically) when any "thrower"... did a good one (?).  

Passing by the ice palace, the main attraction of every Winter Carnival, we checked out the work of the all-volunteer ice workers union (Local IPW 101 - "International Palace Workers") who'd pulled nearly 3,000 2'x4' blocks of ice from the lake and piled them into the form of a medieval castle, complete with imbedded lighting.  

Snowmobiles whipped up and down the lake as we returned to the main stage where the highlight of the day was just starting - the Ladies' Fry-pan Toss.  Though there was no correlating men's event, i overlooked the institutional sexism, and watched while women of all ages, shapes, and sizes lined up one-by-one to toss a cast iron skillet as far as they could across a field of snow.  It was obvious after just a few contestants who'd been training and who hadn't, yet despite some abysmal tosses i couldn't hear any discernible razzing from the crowd.  It was unbelievable!  While the New Englander in me appreciated the quaint, down-hominess of the event, the Bostonian in me was choking back an up-swelling load of sarcasm and pun-spitting that would spray verbal graffiti all over this Rockwellian scene. "Hey, somebody oughta pee-test the one with the guns there!  JUICER!"  Or: "Oh they're going crazy out here!  It's pan-demonium!"  Feeling ashamed at the sardonic default setting of my psyche, i chose instead to excuse myself before i blew a fuse, limped gimp-ily into the nearest bar and had a beer.

It's difficult to imagine what it must be like to be a local here.  To know most everyone, saying hello to anyone you make eye contact with, to be genuinely impressed by the favorable hop a skillet takes off frozen turf.  In the evening i walked among the throngs, as courteous in manner as they were massive in number, back down to the ice palace for the big fireworks display.  No one pushed, people left room for others in front of themselves, taller people stood naturally to the back.  It was fantastic - I was able to get right up to the fro-- just kidding ;)  Seriously though, i've never seen such unapologetic enthusiasm.  There was music playing on loud speakers, your standard, digestible, classic rock fare, and not just a few, but nearly everyone there was belting out the lines without fear of shame (and it wasn't even "Sweet Caroline").  When the Carnival King got on the mic to wish everyone a happy carnival, the response came in harmony: "Happy Carnivaaaaal!"  The ten-second countdown to the fireworks was a town-wide chorus.  

The fireworks lasted maybe six minutes.  At best.  Seriously?  Not a soul protested.  "Unbe-LIEVABLE!!" was all i heard.  It was genuine.  Heading back toward town, people sloughed in a line down the slush-and-sludge-riddled sidewalk without complaint, accommodating for the speed of the slowest, no one trying to pass.  Some who had cars parked along the street elected to walk along the roadside on their return.  A few strayed toward the middle, holding up a sizable line of cars behind them.  Here we go, i thought.  Fireworks over? Let the fireworks begin!  Not a car horn sounded.  At each intersection, pedestrians conceded their God-given right-of-way to allow for cars attempting to turn.

As i skirted the curbside crowd, cutting off a left-turning Toyota, I silently wondered if the next forty years will be sufficient time to disassemble the conditioning that's made me such a product of my environment; time enough to delve into the soul-searching i surely require. 

While somewhere, far off in the distance, the world's tiniest violin played...

;) 

Dial, Nippletop, Colvin, Blake: 2.4.15 or, "Ask And Ye Shall Receive"

Thursday afternoon i reached the summit of Mt. Whiteface on a clear, bluebird day.  It was -15 degrees in the wind, and the whole summit was bathed in it, whipping snowdrifts over ledges in swirls and streaks.  The last quarter mile to the peak followed an exposed ridge line.  It was brutal.  The wind found any exposed skin and singed it.  That diamond-cutter kind of cold that makes it feel like you're turning to stone.  Once on top i was able to get out of the wind behind a rocky, south-facing ledge.  The howling ceased, and there was only peace and quiet under a crystalline sky.  The white, ice-covered stretch of Lake Placid lay below, the High Peaks appeared foggy blue beyond.  It was my 23rd peak.  The midway point.  My next few days would be spent back home in Boston where my brother, in from Houston, was waiting for me to meet his new daughter.  The Patriots were in the Superbowl.  It would be a nice chance to get out of the cold for a few days, to reboot before pursuing the remaining 23.  I was in the Happy Place.  Sitting pretty.  On top of the world.  I put on my warm coat, my sunglasses, and leaned back against my pack.  With the sun streaming down on my face, i crossed one snowshoed foot over the other, and before i knew it, fell contentedly asleep.

My weekend back in Boston was...a mixed bag.  In the same way one might describe war as "kind of a bummer."  Friday night my father and i had a blowout fight.  The kind that can end a relationship.  Saturday morning my girlfriend of seven years ended ours.  Sunday evening in my parents' living room, surrounded by feverish toddlers who licked and sneezed on the cheese and salami before returning it to the party platter, i watched the Patriots win the Superbowl.  Monday a snowstorm shutdown what i was trying to make of a hasty departure.  Tuesday night at 9 i finally returned to Saranac Lake to continue my quest.

Sick.

I looked at the forecast for the week.  Negative temperatures and potential snow across the board.  Except Wednesday.  It would be cloudy, but at least a couple degrees above zero.  I felt physically ill and spiritually defunct.  I had as much desire to plod up a gray and freezing peak the next day as i had craving for five to ten spirited kicks to the face.  I seriously considered calling it.  Taking my next two weeks here to just lay around.  Read comic books.  Go ice skating on the old speed track in Placid.  Ride the toboggan slide out onto the lake.  See "American Sniper" again.  Drink New York beer.

Lots of it.

But misery loves company.  Some bodily punishment would be good company.  I decided to hike.

I hit the trail at 7:30, an hour later than i'd intended.  Too late for 4 peaks and 20 miles.  I went for it anyway.  I knew it would hurt, banged up as i was from the weekend.  I wanted it to.  The feeling of shell-shock I'd been carrying since Saturday had been replaced overnight by teeth-grinding fits of fury, dangerous mental depictions, and despair.  I needed something physically afflictive to match my emotion.  I wanted to hike so hard and far that every sinew would snap, every bone burn and break.  I wanted to stand at the bottom of a canyon and call an avalanche down.

I considered these scenarios as i tromped down the Lake Rd veering south toward Dial.  Fresh snow from Monday's storm had dropped eight inches across the trail, the wind had added drifts of random chaos.  I headed up.  Mindlessly up.   Sleepwalking basically.  Where the trail went i couldn't tell and didn't care.  I had a notion to keep walking.  Straight on till morning, maybe longer.  Get ten peaks.   Or none.  Climb the steep parts everyone warns about.  Panther Gorge to Haystack.  The Saddleback cliffs.  The mercury was forecast to fall fast once the sun went down.  I could care less.  I had food.  A stove.  An emergency bivvy.  Water?  I'd pull it from a stream.  And if giardia came with it, so be it.  I wanted my guts twisted into knots.

I began to slow.  I adopted a pace that would carry me across 25 hours instead of ten.  I strapped myself psychologically onto the torture rack and settled in.  I was desolate.  A ghost town.  The only human being on earth.

A snap from behind spun my head, and there was suddenly a person less than 15 feet behind me, bearing down.

"WHOA!!  What the f--"  Man or woman, demon or devil, i couldn't tell.  "Holy... you scared the s@*t out of me!"

She beamed a smile back. "Oh! i'm really sorry.  I should thank you!  You broke the trail this far for me!  I saw your name in the register, but I didn't expect to catch you.  This is great!  I'd Love a partner for this hike!"

She stopped in front of me.  She was 55, had a young face, shiny eyes with lines at the corners that grinned on their own.  Her short, gray, curly hair poked just out from under her red beanie.  To give an overall impression: she glowed.

But i was resolute.  What the hell, lady?  i thought.  Can't you see the depths of the downward spiral i'm in?  I'm off to hurt myself because i need it!  My soul is black as a wormhole right now and i'm out to cross the void!  No, i don't want a hiking partner today!  On your way with you.  Get the hell...out...of.......

An impregnable grin.  She stepped past me.  "I'll give you a rest and break trail awhile."  Off she went like a track meet.

What could i do?  She was so matter-of-fact about it.  She made it so obvious that it was not going to happen, but was happening!  My mind scratched sideways like a needle off a record.  I couldn't conjure any workable resistance.  She was so swift, i wasn't even sure she was real.  A trail angel sent to rescue me?

I followed.

She wore yoga pants.  Yoga pants?  Must be a base layer of some kind, but with no waterproof shell over them?!  On top she wore a gray t-shirt (cotton?!) with arm warmers.  She had mittens, but she held them in her bare hands, like she was too hot to wear them.  In a few hundred yards behind her it was easy to see why.  She was flying!  Her snowshoes kicked and cut, slashed and tossed, like two turquoise machetes through an arctic Amazon.  It was amazing!  Where did this woman come from?  What was her pedigree?  Her backpack was more patches than pack.  She had badges for whole mountain ranges i'd never even heard of!  She was clearly a "gridder," (someone who's done all 46 peaks at least a dozen times) the first i'd run into, or more to the point, that almost ran over me.

"What's your name?"

"Erik.  On the forum i'm the Solman.  You?"

"Inge.  On the forum i'm Inge."

She had a high and enthusiastic laugh, both cackle and giggle.  "I thought i wouldn't catch you until the top of Colvin!"  We weren't yet to the top of Bear Den; she'd caught me about eight miles sooner than she expected.  "My husband hiked the Lake Rd with me and when we saw the size of your strides my husband said, that guy's hauling!  And i thought either you were really tall or going really fast!"  It appears i'm exceptionally tall.

She didn't slow or break stride, no matter what the topography threw at her.  She carried no poles, but instead picked out useful branches and roots to lift herself up.  The useless ones that hung out over the trail she broke off to save the trail crews time in the spring.  She tip-toed up steep sections and crab-walked up even steeper ones smooth as if she were gliding downhill on skis.  She was inertia incarnate; the Unstoppable Force.  We were over the top of Dial with cartoonish speed, and she was down the other side picking up steam.  Ascending again out of the col it dawned on me that there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of keeping up with her.  I kept asking her questions i thought would spark long answers to try to knock some of the wind out of her.  No chance.  She'd talk for five minutes, cap it with a melodic chuckle, and truck on.

On the two mile stretch between Dial and Nippletop she was Moses, parting the White Sea in front of her, the tails of her snowshoes flashing in the froth.  The blood surging through my body kicked my brain into hyper-drive, realigning my mind like a robotic Rubik's Cube.  Never had i been in the presence of someone so good at something, so determined, so effortless.  So G%damned fast!!  She was so impressive that despite the tempo, despite the struggle, despite what became very real agony to keep up, i remained in stride.  She'd earned a disciple.  I'd follow her to the end of the earth.

My upper abdomen began to burn.  The Scotty in the control room of my lungs cried out we don't have the power!  My legs - dear God, my legs - were a story sad enough to break the hardest of hearts.  When i finally conceded and told her i was going to stop for water she relented, as if it had never occurred to her to do that.  "That's a good idea," she said.  "Maybe i'll have some, too."

Then, for reasons i can't explain, i did maybe the stupidest thing i've ever done.  I told her i'd give her a rest, take the lead, and break the trail up to the next summit.  For the next half-mile i broke out the deepest snow we would see all day.  Around the summit of Nippletop it laid in drifts thigh-high.  I plowed through, flashing back to freshman basketball tryouts when they ran us till we puked to weed out the ballers from the bawlers.  When JFK reached the island that he dragged his PT-109 shipmates to by his teeth, he could not have been more pleased than i was reaching that summit.

If there are bluebird days, this was a gray jay day; fog in our faces and rocks beneath our feet.  We stood atop the blustery peak just long enough for the wind to freeze my soaked base layer, and Inge was off like a shot again, splitting snow like uncoupling a zipper.  I tried to keep up.  I ran, i jumped, i butt-slid, she was too far ahead.  When i completely lost balance and forward rolled over my pack i gave up.  She was gone.

I took my time getting down to Elk Pass.  Fell back into my heartsore slog.  I'd be lying if i didn't say half of me was relieved.  She might have killed me otherwise.  I had no idea what truly breaking trail was like.  It finally, thoroughly dawned on me why getting your Winter 46 is a kind of a big deal.  I'm sure i would have made Dial on my own.  And i was probably just miserable enough to have beaten myself all the way to Nippletop, too.  But seeing the trail beyond the summit still unbroken, i would've turned around the way i'd come, too dejected to even abuse myself to the degree i'd set out to.

At the Colvin junction Inge was waiting.  The trail to Colvin and Blake had been broken by someone ahead of us.  We'd seen in the register someone was headed that way, but after the conditions we'd found, we fully assumed they'd turned around.  It was encouraging, but not enough.

"Inge, I'm sorry, I--"

"Throwing in the towel?"

Just the way she said it fired up the little i had left in me.  "Hell no!  I'm gonna get these peaks!  Mostly because there's no way in hell i'm coming all the way out here again to get them!  And besides that, i came out here wanting to punish myself, and you're doing far worse to me than i could've dreamed of doing.  This is a lesson.  I accept.  Let's go."

She told me to unload my ridiculous pack and leave everything but my water and coat behind. Regardless of whether her motivation for it was altruistic or practical, putting the pack back on was like being born again.  Colvin was in the bag within the hour.  We didn't even feign interest in the summit.   We just dropped our packs and headed for Blake.  It was a mission now.  We were bagging for the numbers alone.  It was callous, automated; we were defying every appealing reason people venture into the woods.  I called on every mental game and self-deception i could conjure to get to the last summit.  People you love are in trouble at the top of that mountain.  There's a bayonet at your back and if you stop they'll drive it through.  It was all i could do.  Even the joy of descending Colvin was completely sapped by the knowledge that every foot we dropped would have to be recouped on the return.  Even as close as a hundred feet from the Blake summit i was wishing for a teleporter to appear to take me back to my bed.  A mere second's relief was had at the top of Blake.  The kind Sisyphus would feel if he were told he didn't have to push the boulder anymore; he'd now be pushing a tank.

I can't say whether or not it was intentional - Inge said she'd been to guide school, and she damn well knew how to motivate.  But the fact that we reached the top of Blake after 4:00 and our headlamps were back in our packs atop Colvin gave us exactly the kind of motivation i couldn't call up any longer on my own.  Drive the damn bayonet through, i thought.  End this.

Behind Inge's running Tubbs i made it out.  Hit the Lake Rd at the very last light.  Back at the gate by 7.  There were headlights.

"I hope those are attached to a Mini Cooper," she said.  They were.  Inge and her husband invited me back to their house for leftover lasagna.

Ambrosia itself never tasted so good.

Nye and Street: 1.27.15 or, "The Rematch"

I saw it was going to be windy and cloudy with a chance of snow, so i decided on a "gimme."  Two peaks, 9.5 miles round trip out of the Loj.  Nye and Street had been high on the hit-list ever since Fin and i attempted them our third day out in the beginning of January.  It was the day after a thaw.  Needless to say, we didn't make it past Indian Pass Brook.  In 55 attempts to summit mountains, it was the first time we'd ever been turned back.  Our first defeat ever.  Lifetime record: 54 - 1.  It was killing me.  So i strapped on the snowshoes and headed down there to take it back.

There's a cedar grove just before the brook crossing that rivals any grove of any trees i've seen this coast.  They're tall, if not old-growth (to the letter of the definition) then at least they've been growing a helluva long time.  Long enough that if they were logged, that area must've been one of the first to go, because some of those trees are 150 if they're a day.  Their distinctive reddish bark twists around the tree as it ascends.  They remind me of the pines in Sedona that twist by vortex energy, so it's claimed.  But the straightness of both trunk and branch reminds me more of the Great Redwoods of California.  No wonder, they're in the same family.  If it weren't for them being softwoods, those branches would make ideal walking sticks.  (As if anyone uses sticks anymore in a time of collapsible titanium poles).  Regardless, it's an impressive grove down there alongside the brook, far worthier of the effort than are the peaks of these two mountains.

i was pleased to see Indian Pass Brook frozen over.  Note the many footprints to the left.  Solid.  Easy passing.

Which was in stark contrast to the last time we'd seen it.  Note the lack of footprints or solid ice.  Much less passable.  

i was across it in three seconds.  Nothing could stop me.

Except myself.  Fool!  I should've seen it coming.  Believe what you will, i believe everything is in balance.  No sunshine without rain; no darkness without light, etc.  The yin and yang thing.  To wit: the fact that i had gone 15 miles the previous day and felt like i could easily have gone 10 more virtually dictated, before i'd even begun, that this day i would drag my ass up and down the mountain.  Not due to fatigue, mind you, but the law of universal balance.  Mind games don't help.  Knowing this hike was less than ten miles i underestimated it, so when the going got a little rough i let it get on top of me.  My mind stretched the four miles to the top into 14.  A big psyche-out.  i know it.  i knew it then.  But mind over matter when the burn is already present is more difficult than solid mental preparation beforehand.

That the summits were both unremarkable didn't help either.  However they were both outfitted with new wooden signs marking the summit.  It's a little thing, to be sure, but let me assure you, it's a real difference maker.  In the sport of peak-bagging, where many of the summits you visit are tree-covered, viewless, unsatisfying climaxes to what can often be long, sloggish days in mixed or even very challenging weather, seeing just a 5"x12" wooden sign with a name on it can change your whole attitude about the day.  It may seem irrelevant.  It's not.  It's a morale boost.  It says: "Congratulations!  You made it!  You earned this," in a way that a small pile of rocks just can't.  (If there's even a small pile of rocks).

So i bagged them both.  They were tag-and-bag, it was an ugly win, but a win nonetheless.  To cap the day, i ran into a fella on my way down who was bushwhacking to find a slide to back-country ski it.  (It is INSANE the variety of winter activities the people of this area have come up with.  From toboggan to snowmobiles to ice climbing to curling - if it's an icy or snowy surface the people of the North Country have figured out how to have fun on it!)  He said he'd run out of time for the day and needed to pick up his three kids from school.

"No big," he said.  "Any day in the woods is a good day ."

You said it, brother.  Amen to that.

Sawteeth, Gothics, Armstrong: 1.26.15 or, "A Conversion On The Gothics"

Preface: I was tempted to jump into the fray yesterday re: proper snowshoe usage (though i'm having trouble locating the specific TR).  I was going to weigh in on the side of microspikes.  I was going to say that i know they get a bad rep, but if you're only one person and you're traveling the superhighway from the Loj to the Dam there's absolutely no reason to shoe it out there when you can make better time in the spikes and not really inconvenience anyone.  My home range is the Whites, where everyone microspikes all the time.  I was going to say, "this is mountain climbing, you get up the thing the best you can.  Snowshoes flatten everything down afterward anyway.  Let's stop being babies and hike the trails."  Those would have been big words coming from a forum newbie.  They also would have been dead wrong.  Observe...


Saw in the forecast Monday was going to be maybe the best day i've seen yet: partly cloudy, about 15 degrees, 5-10 mph breeze coming out of the south.  Now that i've been here a couple weeks and understand the lay of the land a bit better, a weather report like that sends my head spinning.  Do i act strategically - check the trail conditions reports and go get something difficult, something that would be really complicated by bad weather?  Or do i take it easy - go to the Great Range or somewhere not very complicated that i know is screaming for a nice day because the views are going to knock me into tomorrow?

In this case, i went with the latter.

Hit the Lake Rd. at 7.  Cold enough for face protection, but clear and warming rapidly.  Bare-booted the four miles from the lot to the bridge for the Gothics and Scenic trails in no time.  Had planned to take the Scenic.  Put on my snowshoes and even though it looked like the lone set of prints going that way had been rubbed away a while ago, i stuck to it.  Bagging's not all about getting the peaks.  We come out here to revel in it, to take the scenic route.  Well, i was going to take the Scenic Trail!  Hit my first three foot drift maybe 200 yards in.  Ok, this is going to be interesting.  Hit my first four foot drift 50 yards later.  Noticed the worn bootprints of my predecessor vanished a few hundred feet back.  Do i really want to do this?  Solo, heavy bag, still a newb here with little idea what to expect.  If everybody and their second cousin is going up the Gothics trail, i guess i'll defer to the majority and make my stand somewhere else.  Decided that place would be on the forum for the Great Snowshoe Debate.

Crafted my argument on the way up to Sawteeth.  Trail was packed all the way.  Expected after the weekend and no snowfall the night before.  Not a soul to be found or heard anywhere.  Kept wishing i could shut up all the sound i was making.  Breathe quieter.  Silence the crunch underfoot.  Muffle the squeak the poles make twisting in the snow.  Ground the airplanes passing in the sky.  Then maybe, just maybe, i could hear the woods as they actually are.  Hell, i could solve the Great Falling Tree Debate then, too.  Arrived at the summit of Sawteeth to the lone sound of a lonely woodpecker.  And a view i'll never forget.

I'd been told by a fellow hiker my last time down the Lake Rd to reserve a good day for these peaks.  "Thank you, Jerry.  You absolutely nailed it."  I'll not take the time here because i intend to address the differences in depth in a later entry, but one of the starkest differences between the DAX and the Whites is, quite obviously, the slides.  It's like these mountains are trying to shed their mortal coils and launch themselves ever upward.  They have no time to hold soil, they shirk the responsibility.  Their goals are loftier.  The overall effect is that these mountains demand respect.  You can almost see, if you stare long enough, your own battered body bouncing off the face of one of these interminable rock slabs into the bottom of Nevermore.  Fin put a pretty fine point on it the other day while we were passing the east side of Colden along Feldspar Brook looking up at three gigantic slides.

"It's not that that mountain looks like it wants to kill you, per se.  It just looks like it doesn't give a *%$# what your ambitions are on it."  Compare this with, say, the south slide on the Tripyramids in NH.  That slide is so inviting it reminds you of a sandbox.  "Come frolic on me," it beckons.  But i digress.

Took in the view and made my way over to Gothics, a mountain with a name so cool you feel like you owe it something.  Where, i have to say, i was shocked to find drifts and nothing but.  Some 6-8 inches deep.  I was vexed.  Either no one hiked for the past couple days between Gothics and Sawteeth, which i find almost impossible considering the weather we had over the weekend.  Or that range saw some substantial snowfall last night, which of course is always feasible, but this snow wasn't fluffy and fresh.  It was crusted in places.  Between that and mistaking Basin for the Wolfjaws and not being able to reconcile my map to fit my error, i thought i was walking through the twilight zone.  Toward Gothics.  Fitting.

Came, quite suddenly, upon the only human being i would see all day.  Young guy.  Biblical name.  Said he'd come up from Rooster Comb and over the Wolfjaws.  He was in great spirits.  "Feeling good in God's creation," he said.  Feeling good in microspikes, i noticed.  It was a funny thing to note, because i'd been composing my pro-spike defense till just then.  We talked ten minutes or so, then before we parted company, he went into a long spiel about Jesus and how i should read the Good Book, and how if i didn't i was already halfway to hell and i thought, one: "Man, if this kid only knew how much closer i am to Hell than that..." and, "Really?  The only person i run into up here and he's preaching gospel to me?  On my way to Gothics, no less?"  I started looking out for Rod Serling standing just off-camera.

In the kid's defense, he seemed a very genuinely nice kid.  And i'm sure he was doing what he thought was right.  It's just that when you're out seeking a silence you can't even conjure alone, the last thing you want to hear is someone thumping a book in your ear.  Regardless of the title.  But as long as we were swapping gospels, i thought to teach him the one about proper trail footwear.  Thou shalt wear snowshoes...   But i kept it to myself since i wasn't really convinced one person wearing spikes was a problem.

Then i was.  Absolutely convinced.  Heading up toward Pyramid stepping in all the narrow semi-posts he'd made, my shoes kept catching just the sides so that my toe wouldn't touch the snow and my feet kept slipping with almost every step.  I was amazed to find the amount of snow on the trail was growing, inexplicably.  And with it, Mr. Microspikes' post-holes were getting serious.  Regrettably, yet incessantly, i began to curse his biblical name.

Yet nothing could defile the view from the top of Pyramid.  "Best in the Adirondacks?"  i second.  Best that i've seen, anyway.  It reminded me of Franconia, but with a little extra umph.  Little heavier gravity.  And covered in snow like they were, the Alps had nothing on the Great Range this day.  i lingered for a good while.

The trail between Gothics and Armstrong was a winter walkway wasteland.  The snow had to have come before or during the weekend because there were more boot tracks in the snow than a day could have done.  It looked like a stampede of buffalo had tromped through it.  And just like that, you could say, in a manner of speaking: i saaaaw the light!  There on Gothics, i was converted.  "i swear to the Almighty i will wear my shoes religiously from here to eternity or at least to the Loj, forever and ever, amen."  And the argument was resolved.  And the clouds broke.  And i saw that it was good.

I could have stayed up there for hours.  The wind picked up only ever so slightly.  It was just me and the Great Range, basked in sunlight, covered in snow, surrounded by the sound of silence.

I toyed with the idea of doing Upper Wolfjaw, even though i'd already checked it off the list the week before.  "Bagging isn't the only reason we come up here," i reminded myself.  And then, more to the point: "Why hike down there on a snowmobile road when i can hike up here in paradise?"  But it was getting late then, so i trucked it down Beaver Meadows, which had, to my utter delight, been packed by some responsible snowshoers.

And i kept it that way.  And i saw that it was good.

Beaver Meadow Falls

Marshall, Redfield, and Cliff: 1.23&24.15 or: "Lapping Around The Cold-en Flu Season"

Another Trip Report, submitted to the ADK High Peaks Forum.  What a resource!  How cool is it to be able to thank the person who went ahead of you and broke the trail out to make your life easier?!  If only we had that opportunity in all of life.  In honor of all you trailblazers out there - thank you for paving the way!

My hiking buddy, Fin, drove up Thursday night with two days to fit something in before work on Sunday. After some debate it was settled that we would do Marcy, for him - a lifelong goal. And for me - Marshall, Cliff, and Redfield, since i generally hike solo and hadn't gotten a look at any of the herd paths yet. (The exception was the first mile or so of the Street and Nye trail. But we were turned back at Indian Pass Brook after the thaw two weeks ago). We were also eager to overcome our last (and first ever) winter camping experience of a couple weeks ago, which was not so good:http://http://baggerbros.blogspot.co...ewbies-on.html.

We hit the Loj trailhead at 7:30 with the sky dropping more snow than i'd expected from the weather report, and no wind to speak of despite the gusts that were predicted. We switched out of spikes at Avalanche LT and headed out toward the Lake which, in the daylight was even more profound than it had been in the twilight just 36 hours before. It was Fin's first time and the place stopped him dead. 

"WOOOOOOW!!" He said.

"Right? Insane. I know. Me, too."

Snowdrifts had covered the track over the lake with maybe 4" of fresh powder, so i led and we tried to trace them as best we could, one step on, one step off, almost the length of the lake. Where we could find it it was packed in pretty well. At the Colden kiosk, the register was in a mess of a state. Entries from May mixed in with September and January. The problem may have been the lack of writing utensil. There was only a red pen, and the ink was, predictably, frozen. Several pencils likely lay on the ground directly beneath the register, out of reach until June. 

We hiked past the interior outpost at Colden. (What a cool place for a cabin! Who gets that job? i want it!) Thought to stop, then didn't. Then couldn't find the trailhead for Herbert Brook and wound up cutting back across the lake to the outpost to ask. With luck, someone (a ranger? Kind of young, no uniform) had just skied there and greeted us at the door. When i explained that i was sure we'd passed it because we'd gotten to the lean-tos that appeared, on my Nat'l Geo Trails Illustrated map, to be past the brook, he explained that a) my Nat'l Geo Trails Illustrated map was useful for topo info, but useless for almost everything else, namely LT placements, and b) if we'd gotten to the second LT we had been standing 15' from the trailhead. So we went back the way we'd come, noting to ourselves a) to always stop and ask, even when you think you know, and b) to invest in an ADK Club High Peaks paper map the second we get back to the Loj. The trailhead was in fact 15' from where we'd been.

5" maybe, of fresh powder covered what was otherwise a very well-packed trail. We followed the brook side for the first .5 mile, then up the brook itself for another .5 mile, only veering off-course up an embankment once, about 2/3 of the way up where a blowdown concealed the path's continuation further up the brook. It was only our second time breaking out anything (RPR on the 10th, the other). Fin was sick, some bug he'd gotten from the petrie-dish school he works at, and looked throughout the day like Jordan did after that flu game in the '97 Finals. At times it looked like standing was more than he could bare. The summit was clouded in. The climb would have to be its own reward (the feeling of needing to heave was Fin's only reward). We'd intended to get Cliff and Redfield, but it was late by then and Fin was getting worse.

Only a couple tracks going toward Uphill LT. Shoed the whole way. Loved the LT! Well situated, felt very protected from the elements. If only it had been protected from the mice!! They taunted us the entire night, finding their way all over our bags, despite being hung up and zipped. We threw our boots from one end of the LT to the other until the early morning when, exhausted, we conceded defeat and fell asleep.

Despite sleeping only a couple hours Fin felt markedly better in the morning. The sun was out, and lo and behold, some AMAZING person had broken out both Redfield and Cliff!! (Thank you: Great Expectations!!! I now see why people seem to rave when they find a broken trail ) We went up Redfield with our packs on, just in case. (Had recently heard a story of someone falling into Uphill Brook, and wanted no part of it, so was happy to see the path was broken out along the bank the whole way). The summit was clear and beautiful! Finally got a good look at Marcy. What a mountain!! From that angle, with the snow on top, it looked like the Paramount logo. With its pyramidal shape, had someone told me it was a volcano i wouldn't have doubted. 

Went up Cliff without our packs. What a difference! Suddenly blowdowns were limbos instead of army crawls. Navigating the cliffs made us happy we'd left the packs below. Just enough hand holds in the trees to get it done safely. Not a glorious summit, but a good view of Colden, which is quickly becoming my favorite peak, viewable as it is from almost anywhere in the central high peaks, the axis of the whole region. 

Even though it was only 1-ish, Fin had to make moves back home to get some kind of sleep before his 13-hr shift the next day. Marcy and her siblings will have to wait, perhaps to be saved as capstone peaks for a grand finale (?). So we headed down Feldspar Br trail back to the Loj. Coming back into Marcy Dam was like walking into Central Park in summertime. People shooting photos with selfie-sticks, others just parked in the snow, lounging on sleeping pads, a guy playing fetch with his dog. It's always weird being out and not seeing a soul for 24 hours or so, then coming back into civilization. It's like, "Whoa, humanity! Forgot you were a thing." Mixed feelings every time.

As with each outing: learning, learning, learning. Getting better, honing systems, increasing efficiency. Can. Not. Wait. To get back out again!

Wright, Algonquin & Iroquois: 1.21.15 or, "The Unwitting Mayor of Spruce Trap City"

The following is a trip report, my first actually, that i posted on the ADK High Peaks Forum.  The forum is an invaluable resource where an entire community of hikers help each other out by reporting what they're seeing on different trails as they hike them.  This is especially helpful for someone like, say, me, who'd rather not find himself alone, breaking 15 miles of trail where there's no established trail to begin with, on a mountainside ten miles or more from the nearest road.  This particular report is a fine example of why.



I understand now.  I get it.

How the mountains can turn on you.  Why you hope for the best but prepare for the worst.  Why sometimes in the midst of one of the best moments of your life you're waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Because it does.

This being my first TR, I'd meant to introduce myself in another light, but since   i have a TR which might actually help someone to NOT follow in my footsteps, i'll spill it warts and all.

I woke up late and doddled.  Another cup of coffee, a chat with the woman I'm staying with.  I knew the weather would be nice.  Knew the wind would be calm.  Had heard Wright was notorious for wind.  Hadn't a care in the world.  When i finally left Saranac Lake i got as far as Ray Brook and realized I'd forgotten my map.  "It's a pretty straightforward day," i thought.  "Maybe i don't need it."  Then i heard my old man: "Is it really worth your LIFE?!"  And i u-turned.  Put me at the Loj at 9:30.  I didn't sweat it.  Strapped on the spikes and headed toward Wright.

Ran into Altbark coming down the trail.  Instantly recognized him from the forum.  Felt irrationally elated at coming across my first Thread-master with over 1000 posts.  Felt actually honored.  He gave me the lowdown on all his gear and a couple big thumbs up for his new Tubbs.  Aggressive cramp-on on those things.  Scary even.

"I'm Solman."

"Slow man?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, you've got things to do.  I'll be back in Ontario by suppertime, eh?!"

Great guy.  I bounded up the trail on air.  Spiked it to the top of Wright, great snowpack.  Lot of exposed rock on top, but not a soul.  Not a wisp of wind.  Sunshine.  I didn't know what to do with myself.  Shouted out to no one: "Sooooooo-weeeeee!!" and shook my poles in the air like the ape at the start of 2001: A Space Odyssey.  The echo lasted a long time.  Took a panoramic shot for me and a video for the folks back home.  Felt unbelievably good.  Balanced.  Right where i should be.  Wrote a song.  About New Orleans, no less.  Weird.

Back at Algonquin jct. ran into a group of ten or so headed up Wright.  Advised against snowshoes with all the exposed rock.  Snowshoes cost $150 or more.  Spikes $60.  Snowshoes win every time.  Strapped on my shoes to pack the powder toward Al and because i thought i remembered something about actually wearing them being required after the jct.  Shoed to the top of Al in short time.  Was actually blown away at how easily both peaks were summited.  Spent a long time on top with map and compass orienting myself now that i could finally see everything (almost everything).  Felt good to put faces to names.  Made me feel less like an outsider.  Less subject to outrageous fortune.

Started down in shoes.  Too much exposed rock.  Switched to spikes for only maybe 3 minutes.  Just down the south slabs.  Shoes back on in the col.  Winter hiking is nothing if not endless adjustments.  Fresh powder, maybe four inches from bottom of slabs to jct with Colden Lake tr.  After that, more.  Sweeps in places to a foot maybe.  But Boundary was no problem.  Thought to say a prayer for peace, being as how it's supposedly one of the oldest fences on the continent.  Skipped it.

Then things got bad.  I'll say this: i broke a trail to Iroquois.  Not THE trail.  A trail.  Anyone coming after me had best listen to their own instinct, or maybe more appropriately, have a working knowledge of how and where that trail meanders.  A luxury i didn't have.  I'll also say this: ACTUALLY spruce-trapping isn't nearly as bad as the menace of it.  Weaving through those trees knowing i'd lost the trail for the seventh time, feeling the powder get a little too soft beneath me, surrounded on all sides by the tippy-tops of buried spruce trees wasn't terrifying.  Wasn't comforting either.  When it finally happened i was relieved.  I was deep alright, and my right shoe was stuck under a limb.  But i was able to wiggle without having to invert to unstrap it.  I sincerely apologize to the next crop of weekenders coming after me.  I take great care to treat the trail with respect, for skiers, for shoers, everyone.  I try not to posthole.  Though i considered it on the return trip just to deter people from following the paths i'd taken.  On the way back over Boundary, said the prayer i'd skipped.

Shoed all the way down the Colden Lake tr.  No cakewalk either.  Keeping the weight back while glissading is hell on the quads.  Beats the alternative of going a*% over tea-kettle, which very nearly happened once.  Regardless, that trail's broken now, too.  The ACTUAL one (more or less).  Passed the sign telling me i was further out than i thought (or had put out of my mind).  Resigned myself to the fact of darkness.  Got into Avalanche right as the sun was setting.

Could. Not. Believe.  i'd never even seen a picture of that place.  What a scene.  Again, not a soul.  Mt Colden from that side - unbelievable.  Got my first look at the Trap Dyke, the Hitch-up Matildas.  It was like meeting legends.  I lingered awhile in absolute awe.  What a personality on that place.

Sun went straight down without even a wink.  Strapped on the headlamp and picked up the gait.  5 miles out, figured it would take me a couple hours.  But even though you know there's nothing there in the dark that's not in the light, i think something primeval takes over when you're alone in the dark in the middle of the woods.  Call it survival instinct, what you will.  The mind begins to play tricks.  Not to dwell on it, suffice to say it didn't take 2 hours.  Switched to spikes the second i hit the Avalanche lean-to and left a trail of wagging limbs behind me.

9 and a quarter for 14 some odd miles not bad time, actually, considering how long i spent not hiking, and by that i mean walking less than straight lines and getting too intimate with excellent smelling trees.  Just left too late.  A mistake i'll not repeat.  Kept hearing Dan Allen of DON'T DIE ON THE MOUNTAIN: "The best prevention is an early start.  Don't die on the mountain.  Get there early."

You said it, my friend.  Done and done.

Local Women School ADK Newbies on More Than Hiking

At the risk of sounding naive I'll just say it: it was colder than we expected.  It wasn't -20 the whole night, only when the wind blew, but the wind blew plenty.  Fin and I were in the Avalanche lean-to, winter camping for the first time.  Our teeth chattered all night.  When we got up in the morning our bivvies were coated with ice.  On the inside. 

"Even your breath freezes out here?!" I said.  "How does anyone do this?"

The weather for the next night looked even worse.  A low of 60 below on the top of Marcy.  We threw in the towel.  Three nights cut to one.  Instead of creamers for our coffee we added whiskey, packed up, and headed for home.  

Down the Van Ho there was a woman going the other way.  Mid-to-late-sixties, long white hair, boiled wool mittens on her hands and no hat despite the increasing snowfall.  With a welcoming smile she stopped as we approached.   Part of the local charm I've noticed here is that folks along the trail like to shoot the breeze. We've stood mid-hike for 15 minutes or more while locals generously shared their knowledge of the area, the best approaches to different peaks, and safety tips like which trails to avoid in icy conditions.  Despite losing feeling in our fingers and toes, or the sweat on our backs turning solid, we've found it's best to stop.

She was awful sorry to hear about our first time out, told us not to get discouraged.   She said she'd slept out more than a few frigid nights across her forty years of hiking and skiing in the High Peaks.  

"Things can get rough in January, with no trail, when you're waist-high in snow, and it's dark, and you’re alone..." She kept going. 

What?  Did she say waist high?  In the dark?  Solo?  It sounded like the kind of "back in my day" story we make fun of old people for telling.  Except you couldn't.  One, because she was obviously Wonderwoman.  And two, because hiking from summit to summit she had actually gone uphill both ways!  She gave us a wink, wished us luck, and disappeared around the bend while Fin and I remained there.  Stunned.

Our thoughts said: "If that old lady backstroked through snow to the top of Marcy during the Blizzard of '78 wearing nothing against the cold but boiled mittens, there is NO WAY we're dragging our tails out of these woods because our tootsies got a little cold!"  Our words said: "Well I could do another mountain!"  "Me, too!" 

Phelps was the closest mountain so we climbed it.  I don't recall the view or even if there was one.  We didn't take a single picture.  Unimportant.  We'd snatched a summit from the jaws of forfeiture and that at least was something.  Number seven.  We could keep our man cards.

As we navigated a sheet of ice on our way off the top, a young woman in her early twenties was headed up.  She was also hatless and her hair was soaked with snow.  She had on blue jeans and a sweatshirt.  No coat, no backpack, no water, a pair of beat-up running shoes on her feet.  She had snowshoes stuffed under one arm and from the look of her it was strictly because law required them.  

Heeding the zillion warnings about how not to die on the mountain Fin and I each threw down a chunk of change on synthetic gear.  From windproof balaclavas to Goretex gaiters, our clothes could withstand a tsunami.   Seeing her all the way up there dressed like that blew our minds.  Totally inconceivable, like seeing a leprechaun.  To her credit, dumb as our faces must have looked, she waited patiently while we microspiked our way around the ice, then she bounded by us and bare-booted (bare-sneakered) her way up over the ice and out of sight beyond the pines above.  We shook our heads and continued on, but it was unclear if we agreed that she was a fool for being underprepared, or if she was a badass for traveling at more than twice the rate we were in less than half the gear.

Nearing the trailhead, two middle-aged women were heading the opposite way inspecting the snow pack for their hike the next day.  Talking with them, it was clear they, too, were far more comfortable in these conditions than we were.  They told stories about braving all kinds of harsh weather on winter excursions throughout the years.  Weather that made you want to curl up by a fire.

"Nice gaiters," one of them said to me.

"Thanks," I said. "I really like them because I can just throw myself around in the snow and not worry about getting wet."

"Aw," she said, "I do that anyway!"  

As a young male, you're taught that if a female can do something that's physically strenuous better than you can that she's exceptional, a freak of nature.  It would have been easier for me to accept that there's something in the water of these lakes that turns ordinary women into superheroes than to face the truth - that these women were not exceptional.  That anyone, regardless of sex, who has experience at something is better and more comfortable with it than someone who is inexperienced.  Maybe with more experiences like this one I'll come to realize the deeper truth.  That what society taught me as a boy growing up about male and female abilities doesn't hold any water.  Never did.

While we stood there talking, as if to put an exclamation point on the lesson, the girl in sneakers approached again, and as briskly as she'd passed us on her way up, wove through the four of us and headed toward the trailhead, long before Fin and I would get there.

The sooner I accept that what I was taught is wrong, the sooner I can move on to more pertinent ideas, like how to improve my game to get to these women's level.  Until then, I'll just get out of their way.