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.
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.
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