Jazz Rabbits And Such Things Part I

[TopOfGothics]

Boy, did I like to think I was a little bit of something. The last dozen years have found me making increasingly more frequent trips inside the Blue Line, the High Peaks for the most part. I’d hiked here and there, up and down, at times cruising along and passing many. ‘You need to slow down’ was a common enough refrain from some of my hiking partners. ‘I don’t know about you, but I need a rest break and some food’ was another. I thought I was a badass. So what.

It had been seven months since my trusty surgeon took a piece of my tendon and turned it into a brand spanking new ACL. While he was down there, he also scoped out that meniscus thingy and sewed together some cartilage stuff, most of that damage caused a few years back as the result of a skiing accident.

So the fires were burning furious inside, and this prompted a call to one of the last remaining legends of my high hills, PinPin Junior (or his alter-ego, Alain), to accompany me on my glorious return. What, you say you’ve never heard of this person? Anyone who visits certain mountaineering forums on the Internet has had the chance to follow his exploits with an amusing slant as the indomitable French-Canadian treads along our trails with an alacrity that can at times stupefy. Silly me, I was sure I could at least keep within a rocks throw of The Man.

Sure enough, when a message was sent in reply to one of his witty postings, he responded post whit. He laid out his itinerary for the upcoming week:

Probably Santanoni tomorrow (Friday)
May be Colvin-Blake-Nippletop-Dial (Saturday)
Dix Range (Sunday)
A short hike Monday probably Giant & Gothics.

What would I like to join him on? My first thought was to hike in along the trail to Dix and meet him in the morning at the Slide Brook lean-to. When all was said and done, he sent me his ‘base camp’ phone number with a message of when to contact him. After settling in on Saturday and enjoying short warm up with Snow Mountain, the phone call was made.

“Do you need Haystack, Basin, Saddleback?” It takes a moment at times to translate the phrase ‘do you need aystak, baysen, saddleba’ to something more recognizable.

“I’m wide open, whatever you like.”

“You have ice-axe, crampons, no?”

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” Had an ice axe, never came across an occasion to use it though. I appreciated his concern for getting me more of my ‘winter 46ers’, but I was just happy to share the trail with the man who all but owns these majestic beauties. My regular Forty-Sixer checkmarks were all in place, fourteen of them even in the ‘Winter’ column.

“Call me six in the morning and we see what the weather is.”

The next morning, ready for bear, I rang again. “If all goes well, do you need Gothix, Sawteet’ also?” Yikes! “We park one vehicle at the Ausable lot and then go to The Garden.”

“Sure, why the hell not.” I was invincible, wasn’t I?

Before seven we were on the way to the trailhead. Asking him during the drive how long he has been traversing this wilderness, his reply sent me for a loop. Cascade and Porter on September 21st, 1996 was his first Adirondack experience. It had been a Saturday in September of 96 I first marched up to Marcy with two friends. Could we have been leaving our initial footfalls at the same time Alain was starting his manic obsession? The thought so engrossed me, the obvious left turn to the Garden was missed.

At seven-fifteen we had signed in. ‘David and PinPin JR’ (with a rabbit head caricature) Alain had written. “You know, most of the time it’s me they tell to slow down, I got a funny feeling things won’t be that way today.”

“We see, no need to run, we set a good pace and go.”

And go we did. The track was so hard and the snow was so minimal to the Johns Brook Lodge that snowshoes were not necessary. From the first footfall until we stopped to put on our snow treaders at JBL, not a singe word was spoken. As open and gregarious a man he is, when he gets down to his passion, he is all business. Sixty-six minutes and three and a half miles later there I was just steps behind him.

“Good job.”

It was high praise. I looked to Topo, my companion and a gift (along with a great winter rucksack as an incentive to do more cold weather hiking) from a dear friend, who was attached to the front of my pack. “See, I told you I would not let you down.”

His expression said it all. “Yeah, that was the easy part, you still have over five miles to go before you’ve summited your first mountain today, and you think you’ll make three, even five. Good luck.”

The next leg of the journey would bring us to the lean-to at Bushnell Falls. This time there was just a hint of ‘up’ in this one point eight mile stretch, and yet Junior never broke stride nor said a word. It was amazing to watch the fluidity as he flicked broken stray braches off the trail with his hiking pole and swatted any upcoming overhanging nuisances to free them of snow before he passed without breaking stride. I arrived at the shelter, five miles in and a minute or three behind the Jazz Rabbit.

“Good work.” More words of encouragement. There hadn’t been real hard-pressed times on that leg, but the need for a moment or rest was there. Which makes all the sense of why I did not take it. Without breaking stride I plowed through.

“You need water?” the rabbit asked. My body sure did, but it would not show it.

“No, Ill be fine for a while.”

“You lead, take your own pace.”

As so we were off. From here to Slant Rock is a mile and a half, with noticeably more gain. Whenever the call for a breather was warranted, my speed may have slowed, but never did it stop. Invariably Alain kept the pace of a metronome, PinPin Junior swinging in front of him while my hiking buddy Topo egged me on. Topo still had visions of keeping up with his newfound pal (they had rubbed noses on Giant Of The Valley last March) all the way to the top. At the perfect natural little shelter called Slant Rock I did take time for a quick drink, not to mention putting some jerky into an accessible pocket in an attempt to supply me with additional energy. From here the dynamic duo once again led the way.

From Slant Rock to the Marcy/Haystack col is one single simple mile. In the best of times it is merely extremely steep. In the winter it was a swift kick with the snowshoes to make sure none of the altitude you were fighting for was lost. I watched them go, kicking and sticking and moving with machine precision. At first I tried to keep a close pace, but the air was becoming precariously thin, even at just under four thousand feet. At least for me it was. As the last vestiges of his black clad self was lost through the trees, I had to stop every dozen strides or so and count to ten, regaining a pitiful amount of energy.

“Hey,” came the question from my little green partner, “why are you falling behind? You don’t even have the straining job of compacting the trail. Are you trying to make me look bad in front, or should I say in back of Junior.”

Not wanting to waste a single extra breath, I gave him as dirty of a look as I could summon and carried on. You can see the col coming into view, and you know that each step brings you closer to one of the most wild places left untouched in the northeast, Panther Gorge.

With the last of my first tank, I hauled myself to the junction were Alain stood with a smile, and not a bead of sweat visible. “Good work David, only a mile more to go.”

Such depressing words. I slugged a mouthful of water, a little dripping onto my amphibian friend. Junior’s demeanor showed that he was surely ready for more. “Now we have to summit that damn hill before Little Haystack. If we just bulldozed the damn thing level, we’d save well over two hundred feet of extra climbing!”

“Yes, yes, we go, no?”

Again the A-team slipped up, up, and away and out of my vision. Then again, with all my panting and head hanging, I might not have noticed if they were five feet in front of me. Coming down the first hill, I almost felt that the day might be a success. Noticing the bag left at the junction, mine was dropped also and we started up and over Lesser Haystack with Topo now swinging from my jacket. In barely two minutes my spare tank was straining for every ounce that it could spare. I felt for sure Alain would pass me coming back before I even crested this penultimate hill.

To my surprise, the bump succumbed and after another hundred foot plus drop, there was one last ascent to reach the high point of the day, a football field short of a mile tall.

Two hundred yards from the summit they sat waiting, having already touched top. “Good, good, I go again up with you.”

CONTINUED WITH PART II

 

[darren]

Jazz Rabbits And Such Things Part II

Added this here for Topofgothics:


He strode back up Haystack like I walk to the corner store. With a smile on his face, he does not slow. As they stood atop the summit, me still minutes behind, I snapped a picture of the iconic legend as he posed atop Haystack like he belonged nowhere but there - as if he owned the mountain, and maybe he does. The sun shone brightly behind him, obscuring all else from my vision. Finally we approached and he pointed with his pole to the where the marker would be if not obscured by the snow and ice. Topo and I stoop atop Haystack, possibly the single most difficult of the Forty-Sixers to accomplish.

To make it official I handed over my companion for the picture he’d been awaiting for months now. That shot tells it all. This petite little hiker with a smile as broad as all get-out adorned the summit like an angel on a Christmas tree. The clouds we had had been hiking in for the last hour were now beneath our feet, and the top of Marcy sat above a layer of fluff. It was picturesque and serene. The pointy head of Basin was also visible, and to the south a layer of clouds lay so thick I almost felt as though one might be able to walk upon them.

We headed back down (and over Little Haystack again, ugh!) and when finally getting back to the packs, my fuel was low. “Don’t you ever stop to eat?”

“No, I don’t eat on the trail. Maybe a bar, and some water. I did the Santanoni’s in seven hours yesterday and forgot to drink. That was not good.” Yeah, here’s the guy who has done the Dix range, then bushwhacked over to Nippletop before crossing Dial on the way out. Or how about this for a day hike, Marcy first (via a real trail), then crash over unbroken ground to Gray before surveying a new route down to the col between Skylight. Not enough yet, Alain and Junior continued to summit Skylight and plunged through the trees over to Redfield before scouting out a new trail up the EAST side of Cliff. OK, I quit. I am not sure I want to play anymore.

“Then how the hell do you survive?”

“I make a big breakfast and have a lot of pasta for dinner. And no wine while I am hiking.” Seems so simple. Load up and go. Well, that’s one way to keep the triglycerides low. But Alain was a gracious as ever. “Eat, you must respect your body.”

I pulled out a sandwich and a bar and plopped down on my ass so tired that it took ten times as many motions to chew. Glancing over at Alain, one would swear he was gnawing like a rabbit on the single energy bar he would consume on the trail today. I was near spent. The seven months off, coupled with trying to keep up with the Jazz Rabbit had caught up to me. Also I had not eaten in close to six and a half hours.

After, he asked how I felt. Whooped was a good description. “Do you think you can make Basin? You can use the crossover if you cannot, and we can come back that way if you can. I know that it is broken.”

Well now, sometimes a person just has to admit that he’s bit off too much, even if that means admitting defeat to a Canadian. There might have been enough left in the tank to tag the next summit, but getting back seemed pretty important also. And I was not about to let him carry me all the way back to the car. “It might be best if took the shortest way home.” Ouch, that hurt.

“Then I will go to Basin and return over the crossover. No need to ruin your week. When you get to the lean-to, write the time in the snow so I know where you are. That sound good?”

Looking at the prospect of a hundred foot climb in immediately front of me, nothing sounded ‘good’. “Sure, I’ll meet you at the Garden.”

Off they went, bounding down the slope like a snowball from hell. It has been said he glides down these mountains at times like an Olympic Bobsled. Getting to the top of the hill didn’t cause too much agony, and before long gravity took over and I was back at Slant Rock. A few minutes rest and some gulps later Bushnell lean-to was my goal. There I spent a solid fifteen minutes recouping and feeding the fire. The time was noted in a very conspicuous place, and in less than two miles I could take off my snowshoes at Johns Brook Lodge for the last three and a half miles over the hard packed snow.

A part of me half-expected PinPin Junior to catch up to me before reaching my car. No, that’s not quite right. Part of me expected him to be at the car when I got there. Topo said that Junior could in fact fly, but he just never lets anybody see. The last two miles found me looking over my shoulder every few minutes trying to catch a glimpse of his shadow. The day was growing dark, and I’d be damned if he was going to pass me even though his route was longer and more arduous than mine. At five to five my Sable mercifully welcomed me back to the land of steel and oil.

In ten minutes my gear was stashed, the heater was cranking out amps and some dry clothes were donned. Very soon Alain would come sashaying down the trail and sign himself out. Earlier one of my quips proclaimed him to be a cyborg. Part man, part machine. There was no way Junior could be human, right.

Except that I was dead wrong. Instead of telling me what his experience showed as obvious three hours ago, that I would never make it safely to the next destination, Alain had offered me the opportunity to make the decision myself, somehow knowing that I would choose the proper track. Here was a man who has broken more trail than anyone I have ever heard of, or could possibly conceive of. The same man/rabbit that may have mainly kept to himself in the summer, but led scores of those he hardly knew, if at all, along the twisting snow-covered wilderness paths that can cause enormous harm to even seasoned veterans. There was definitely a touch of mania in there, but also more humanness than most will ever encounter.

The thought of 46*46*2 ran through my mind. A Forty-Sixer ninety-two times over. Over four thousand ascents in a dozen years. If my math is correct, that comes to about an average of about one mountaintop a day. Not a bad way to live your life. Gracious in his demeanor, and serious as a heart attack in his pursuit, here is a being who believes deeply in the wilderness ethic and loves these mountains as much as anyone. Affably, he has even offered to clue me in when he soon reaches that outstanding milestone. After the first round of 46*46, he said forty-five others joined him on the summit for a celebration. How many would there be this time?

It had gotten very dark and still no sign of the Jazz Rabbit. Certainly he should have been here by now. Could something go wrong even with the most proficient of us? Would a crack open up someday and swallow him up whole, therefore returning to whence he came.

At five to six, a full hour after my return headlights shined off in the distance. The vehicle rolled in next to mine and out hopped the hare. “The trail to Saddleback was broken, so I did Gothics and Sawteeth also.” One last time my small green amphibious friend rubbed noses with the legend, as Alain and I banged fists.

He had bounded over four more summits, then down two miles of trail, and across more than four miles of road while I trekked back to my car. That’s not to mention the drive from St. Huberts back to the Garden. What more was there to say? Four bottle of wine were stashed in my trunk. I offered him his choice. With one last “Good job!” Junior once more rubbed noses with Topo, and they were lost to the night.

One final note: After a day of rest for the knee (and me too) I was ‘encouraged’ by my little green friend (a better trailmate would be hard to find) to go back and touch top on Basin and Saddleback, thus saving my some face. “It takes us four days to do what Junior does in one?” Topo asked. Maybe I will not give up that easily, and possibly one day we’ll be able to keep up with one who is old enough to almost be my father.

 

[JoeCedar]

Topofgothics,

You did a great job capturing the essence of the little rabbit, and the man who follows him everywhere!

 

[Tom Rankin]

Awesome TR, 'Darren'!

 

[BorealChickadee]

Great story telling!
One of my prized pictures is with the rabbit.

Now how about a picture of your little green amphibian?

 

[TopOfGothics]

Jazz Rabbits And Such Things Part II

He strode back up Haystack like I walk to the corner store. With a smile on his face, he does not slow. As they stood atop the summit, me still minutes behind, I snapped a picture of the iconic legend as he posed atop Haystack like he belonged nowhere but there - as if he owned the mountain, and maybe he does. The sun shone brightly behind him, obscuring all else from my vision. Finally we approached and he pointed with his pole to the where the marker would be if not obscured by the snow and ice. Topo and I stoop atop Haystack, possibly the single most difficult of the Forty-Sixers to accomplish.

To make it official I handed over my companion for the picture he’d been awaiting for months now. That shot tells it all. This petite little hiker with a smile as broad as all get-out adorned the summit like an angel on a Christmas tree. The clouds we had had been hiking in for the last hour were now beneath our feet, and the top of Marcy sat above a layer of fluff. It was picturesque and serene. The pointy head of Basin was also visible, and to the south a layer of clouds lay so thick I almost felt as though one might be able to walk upon them.

We headed back down (and over Little Haystack again, ugh!) and when finally getting back to the packs, my fuel was low. “Don’t you ever stop to eat?”

“No, I don’t eat on the trail. Maybe a bar, and some water. I did the Santanoni’s in seven hours yesterday and forgot to drink. That was not good.” Yeah, here’s the guy who has done the Dix range, then bushwhacked over to Nippletop before crossing Dial on the way out. Or how about this for a day hike, Marcy first (via a real trail), then crash over unbroken ground to Gray before surveying a new route down to the col between Skylight. Not enough yet, Alain and Junior continued to summit Skylight and plunged through the trees over to Redfield before scouting out a new trail up the EAST side of Cliff. OK, I quit. I am not sure I want to play anymore.

“Then how the hell do you survive?”

“I make a big breakfast and have a lot of pasta for dinner. And no wine while I am hiking.” Seems so simple. Load up and go. Well, that’s one way to keep the triglycerides low. But Alain was a gracious as ever. “Eat, you must respect your body.”

I pulled out a sandwich and a bar and plopped down on my ass so tired that it took ten times as many motions to chew. Glancing over at Alain, one would swear he was gnawing like a rabbit on the single energy bar he would consume on the trail today. I was near spent. The seven months off, coupled with trying to keep up with the Jazz Rabbit had caught up to me. Also I had not eaten in close to six and a half hours.

After, he asked how I felt. Whooped was a good description. “Do you think you can make Basin? You can use the crossover if you cannot, and we can come back that way if you can. I know that it is broken.”

Well now, sometimes a person just has to admit that he’s bit off too much, even if that means admitting defeat to a Canadian. There might have been enough left in the tank to tag the next summit, but getting back seemed pretty important also. And I was not about to let him carry me all the way back to the car. “It might be best if took the shortest way home.” Ouch, that hurt.

“Then I will go to Basin and return over the crossover. No need to ruin your week. When you get to the lean-to, write the time in the snow so I know where you are. That sound good?”

Looking at the prospect of a hundred foot climb in immediately front of me, nothing sounded ‘good’. “Sure, I’ll meet you at the Garden.”

Off they went, bounding down the slope like a snowball from hell. It has been said he glides down these mountains at times like an Olympic Bobsled. Getting to the top of the hill didn’t cause too much agony, and before long gravity took over and I was back at Slant Rock. A few minutes rest and some gulps later Bushnell lean-to was my goal. There I spent a solid fifteen minutes recouping and feeding the fire. The time was noted in a very conspicuous place, and in less than two miles I could take off my snowshoes at Johns Brook Lodge for the last three and a half miles over the hard packed snow.

A part of me half-expected PinPin Junior to catch up to me before reaching my car. No, that’s not quite right. Part of me expected him to be at the car when I got there. Topo said that Junior could in fact fly, but he just never lets anybody see. The last two miles found me looking over my shoulder every few minutes trying to catch a glimpse of his shadow. The day was growing dark, and I’d be damned if he was going to pass me even though his route was longer and more arduous than mine. At five to five my Sable mercifully welcomed me back to the land of steel and oil.

In ten minutes my gear was stashed, the heater was cranking out amps and some dry clothes were donned. Very soon Alain would come sashaying down the trail and sign himself out. Earlier one of my quips proclaimed him to be a cyborg. Part man, part machine. There was no way Junior could be human, right.

Except that I was dead wrong. Instead of telling me what his experience showed as obvious three hours ago, that I would never make it safely to the next destination, Alain had offered me the opportunity to make the decision myself, somehow knowing that I would choose the proper track. Here was a man who has broken more trail than anyone I have ever heard of, or could possibly conceive of. The same man/rabbit that may have mainly kept to himself in the summer, but led scores of those he hardly knew, if at all, along the twisting snow-covered wilderness paths that can cause enormous harm to even seasoned veterans. There was definitely a touch of mania in there, but also more humanness than most will ever encounter.

The thought of 46*46*2 ran through my mind. A Forty-Sixer ninety-two times over. Over four thousand ascents in a dozen years. If my math is correct, that comes to about an average of about one mountaintop a day. Not a bad way to live your life. Gracious in his demeanor, and serious as a heart attack in his pursuit, here is a being who believes deeply in the wilderness ethic and loves these mountains as much as anyone. Affably, he has even offered to clue me in when he soon reaches that outstanding milestone. After the first round of 46*46, he said forty-five others joined him on the summit for a celebration. How many would there be this time?

It had gotten very dark and still no sign of the Jazz Rabbit. Certainly he should have been here by now. Could something go wrong even with the most proficient of us? Would a crack open up someday and swallow him up whole, therefore returning to whence he came.

At five to six, a full hour after my return headlights shined off in the distance. The vehicle rolled in next to mine and out hopped the hare. “The trail to Saddleback was broken, so I did Gothics and Sawteeth also.” One last time my small green amphibious friend rubbed noses with the legend, as Alain and I banged fists.

He had bounded over four more summits, then down two miles of trail, and across more than four miles of road while I trekked back to my car. That’s not to mention the drive from St. Huberts back to the Garden. What more was there to say? Four bottle of wine were stashed in my trunk. I offered him his choice. With one last “Good job!” Junior once more rubbed noses with Topo, and they were lost to the night.

One final note: After a day of rest for the knee (and me too) I was ‘encouraged’ by my little green friend (a better trailmate would be hard to find) to go back and touch top on Basin and Saddleback, thus saving my some face. “It takes us four days to do what Junior does in one?” Topo asked. Maybe I will not give up that easily, and possibly one day we’ll be able to keep up with one who is old enough to almost be my father.

 

[TopOfGothics]

In His Sunday Best

Hey BorealChickadee, thanks for the bump. When Topo saw someone asking about him, he knew right away which picture to use. FYI, he didn't take his name from me, but it comes from his love of studying those maps with all the squiggly lines on it.