Adirondack Jacked
Chocurua to Castle Rock (and Lawrentia)
It’s Thursday, July 16 and raining currently while we are van-locked at Castle Rock trailhead at a Syracuse University-owned conference center near Blue Mountain Lake, in the middle of New York’s huge Adirondack “Park”. (I want to walk in like I own the place and argue that reading a paper here–well, not exactly here, but down the road at Syracuse–while a graduate student one quarter of a century ago ought to earn me wifi access, but I’m not drunk enuf.)
It’s actually Friday the 17th, and we’re in Alexandria, NY on the St Lawrence River, but have been without cell connectivity for a week, so you might as well think it’s Thursday. (I hate to diss today, however, as it was awesome, despite the fact that the van’s tranny acted up again for the first time since Manchester’s “repair”; we climbed above Blue Mntn Lake in the morning, drove thru the Adirondacks for an hour or so, and then took a boat ride into the “1,000 Islands” region. There’s actually 1,800 islands here, but the definition of “island” is up for grabs.)
By now it’s actually the 18th, and we’re in a cheap hotel in Watertown, NY. Move backwards in time with me:
Adirondack Park is a one-off, larger and older than any national park and yet exemplifying the “multi-use” mantra of the national forest system to a tee. It’s hardly protected or “conserved” in any typical sense, as the logging trucks attest, but is also loved and managed more wisely than Southern forests, as the really useful travel info booths and maps make clear. We learned this during an amazing hike up and out of the Keene Valley yesterday, where we looked down on swooping peregrine falcons across Rt 9 from Mt Dix, and across the value via binoculars at climbers on fixed rope. (Most of the cliffs are closed to protect the nesting birds, btw.) The trailheads are becoming more and more jam-packed with NYC peeps enjoying newly announced easing of travel restrictions–one bright spot in the depressed economy is outdoor gear sales, up twenty-five percent over last year, though that includes gun sales–and yet bars have had to close again statewide. It’s great to see folks getting out, but it’s never cool to see crowded trails or campgrounds.
Today we slowly traversed the Adirondacks, on scenic byways like route 28 through Indian Lake, route 3 through Childwold, and 86 through Saranac Lake. (We tried to drive to the top of Whiteface Mtn., near Lake Placid, where the 1980 Winter Olympics and the “miracle on ice” went down, but they wanted too much cash for their privatized road.) Even earlier today, we walked the Chasm at Ausable River, where we sleuth camped last night and both crapped this am. (Don’t worry: we practice leave no trace religously.) Met a cool couple in a maxed-out Sprinter, who had no idea where they were or where they came from.
The day before, we went to Ticonderoga State Park on the bottom of Lake Champlain and the top of the ever-shrinking Hudson River. Man, like, we’ve been stalking the war of independence (independence for some, we should immediately add) and seeing this dang river in reverse since Manhattan Island. It seems like Washington slept everywhere here, but we finally have crossed a legit place where history turned. They’ve kept the battlefield mowed and maintained to roughly what it looked like in 1779, and it’s a testament to the 8,000 or so farmers who defeated the world’s greatest army at the time. They, Brits and mercenaries, who didn’t really seem into the fight, were trying to cut the head–that is, New York and New England–off of the revolutionary colony by sliding down the Hudson. This fucking Polish engineer, Polyashevski or some such, designs this fort right at the narrowest point of the Hudson where they could get up on the rocks of either side and stop the British naval armada from getting to New York. And they fucking did it. When you walk the actual earthenworks and you see the separation of the front line from theirs. It’s just hand-to-hand combat, brutal fighting. Respect.
Then–the night before, we slept by Little Alum Lake, at a tiny boat launch amidst gorgeous summer homes, feeling somewhat envious of other peoples’ personal space to spare. We’ve discovered that the hardest part of van life, besides the rain, and besides finding a place to poop every am in the era of Covid, is adjusting to the diminution of inordinate space that one is used to. In your world, you get to take up extra space at little cost, but in ours, as perhaps in that of the denizens of Tokyo, or astronauts aboard the international space station, there is no extra space to be had.
Around this time was the Canal Plattsburgh #5 Lock stop, but more on this later, I hope, and our night camped next to Schrooner Lake – really deep – great fishing lake, one of the deepest and best in the state.
Essex County, among others, has a really neat Covid-era tradition starting where they hang oversize pics of this year’s high school graduates on the lightpoles through town, and their teenage faces are heartwarming, even tho it gets weird when the next county’s vets, from world-war one to Iraq, appear just as fresh-faced but much more dead.
Moving “kcab ni emit”, we messed about around the iconic Mt Greylock in western Massachusetts for most of the day, re-discovering a campsite I used on my thru-hike.
Earlier that day, hoping to catch up with some kinfolk, we went to Plymouth Rocks and met a bar owner across the street whose family had Mayflower roots. So let me get this straight, this is the story of America: Pilgrims landed here, moved across the street, and opened a bar. There’s a joke here somewhere.
Before that, we made an impromptu stop in Boston. Karyssa’s aunt lives near about, so we text her on the off chance she might be available. While we were waiting around, we saw the USS Constitution, the Boston Public Gardens, the Commons, and a little of the city scene. But, with neither one of us being a fan of crowds – especially with Covid – and the dogs growing hotter by the second, we called it a day. The visit of her aunt was much too short-lived. Hindsight continuously points out our inability – and perhaps our unwillingness – to plan out anything.
Now we’re on to Sunday, the 11th, in this time reversal, where we left Michelle and Frankie’s (spoiler alert) and found Karyssa’s younger brother Brendan and his girlfriend at University of Massachusetts in Lowell for a tour of his last four years here. It’s a really cute university town, complete with its own atomic reactor, a river walk and historical markers of the mill days. Brendan was a knowledgeable tour-guide.
The days prior were, as you may have deduced, spent at Michelle and Frankie’s place. The rest there is always a relief. And spending time with friends allows for a fulfillment of different sorts. Our love for them seems to only grow stronger each time and parting was bittersweet.
Finally, we are back to where we left you guys: The 8th of July and Karyssa’s perception of it.
Y’all. Let me tell you what. That day was frigging wildddd.
It started off with us waking up from a hotel stop in Conway (back for another go at the Whites!). On Molly’s suggestion, we decided on a hike that summits Chocorua Mountain.
Now, listen. I should give you background information. Anyone who has hiked with Nick knows that somewhere between translating what’s on the map and what comes out of his mouth is a significant decrease in mileage. If the map says 8 miles, Nick might say 2. If the map says 4 miles, Nick will probably say 2. I’ve not heard of a hike Nick wants us to do that’s more than 2 miles (a possible exaggeration, but you get the point).
We get to the trailhead and discussed the plan. It was a mile to the waterfalls, another mile to the summit, where we could stay the night in the shelter. Then depending on what condition the dogs’ condition was in, we’d either hike the 2 miles back down or hike along the ridgeline for another 2 miles and then the connector trail for an additional 2.
Nick was concerned about the weather, as it was forecast to pour. But I figured, what’s a little rain?
So, we packed our gear for the night and began our trek up the mountain. I should’ve known better when, half a mile into the hike, we reached a trail sign indicating that the connector trail to the ridgeline was 3.8 miles. I point this out to him, and he dismissed my concern. Really though, it shouldn’t have taken that sign to make me suspicious. I really should know better by now!
A mile and a half later, we reach the waterfalls. And they. were. GORGEOUS!!! They make my heart happy. There’s nothing quite like the sheer force of water hurdling at x gallons/sec into the water below it to really make you contemplate your place in the world and how easily you can be taken out of it. There seems to be a hint of anxiety that slithers along beside my state of awe. I’m here for it.
Anyway, Nick asks if we should continue with the next 2 miles to the summit. The idea to be angry left my thoughts as quickly as it entered. There would be not point in it. And we weren’t tired. We weren’t unprepared. We had food and plenty of water. There was no danger in this, so after a quick check-in with the pups, I settled on let’s do it! Yalla!
Nearly 2 miles later of climbing straight up boulder after boulder, we reach an outcrop and take in a spectacular view right before the fog sets in.
We take a minute to rest and consult our map. The shelter was right before the summit, so we figured we’d summit the next morning, and hopefully the fog would be gone by then.
Every few hundred feet it seemed, we reached signage that indicated this or that trail this or that way. But none of them marked which way the shelter was. We took the map out each time, trying to figure out which trail we ought to be taking. The map, however, was of the whole White Mountains Forest. So, it wasn’t detailed enough in its enormity to capture the multiple different trails there were to choose from. It wasn’t even detailed enough to know what trail the shelter was off of, as it seemed to be near all of them.
We did what we could and took a few guesses. At one point we made the summit of the mountain. Frida was not pleased, as the summit was jump after jump and slanted slab after slanted slab. So, I ended up carrying her much of the way. And then we found a sign for the shelter… 1.5 miles the way we had just came.
I was laughing my ass off. But Nick was beyond frustrated. He was, understandably, worried about the storm that was supposed to be rolling in any minute. When the comedy of the moment wore off, I realized he was right to be concerned because neither one of us knew where the shelter was, and I was already carrying Frida. There was no way she was going to make it all the way back down the 4-5 miles of trail.
His first goal was to get us off the ridgeline. And I had resigned myself to the fact that we would have to stealth camp for the night.
But, once we got off the rocks and onto softer ground, I put Frida down. And she took off after a chipmunk. She was full of energy. This whole time I thought she was exhausted. But she just was not having it with those rocks. A’ight. I see you, Frida. I see you.
I also realized at that moment that I was the weakest link here. I was the one that might not be able to make the 4 or so miles back down the mountain. So I was ever more hopeful to find that shelter. We stopped again at every trail sign, took out the map and studied it, and wondered where the frick (as Hannah would say) the dang shelter was.
We gave up, and, to my dismay, started our descent. Every half mile I looked to the dogs to see if they were worn out, hoping for an excuse to call it a night. But they were totally killing it. So I stuck with my pride and kept on.
After nearly 2 miles, so halfway down, I admitted to needing a break, like a real break… that lasted more than 2 minutes for water. We sat for a little, ate some of the food we’d been carrying, and chatted. I chuckled at the sight of this heavy glass bottle being pulled out of Nick’s pack as he poured himself a glass of scotch and cracked open a can of beer.
That’s when the sky got dark. Like, someone turned off the day dark. And soon after, the wind started picking up. For a moment, I missed my hair and the feeling of the wind blowing it in all sorts of irritating directions. And my heart started beating much quicker as a smile began to creep across my face. “It’s about to pour,” I sang.
“Maybe it’ll blow over,” Nick suggested, though it was obvious from his tone that he didn’t believe it would. It was almost as if he was just saying it as a fun thought to have announced.
We sat for another minute and marvelled at the energy of the weather. It was instantly cool and exciting. The only concern I had was how the dogs would respond to the thunder.
We packed our water, the dogs’ bowl, and Nick’s scotch cup. It began to sprinkle through the canopy. 100 feet later, I started taking pictures, trying to capture the mood. I failed. Sorry. 😆
I put my phone in one of our waterproof bags and asked Nick after his. It began to pour. I secured my pack’s rainbag. Lightning lit up the sky. The dogs stared up at me, looking for reassurance. The thunder became louder.
Visions of getting struck by lightning and of drowning in a flash flood flashed (ba-dum-tish) through my mind. “Okay. I gotchu,” I thought, though what I would’ve done in either scenario was lost on me.
The thunder clapped right above us, so loudly that I found myself covering my ears and watched as the dogs cowered under an uplifted tree root. I felt badly because, while I hadn’t been this thrilled for a minute – what with the adrenaline high I was getting – the dogs were absolutely terrified.
Their fear dissipated soon after though, as either my high rubbed off onto them or they became more comfortable in this new state. Probably the latter. It didn’t take long for Frida to get right back to chasing those chipmunks.
It poured on us for maybe a mile – a brisk mile – before it started to lighten up. It felt really amazing and almost relieving to be hiking in the rain.
It reminded me of running Cross Country in the rain with my teammates, and I smiled at the memory. Running in the rain has always been my favorite time to run. Something about it feels like freedom. Maybe it’s just because of the deviation from the norm or the wild, electric atmosphere. Or maybe it’s an adrenaline rush from all the things that could go wrong.
Either way, hiking in the rain was almost as liberating.
We ended our 8 or so mile hike soaked and exhausted, but completely elated. I couldn’t settle myself down.
I feel really lucky to have Nick in my life, who (though more grounded in the real world problems) can enjoy these mishaps and adventures with me. I mean, who would be down with living in Jordan for a year and then, “change of plans, let’s do vanlife until we can get to the Middle East?” And then “I dunno what we’re doing, but let’s just see what happens.” How many people are that willing to say, “Fuck it; let’s go.”