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?
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?
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