July 4th
The day actually began the night before for reasons to be explained, but it does involve enjoying several really tasty beers. The morning of the big hike, my wife drove cousin Sven and I to the Adirondack Loj. It was bright and early already busy. We planned to climb Wright Mountain, Algonquin Mountain, Iroquois Mountain and Mount Marshall, with Boundary Peak thrown in because it couldn't be avoided (it's between Algonquin and Iroquois.) This is the McIntyre Range; Wright, Algonquin and Iroquois are along a single path (Wright and Iroquois are off spurs of the main path.) Marshall, the 4th in the range has its own path from Colden Lake and cannot be reached directly from Iroquois without an epic bushwhack. Then, on the 5th, we'd bag Mount Colden, as well as a couple/few others (up to 4) before being picked up the next afternoon/evening. If completely successful, we'd climb up to 9 peaks in 2 days.
On the way up Wright Peak, people kept remarking on what a nice day it was to hike. The sun wasn't out, the weather was comfortable and the ground wasn't overly wet/muddy. Sven and I set a great pace, passing couples and groups all along the way. This is not unusual as I tend to hike fast and Sven trained for and ran a marathon this year. What was unusual was the exhaustion I encountered during the climb. I tend to become very spry in the mountains; however, it took me two peaks of clawing my way up to realize I had dehydrated myself pretty good the night before on some good brew Sven had brought as well as some Before/After Tripelbock and was absolutely not good to go. Fortunately, I had fluids and made the last couple peaks work for me. I had Sven basically force me to stop and drink up whenever I seemed to be suffering.
Wright has an interesting story; in 1962 a B-47 from Strategic Air Command (SAC) crashed on the mountain and parts and pieces are still up there along with a plaque honoring the deceased. So, after finally conquering the peak, we spent some time finding the plaque (it's not right at the peak, it's over by where the accident happened.)
Once we found the plaque, we descended to our packs, loaded up and tackled New York's second highest peak, Algonquin. Given that I hadn't figured out my dehydration yet, this was a major struggle. Fortunately, of the three initial peaks, this one rewarded me with a marker. I hate that not all the peaks have markers, so when one has a marker, I make sure to get it. We spent some time up there eating, and I kinda figured out the need for fluids thing.
Sufficiently refreshed we took off for Iroquois. To get to Iroquois, the path continues past the point where the official path heads down the slope of Boundary peak to the Colden Lake Ranger Station and lean-tos. The undulations over Boundary and another knob before getting to Iroquois have to be re-negotiated back to the path for where we planned to spend the evening.
A word about weather before it becomes a major player in this story... the day was forecast to be beautiful - at least in the Tupper Lake region, which is maybe 20-30 miles away. Despite a wet spring, the previous few days had been improving steadily, with sun steadily drying the ground all around us. Anyway on July 4, the sun decided to make only the occasional appearance between clouds, which led to absolutely perfect hiking weather: not too hot, not too cold, not too oppressive, and no new precipitation; we're primarily in the trees, so direct sunlight isn't usually an issue, but its effects can be (mosquitoes and other vermin being more active, for example.)
As we summited Iroquois, looking back at Algonquin only showed that the clouds were flying a bit low and obscuring the peak.
Rain wasn't in the picture (yet), although my pessimistic self began to consider it a possibility. The small part of me that is superstitious (I believe in jinxes, but very little else in that vein) decided not to speak up about it. We began the trek to the descent path with only thoughts of reaching a lean-to with enough daylight to drop off our packs and climb Mt. Marshall, the 4th of the McIntyre Range we aimed for. During the upper portion of the actual descent, I thought I might have heard thunder in the far distance, but decided (superstitiously, again) not to say anything. Later, the thunder sounded a bit closer and a bit more immediate, but precipitation had yet to besmirch the day, so we simply moved a little faster.
Then drizzle began.
(There are more pictures much further on, but the next few paragraphs explain why there aren't any for a while.)
I had had the foresight to put my cellphone in a plastic bag that wasn't completely water-tight, but would definitely be resistant and mentioned this to Sven, which induced him to decide to stop to move his phone from an outer pocket on his pack to safer location, and he indicated I should continue on, as the rain seemed unlikely to end soon. About 30 yards later I remembered the poncho in my pack, but really did not want to spend the time removing and re-hoisting the pack as the rain had yet to become serious. I was too far from Sven to climb back up (despite my success at rehydration, my thighs were now screaming slabs of fire, and my knee had begun to warn of impending longer-term pain) and did not know how long he was going to be, so I soldiered on. As I did, the rain picked up.
Now, the first time I overnighted a couple years ago, I wore some Merrill hiking shoes I described as about 1/4 size too small, but perfect in grip and traction. However, because of their lack of water-proofiness, I chose to hike in some steel-toed Keens my wife had found on sale at a thrift store that seemed to provide more protection. This strategy seemed to be successful up to about 20 minutes into the rain, by which time I was 97% wet, with only my feet remaining dry-ish. Then, that quit as water ran down my legs into my shoes.
Of course.
The marked trail down the mountain began to follow Cold Book down the slope, crossing at times while at other times requiring rock-hopping. In the inclement weather, it became all too easy to lose the trail, which I did a couple times. Most of the time I turned around, found the trail and continued downhill. However, once, I stared at a very vigorous and treacherous river crossing, looked for a marker and failed and kind of knew I was off the path. However, this time I saw a huge boulder overhanging a flatish section and the stone surface beneath was dry. I opted for refuge over deluge and did a very careful rock-hop over (I wish I had pictures of this... my mom would have been all "No. No. For heaven's sake NO." fortunately, she did not accompany us.) When I got to the dry crevace I had a chance to see what kind of stupid I'd gotten myself into. While my refuge was generally dry, I had to hunch over and the room for stretching out was minimal. Also, getting off this rock was going to present a challenge of the first order. The drop off the front was in excess of 10 feet, the rock I could easiest reach had a torrent of water running between it and its neighbor and was not very conducive to reaching another rock to get closer to the shore. This problem needed rectification, but a few immediate concerns to deal with meant that could wait. Concerns such as; how much water had my pack admitted? where the heck was I? and how long was I going to be hiding from the rain?
As for the second question, not only was I just barely off the trail (had I turned around on the shore, I'd have been right back on it. Later, I'd be able to see people walking on the trail through a very few trees), but I was also only halfway down the mountain. I had been hoping for an answer of "a lot further than I actually was." As for the third question, I only had to wait maybe 20 total minutes for the rain to stop and for me to be convinced it had done so.
As for the concerns of the amount of water my pack let in, I had a history with that one. If you're reading this, you probably read the adventure I had on the Seward Range where my pack soaked through and the only dry item I had was my very blanket, closest to my back, furthest from the rain. I had a different pack this year. It is an old exterior-frame style with lightweight nylon. It is very likely I'm the only one in the Adirondacks with a pack that old and of that style. Everyone else has interior- or frameless packs. I'd gotten mine at a garage sale for I think $3 or $5; theirs were in the $50+ range. I do this once a year, so I sacrifice a lot in terms of comfort and modernity, because the cost-benefit analysis says these extra expenditures are not necessary. Anyway, I discovered to my insane delight that the nylon, while very wet, was designed to get wet, but also to maintain water surface tension and keep my stuff dry. A couple items on the very top revealed a couple wet spots, and my shirt at the very bottom was wet (as I would only discover later.) Otherwise, the situation was significantly less sodden this year.
After the rain abated sufficiently, I clambered out onto the rocks and hopped downstream a bit further than I desired and pushed through a few trees to the path and proceeded downhill. I caught a couple guys, determined they had not seen Sven and just muscled forward fueled by a vision. The vision that powered me at first glowed with my arrival at a lean-to after Sven who had begun a fire, ready for me to get dry and start prepping food... warm food.
That vision exploded about 15 to 20 minutes later when I encountered Sven, who had gotten a large chunk down the path before determining I had not. He'd begun re-climbing to find me. He felt some kind of responsibility and worried that I may have fallen in the brook or something. I appreciated his concern, but my vision being shattered and my realization that damp cold was my only immediate future, combined with the already determined decision to abandon Mt. Marshall made me a bit crankier than I ought to have been.
Anyway, we powered downhill, wet and curmudgeonly and desperate for the day to end. After reaching a bridge where we re-filled the water bottles and Sven got to practice his filtration system (I still use the old-style iodine pills) we sploshed to the Ranger Station where we found no lean-tos. We then trudged to the nearest Colden Lake lean-to we could find.
Which was on the other side of the lake.
Nearly a mile further on.
We arrived to find 3 occupants already ensconced; a couple from Buffalo and a young lady from near Boston. Given the proximity of Buffalo to my hometown and Boston to Sven's current home, there was plenty to talk about after they were kind enough to grant us permission to stay the night. To be honest, the rules of lean-tos require admission up to a capacity of 8, but the protocol is to ask and get permission. You are, after all, going to be sleeping side-by-side.
We found, to my personal dismay, that this lean-to had no fire ring and no permission to build a fire. Our wet clothes were to remain that way. Also, the amount of privacy one gets at a lean-to is limited. I was forced to change into my evening/night outfit behind the lean-to hoping no one would come out back whilst I was in a state of, well, nature. My wife knows that I'm not exactly shy or easily embarrassed, but, as with the permission/sleeping thing, knowing I'd be spending hours with these people and assuming the polyglot group concedes to normal social mores, it was important for me to be appropriate (let’s not even talk about the impact cold and wet will have on one’s, um... public appearance.)
A 6th and 7th person, a couple from Montreal, came by to share dinner time and socialize with us, but they pitched a tent up the hill. However, the rain had not been fully squeezed from the sky, eventually resulting in their tent becoming over-saturated, with water running through it. They eventually asked permission to join us. This particular lean-to was smaller than most, and we had a mental count of a capacity of 6. However, even though everyone wanted to say yes, I was the one who broke the silence and said "It would be inhuman and inhumane to say 'No.’”
I could spend some time talking about dinner, however, let’s accept that dinner was tasty re-hydrated Katmandu Curry, prepared over Sterno and took a bloody long time to heat, especially since it started raining halfway through the heating process. After dinner Sven prepared the bear bag and hung it in a tree. We then essentially retired for the evening.
Now... a digression far more important than the ignored dinner-time one.
At the Adirondack Loj signs indicated that use of “bear cans” was mandatory, and certain kinds were verboten, while the “right” kind was for rent. I had left my wallet with my wife, and Sven believed his was left at the campsite. Sven had a bear bag, and I had 40+ year history of Adirondack camping where bears were a kind of boogeyman threat. I’d never seen a bear in the Adirondacks in four decades of camping there. Two years ago Heidi and I went to the Great Smoky Mountains and saw bears essentially every day at the park. For me, “Adirondack Bear” was as real as “Smokey the Bear.” So, we went into the High Peaks Wilderness with only a bear bag to protect our comestibles. No problem, right?
After dinner, Sven carefully gathered up all our food and the utensils we ate dinner with (I had this brand new “Eat’n Tool” that I was in love with), tucked it all in the bear bag and hung it in a tree behind the lean-to. With no hardwoods near the site, the pine tree he chose had a very short branch.
You can already see where this is going, cant’ you?
July 5 - Upon rising the following morning, I mentioned a few times that I wouldn’t mind some breakfast while getting all my stuff re-packed, getting changed and essentially making ready to attack the day. I had mostly dry clothes, so, even with wet feet (I started with dry socks which helped lots) I hoped to bag at least one peak before getting picked up. I continued to make ready, and mentioned food a couple more times, thinking that Sven’s failure to answer was a sign that he was annoyed I hadn’t gone to help him hang the bag.
Nope. Not annoyed at that.
Feeling embarrassed at the fact that the food was gone, the bear bag was nowhere to be seen, and the line was quite neatly cut - that’s what kept him pretty silent.
We had no food.
None.
At this point, only the Buffalo couple remained, and when they heard, they offered up some nuts and 2 Clif bars. One was caffeinated, and the other was not. Both were flavors I would have enjoyed, but given that I hadn’t put my caffeinated drink mixes in the bear bag, I still had access to caffeine and that pretty much determined who got what. I am still grateful to those two. If they read this somehow, I will happily meet them at Paula’s Donuts and buy them each one of the best pieces of pastry they ever stuffed in their mouths.
This development meant that climbing any peaks was pretty much out. Between the still-wet shoes and lack of fuel, I knew asking my body to power up and down one or more 4000+-foot mountains simply begged for more pain and dejection than the effort deserved. We had a lovely hike back to the Loj, I found a spot where texting was possible and contacted my wife. The message read “Please come when you can. Rain caused us to abandon plans. We are at loj.” The next message, sent seconds later said “Oh. And we have no food. Bear got it all.”
Upon Sven's and my arrival at the Loj, we got to talking with a couple rangers about our ordeal and discovered that the fine for using a bear bag instead of the canister would have been $250 + fees had we been caught, plus another ticket with fees for feeding the wildlife. Sven felt the embarrassment they obviously meant to instill, while I could only feel hungry (embarrassment is no longer one of my primary emotions.)
I still do not blame anyone but that bear, and I hope he choked on my Eat’n Tool.
My wonderful wife showed up less than an hour later.
July 8
My body generally recovered - having spent 2 of the ensuing days in our canoe not really punishing my legs (much) - our penultimate day arrived bright and sunny. My wife and I mounted up the Ram for my next assault on two High Peaks: Cascade and Porter Mountains. Among the most popular of the High Peaks, due to its relative proximity to the road (no 6-mile trek just to get to the base here, climbing begins almost immediately after hitting the trail register) and the spectacular views afforded by its bald summit, Cascade pretty much teems with climbers in the summer. This climb proved no different. I passed a significant number of families and couples as I worked very hard to maintain a 2 mph pace. I nearly succeeded, as My Trails recorded me at 1.5 mph, but this included breaks at the top of each mountain for which I forgot to pause the app. I still likely didn’t get to 2, but I know I got pretty close.
The ascent quite literally does not stop going relentlessly UP. There are no cols, dips or even flats from the register to the fork of decision (Porter, .7 mi to the right and Cascade .3 mi on the left). Rocks, roots and mud all at a 15-25 degree slope pretty much describes this climb to the split. I decided to tackle Porter first, as I figured the .7 would be more difficult, and the .3 would seem easy by comparison and would be a nice thing to conclude with.
I made the right decision.
The .7 to Porter included a disturbingly false peak and more mud than I’d seen the whole 2.1 miles to the split. When I finally reached the peak my disappointment at finding no marker seemed like a physical thing, so when I consulted the off-line map on my phone, Porter was marked as being nearly a mile further down the path. Disappointed but determined, I powered east to find that the on-line map was marked wrong. The GPS was right, but the map was wrong. So I returned to the peak, got another drink or two in me and powered back to the fork, now climbing Cascade.
The .3 mile to Cascade is a breeze compared to the .7 to Porter. Drier, with more flats, no false peaks, and wooden walkways over the mud, if my knee hadn't felt like some imp was poking a steel toothpick into it, I might have been inclined to hurry up it a bit more. Upon breaking the tree line, one is presented with a yellow blaze painted path up some boulders and up a route that seems really really stupidly tough. It's not, but it ain't easy either. Cascade has a marker as well as some survey helper markers, so that part of my soul got satisfaction. While up top, a small flock of ravens began flying about, landing here and there, pecking at food and generally behaving quite raven-like.
However, their flight patterns more resembled raptors than one normally associates with ravens, and when flying above us, scared a lady who'd brought her rather small dog into assuming a protective crouch. I didn't blame her at all, but was able to assuage her fear, all while getting some awesome shots of these birds. Some of the photos are just crazy cool.
The descent was marked largely by the stabbing knee sensation pretty much the entire way. Gravity is awesome when one's going down a mountain, and I was passing people left and right getting to the bottom only felt like an eternity because of my knee. All in all, a good end which got my vacation total to 5. Not what I wanted, but better than the 3 I was limited to on the overnight.
This brings my total to 15. I'm just a pinch short of 1/3 the way to 46, and with some cooperative weather and good planning will be able to take a large chunk out of the remaining 31 next year.
The day actually began the night before for reasons to be explained, but it does involve enjoying several really tasty beers. The morning of the big hike, my wife drove cousin Sven and I to the Adirondack Loj. It was bright and early already busy. We planned to climb Wright Mountain, Algonquin Mountain, Iroquois Mountain and Mount Marshall, with Boundary Peak thrown in because it couldn't be avoided (it's between Algonquin and Iroquois.) This is the McIntyre Range; Wright, Algonquin and Iroquois are along a single path (Wright and Iroquois are off spurs of the main path.) Marshall, the 4th in the range has its own path from Colden Lake and cannot be reached directly from Iroquois without an epic bushwhack. Then, on the 5th, we'd bag Mount Colden, as well as a couple/few others (up to 4) before being picked up the next afternoon/evening. If completely successful, we'd climb up to 9 peaks in 2 days.
On the way up Wright Peak, people kept remarking on what a nice day it was to hike. The sun wasn't out, the weather was comfortable and the ground wasn't overly wet/muddy. Sven and I set a great pace, passing couples and groups all along the way. This is not unusual as I tend to hike fast and Sven trained for and ran a marathon this year. What was unusual was the exhaustion I encountered during the climb. I tend to become very spry in the mountains; however, it took me two peaks of clawing my way up to realize I had dehydrated myself pretty good the night before on some good brew Sven had brought as well as some Before/After Tripelbock and was absolutely not good to go. Fortunately, I had fluids and made the last couple peaks work for me. I had Sven basically force me to stop and drink up whenever I seemed to be suffering.
Wright has an interesting story; in 1962 a B-47 from Strategic Air Command (SAC) crashed on the mountain and parts and pieces are still up there along with a plaque honoring the deceased. So, after finally conquering the peak, we spent some time finding the plaque (it's not right at the peak, it's over by where the accident happened.)
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| Plaque and Some of the remaining wreckage near Wright Peak's summit. |
Once we found the plaque, we descended to our packs, loaded up and tackled New York's second highest peak, Algonquin. Given that I hadn't figured out my dehydration yet, this was a major struggle. Fortunately, of the three initial peaks, this one rewarded me with a marker. I hate that not all the peaks have markers, so when one has a marker, I make sure to get it. We spent some time up there eating, and I kinda figured out the need for fluids thing.
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| Marker atop Algonquin. |
Sufficiently refreshed we took off for Iroquois. To get to Iroquois, the path continues past the point where the official path heads down the slope of Boundary peak to the Colden Lake Ranger Station and lean-tos. The undulations over Boundary and another knob before getting to Iroquois have to be re-negotiated back to the path for where we planned to spend the evening.
A word about weather before it becomes a major player in this story... the day was forecast to be beautiful - at least in the Tupper Lake region, which is maybe 20-30 miles away. Despite a wet spring, the previous few days had been improving steadily, with sun steadily drying the ground all around us. Anyway on July 4, the sun decided to make only the occasional appearance between clouds, which led to absolutely perfect hiking weather: not too hot, not too cold, not too oppressive, and no new precipitation; we're primarily in the trees, so direct sunlight isn't usually an issue, but its effects can be (mosquitoes and other vermin being more active, for example.)
As we summited Iroquois, looking back at Algonquin only showed that the clouds were flying a bit low and obscuring the peak.
 |
| Looking back towards Algonquin from Iroquois. Clouds obscure the peak. |
Rain wasn't in the picture (yet), although my pessimistic self began to consider it a possibility. The small part of me that is superstitious (I believe in jinxes, but very little else in that vein) decided not to speak up about it. We began the trek to the descent path with only thoughts of reaching a lean-to with enough daylight to drop off our packs and climb Mt. Marshall, the 4th of the McIntyre Range we aimed for. During the upper portion of the actual descent, I thought I might have heard thunder in the far distance, but decided (superstitiously, again) not to say anything. Later, the thunder sounded a bit closer and a bit more immediate, but precipitation had yet to besmirch the day, so we simply moved a little faster.
Then drizzle began.
(There are more pictures much further on, but the next few paragraphs explain why there aren't any for a while.)
I had had the foresight to put my cellphone in a plastic bag that wasn't completely water-tight, but would definitely be resistant and mentioned this to Sven, which induced him to decide to stop to move his phone from an outer pocket on his pack to safer location, and he indicated I should continue on, as the rain seemed unlikely to end soon. About 30 yards later I remembered the poncho in my pack, but really did not want to spend the time removing and re-hoisting the pack as the rain had yet to become serious. I was too far from Sven to climb back up (despite my success at rehydration, my thighs were now screaming slabs of fire, and my knee had begun to warn of impending longer-term pain) and did not know how long he was going to be, so I soldiered on. As I did, the rain picked up.
Now, the first time I overnighted a couple years ago, I wore some Merrill hiking shoes I described as about 1/4 size too small, but perfect in grip and traction. However, because of their lack of water-proofiness, I chose to hike in some steel-toed Keens my wife had found on sale at a thrift store that seemed to provide more protection. This strategy seemed to be successful up to about 20 minutes into the rain, by which time I was 97% wet, with only my feet remaining dry-ish. Then, that quit as water ran down my legs into my shoes.
Of course.
The marked trail down the mountain began to follow Cold Book down the slope, crossing at times while at other times requiring rock-hopping. In the inclement weather, it became all too easy to lose the trail, which I did a couple times. Most of the time I turned around, found the trail and continued downhill. However, once, I stared at a very vigorous and treacherous river crossing, looked for a marker and failed and kind of knew I was off the path. However, this time I saw a huge boulder overhanging a flatish section and the stone surface beneath was dry. I opted for refuge over deluge and did a very careful rock-hop over (I wish I had pictures of this... my mom would have been all "No. No. For heaven's sake NO." fortunately, she did not accompany us.) When I got to the dry crevace I had a chance to see what kind of stupid I'd gotten myself into. While my refuge was generally dry, I had to hunch over and the room for stretching out was minimal. Also, getting off this rock was going to present a challenge of the first order. The drop off the front was in excess of 10 feet, the rock I could easiest reach had a torrent of water running between it and its neighbor and was not very conducive to reaching another rock to get closer to the shore. This problem needed rectification, but a few immediate concerns to deal with meant that could wait. Concerns such as; how much water had my pack admitted? where the heck was I? and how long was I going to be hiding from the rain?
As for the second question, not only was I just barely off the trail (had I turned around on the shore, I'd have been right back on it. Later, I'd be able to see people walking on the trail through a very few trees), but I was also only halfway down the mountain. I had been hoping for an answer of "a lot further than I actually was." As for the third question, I only had to wait maybe 20 total minutes for the rain to stop and for me to be convinced it had done so.
As for the concerns of the amount of water my pack let in, I had a history with that one. If you're reading this, you probably read the adventure I had on the Seward Range where my pack soaked through and the only dry item I had was my very blanket, closest to my back, furthest from the rain. I had a different pack this year. It is an old exterior-frame style with lightweight nylon. It is very likely I'm the only one in the Adirondacks with a pack that old and of that style. Everyone else has interior- or frameless packs. I'd gotten mine at a garage sale for I think $3 or $5; theirs were in the $50+ range. I do this once a year, so I sacrifice a lot in terms of comfort and modernity, because the cost-benefit analysis says these extra expenditures are not necessary. Anyway, I discovered to my insane delight that the nylon, while very wet, was designed to get wet, but also to maintain water surface tension and keep my stuff dry. A couple items on the very top revealed a couple wet spots, and my shirt at the very bottom was wet (as I would only discover later.) Otherwise, the situation was significantly less sodden this year.
After the rain abated sufficiently, I clambered out onto the rocks and hopped downstream a bit further than I desired and pushed through a few trees to the path and proceeded downhill. I caught a couple guys, determined they had not seen Sven and just muscled forward fueled by a vision. The vision that powered me at first glowed with my arrival at a lean-to after Sven who had begun a fire, ready for me to get dry and start prepping food... warm food.
That vision exploded about 15 to 20 minutes later when I encountered Sven, who had gotten a large chunk down the path before determining I had not. He'd begun re-climbing to find me. He felt some kind of responsibility and worried that I may have fallen in the brook or something. I appreciated his concern, but my vision being shattered and my realization that damp cold was my only immediate future, combined with the already determined decision to abandon Mt. Marshall made me a bit crankier than I ought to have been.
Anyway, we powered downhill, wet and curmudgeonly and desperate for the day to end. After reaching a bridge where we re-filled the water bottles and Sven got to practice his filtration system (I still use the old-style iodine pills) we sploshed to the Ranger Station where we found no lean-tos. We then trudged to the nearest Colden Lake lean-to we could find.
Which was on the other side of the lake.
Nearly a mile further on.
We arrived to find 3 occupants already ensconced; a couple from Buffalo and a young lady from near Boston. Given the proximity of Buffalo to my hometown and Boston to Sven's current home, there was plenty to talk about after they were kind enough to grant us permission to stay the night. To be honest, the rules of lean-tos require admission up to a capacity of 8, but the protocol is to ask and get permission. You are, after all, going to be sleeping side-by-side.
We found, to my personal dismay, that this lean-to had no fire ring and no permission to build a fire. Our wet clothes were to remain that way. Also, the amount of privacy one gets at a lean-to is limited. I was forced to change into my evening/night outfit behind the lean-to hoping no one would come out back whilst I was in a state of, well, nature. My wife knows that I'm not exactly shy or easily embarrassed, but, as with the permission/sleeping thing, knowing I'd be spending hours with these people and assuming the polyglot group concedes to normal social mores, it was important for me to be appropriate (let’s not even talk about the impact cold and wet will have on one’s, um... public appearance.)
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| Rain on Lake Colden as seen from just outside our lean-to. |
A 6th and 7th person, a couple from Montreal, came by to share dinner time and socialize with us, but they pitched a tent up the hill. However, the rain had not been fully squeezed from the sky, eventually resulting in their tent becoming over-saturated, with water running through it. They eventually asked permission to join us. This particular lean-to was smaller than most, and we had a mental count of a capacity of 6. However, even though everyone wanted to say yes, I was the one who broke the silence and said "It would be inhuman and inhumane to say 'No.’”
I could spend some time talking about dinner, however, let’s accept that dinner was tasty re-hydrated Katmandu Curry, prepared over Sterno and took a bloody long time to heat, especially since it started raining halfway through the heating process. After dinner Sven prepared the bear bag and hung it in a tree. We then essentially retired for the evening.
Now... a digression far more important than the ignored dinner-time one.
At the Adirondack Loj signs indicated that use of “bear cans” was mandatory, and certain kinds were verboten, while the “right” kind was for rent. I had left my wallet with my wife, and Sven believed his was left at the campsite. Sven had a bear bag, and I had 40+ year history of Adirondack camping where bears were a kind of boogeyman threat. I’d never seen a bear in the Adirondacks in four decades of camping there. Two years ago Heidi and I went to the Great Smoky Mountains and saw bears essentially every day at the park. For me, “Adirondack Bear” was as real as “Smokey the Bear.” So, we went into the High Peaks Wilderness with only a bear bag to protect our comestibles. No problem, right?
After dinner, Sven carefully gathered up all our food and the utensils we ate dinner with (I had this brand new “Eat’n Tool” that I was in love with), tucked it all in the bear bag and hung it in a tree behind the lean-to. With no hardwoods near the site, the pine tree he chose had a very short branch.
You can already see where this is going, cant’ you?
July 5 - Upon rising the following morning, I mentioned a few times that I wouldn’t mind some breakfast while getting all my stuff re-packed, getting changed and essentially making ready to attack the day. I had mostly dry clothes, so, even with wet feet (I started with dry socks which helped lots) I hoped to bag at least one peak before getting picked up. I continued to make ready, and mentioned food a couple more times, thinking that Sven’s failure to answer was a sign that he was annoyed I hadn’t gone to help him hang the bag.
Nope. Not annoyed at that.
Feeling embarrassed at the fact that the food was gone, the bear bag was nowhere to be seen, and the line was quite neatly cut - that’s what kept him pretty silent.
We had no food.
None.
At this point, only the Buffalo couple remained, and when they heard, they offered up some nuts and 2 Clif bars. One was caffeinated, and the other was not. Both were flavors I would have enjoyed, but given that I hadn’t put my caffeinated drink mixes in the bear bag, I still had access to caffeine and that pretty much determined who got what. I am still grateful to those two. If they read this somehow, I will happily meet them at Paula’s Donuts and buy them each one of the best pieces of pastry they ever stuffed in their mouths.
This development meant that climbing any peaks was pretty much out. Between the still-wet shoes and lack of fuel, I knew asking my body to power up and down one or more 4000+-foot mountains simply begged for more pain and dejection than the effort deserved. We had a lovely hike back to the Loj, I found a spot where texting was possible and contacted my wife. The message read “Please come when you can. Rain caused us to abandon plans. We are at loj.” The next message, sent seconds later said “Oh. And we have no food. Bear got it all.”
Upon Sven's and my arrival at the Loj, we got to talking with a couple rangers about our ordeal and discovered that the fine for using a bear bag instead of the canister would have been $250 + fees had we been caught, plus another ticket with fees for feeding the wildlife. Sven felt the embarrassment they obviously meant to instill, while I could only feel hungry (embarrassment is no longer one of my primary emotions.)
I still do not blame anyone but that bear, and I hope he choked on my Eat’n Tool.
My wonderful wife showed up less than an hour later.
July 8
My body generally recovered - having spent 2 of the ensuing days in our canoe not really punishing my legs (much) - our penultimate day arrived bright and sunny. My wife and I mounted up the Ram for my next assault on two High Peaks: Cascade and Porter Mountains. Among the most popular of the High Peaks, due to its relative proximity to the road (no 6-mile trek just to get to the base here, climbing begins almost immediately after hitting the trail register) and the spectacular views afforded by its bald summit, Cascade pretty much teems with climbers in the summer. This climb proved no different. I passed a significant number of families and couples as I worked very hard to maintain a 2 mph pace. I nearly succeeded, as My Trails recorded me at 1.5 mph, but this included breaks at the top of each mountain for which I forgot to pause the app. I still likely didn’t get to 2, but I know I got pretty close.
The ascent quite literally does not stop going relentlessly UP. There are no cols, dips or even flats from the register to the fork of decision (Porter, .7 mi to the right and Cascade .3 mi on the left). Rocks, roots and mud all at a 15-25 degree slope pretty much describes this climb to the split. I decided to tackle Porter first, as I figured the .7 would be more difficult, and the .3 would seem easy by comparison and would be a nice thing to conclude with.
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| The fork in the path. I chose the one less traveled by, and I was happier for it. |
I made the right decision.
The .7 to Porter included a disturbingly false peak and more mud than I’d seen the whole 2.1 miles to the split. When I finally reached the peak my disappointment at finding no marker seemed like a physical thing, so when I consulted the off-line map on my phone, Porter was marked as being nearly a mile further down the path. Disappointed but determined, I powered east to find that the on-line map was marked wrong. The GPS was right, but the map was wrong. So I returned to the peak, got another drink or two in me and powered back to the fork, now climbing Cascade.
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| Summit of Cascade as seen from Porter |
The .3 mile to Cascade is a breeze compared to the .7 to Porter. Drier, with more flats, no false peaks, and wooden walkways over the mud, if my knee hadn't felt like some imp was poking a steel toothpick into it, I might have been inclined to hurry up it a bit more. Upon breaking the tree line, one is presented with a yellow blaze painted path up some boulders and up a route that seems really really stupidly tough. It's not, but it ain't easy either. Cascade has a marker as well as some survey helper markers, so that part of my soul got satisfaction. While up top, a small flock of ravens began flying about, landing here and there, pecking at food and generally behaving quite raven-like.
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| Adirondack mud... there ain't nuthin' like it. |
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| That ain't the top up there, it's just where you can see the top from. |
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| One view from Cascade. Facing relatively west-ish. Spectacular. |
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| Cascade Marker (yay!) |
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| Cascade survey helper marker (the arrow points to the actual marker.) |
However, their flight patterns more resembled raptors than one normally associates with ravens, and when flying above us, scared a lady who'd brought her rather small dog into assuming a protective crouch. I didn't blame her at all, but was able to assuage her fear, all while getting some awesome shots of these birds. Some of the photos are just crazy cool.
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| One of the nearly half dozen ravens enjoying the skies above the Adirondacks |
The descent was marked largely by the stabbing knee sensation pretty much the entire way. Gravity is awesome when one's going down a mountain, and I was passing people left and right getting to the bottom only felt like an eternity because of my knee. All in all, a good end which got my vacation total to 5. Not what I wanted, but better than the 3 I was limited to on the overnight.
This brings my total to 15. I'm just a pinch short of 1/3 the way to 46, and with some cooperative weather and good planning will be able to take a large chunk out of the remaining 31 next year.
