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.