On our first day in the woods, we set out, about 8AM, shiny and fresh with full packs and glad hearts. (Okay, you know right now that this isn't going to end well...)
We drove to the parking lot and donned our packs after a quick trip to the outhouse for a luxurious last-minute sit-down pee (well, for me, anyway). Boots, check. Matches, check. Food, check. Bear canister, check. Water filter, check. Rain gear, check. Certainly, we had everything we would need.
At the start of the trail we met a generously white-haired, big-moustached fellow in rubber boots and red suspenders manning a team of white draft horses pulling a hay trailer with seats.
"Want a ride?" the fellow asked. "I'll take you both as far as Camp Santanoni for ten bucks."
"Nah," we said, smiling. "Thanks anyway. We're going to walk."
"How long you going in for?" he asked.
"Three days."
"A ride now'd shave five miles off those three days."
"True, but we want to walk it all."
"Well, I'll take your packs for free, then. Load 'em up in here. No charge."
"Wow, that's very generous, but we really want to walk it, packs and all."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." [foreshadowing alert!] "Part of the experience is to really beat ourselves up. We like that."
Oh, how our words can come back to haunt us.
So...we walked to Camp Santanoni, five miles, no biggie. The camp was amazing. Huge, built all of native wood harvested from the surrounding forest. It was built on Newcomb Lake in the 1800's by a wealthy family as a retreat, and no expense was spared. On the way we passed the Santanoni Farm ruins which had a barn, a creamery, a piggery, a smokehouse, an icehouse, a chicken coop, a turkey run, and lots of cleared land for vegetables. The farm operations stocked the Camp during its heyday. All of these buildings are within the area designated as "Wild Adirondacks" by NY state, and so they are no longer allowed to be privately owned.
But the camp is being restored by the town of Newcomb and it's an amazing job they're doing. It's been placed on the National Historic Register and so will not be torn down. We also got an excellent tour by a young docent who is living there this summer and helping with the restorations. There were plenty of interesting old photographs, too, something Len and I both love.
After the tour, we ate lunch and continued on our way. After consulting with the docent ("wet summer, soggy north trail") we decided to take the south trail around the lake and check out the Fish Rock lean-to there, which had come highly recommended. Upon leaving Camp Santanoni, we would not see another human--nor even footprints--until we staggered out three days later.
If the north trail was soggier than the south trail, it must have been really bad. On the south trail we had to cross beaver dams that had flooded whole sections of the trail...the trail itself was more of a stream with continuously running water...and at one point we crossed a bridge only to be dumped unceremoniously into a marsh. Now what? Well, there was nothing to do but cross it. We took a photograph of the trail--a two foot deep clear line of water surrounded by marsh grass and the very aptly named hobblebush. Even our gaiters were no match for this.
As it would turn out, though, the marsh was actually the easy (clean) part. Not so easy were the long stretches of black mud that sucked you down and threatened to pull your foot out of your boot. As we squelched forward (sschhlock! scchlooop! ssgllickk!) I kept hearing Ross Perot in his nasal twang saying, "That great sucking sound you hear is the sound of jobs leaving North America."
A long, soggy trail does funny things to your head.
But four miles later we were rewarded--Fish Rock lean-to! Ahh. It was everything that had been promised and more. Situated right at a deserted point of Newcomb Lake, with Loons and Cedar Waxwings your only visitors. It was marvelous. We had a lean-to all to ourselves, a fire ring, even a bench that someone had carted (or canoed) all that way, placed right out on the biggest rocks at the water's edge. The night was clear and lovely. We shared a meal of rehydrated Chili Mac and dried fruit. The weather was glorious and warm and we bathed in the lake leaving our clothes on shore. Then, as night fell we watched the stars pop out one-by-one and when the moon set, we lay back and watched the Perseid meteor shower. I saw three shooting stars and Len saw two, so I won (because it is, of course, a contest).
We forgot our soggy socks and dripping boots, our muddy gaiters and sore muscles and all of our responsibilities back home. We reveled in the glory of nature and solitude. It was wonderful.
...Stay tuned for Day 2.
Showing posts with label Backpacking stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Backpacking stories. Show all posts
Friday, August 11, 2006
Backpacking: Day 2
Day two dawned bright and lovely. Newcomb Lake was still and flat and the surrounding mountains were so perfectly reflected that had you taken a picture (which we did) it would be impossible to discern which were the real mountains and which the reflected.
We ate our respective breakfasts. Len likes sweet in the morning and so had oatmeal with raisins. I prefer savory and ate my homemade concoction of grits, garlic salt, parmesan cheese and pumpkin seeds. (When I premade the mixture at home I discovered we were out of sunflower seeds and so used pumpkin instead--not nearly as good--but hey--on the trail? You eat it.)
We donned our nearly dry boots and I debated whether or not to break out my backup pair of thick, dry socks. The previous day's walking had given me a blister which I tried to pop using Len's hunting knife, but couldn't. The skin was still too supple and the corresponding pressure of the blister didn't offer enough resistance.
Another troubling development involved my second toe, specifically the toenail. (I know, I know, TMI, but backpacking really is all about the feet.) My boots have been my faithful companions for hundreds of miles in the Adirondacks, the Grand Canyon and elsewhere. They fit well and don't give me problems. But thanks to the combination of that sucking mud and the wetness that finally made it through the seams, my socks were being pushed down into my boots and congregating painfully against the toes. I also wasn't crazy about the way that second toenail floated around when I pressed on it, but we had a lot of ground to cover so I rolled my fresh, dry socks down to the ankle to create a rim that would keep them up, repositioned my gaiters, and pressed on.
Again, the trail was unbelievably wet, often with no way to go around the water; I immediately regretted wasting my dry socks. To cope, we became trail automatons, trudging straight through whatever we encountered. Running water? Meh. Splash, splash, splash. A blowdown across the trail? Psh. Crackle, snap, scrape. Our end point was a pair of lean-tos located on Moose Pond Stream. (So named because it is a stream that empties from Moose Pond and flows north. This tiny bit of information would prove to be very important on Day 3.)
As I said before, this trail was so remote that we not only saw no other hikers, we saw no footprints. No signs of human activity. And the trail crossed two good-sized creeks. At the first creek, Len used his poles and stepped from rock to rock; I opted to take off my boots and socks, roll up my pants and wade across. Icy water is an amazing tonic for poor, tired feet. The second creek (Calahan Brook, three miles on) was deeper with fewer exposed rocks and so we both removed our boots and waded across. The water was moving quickly and it wasn't easy to cross on slippery, rounded river rocks in fast moving water, with an extra 35-40 pounds on the back, but we made it, picking our way across slowly, then reapplied our boots and trudged on.
Shortly after this second crossing, I descended into madness. Specifically, mosquito-madness. Mosquitoes adore me. I am the blood hunter's bounty, a five-star sanguine sucker restaurant, and mosquito meals-on-wheels all rolled into one. When I enter their territory, there is much mosquito singing and dancing. And feasting. The particular hell of this area (affectionately named "Mosquito Alley" by yours truly) was compounded by a resident gang of black flies and the occasional mobster horsefly: they don't leave bites, they leave holes. I wore a bandana (open) over my head, held in place with a hat. Over that I wore my indispensable Survivor buff which is stretchy and conforms to any part of the body. In Mosquito Alley, though, no barrier proves too great for the ravenous hordes. They bit through the double layers of bug-sprayed fabric at my ears. They bit through my pants, my shirt, they swarmed and celebrated. They flew into the space between my glasses and my eyes. Madness, I tell you! MADNESS!!! Bwahahaha. I raced in front of my husband, arms swinging around my head, and speed-walked the trail for the next mile or so. I did not look back.
When the cloud of mosquitoes finally cleared, I waited for Len, whom the mosquitoes do not love as much, and we continued on. And on. And on. I gradually moved into the only emotional state that will allow me to continue hiking when every fiber of my being is screaming Stop, Stop! That state is rage. Rage will get me through anything, I've found. And I was surely pissed. Pissed at the trail for taking so damned long to deliver me where I wanted to go. Pissed at the running water that was everywhere it wasn't supposed to be. Pissed at the thick black mud that never betrayed its depth until you placed your full weight on it, and by god, pissed at the bugs. Pissed at the blowdowns that crossed our trail and slowed us up. Pissed at the heat index that was dangerously high that day. Pissed, pissed, pissed. If I had fallen and broken my leg, I would have risen up, pissed, and walked furiously on.
Let me tell you folks, rage really gets you there.
9.9 miles after leaving the glorious Fish Rock lean-to we staggered into the clearing of the Moose Pond Stream lean-to and made camp. In the way of all great physical trials (childbirth, marathons) we soon forgot our pains and reveled in what beasts we were to have come so far, so well. The nearby creek had a lovely sandy beach where we cooled our bodies and Len discovered the joy of creek-cold water poured over a hot scalp till the water runs cool. (I am honored to be the one to introduce him to this singular joy.)
The lean-to had a scythe and we cut the surrounding thigh-high grass (so grateful to have some work for the body that didn't involve carrying and walking that I sang "Don't Fear the Reaper" while swishing the scythe back and forth) and cut a path to the small beach. We spent the remaining afternoon wetting and rewetting our scalps as the sun blazed down and shone right into our lean-to. We hung our socks to dry and laid our boots upon a sunny rock, tongues hanging out, looking exactly how we felt.
We ate a whole dinner each that night (A Mountain House freeze-dried entree proclaims that it "Serves Two." Hah. Not after our day.) We gathered wood and assembled a fire which we would be too tired to light after the sun went down, and fell asleep knowing that the next day would involve nothing more than retracing our steps and connecting back up with the Camp Santanoni trail. We felt relaxed and secure. In the language of the trail, it would be all downhill from there.
...Stay tuned for Day 3.
We ate our respective breakfasts. Len likes sweet in the morning and so had oatmeal with raisins. I prefer savory and ate my homemade concoction of grits, garlic salt, parmesan cheese and pumpkin seeds. (When I premade the mixture at home I discovered we were out of sunflower seeds and so used pumpkin instead--not nearly as good--but hey--on the trail? You eat it.)
We donned our nearly dry boots and I debated whether or not to break out my backup pair of thick, dry socks. The previous day's walking had given me a blister which I tried to pop using Len's hunting knife, but couldn't. The skin was still too supple and the corresponding pressure of the blister didn't offer enough resistance.
Another troubling development involved my second toe, specifically the toenail. (I know, I know, TMI, but backpacking really is all about the feet.) My boots have been my faithful companions for hundreds of miles in the Adirondacks, the Grand Canyon and elsewhere. They fit well and don't give me problems. But thanks to the combination of that sucking mud and the wetness that finally made it through the seams, my socks were being pushed down into my boots and congregating painfully against the toes. I also wasn't crazy about the way that second toenail floated around when I pressed on it, but we had a lot of ground to cover so I rolled my fresh, dry socks down to the ankle to create a rim that would keep them up, repositioned my gaiters, and pressed on.
Again, the trail was unbelievably wet, often with no way to go around the water; I immediately regretted wasting my dry socks. To cope, we became trail automatons, trudging straight through whatever we encountered. Running water? Meh. Splash, splash, splash. A blowdown across the trail? Psh. Crackle, snap, scrape. Our end point was a pair of lean-tos located on Moose Pond Stream. (So named because it is a stream that empties from Moose Pond and flows north. This tiny bit of information would prove to be very important on Day 3.)
As I said before, this trail was so remote that we not only saw no other hikers, we saw no footprints. No signs of human activity. And the trail crossed two good-sized creeks. At the first creek, Len used his poles and stepped from rock to rock; I opted to take off my boots and socks, roll up my pants and wade across. Icy water is an amazing tonic for poor, tired feet. The second creek (Calahan Brook, three miles on) was deeper with fewer exposed rocks and so we both removed our boots and waded across. The water was moving quickly and it wasn't easy to cross on slippery, rounded river rocks in fast moving water, with an extra 35-40 pounds on the back, but we made it, picking our way across slowly, then reapplied our boots and trudged on.
Shortly after this second crossing, I descended into madness. Specifically, mosquito-madness. Mosquitoes adore me. I am the blood hunter's bounty, a five-star sanguine sucker restaurant, and mosquito meals-on-wheels all rolled into one. When I enter their territory, there is much mosquito singing and dancing. And feasting. The particular hell of this area (affectionately named "Mosquito Alley" by yours truly) was compounded by a resident gang of black flies and the occasional mobster horsefly: they don't leave bites, they leave holes. I wore a bandana (open) over my head, held in place with a hat. Over that I wore my indispensable Survivor buff which is stretchy and conforms to any part of the body. In Mosquito Alley, though, no barrier proves too great for the ravenous hordes. They bit through the double layers of bug-sprayed fabric at my ears. They bit through my pants, my shirt, they swarmed and celebrated. They flew into the space between my glasses and my eyes. Madness, I tell you! MADNESS!!! Bwahahaha. I raced in front of my husband, arms swinging around my head, and speed-walked the trail for the next mile or so. I did not look back.
When the cloud of mosquitoes finally cleared, I waited for Len, whom the mosquitoes do not love as much, and we continued on. And on. And on. I gradually moved into the only emotional state that will allow me to continue hiking when every fiber of my being is screaming Stop, Stop! That state is rage. Rage will get me through anything, I've found. And I was surely pissed. Pissed at the trail for taking so damned long to deliver me where I wanted to go. Pissed at the running water that was everywhere it wasn't supposed to be. Pissed at the thick black mud that never betrayed its depth until you placed your full weight on it, and by god, pissed at the bugs. Pissed at the blowdowns that crossed our trail and slowed us up. Pissed at the heat index that was dangerously high that day. Pissed, pissed, pissed. If I had fallen and broken my leg, I would have risen up, pissed, and walked furiously on.
Let me tell you folks, rage really gets you there.
9.9 miles after leaving the glorious Fish Rock lean-to we staggered into the clearing of the Moose Pond Stream lean-to and made camp. In the way of all great physical trials (childbirth, marathons) we soon forgot our pains and reveled in what beasts we were to have come so far, so well. The nearby creek had a lovely sandy beach where we cooled our bodies and Len discovered the joy of creek-cold water poured over a hot scalp till the water runs cool. (I am honored to be the one to introduce him to this singular joy.)
The lean-to had a scythe and we cut the surrounding thigh-high grass (so grateful to have some work for the body that didn't involve carrying and walking that I sang "Don't Fear the Reaper" while swishing the scythe back and forth) and cut a path to the small beach. We spent the remaining afternoon wetting and rewetting our scalps as the sun blazed down and shone right into our lean-to. We hung our socks to dry and laid our boots upon a sunny rock, tongues hanging out, looking exactly how we felt.
We ate a whole dinner each that night (A Mountain House freeze-dried entree proclaims that it "Serves Two." Hah. Not after our day.) We gathered wood and assembled a fire which we would be too tired to light after the sun went down, and fell asleep knowing that the next day would involve nothing more than retracing our steps and connecting back up with the Camp Santanoni trail. We felt relaxed and secure. In the language of the trail, it would be all downhill from there.
...Stay tuned for Day 3.
Backpacking: Day 3
Day three was the day were supposed to exit the woods, sweaty but exultant, and appropriately "beat up"--as per our expressed wish, told to the gentleman at the start of our trek.
Be careful what you...well, you know.
Our 5:30 AM wake-up call came in the form of a monster thunderstorm. Fortunately we were safe inside our lean-to and could enjoy the cracks of lightning that raised the hairs on our arms and the deafening thunder that shook the lean-to and echoed around in our chests. It was exhilarating, truly.
We rose as the worst of the storm passed and cooked breakfast under the shelter then walked down to the stream to filter water for the hike out. Yesterday's sandy beach was now under water. And the water in the creek was getting muddier by the minute. Ah, runoff, we thought. Of course. From the storm. Well, we'll just have to filter somewhere along the trail.
Over the next twenty minutes, the stream rose at an alarming rate and its flow increased in speed. Muddy whitecaps were forming and the roar began to approach deafening. During one of my tentative approaches, a huge tree trunk came barreling downstream crashing into rocks as it was propelled forward. This was when my morning grits began to roll around uneasily in my stomach.
Still, we hit the trail, retracing our steps and telling ourselves we just might have to leave our boots on to cross Calahan Brook, which would surely also be higher than normal.
Optimism can be a friend on the trail. It can also be your worst enemy.
We broke camp at 8:30 and I braced myself for another trip through the insanity of Mosquito Alley which was, if anything, even worse than the day before: the added humidity fogged up my glasses and blurred my vision as I quickened my pace and swung my arms and cursed the gods that made mosquitoes.
About a quarter of a mile shy of Calahan Brook my stomach made another lurch. I was in front, having not relinquished my Mosquito Alley pace, but I slowed down as I sensed what lay around the bend. Was the ground actually shuddering beneath my boots? Was that continuously rolling thunder I was hearing? I stopped, turned, gave my husband a meaningful look and rounded the bend in the trail that would reveal Calahan Brook.
The small beach of rocks where we had sat to reapply our boots the day before was under a good two or three feet of raging water. The brook was an angry, rushing, twelve foot wide torrent of mud and debris. For ten full minutes we entertained denial and insane optimism as we tried to figure out how we might yet get across. We hiked upstream to see if there were boulders high enough, or a downed tree that we could shimmy along to reach the other side. Reason soon took hold, though, and we realized that even if we made it across this one, there was another creek to cross, and no guarantee that the water was not still rising. Visions of that careening tree trunk I had witnessed morphed into a full-blown fantasy of destruction as I pictured one of us falling in or getting caught mid-stream and crushed before we could get out of the way.
Finally, we did the only thing we could do. We hiked back through Mosquito Alley, back to our starting point, and arrived at noon to reassess our options. I stripped off my wet gear and laid everything out to dry while we consulted the map. Should we wait for the waters to recede, spend another night and hike out the next day? We had an extra day's worth of food, but a quick listen to our weather radio told us more thunderstorms were forecasted. No, we could not wait this one out. The map showed that the trail we were on continued west and eventually met up with a road after about twelve or so miles (we had already hiked three-and-a-half). We could go that route and hitchhike back to the car...except that trail also crossed a number of creeks...should we head that way only to possibly have to turn back again?
As we studied our options, a helicopter flew low and nearby, hovering for several minutes. It was an ominous, out-of-place sound and we searched the sky but could not spot it. Later we learned that a young teenaged boy had drowned nearby. Were we hearing the sound of a body retrieval?
We realized that if we were to get out that day we would have to think of other, less obvious options. The map showed that the trail we eventually hoped to hook up with could be reached by an old logging trail that went halfway around Moose Pond (I would have called it a lake--it was very large, but what do I know about the nomenclature of bodies of water?). And Moose Pond Stream--which had the only bridge on the whole trail right there at our lean-to--emptied from Moose Pond, flowing north. Consequently, no creeks emptied into it from the west. If we were to cross the bridge over Moose Pond Stream and stay to the west of it (not a problem--there was no crossing that bad boy), hug the stream and bushwhack, we would eventually reach Moose Pond, yes? Then we could hug Moose Pond until we reached the old logging trail. It could work.
Old Optimism (ever our pal) took a look at that map and said, "It looks to be about three miles to the lake. The contour lines show it's pretty flat. Let's do it!"
So we did. We redressed and launched off feeling very clever and proud of ourselves and we started to bushwhack. I'd tell you all about that experience, but the thing is, it's pretty murky. And troubling to remember. I can tell you that it was more like seven miles than three, not counting all the swamps and blowdowns and inlets we had to hike around. It was hot, and buggier than I can describe, and the forests were so thick with undergrowth we had to literally fight our way through.
Each small rise or clearing visible through the trees gave us giddy, unreasonable hope. Was it the lake? Upon reaching the rise or the clearing we were invariably faced with but a different obstacle. Two that made our hearts drop into our boots and utter the mother of all expletives, swearing to sit down and quit forever were the immense stands of hobblebush (long, intertwining shrubs that cling fiercely to one another, making passage nearly impossible) and the areas of six-foot high pines so thick that we scratched our faces and arms as we pushed desperately through them.
We took turns giving up and then bolstering each other back to the non-existent trail. We broke out the Tylenol and the ginseng energy packets. We cursed and stumbled and lost our way. The shadows began to lengthen and we did not know exactly where we were. Had we reached Moose Pond--the beacon that would set us to rights? We thought we had, but where was it? Then we lost sight of the stream and could not determine our location even with the compass and map.
It was the combination of my stubborn insistence that we go east--the sun was setting so we stepped on our shadows to ensure we went in a direction that would lead us either to the stream or the lake--and Len's recognition of the characteristic slides of Santanoni Mountain that finally set us right. Oh, and the fact that when we did reach water, it was flowing north--Moose Pond Stream, we told ourselves. It had to be. But even with those landmarks, our optimism had betrayed us. We had thought we were farther along than we were. (We wondered briefly, had we missed the lake altogether?)
When you're charting your own course, it's the small things--the little setbacks that would be easily absorbed under normal circumstances--that prey on your psyche. When your whole body is under duress, and your mind is struggling to keep pace and think clearly through a haze of exhaustion, it's the little things that get to you.
Especially the false hope. Each time we thought we had reached the lake--because we wanted to believe it more than anything, and because we had walked so terribly, terribly far--but found we hadn't, the blow was especially crushing. It was like being dehydrated in the desert and seeing a mirage, running toward it gleefully and then being rewarded with handfuls of sand when you thought you were plunging your wrists into sparkling water.
And each time we had to stop and filter more water it was like admitting failure. We were still not where we needed to be and our punishment was to have to filter more water. Each pump of the handle was a swish of recrimination: Not there yet, not there yet, not there yet. It takes sixty pumps to fill a bottle.
As we struggled forward, our minds took hold of one simple fact: we needed to see the lake. Every other longing receded. Got to get to the lake. Got to see the lake. We must be almost there. We've got to be almost there.
When we finally topped yet another painful rise and saw the lake, it was an amazing feeling. Pick your metaphor, but be sure it includes a group of dirty, wandering outcasts standing on a ridge and viewing the promised land for the first time.
But even that gave us false hope, as we imagined that the rest of the way would be easy going. It wasn't. We still had two hours of struggle ahead of us in waning daylight. A quick consultation of the map showed three inlets coming into the lake before we would reach the old logging road. Each one of those inlets (and there turned out to be four, not three, Mr. Mapmaker, but who's counting?) represented a substantial rerouting that involved hiking downhill to the stream, walking upstream till we found a crossing point, hiking back downstream, and then hiking back up the other side...all while pushing through the aforementioned nasty hobblebushes and stands of aggressive young pines.
After passing the second inlet (or was it the third?) we spotted something bright red far ahead of us at the edge of the lake. "It's a tent," I said, wanting desperately for that to be true. "It's got to be a tent." It was not a naturally occurring red--not Cardinal Red or Wildflower Red, but Polyester Red or perhaps Ripstop-Nylon Red. And lo! We had a new set for our sights: Ripstop-Nylon Red, here we come!
But there were more moments of false hope to get through first. We came across herd trails or the remains of old wagon trails that would give us brief surges of elation, only to have them peter out or wind in hopelessly wrong directions. At one point we entered a clearing and found artifacts from an old Adirondack camp. A potter for ten years in my early life, making 18th century reproduction stoneware, I immediately spotted a shard from an old salt-fired crock, which I kept, adding to my pack weight, but hey, we were almost there! Then I spotted the door from an old wood-fired stove--Manufactured in Buffalo, NY, it proclaimed in a tidy cast-iron font. Suddenly my eyes could see everything that was old and man-made sticking out of the dirt. A tiny, cylindrical, handblown, green glass apothecary tube--intact--was the next treasure spotted. My husband collects small, old bottles; I handed it over with ceremonious pride.
In the previous century a law was passed pronouncing this portion of the high peaks Adirondacks "Wild New York" and any man-made structures were burned to allow the woods to return to their natural state. We had stumbled upon one such site. And there was a road that led away. We were there! We had made it! Visions of Dorothy and Toto flew to mind. Finally, a yellow brick road, and all we would have to do was follow it.
Only it died out, too. And we were dumped back into the woods, near the lake, at the end of another dead trail, some unknown distance from the campsite. It's difficult to convey how literally spirit-crushing such hopes-proved-false can be. But they were. Are.
And summoning yet another round of we're-almost-theres, we pushed on. And finally, finally, we found the real trail and the first campsite. I wanted to fall to the ground in the fading light and take this gift and set up camp, but unbelievably, Len said, "Let's go a little farther. I'm not crazy about this one."
My husband, the man with two heads who speaks in flaming tongues of fire. What had he just said? Keep going? No, no, surely not. Thankfully (for both of us), he was the one carrying the firearm in his pack and not me. I could be writing an obituary right now, instead of this epistle. But I walked on.
200 yards or so later we reached Ripstop-Nylon Red. And to my horror, it belonged to a life jacket bobbing far too ominously in the water at the front of a capsized canoe. I was sure there was a body underneath. As sure as I have been of anything. It was too creepy, too incongruous, too man-made a thing in the midst of our crazy survival adventure to be anything but a drowned human. I couldn't look at it and couldn't look away. Where were the arms? The bloated legs? The hair, floating above the submerged face? There wasn't any. But I couldn't seem to convince my mind of that no matter how I tried.
We set up camp, filtered water, shed our filthy, filthy clothes and boots and shared our last freeze-dried meal as the mosquitoes also feasted in the attractive glow of our headlamps. Then we fell into our bags--well, onto them, as it was still quite hot--and all this while trying not to hear the sounds of Ripstop-Nylon Red, dead in the water, lapping against the shore.
...Day 4 to follow.
Be careful what you...well, you know.
Our 5:30 AM wake-up call came in the form of a monster thunderstorm. Fortunately we were safe inside our lean-to and could enjoy the cracks of lightning that raised the hairs on our arms and the deafening thunder that shook the lean-to and echoed around in our chests. It was exhilarating, truly.
We rose as the worst of the storm passed and cooked breakfast under the shelter then walked down to the stream to filter water for the hike out. Yesterday's sandy beach was now under water. And the water in the creek was getting muddier by the minute. Ah, runoff, we thought. Of course. From the storm. Well, we'll just have to filter somewhere along the trail.
Over the next twenty minutes, the stream rose at an alarming rate and its flow increased in speed. Muddy whitecaps were forming and the roar began to approach deafening. During one of my tentative approaches, a huge tree trunk came barreling downstream crashing into rocks as it was propelled forward. This was when my morning grits began to roll around uneasily in my stomach.
Still, we hit the trail, retracing our steps and telling ourselves we just might have to leave our boots on to cross Calahan Brook, which would surely also be higher than normal.
Optimism can be a friend on the trail. It can also be your worst enemy.
We broke camp at 8:30 and I braced myself for another trip through the insanity of Mosquito Alley which was, if anything, even worse than the day before: the added humidity fogged up my glasses and blurred my vision as I quickened my pace and swung my arms and cursed the gods that made mosquitoes.
About a quarter of a mile shy of Calahan Brook my stomach made another lurch. I was in front, having not relinquished my Mosquito Alley pace, but I slowed down as I sensed what lay around the bend. Was the ground actually shuddering beneath my boots? Was that continuously rolling thunder I was hearing? I stopped, turned, gave my husband a meaningful look and rounded the bend in the trail that would reveal Calahan Brook.
The small beach of rocks where we had sat to reapply our boots the day before was under a good two or three feet of raging water. The brook was an angry, rushing, twelve foot wide torrent of mud and debris. For ten full minutes we entertained denial and insane optimism as we tried to figure out how we might yet get across. We hiked upstream to see if there were boulders high enough, or a downed tree that we could shimmy along to reach the other side. Reason soon took hold, though, and we realized that even if we made it across this one, there was another creek to cross, and no guarantee that the water was not still rising. Visions of that careening tree trunk I had witnessed morphed into a full-blown fantasy of destruction as I pictured one of us falling in or getting caught mid-stream and crushed before we could get out of the way.
Finally, we did the only thing we could do. We hiked back through Mosquito Alley, back to our starting point, and arrived at noon to reassess our options. I stripped off my wet gear and laid everything out to dry while we consulted the map. Should we wait for the waters to recede, spend another night and hike out the next day? We had an extra day's worth of food, but a quick listen to our weather radio told us more thunderstorms were forecasted. No, we could not wait this one out. The map showed that the trail we were on continued west and eventually met up with a road after about twelve or so miles (we had already hiked three-and-a-half). We could go that route and hitchhike back to the car...except that trail also crossed a number of creeks...should we head that way only to possibly have to turn back again?
As we studied our options, a helicopter flew low and nearby, hovering for several minutes. It was an ominous, out-of-place sound and we searched the sky but could not spot it. Later we learned that a young teenaged boy had drowned nearby. Were we hearing the sound of a body retrieval?
We realized that if we were to get out that day we would have to think of other, less obvious options. The map showed that the trail we eventually hoped to hook up with could be reached by an old logging trail that went halfway around Moose Pond (I would have called it a lake--it was very large, but what do I know about the nomenclature of bodies of water?). And Moose Pond Stream--which had the only bridge on the whole trail right there at our lean-to--emptied from Moose Pond, flowing north. Consequently, no creeks emptied into it from the west. If we were to cross the bridge over Moose Pond Stream and stay to the west of it (not a problem--there was no crossing that bad boy), hug the stream and bushwhack, we would eventually reach Moose Pond, yes? Then we could hug Moose Pond until we reached the old logging trail. It could work.
Old Optimism (ever our pal) took a look at that map and said, "It looks to be about three miles to the lake. The contour lines show it's pretty flat. Let's do it!"
So we did. We redressed and launched off feeling very clever and proud of ourselves and we started to bushwhack. I'd tell you all about that experience, but the thing is, it's pretty murky. And troubling to remember. I can tell you that it was more like seven miles than three, not counting all the swamps and blowdowns and inlets we had to hike around. It was hot, and buggier than I can describe, and the forests were so thick with undergrowth we had to literally fight our way through.
Each small rise or clearing visible through the trees gave us giddy, unreasonable hope. Was it the lake? Upon reaching the rise or the clearing we were invariably faced with but a different obstacle. Two that made our hearts drop into our boots and utter the mother of all expletives, swearing to sit down and quit forever were the immense stands of hobblebush (long, intertwining shrubs that cling fiercely to one another, making passage nearly impossible) and the areas of six-foot high pines so thick that we scratched our faces and arms as we pushed desperately through them.
We took turns giving up and then bolstering each other back to the non-existent trail. We broke out the Tylenol and the ginseng energy packets. We cursed and stumbled and lost our way. The shadows began to lengthen and we did not know exactly where we were. Had we reached Moose Pond--the beacon that would set us to rights? We thought we had, but where was it? Then we lost sight of the stream and could not determine our location even with the compass and map.
It was the combination of my stubborn insistence that we go east--the sun was setting so we stepped on our shadows to ensure we went in a direction that would lead us either to the stream or the lake--and Len's recognition of the characteristic slides of Santanoni Mountain that finally set us right. Oh, and the fact that when we did reach water, it was flowing north--Moose Pond Stream, we told ourselves. It had to be. But even with those landmarks, our optimism had betrayed us. We had thought we were farther along than we were. (We wondered briefly, had we missed the lake altogether?)
When you're charting your own course, it's the small things--the little setbacks that would be easily absorbed under normal circumstances--that prey on your psyche. When your whole body is under duress, and your mind is struggling to keep pace and think clearly through a haze of exhaustion, it's the little things that get to you.
Especially the false hope. Each time we thought we had reached the lake--because we wanted to believe it more than anything, and because we had walked so terribly, terribly far--but found we hadn't, the blow was especially crushing. It was like being dehydrated in the desert and seeing a mirage, running toward it gleefully and then being rewarded with handfuls of sand when you thought you were plunging your wrists into sparkling water.
And each time we had to stop and filter more water it was like admitting failure. We were still not where we needed to be and our punishment was to have to filter more water. Each pump of the handle was a swish of recrimination: Not there yet, not there yet, not there yet. It takes sixty pumps to fill a bottle.
As we struggled forward, our minds took hold of one simple fact: we needed to see the lake. Every other longing receded. Got to get to the lake. Got to see the lake. We must be almost there. We've got to be almost there.
When we finally topped yet another painful rise and saw the lake, it was an amazing feeling. Pick your metaphor, but be sure it includes a group of dirty, wandering outcasts standing on a ridge and viewing the promised land for the first time.
But even that gave us false hope, as we imagined that the rest of the way would be easy going. It wasn't. We still had two hours of struggle ahead of us in waning daylight. A quick consultation of the map showed three inlets coming into the lake before we would reach the old logging road. Each one of those inlets (and there turned out to be four, not three, Mr. Mapmaker, but who's counting?) represented a substantial rerouting that involved hiking downhill to the stream, walking upstream till we found a crossing point, hiking back downstream, and then hiking back up the other side...all while pushing through the aforementioned nasty hobblebushes and stands of aggressive young pines.
After passing the second inlet (or was it the third?) we spotted something bright red far ahead of us at the edge of the lake. "It's a tent," I said, wanting desperately for that to be true. "It's got to be a tent." It was not a naturally occurring red--not Cardinal Red or Wildflower Red, but Polyester Red or perhaps Ripstop-Nylon Red. And lo! We had a new set for our sights: Ripstop-Nylon Red, here we come!
But there were more moments of false hope to get through first. We came across herd trails or the remains of old wagon trails that would give us brief surges of elation, only to have them peter out or wind in hopelessly wrong directions. At one point we entered a clearing and found artifacts from an old Adirondack camp. A potter for ten years in my early life, making 18th century reproduction stoneware, I immediately spotted a shard from an old salt-fired crock, which I kept, adding to my pack weight, but hey, we were almost there! Then I spotted the door from an old wood-fired stove--Manufactured in Buffalo, NY, it proclaimed in a tidy cast-iron font. Suddenly my eyes could see everything that was old and man-made sticking out of the dirt. A tiny, cylindrical, handblown, green glass apothecary tube--intact--was the next treasure spotted. My husband collects small, old bottles; I handed it over with ceremonious pride.
In the previous century a law was passed pronouncing this portion of the high peaks Adirondacks "Wild New York" and any man-made structures were burned to allow the woods to return to their natural state. We had stumbled upon one such site. And there was a road that led away. We were there! We had made it! Visions of Dorothy and Toto flew to mind. Finally, a yellow brick road, and all we would have to do was follow it.
Only it died out, too. And we were dumped back into the woods, near the lake, at the end of another dead trail, some unknown distance from the campsite. It's difficult to convey how literally spirit-crushing such hopes-proved-false can be. But they were. Are.
And summoning yet another round of we're-almost-theres, we pushed on. And finally, finally, we found the real trail and the first campsite. I wanted to fall to the ground in the fading light and take this gift and set up camp, but unbelievably, Len said, "Let's go a little farther. I'm not crazy about this one."
My husband, the man with two heads who speaks in flaming tongues of fire. What had he just said? Keep going? No, no, surely not. Thankfully (for both of us), he was the one carrying the firearm in his pack and not me. I could be writing an obituary right now, instead of this epistle. But I walked on.
200 yards or so later we reached Ripstop-Nylon Red. And to my horror, it belonged to a life jacket bobbing far too ominously in the water at the front of a capsized canoe. I was sure there was a body underneath. As sure as I have been of anything. It was too creepy, too incongruous, too man-made a thing in the midst of our crazy survival adventure to be anything but a drowned human. I couldn't look at it and couldn't look away. Where were the arms? The bloated legs? The hair, floating above the submerged face? There wasn't any. But I couldn't seem to convince my mind of that no matter how I tried.
We set up camp, filtered water, shed our filthy, filthy clothes and boots and shared our last freeze-dried meal as the mosquitoes also feasted in the attractive glow of our headlamps. Then we fell into our bags--well, onto them, as it was still quite hot--and all this while trying not to hear the sounds of Ripstop-Nylon Red, dead in the water, lapping against the shore.
...Day 4 to follow.
Backpacking: Day 4
I think I've put off writing about this day simply because in the grand scheme of the trip, it was fairly uneventful. It was the culmination of the trip, and yet there are no mighty struggles to recount, no hallucinations that I couldn't escape, no extreme obstacles to overcome.
Unless of course you count our battered feet as obstacles. Did you know that enough moleskin can actually keep a floating toenail in place for seven miles of hiking? And that not enough moleskin (never be stingy!) can actually be worse than none at all?
As we dressed for the day, I was able to finally pop the ever-growing blister on my second toe with the hunting knife. (Note to self: add a safety pin to the first-aid kit for ease of blister popping.) Len's left heel had developed a nasty maw of a thing--formed by a hot spot that became a blister that relinquished its skin to the repeated abuse and turned into what became affectionately known as the "gaping pus-hole." (Len's note to self: apply moleskin before the hot spot becomes a blister, and be sure to apply enough moleskin that it doesn't come loose and abrade the area even more.)
Our carrot-on-the-stick, our main reason for wanting desperately to get out of the woods and into civilization is a magical place called the Keene Valley Lodge, a place we go every year to recharge and reboot (literally). The owners, George and Laurie Daniels are hikers themselves and their Bed and Breakfast is as cozy and relaxing as home, without the need to cook and pick up after yourself, and their breakfasts are...is "legendary" too grand a word? Trust me when I say, if there was any way we could have gotten there on Tuesday, as our reservations stipulated, we would have. The Keene Valley Lodge was one of the enticements that helped get us through the woods, and even after we found the campsite on Day 3 at dusk, exhausted and hungry and beaten sore, we briefly contemplated donning our headlamps and hiking the last seven miles in the dark, just to get to the Lodge in time for breakfast Wednesday morning.
As it would turn out, those last seven miles were covered in record time. Later in the week we calculated our total rough mileage (35 miles--a conservative estimate if you ask me, given all the walk-arounds we had to do) and time spent hiking (17 hours) and arrived at an average rate of 2mph. When bushwhacking, we were probably doing good at .5 mph, but on that last day we hiked seven miles in just under three hours--better than 2.5 mph, a good rate with full packs and shredded feet. We drank from our water bottles while walking. We ate our lunch while walking. We made wardrobe adjustments while walking. If we could have relieved ourselves while walking we would have. Of course, since we were decidedly NOT interested in filtering any more water, we drank little, thereby minimizing effluent discharge and allowing us to stop even less.
The trail on Day 4 was an old logging trail. It was wet, yes, and hilly, yes, but there were bridges, it was wide enough to walk side-by-side, and mostly what we did was rehash the previous day's activity as we walked. Already the experience was fading. Had we really done that??
And telling and retelling ourselves what we had accomplished helped to make it real. I'm convinced that the singularly human desire to pin experience down is the origin of all storytelling: retell it, make it real, study it, learn from it, pass it on.
We did make it out, finally. In the parking lot, Len hugged the vehicle. I stripped off my boots and wet socks and lay on the grass with my feet against a fencepost. But we didn't linger long; the world's best cheeseburger, fries and Coke were calling.
...Thanks for reading. Tomorrow I leave for my two-week stint at Bread Loaf. I'll be reporting in from there.
Unless of course you count our battered feet as obstacles. Did you know that enough moleskin can actually keep a floating toenail in place for seven miles of hiking? And that not enough moleskin (never be stingy!) can actually be worse than none at all?
As we dressed for the day, I was able to finally pop the ever-growing blister on my second toe with the hunting knife. (Note to self: add a safety pin to the first-aid kit for ease of blister popping.) Len's left heel had developed a nasty maw of a thing--formed by a hot spot that became a blister that relinquished its skin to the repeated abuse and turned into what became affectionately known as the "gaping pus-hole." (Len's note to self: apply moleskin before the hot spot becomes a blister, and be sure to apply enough moleskin that it doesn't come loose and abrade the area even more.)
Our carrot-on-the-stick, our main reason for wanting desperately to get out of the woods and into civilization is a magical place called the Keene Valley Lodge, a place we go every year to recharge and reboot (literally). The owners, George and Laurie Daniels are hikers themselves and their Bed and Breakfast is as cozy and relaxing as home, without the need to cook and pick up after yourself, and their breakfasts are...is "legendary" too grand a word? Trust me when I say, if there was any way we could have gotten there on Tuesday, as our reservations stipulated, we would have. The Keene Valley Lodge was one of the enticements that helped get us through the woods, and even after we found the campsite on Day 3 at dusk, exhausted and hungry and beaten sore, we briefly contemplated donning our headlamps and hiking the last seven miles in the dark, just to get to the Lodge in time for breakfast Wednesday morning.
As it would turn out, those last seven miles were covered in record time. Later in the week we calculated our total rough mileage (35 miles--a conservative estimate if you ask me, given all the walk-arounds we had to do) and time spent hiking (17 hours) and arrived at an average rate of 2mph. When bushwhacking, we were probably doing good at .5 mph, but on that last day we hiked seven miles in just under three hours--better than 2.5 mph, a good rate with full packs and shredded feet. We drank from our water bottles while walking. We ate our lunch while walking. We made wardrobe adjustments while walking. If we could have relieved ourselves while walking we would have. Of course, since we were decidedly NOT interested in filtering any more water, we drank little, thereby minimizing effluent discharge and allowing us to stop even less.
The trail on Day 4 was an old logging trail. It was wet, yes, and hilly, yes, but there were bridges, it was wide enough to walk side-by-side, and mostly what we did was rehash the previous day's activity as we walked. Already the experience was fading. Had we really done that??
And telling and retelling ourselves what we had accomplished helped to make it real. I'm convinced that the singularly human desire to pin experience down is the origin of all storytelling: retell it, make it real, study it, learn from it, pass it on.
We did make it out, finally. In the parking lot, Len hugged the vehicle. I stripped off my boots and wet socks and lay on the grass with my feet against a fencepost. But we didn't linger long; the world's best cheeseburger, fries and Coke were calling.
...Thanks for reading. Tomorrow I leave for my two-week stint at Bread Loaf. I'll be reporting in from there.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Grand Canyon, The
Our trip to the Grand Canyon was amazing. Backpacking in the canyon is a completely different experience from standing at the edge and snapping pictures. As grand as it is from the rim, you still can't imagine the true vastness of the place until you have hiked down inside it...spent the night under an equally vast sky, filled with stars...and then hiked back up and out.
Our trip started as we hiked down the Grand View Trail (carrying far too much stuff--we'll go lighter next trip, promise) to Horseshoe Mesa, which was itself a daunting, 2,000-foot, downhill hike for two winter-pale northerners fresh out of their cocoons. But from Horseshoe Mesa we still had to hike down another 2,000 feet to Cottonwood Creek where we had been told we could find water and several flat places to pitch a tent (yes, we had a permit).
But somehow we missed the turn-off for the shortcut to Cottonwood Creek. (In the continuing saga of dumb-luck-stories that is my life, this turned out to be a good thing, as a "shortcut" that involves a 2,000 foot altitude change with a 40 pound pack on one's back down a steep gravel path is not a happy shortcut.) But this meant we had to drop three miles down the back side of the Mesa without another human in sight. (How quickly "no one around" can go from inducing a calm, peaceful state to causing out-and-out panic really would be an amazing timeline. Someone should do a study.)
Our water supply was quickly dwindling. Hikers in the canyon must diligently replace body fluids lost from the sweat of exertion, the heat, and even from the low humidity. It is possible to become dangerously dehydrated in the Grand Canyon, even without sweating, and not sweating wasn't an option for us. The canyon's 7% average humidity was responsible for preserving the body of a hapless hiker whose mummified corpse became a tourist stop for more than sixty years before the body suddenly disappeared in the 1970's. And we passed several conspicuous piles of tin cans left over from miners and prospectors who had tried to conquer the canyon in the 1800's (an era when man's dominion over nature was believed to be a biblical imperative). The cans were rusted, but completely intact, with the method of opening obvious to the point of being able to picture the miner cranking away at his stubborn tin with a pocket knife.
Contrary to what most people believe, the temperature at the bottom of the canyon is much hotter than the temperature at the rim. About 40 degrees hotter, on any given day. And three-quarters of the way into our first day of hiking, we started to ration water to make sure we would have enough. Seems reasonable, doesn't it? But we learned later that this is not a good plan. The rule of water in the Grand Canyon: If you save it, you might not make it. It turns out the dividing line between "I've got a powerful thirst" and "I'm speaking gibberish and walking off alone into the desert because I think I've found a good shortcut" is a very fine one, and it can happen much faster than you would think. Never save your water for later. Many a delirious hiker's remains have been found with a half-full water bottle that--if he had but consumed it--would have given him the strength and the presence of mind to locate the water source that was often just over the next rise. As a Park Service Ranger put it to us the following day, "In the Grand Canyon you don't hike to water, you hike from water."
[More tomorrow.]
Our trip started as we hiked down the Grand View Trail (carrying far too much stuff--we'll go lighter next trip, promise) to Horseshoe Mesa, which was itself a daunting, 2,000-foot, downhill hike for two winter-pale northerners fresh out of their cocoons. But from Horseshoe Mesa we still had to hike down another 2,000 feet to Cottonwood Creek where we had been told we could find water and several flat places to pitch a tent (yes, we had a permit).
But somehow we missed the turn-off for the shortcut to Cottonwood Creek. (In the continuing saga of dumb-luck-stories that is my life, this turned out to be a good thing, as a "shortcut" that involves a 2,000 foot altitude change with a 40 pound pack on one's back down a steep gravel path is not a happy shortcut.) But this meant we had to drop three miles down the back side of the Mesa without another human in sight. (How quickly "no one around" can go from inducing a calm, peaceful state to causing out-and-out panic really would be an amazing timeline. Someone should do a study.)
Our water supply was quickly dwindling. Hikers in the canyon must diligently replace body fluids lost from the sweat of exertion, the heat, and even from the low humidity. It is possible to become dangerously dehydrated in the Grand Canyon, even without sweating, and not sweating wasn't an option for us. The canyon's 7% average humidity was responsible for preserving the body of a hapless hiker whose mummified corpse became a tourist stop for more than sixty years before the body suddenly disappeared in the 1970's. And we passed several conspicuous piles of tin cans left over from miners and prospectors who had tried to conquer the canyon in the 1800's (an era when man's dominion over nature was believed to be a biblical imperative). The cans were rusted, but completely intact, with the method of opening obvious to the point of being able to picture the miner cranking away at his stubborn tin with a pocket knife.
Contrary to what most people believe, the temperature at the bottom of the canyon is much hotter than the temperature at the rim. About 40 degrees hotter, on any given day. And three-quarters of the way into our first day of hiking, we started to ration water to make sure we would have enough. Seems reasonable, doesn't it? But we learned later that this is not a good plan. The rule of water in the Grand Canyon: If you save it, you might not make it. It turns out the dividing line between "I've got a powerful thirst" and "I'm speaking gibberish and walking off alone into the desert because I think I've found a good shortcut" is a very fine one, and it can happen much faster than you would think. Never save your water for later. Many a delirious hiker's remains have been found with a half-full water bottle that--if he had but consumed it--would have given him the strength and the presence of mind to locate the water source that was often just over the next rise. As a Park Service Ranger put it to us the following day, "In the Grand Canyon you don't hike to water, you hike from water."
[More tomorrow.]
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