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.
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.
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