TopOfGothics
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- Jun 4, 2005
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An old friend of mine joined me for a week in the Dacks. It had been a while since we did any real exploring together. On Saturday the 24th, while she slept very comfortably (and long) on the inflatable double mattress that I had just purchased, I joined in to help with the trail work that our chapter does each year on our adopted piece or Klondike Trail between South Meadows road and the Yard turn off.
Sunday found us atop Porter and Cascade on a pristine day with miles to see and hours to kill. For her, these were number 38 and 39. The only thing that kept us from too much of a good thing was the 46er dinner that evening in Lake Placid. Our table was shared with many other kind and interesting mountaineers. With 270 new inductees (about half of them there), they (we) were lined up and presented certificates. The second to last in line was an eight year old, the youngest of this year’s field. I felt honored when Tony hesitated for a moment before he announced my name to hold up the novel (albeit upside down) that I submitted for my last official entry to show the crowd (though I heard shorter reports are much appreciated). We took advantage of the light in the parking lot to rearrange our packs for the upcoming interior trip.
Monday I led a friend from my local chapter, his daughter (who bore a strong resemblance to Princess Amidala), and her boyfriend down Corey's road and ultimately to the top of Seymour. Snow greeted us for the final two hundred feet, and once again this summit greeted me with wind and rain (no hail this time) while the valley was arrived upon with a bit if sunshine.
On this occasion to do the Sewards, I did not argue with my friend Tuesday morning as she declined to join us. With more snow than Seymour, and no distant views to be had, we readily looked to the streams, pools, and rapids for our fix of vistas. I dropped pack at Donaldson and attached my buddy Topo to my jacket for the run over to Emmons. I had promised him a chance at doing all 46 again this year (19 so far, I can't count Giant since I forgot and left him home that trip). As this range dwindled to a close, we encountered a trio of older hikers perched at Emmons. It was good to have company for a while, and they tried to keep up so they could listen to someone else stories for a time. Back at Donaldson (some would claim I climbed that peak twice that day), I grabbed my pack, and due to the extent of the squishiness factor in some of our toes, we agreed to descend down Calkins Brook trail and trade distance for aggravation. Near the bottom realization hit me that my little green friend had jumped hip. It was my fault for not reattaching Topo to his proper place, and after shooing the other three on, I spent over twenty minutes scanning the ground until finally over three hundred feet higher he lay in front of me on the trail. This may have been a loyalty test, to see if I really cared after leaving him behind a few weeks before. All in all, I returned to camp soon after my friends, and very tired. The frolicker was informed by both youngsters that she had made the wise decision to remain behind and lose herself inside a day with no clocks, except the one in her belly!
After walking out Wednesday, my three friends went one way, and me and my partner headed for the Wild Center. This was well worth the fifteen bucks, even if the damn otter slept all day. By evening we had a shower, a hearty meal, and a bed in Keene Valley, thanks to Jake and Robyn at the Hostel. When we arrived there was some chaos owing to a small fire on the back porch, and I was very glad to see my new friends merely shaken and not devastated. After we ate, we headed for rewards at Stewarts. There my hiking partner had the idea to buy our hosts some also. I readily agreed, and he received a mighty hug for her thoughtfulness from Robyn.
With bags all packed and ready for bear, we made first stride down the Garden path at precisely seven am. I told her that my thought was that Haystack is the hardest single High Peak to climb from the easiest or nearest established trailhead. We cruised past JBL in less than 90 before finally resting at the Bushnell Falls lean-to. While enjoying some water, my friend was chatting with (and ogling) the four young men who were spending the better part of the week gallivanting from site to site and over this mountain and that. With a touch of enthusiasm, I convinced them to do my favorite mountain that day, and not to let it wait a day or two. Back on our way, and with a promised quick break waiting at Slant Rock, we came upon two hikers jut short of there. They asked if we were headed to the lean-to in a slightly strange manner. We soon learned from the elder man that group of four had hiked in the day before. The boy had befriended his father's friend and they were enjoying getaways to explore these fine and lovely hills. When the boy's partner was not doing well on Wednesday during the hike in, he stayed back while the other three (the last was the boy's father who now stayed behind at the lean-to) touched top on Marcy and retreated back to camp. The tired man took some pain pills and went to sleep early. About five, just as the sun was beginning to rise, the incessant snoring in the shelter stopped. The other three got some good rest for a bit. At nine, when all should have been awake, the young man went to wake his friend, only to find that he had passed hours before.
There was little we could do, and the two were on their way to report the incident. I did not know at this time there was another with the body. With the offer declined, we proceeded on, up some very snowy and at times slightly treacherous trail. The sun was shining in a pristine sky and we marveled at the day and its magnificence even more for the reminder that we had just been given. Little Haystack threatened to blow her off, but after winning the good fight, and remembering that is was more about the climb than the payoff, we ensconced ourselves behind a rock for over three hours on the summit just as the last of the other hikers were leaving. The wind may have deprived us of lingering views down into Panther Gorge, but the alternative left was a vista commanded by a pretty nice mountain that ranks tenth in the state in terms of height. She heartily agreed that here was a place to come back to on any decent day, no matter what the cost in aches and pains. We started back at just before four, and after making it through the snowfield (smaller than we went in by our opinion), we came back near again to Slant Rock. My estimation ran from three to six for when there might be rangers coming to check on the incident. I heard someone call out, and though it must be the good guys helping out and shouting to each other. At the rock, again I heard a cry. I had already informed my friend that she might have to go on alone, if I was needed in any capacity, even if it meant a carry out. Running the hundred strides to the shelter, I found the boy's father sitting watch, wondering what was taking so long. He was uncertain about circumstances if he were to leave the body alone at night, and he did not want to spend the evening there unless out of total necessity. It took little to convince him to come with us. I did not worry about bears, but rather birds and such, but his friend was protected inside a tent. No more than twenty minutes along the Phelps Trail, the DEC 'hasty' team came rushing up the path. They were as kind and courteous as you could imagine, and after a few minutes of reassuring the gentleman, we were on our way, glad to do the little that we could.
The last three miles on a long day get weary. With all we had to think about, the scenery was a little subdued. If ever (and when) I am to be taken; to go in my sleep in a place that I cherish so much, and on such a fine a day as this is all I could ever hope for. Apologies to any of my friends now for the inconvenience when that day does come. It took no time at all after a shower and some food to fall asleep. I even allowed for the cancellation of Dial and Nippletop for Friday. Hell, I had brought my canoe along, and if it's hull never hit water, I would have been furious anyway at the expense.
__________________
Sunday found us atop Porter and Cascade on a pristine day with miles to see and hours to kill. For her, these were number 38 and 39. The only thing that kept us from too much of a good thing was the 46er dinner that evening in Lake Placid. Our table was shared with many other kind and interesting mountaineers. With 270 new inductees (about half of them there), they (we) were lined up and presented certificates. The second to last in line was an eight year old, the youngest of this year’s field. I felt honored when Tony hesitated for a moment before he announced my name to hold up the novel (albeit upside down) that I submitted for my last official entry to show the crowd (though I heard shorter reports are much appreciated). We took advantage of the light in the parking lot to rearrange our packs for the upcoming interior trip.
Monday I led a friend from my local chapter, his daughter (who bore a strong resemblance to Princess Amidala), and her boyfriend down Corey's road and ultimately to the top of Seymour. Snow greeted us for the final two hundred feet, and once again this summit greeted me with wind and rain (no hail this time) while the valley was arrived upon with a bit if sunshine.
On this occasion to do the Sewards, I did not argue with my friend Tuesday morning as she declined to join us. With more snow than Seymour, and no distant views to be had, we readily looked to the streams, pools, and rapids for our fix of vistas. I dropped pack at Donaldson and attached my buddy Topo to my jacket for the run over to Emmons. I had promised him a chance at doing all 46 again this year (19 so far, I can't count Giant since I forgot and left him home that trip). As this range dwindled to a close, we encountered a trio of older hikers perched at Emmons. It was good to have company for a while, and they tried to keep up so they could listen to someone else stories for a time. Back at Donaldson (some would claim I climbed that peak twice that day), I grabbed my pack, and due to the extent of the squishiness factor in some of our toes, we agreed to descend down Calkins Brook trail and trade distance for aggravation. Near the bottom realization hit me that my little green friend had jumped hip. It was my fault for not reattaching Topo to his proper place, and after shooing the other three on, I spent over twenty minutes scanning the ground until finally over three hundred feet higher he lay in front of me on the trail. This may have been a loyalty test, to see if I really cared after leaving him behind a few weeks before. All in all, I returned to camp soon after my friends, and very tired. The frolicker was informed by both youngsters that she had made the wise decision to remain behind and lose herself inside a day with no clocks, except the one in her belly!
After walking out Wednesday, my three friends went one way, and me and my partner headed for the Wild Center. This was well worth the fifteen bucks, even if the damn otter slept all day. By evening we had a shower, a hearty meal, and a bed in Keene Valley, thanks to Jake and Robyn at the Hostel. When we arrived there was some chaos owing to a small fire on the back porch, and I was very glad to see my new friends merely shaken and not devastated. After we ate, we headed for rewards at Stewarts. There my hiking partner had the idea to buy our hosts some also. I readily agreed, and he received a mighty hug for her thoughtfulness from Robyn.
With bags all packed and ready for bear, we made first stride down the Garden path at precisely seven am. I told her that my thought was that Haystack is the hardest single High Peak to climb from the easiest or nearest established trailhead. We cruised past JBL in less than 90 before finally resting at the Bushnell Falls lean-to. While enjoying some water, my friend was chatting with (and ogling) the four young men who were spending the better part of the week gallivanting from site to site and over this mountain and that. With a touch of enthusiasm, I convinced them to do my favorite mountain that day, and not to let it wait a day or two. Back on our way, and with a promised quick break waiting at Slant Rock, we came upon two hikers jut short of there. They asked if we were headed to the lean-to in a slightly strange manner. We soon learned from the elder man that group of four had hiked in the day before. The boy had befriended his father's friend and they were enjoying getaways to explore these fine and lovely hills. When the boy's partner was not doing well on Wednesday during the hike in, he stayed back while the other three (the last was the boy's father who now stayed behind at the lean-to) touched top on Marcy and retreated back to camp. The tired man took some pain pills and went to sleep early. About five, just as the sun was beginning to rise, the incessant snoring in the shelter stopped. The other three got some good rest for a bit. At nine, when all should have been awake, the young man went to wake his friend, only to find that he had passed hours before.
There was little we could do, and the two were on their way to report the incident. I did not know at this time there was another with the body. With the offer declined, we proceeded on, up some very snowy and at times slightly treacherous trail. The sun was shining in a pristine sky and we marveled at the day and its magnificence even more for the reminder that we had just been given. Little Haystack threatened to blow her off, but after winning the good fight, and remembering that is was more about the climb than the payoff, we ensconced ourselves behind a rock for over three hours on the summit just as the last of the other hikers were leaving. The wind may have deprived us of lingering views down into Panther Gorge, but the alternative left was a vista commanded by a pretty nice mountain that ranks tenth in the state in terms of height. She heartily agreed that here was a place to come back to on any decent day, no matter what the cost in aches and pains. We started back at just before four, and after making it through the snowfield (smaller than we went in by our opinion), we came back near again to Slant Rock. My estimation ran from three to six for when there might be rangers coming to check on the incident. I heard someone call out, and though it must be the good guys helping out and shouting to each other. At the rock, again I heard a cry. I had already informed my friend that she might have to go on alone, if I was needed in any capacity, even if it meant a carry out. Running the hundred strides to the shelter, I found the boy's father sitting watch, wondering what was taking so long. He was uncertain about circumstances if he were to leave the body alone at night, and he did not want to spend the evening there unless out of total necessity. It took little to convince him to come with us. I did not worry about bears, but rather birds and such, but his friend was protected inside a tent. No more than twenty minutes along the Phelps Trail, the DEC 'hasty' team came rushing up the path. They were as kind and courteous as you could imagine, and after a few minutes of reassuring the gentleman, we were on our way, glad to do the little that we could.
The last three miles on a long day get weary. With all we had to think about, the scenery was a little subdued. If ever (and when) I am to be taken; to go in my sleep in a place that I cherish so much, and on such a fine a day as this is all I could ever hope for. Apologies to any of my friends now for the inconvenience when that day does come. It took no time at all after a shower and some food to fall asleep. I even allowed for the cancellation of Dial and Nippletop for Friday. Hell, I had brought my canoe along, and if it's hull never hit water, I would have been furious anyway at the expense.
__________________
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