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I did not know it at the time, but my quick trip into the isolation of Allen Mountain would be the last jaunt of summer. How could I have foreseen the events that would lead to the gas price spike right before the Labor Day weekend? The plan for Labor Day was to finally get my unfortunate nephew, Jake, to the place we had been talking about for over a year now. I remember that I had done some pretty major work on Tracy’s car last autumn and the extra bucks she threw in ended up going for a nice pair of boots for the boy. When I gave them to him for his b-day in November, it was like sealing a compact. For some reason he digs hanging out with his uncle, and he is as laid back and easy going a relative any could ask for. After picking up even more stuff over the winter and spring, he had almost enough gear to get by with things I had extras on. Then he went camping with a friend over Memorial Day weekend, while Terri and I attempted the GRIAD. He ended up very fluish and weak. It was one of those cases where no one could figure out why he was lethargic and very post nasal.
Subsequently, many things he had planned for his fifteenth summer (I sure remember my fifteenth summer) went straight to hell. Besides three aborted trips we were hoping for, he also dehydrated and almost passed out at the Ozzfest, causing the need for him to make a call to be picked up. The horror of this was that he and a friend, who had on an Iron Maiden shirt (They were second bill), were upgraded to front row, which he had to pass on and let a third of their party partake in. His inclinations to music run akin to mine, and I know I would not have handled it well if I missed out on premium seating for the quintessential Goth rocker and Heavy Metalists.
The good news is that just before that weekend, the outlook started to look brighter, but a doctor’s appointment and caution made the decision to keep him home a wise one. That left me with reservations at the bunkroom at the Loj for two for two nights. Then gas was $2.69 on Thursday night, $3.09 Friday morning, and at some stations, $3.89 Friday night. This gave me pause, especially when you know gas is more expensive inside the blue line and I just couldn’t take the chance of the availability. So I cancelled my reservations (the donation to the Loj is worthwhile) and thankfully I was able to get in touch with Terri, who at the last moment, said she would join me for a day or two, and stop her before she drove too far from her house.
So that was Labor Day, and I guess I am supposed to be on my way to Allen in late August, so sorry for the digression.
It was an easy trip to Blue Mountain Lake, and I even grabbed a few zzzzz’s in the car. I figured a nice hike up to Castle Rock would do for the warm up. This is a very pleasant hike to a beautiful outlook. There is a choice of trails, and if you take the loop up and around to the northern approach, it is also a great doable hike for those who can only take so much. From the summit, the view over the far-reaching lake is splendorous. It might be the best view in the region. Little islands dot the expanse and many humans and fowl play upon the water on all but the worst of days. It was August 20th and the day started out with lots of clouds and bit of a chill, but the vista was still there. I had an extra layer to keep me comfy. I was fortunate to talk to a few nice people and one in particular, Janet, stands out in my mind. She runs a, what is the word, she heads the department at one of the schools, if I remember right, and they put on the summer shows at the Pendragon theater. She has the luxury of having half a life (winter, of course) in Philadelphia, then spending the ‘soft’ months in paradise. Now I feel obliged to see a play or two there next summer.
It was nice to have the slightly inclement weather early on. There are always linings somewhere, like having places to yourself, or sharing them with only a few, for a time. A little after noon the clouds parted a bit and the sun decided to show up for work for a spot or two. I knew had to enjoy this for all it was worth, and it was less then an hour later other hikers decided to come out of their shells and brave the ever improving climate. Once the summit rush was on, I took my leave and headed down toward the lake. I passed one group of international tourists that had to have at least eighteen in the party. They were making their way up slowly, but enjoying the woods and exploring the rock formations and caves along the way. I decided to take the split trail and go down to the lake proper. It was getting warmer and I had no place to take a shower this day, so after assessing the situation, I promptly shucked off my clothes and walked out into the rather tepid water. There is a nice bit of sandy area, but by the time one is submerged, a pair of water sandals would be a good idea to protect ones feet. I had to make sure I did not step on a turtle that was trying to burrow its way to safety. Wading around (I won’t call what I do swimming) was very pleasant, and doing so in the buff gave it a special little oomph. With the day becoming even more pleasant, I made my way back towards the car, checked out the pleasant little resort nearby on the lake, then made my way up to my Allen mountain staging area, Long Lake.
Finding a place at the parking lot and boat launching area on the east side of the lake, I made quite a nice lunch for myself, which included what I call my everyday salad. I made a big bowl on Friday, and brought along extra to reward myself with. This salad has little or usually no lettuce, but a good base of green beans and peppers with lots of tomatoes and cucumbers for slop and some cheese and pepperoni amongst others ingredients to create a salad that seldom needs a dressing once it is well seasoned. I watched kayaks, canoes, powerboats, fishing boats, and even a seaplane caress the inviting waters. One young lucky, or should I say accomplished fisherman, caught a very pretty northern pike that was well more than two feet in length. I was impressed. It was still early, somewhere around three, and there was one more place I wanted to go, a nice little spot I have wanted to return to since stopping there with Tracy on the way home one Sunday a few years back. If you drive a mile or two towards Newcomb, you can take a left and park a bit up the road near a trailhead that leads just over a mile to a few very nice lean-tos right on the lake. This is also part of the Northville-Placid trail. I brought my headphones and a sandwich and set out to play upon the rocks that line the shores of Long Lake. If you sit on the summit of Emmons, you have a great view right down the gullet of the lake. Vise-versa, the area right on the main road through town has a great view of the Seward range. From where I was, no mountains were visible, but the views were no less splendid.
I was just ahead of a group that was debarking a bus that had come from the Burlington area. They ended up taking almost five hours for a trip that should be no more than two hours. It was said that the driver not only did not know where he was going, but was not the most pleasant of men. These sturdy youngsters were off on a six-day trip up the NP trail and had thought they would be able to get farther then the first lean-to on the route. And so it goes.
It should be said, and if you ever hiked with me or read not only these journal entries, but the complete ‘Down is out’ dissertation chronicling most of my first trips to the Dacks and all of my accounts of my thirty-seven first summits of High Peaks, you would know that for some reason, electronic equipment, and their accessories, are not always safe when I am anywhere in the vicinity of any body of water bigger than a small puddle or a rill. So I have little to say as to why I was sitting on a rock right at the waters edge and attempting to flip the tape with little or no concentration. All I know is this. My hand fell to my side, I opened the player, and then all hell broke loose. In one swift motion the tape went flying one way and the player left its post at my hip and found its way into about two inches of water. I retrieved it as fast as I could, but the damage was done. The stinky thing is that it was a waterproof tape player, but I guess that only applies to the times the player is closed and secured. I had hope though, it might not play now, but as long as you feed these things water, and not say, orange juice, there is always a chance a quick retrieval and a thorough drying out can occasionally do the trick.
I chastised myself, slapped myself on the hand, and continued to enjoy the beautiful summer afternoon. I meandered a bit, checked out all the lean-tos and side trails, engaged in a conversation with a father and son who were enjoying one last outing before the son returned to college. During the conversation, the dad, I forget names often, told of how sometimes his employer lets him entertain customers. In doing this, it means he must miss work for a few days and guide out-of-towners up and down water routes in a canoe to find the best fishing spots. Must be tough.
With hopes of reconciliation with my tape player, I called the day a success and headed back to my car, just as dusk was overtaking day. I made my way to Upper Works, where I would sleep in the back seat and be on the trail as early as could be. I ate and started gathering and stuffing my pack. I even had a moment when a tape played for a full minute, I had reason to believe! Then came a whammy. I could not for the life of me, find my bite for the camelback I cobbled together for my pack. This was not good. After about twenty minutes I was definitely flustered. I could imagine freezing cold water pouring down my neck and back every time I stooped over on the trail. How often would that happen? I ended up using part of a baggie and a small hair tie to cap the hose, but now I had limited access. At this time I straightened everything up, got everything I would need for breakfast together, and settled in for as fair a night’s sleep I could hope for. I kept the windows cracked just a bit, but the mountains had other ideas. During the night the rain came, and came, and grew stronger. I had to dig out the keys in order to close all the windows and keep from getting pinged with ricocheting water pellets. The earplugs kept the thunder to a minimum and I slept well enough.
Morning was wet. Gone was the day before and pleasant weather. With supplies either in hand or on my back, I was off at twenty of seven the next morn. (The outhouses the DEC provides at many popular trailheads are extremely appreciated). I listened to the sounds of the overcast morning as I took account of everything during the first mile or so. The only thing I forgot to do the night before was keeping the player open to promote drying, but it did work when I checked it quickly when I awoke. I had just passed the Mt. Adams turn off and the hike was now in full go mode. I knew that with all the brush, I was going to get wet. That was all right. I had fifteen hours of good stories on tape to keep my company. After I pressed play for the first time, it started off well enough for about five minutes.
It went down hill from there.
After ten minutes I was frustrated, knowing it was down, probably for the day, and I had the player on my hip, with five or six extra tapes in my pack, plus the spare batteries all adding extra weight to this middle of nowhere hike and I was too far from home to leave it behind. Then it started to rain, remoistening the plant life that was just beginning to dry out a bit. Frustration turned to annoyance. It took a bit, but I came to the resolution that I always find helpful to remember. These mountains may love me, but they cannot prevent me from doing stupid things. A few ohhhhhms and submergence into fond Dack memories restored my hopes of better things ahead. That is when I heard a faint buzzing and before I knew it there was a fire spreading up my right arm from a sting injected into me by something I never saw. No trace, except for the burgeoning swell at the edge of Johnny’s band. I was now very not happy. To anyone who was in the area about eight in the a.m. on august twenty-first, that was not a bear attacking a human, that was me venting with a primal scream to try and expel the evil that was infesting my soul at that time. The only thing to do was coral the rage and head off with a mission on a forced march to Skylight Brook with no stops for water.
Three hours into the hike, I sat on a rock next to that beautiful river and finally partook in the water ritual, now just over a mile and a half from the summit. A very long, steep, slippery; and slipperier for the wet day, mile and a half to the summit. To say I was wet at this time would be a comparatively insignificant statement. The constant brush that occurred at points when not on the main logging roads had transformed this creature who is mostly comprised of water into something that would be more akin to a prune. It was too warm to wear the tsunami, and the long sleeve poly I had on was saturated. I was hot, but my pant leg bottoms stayed on, a sign that I still was in some control of my better sense. By this time my forearm had a swelling that was very noticeable, being over three inches in diameter.
It was not long after I resumed the trek before you could hear Allen brook as it make sits way to the confluence with Skylight Brook and soon after to the Opalescent as it joins the mighty waterway that helped build this country. On most trails you learn to never trust a fallen tree trunk when it is wet (rule #4) and you know to avoid any moss when on a slope. But this was my first experience with the massive amount of red moss that is prevalent on this rock. While the esthetics of this trail is very pleasing, even the most nimble of us can take a bad turn no matter how vibrammated we might be. The trail for the first times takes a real upward pace and you finally get to chew up some gain. Since I was a walking sponge and there was no view, in fact it had started to rain a bit harder, I finally put on my gore-tex jacket and bee-lined straight to the top. There were many pretty cascades and waterfalls that I enjoyed on the descent, but now I just wanted to take off every article of clothing I had on.
It took just over four hours from car to summit and the actual topping was anti-climatic. A nice little sign, almost total grayness, and three traces of some type of paths leading down from the summit it three more or less equally spaced directions. I knew there was no view to be had, so it was senseless to try and follow any side routes. My biggest disappointment was finding not a single rock large enough to step on, let alone sit on. The ground was just that, ground, with all the mud and twigs that came with it. I planted my pole in the earth, unzipped my jacket and hoped that I would find enough space to try and get comfy. I knew balance would come in here. It was a wet and somewhat irritating day and I cannot say I was happy, but I was on a mountaintop, and that implies certain emotions no matter what the conditions.
After I laid my jacket over my pole, I grabbed at the bottom of my shirt to start shucking. The moment my shirt was abandoning my body, the first hint of sun, say only one good cloud cover away, fell upon me. In just a minute or two you could start to see the moisture as it began sweeping up the southwest side of the mount and racing away. A smile started upon my face. A had one extra long sleeve poly that was pretty dry, and after getting down too the bare facts and having a pretty good idea that no one else would be coming today, at least not for some time, I wrung out my stuff and I laid my clothes on some branches in the ever increasing brightness. I used the shirt I wore as a cushion and sat on the small log with nothing on but one shirt and a smile. I was surely going to have this fella all to myself today. It is funny how one good meal, some dry comfortable clothes and a feeling of a job done as well as could have hoped for can wash the residual grumpiness away pretty quickly. Things were looking up.
Keeping my balance on the log while maintaining some comfort was a challenge. The sole upright tree there served as well as could be hoped as back support. Since my socks were drying out a bit, and somehow the extra pair I always carry in my bag were transported out of my bag by some evil alien, keeping my feet from getting all yucked up was priority one. Thankfully the mushy odor eaters now were on their last mission, serving as a barrier between my feet lots of muck. I arrived about eleven. I planned to stay until threeish, so at one-twenty or so I started to put myself back together. The massive squishiness was now down to the dull roar of semi-soaked. I spent the next hour and a half visiting the three lookouts and admiring the slightly similar yet wholly different vistas. I think I liked the visage which showed Gothics and all its mass as it stretches from Armstrong over the summit then one arm over towards Marcy while the other arm extends over Pyramid and on towards Sawteeth. I really do love that mountain. Allen has such a unique view since you are just beyond the southern edge of the highest of the high peaks. After giving each viewpoint about a half hour each, it was closing in on three, and I wanted to be back before seven was well passed. I needed to eat and wash, then drive all the way home.
It had gotten to the point where I can say that I had a fair amount of sunshine for the last hour, and after packing up I grabbed a final memory and headed off just a few minutes after three. With not having to feel uncomfy, the trip down was a treat. The many waterfalls and cascades were well appreciated. Now and then the trees would open up and some pleasant views were to be had. The foliage had dried quite a bit, and there was a spring in my step. Only once did I slip on the ever so slippery moss and have to rely on some quick reflexes to save my butt from being sore and wet. It took as long to get down to Skylight Brook as it did to get from the teeming waterway to the summit. This is the only real threat on the long journey home and I was not going to give Miss Fortune any aid. Once again I took a brief break and enjoyed the roar of the river. Here I could cross this wonderful yet still budding body of water by hopping over a few rocks with little care in total isolation, while way downstream this waterway helps move a nation and carries the goods and people of our largest city as it makes its way past the blue line and beyond Albany and even further until it caresses the west bank of Manhattan and drifts towards the Statue Of Liberty and then passes between Brooklyn and Staten Island under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and into the Atlantic. All that starts right around here.
I found the forest very pleasant to walk through on the return trip. It seemed a little more open then some of the thickets you usually find. I even felt that extra gain you accumulated with the bump was not as harsh as it seemed when I was losing all that altitude while I had an attitude and was watching my arm swell earlier. My arm still had a swell, but it was easing a bit by now. What the heck was that thing that bit me anyway? I finished the middle stretch and felt I was making good time when I hit the large open space where you come upon the road. Roads can be very bland, but after a long day when you still have miles to go, we complain weakly. I tried a new game. How many berries can you pick without having to stop or slow down much. Timing is everything. I would stop for a minute at times and fill my paws when I found a few of the passed peak plants that still had numerous pickings that looked ripe.
Without the headphones the last few miles did drag. My body was reminding me of the wear and tear it was taking, and that it had not slept in a bed for two nights. I took a few minutes of sit time when I knew I was getting close, but was I just over a mile away, or was it more like a full two. It was six-forty, and I had been on the go for twelve hours plus, and I felt a few minutes were due. No more then ten minutes later I started off and in a very few paces I saw the first hiker of the day coming towards me, at almost seven at night on the Hanging Spear Falls trail. Two poles in hand. No backpack. Now, there is no place to go if you are here. None that I know of. Just to there, which is far away, or over there and that is even farther. Or back to your car. Maybe I had hiked a bit too far and was hallucinating. I just stopped and let her approach. She was an older woman, and I was relieved when I learned she was just out on a bit of a scouting mission. She had mistaken the Calamity Brook Trail to the Flowed Lands for this one. I helped her with some friendly info, glad to see she was not attempting something crazy with only the two small water bottles she had at her sides. I inquired about the Mt. Adams trail sign; it was a minute away. With a quickened step, I was almost home.
The last part of the trip from the Hudson to the road is less then one hundred strides (counting left-right as a stride). I counted. I like to count at times, and on semi-level ground I can gauge a mile pretty close to the bulls-eye. I grabbed a gallon jug and my washcloth, slipped on my sandals and just a pair of loose shorts, along with some soap and headed towards the shallow river. Half way down there was a little open area, so I dropped the soap and towel before continuing on to the water and dousing myself.
After a good scrubbing I filled the gallon jug and headed back to the soap so could wash my hair and body and not have to drive home feeling massively yucky. I just wish the jug had a spout on it to direct the rinsing effort. But a little soapy is better then very sweaty and dirty.
As I was eating the woman returned and parted, leaving me as the only person left in the lot. I straightened everything that I could, getting set for the journey home. Finish the soup on the way to Stewarts. Gas and ice cream at Stewarts. Home. It was a five-hour drive from Long Lake. I started the car and did not stop until I was backing up into my driveway. I unloaded, parked, and lumbered in. That transmission never worked again. My Lucky Day.
Subsequently, many things he had planned for his fifteenth summer (I sure remember my fifteenth summer) went straight to hell. Besides three aborted trips we were hoping for, he also dehydrated and almost passed out at the Ozzfest, causing the need for him to make a call to be picked up. The horror of this was that he and a friend, who had on an Iron Maiden shirt (They were second bill), were upgraded to front row, which he had to pass on and let a third of their party partake in. His inclinations to music run akin to mine, and I know I would not have handled it well if I missed out on premium seating for the quintessential Goth rocker and Heavy Metalists.
The good news is that just before that weekend, the outlook started to look brighter, but a doctor’s appointment and caution made the decision to keep him home a wise one. That left me with reservations at the bunkroom at the Loj for two for two nights. Then gas was $2.69 on Thursday night, $3.09 Friday morning, and at some stations, $3.89 Friday night. This gave me pause, especially when you know gas is more expensive inside the blue line and I just couldn’t take the chance of the availability. So I cancelled my reservations (the donation to the Loj is worthwhile) and thankfully I was able to get in touch with Terri, who at the last moment, said she would join me for a day or two, and stop her before she drove too far from her house.
So that was Labor Day, and I guess I am supposed to be on my way to Allen in late August, so sorry for the digression.
It was an easy trip to Blue Mountain Lake, and I even grabbed a few zzzzz’s in the car. I figured a nice hike up to Castle Rock would do for the warm up. This is a very pleasant hike to a beautiful outlook. There is a choice of trails, and if you take the loop up and around to the northern approach, it is also a great doable hike for those who can only take so much. From the summit, the view over the far-reaching lake is splendorous. It might be the best view in the region. Little islands dot the expanse and many humans and fowl play upon the water on all but the worst of days. It was August 20th and the day started out with lots of clouds and bit of a chill, but the vista was still there. I had an extra layer to keep me comfy. I was fortunate to talk to a few nice people and one in particular, Janet, stands out in my mind. She runs a, what is the word, she heads the department at one of the schools, if I remember right, and they put on the summer shows at the Pendragon theater. She has the luxury of having half a life (winter, of course) in Philadelphia, then spending the ‘soft’ months in paradise. Now I feel obliged to see a play or two there next summer.
It was nice to have the slightly inclement weather early on. There are always linings somewhere, like having places to yourself, or sharing them with only a few, for a time. A little after noon the clouds parted a bit and the sun decided to show up for work for a spot or two. I knew had to enjoy this for all it was worth, and it was less then an hour later other hikers decided to come out of their shells and brave the ever improving climate. Once the summit rush was on, I took my leave and headed down toward the lake. I passed one group of international tourists that had to have at least eighteen in the party. They were making their way up slowly, but enjoying the woods and exploring the rock formations and caves along the way. I decided to take the split trail and go down to the lake proper. It was getting warmer and I had no place to take a shower this day, so after assessing the situation, I promptly shucked off my clothes and walked out into the rather tepid water. There is a nice bit of sandy area, but by the time one is submerged, a pair of water sandals would be a good idea to protect ones feet. I had to make sure I did not step on a turtle that was trying to burrow its way to safety. Wading around (I won’t call what I do swimming) was very pleasant, and doing so in the buff gave it a special little oomph. With the day becoming even more pleasant, I made my way back towards the car, checked out the pleasant little resort nearby on the lake, then made my way up to my Allen mountain staging area, Long Lake.
Finding a place at the parking lot and boat launching area on the east side of the lake, I made quite a nice lunch for myself, which included what I call my everyday salad. I made a big bowl on Friday, and brought along extra to reward myself with. This salad has little or usually no lettuce, but a good base of green beans and peppers with lots of tomatoes and cucumbers for slop and some cheese and pepperoni amongst others ingredients to create a salad that seldom needs a dressing once it is well seasoned. I watched kayaks, canoes, powerboats, fishing boats, and even a seaplane caress the inviting waters. One young lucky, or should I say accomplished fisherman, caught a very pretty northern pike that was well more than two feet in length. I was impressed. It was still early, somewhere around three, and there was one more place I wanted to go, a nice little spot I have wanted to return to since stopping there with Tracy on the way home one Sunday a few years back. If you drive a mile or two towards Newcomb, you can take a left and park a bit up the road near a trailhead that leads just over a mile to a few very nice lean-tos right on the lake. This is also part of the Northville-Placid trail. I brought my headphones and a sandwich and set out to play upon the rocks that line the shores of Long Lake. If you sit on the summit of Emmons, you have a great view right down the gullet of the lake. Vise-versa, the area right on the main road through town has a great view of the Seward range. From where I was, no mountains were visible, but the views were no less splendid.
I was just ahead of a group that was debarking a bus that had come from the Burlington area. They ended up taking almost five hours for a trip that should be no more than two hours. It was said that the driver not only did not know where he was going, but was not the most pleasant of men. These sturdy youngsters were off on a six-day trip up the NP trail and had thought they would be able to get farther then the first lean-to on the route. And so it goes.
It should be said, and if you ever hiked with me or read not only these journal entries, but the complete ‘Down is out’ dissertation chronicling most of my first trips to the Dacks and all of my accounts of my thirty-seven first summits of High Peaks, you would know that for some reason, electronic equipment, and their accessories, are not always safe when I am anywhere in the vicinity of any body of water bigger than a small puddle or a rill. So I have little to say as to why I was sitting on a rock right at the waters edge and attempting to flip the tape with little or no concentration. All I know is this. My hand fell to my side, I opened the player, and then all hell broke loose. In one swift motion the tape went flying one way and the player left its post at my hip and found its way into about two inches of water. I retrieved it as fast as I could, but the damage was done. The stinky thing is that it was a waterproof tape player, but I guess that only applies to the times the player is closed and secured. I had hope though, it might not play now, but as long as you feed these things water, and not say, orange juice, there is always a chance a quick retrieval and a thorough drying out can occasionally do the trick.
I chastised myself, slapped myself on the hand, and continued to enjoy the beautiful summer afternoon. I meandered a bit, checked out all the lean-tos and side trails, engaged in a conversation with a father and son who were enjoying one last outing before the son returned to college. During the conversation, the dad, I forget names often, told of how sometimes his employer lets him entertain customers. In doing this, it means he must miss work for a few days and guide out-of-towners up and down water routes in a canoe to find the best fishing spots. Must be tough.
With hopes of reconciliation with my tape player, I called the day a success and headed back to my car, just as dusk was overtaking day. I made my way to Upper Works, where I would sleep in the back seat and be on the trail as early as could be. I ate and started gathering and stuffing my pack. I even had a moment when a tape played for a full minute, I had reason to believe! Then came a whammy. I could not for the life of me, find my bite for the camelback I cobbled together for my pack. This was not good. After about twenty minutes I was definitely flustered. I could imagine freezing cold water pouring down my neck and back every time I stooped over on the trail. How often would that happen? I ended up using part of a baggie and a small hair tie to cap the hose, but now I had limited access. At this time I straightened everything up, got everything I would need for breakfast together, and settled in for as fair a night’s sleep I could hope for. I kept the windows cracked just a bit, but the mountains had other ideas. During the night the rain came, and came, and grew stronger. I had to dig out the keys in order to close all the windows and keep from getting pinged with ricocheting water pellets. The earplugs kept the thunder to a minimum and I slept well enough.
Morning was wet. Gone was the day before and pleasant weather. With supplies either in hand or on my back, I was off at twenty of seven the next morn. (The outhouses the DEC provides at many popular trailheads are extremely appreciated). I listened to the sounds of the overcast morning as I took account of everything during the first mile or so. The only thing I forgot to do the night before was keeping the player open to promote drying, but it did work when I checked it quickly when I awoke. I had just passed the Mt. Adams turn off and the hike was now in full go mode. I knew that with all the brush, I was going to get wet. That was all right. I had fifteen hours of good stories on tape to keep my company. After I pressed play for the first time, it started off well enough for about five minutes.
It went down hill from there.
After ten minutes I was frustrated, knowing it was down, probably for the day, and I had the player on my hip, with five or six extra tapes in my pack, plus the spare batteries all adding extra weight to this middle of nowhere hike and I was too far from home to leave it behind. Then it started to rain, remoistening the plant life that was just beginning to dry out a bit. Frustration turned to annoyance. It took a bit, but I came to the resolution that I always find helpful to remember. These mountains may love me, but they cannot prevent me from doing stupid things. A few ohhhhhms and submergence into fond Dack memories restored my hopes of better things ahead. That is when I heard a faint buzzing and before I knew it there was a fire spreading up my right arm from a sting injected into me by something I never saw. No trace, except for the burgeoning swell at the edge of Johnny’s band. I was now very not happy. To anyone who was in the area about eight in the a.m. on august twenty-first, that was not a bear attacking a human, that was me venting with a primal scream to try and expel the evil that was infesting my soul at that time. The only thing to do was coral the rage and head off with a mission on a forced march to Skylight Brook with no stops for water.
Three hours into the hike, I sat on a rock next to that beautiful river and finally partook in the water ritual, now just over a mile and a half from the summit. A very long, steep, slippery; and slipperier for the wet day, mile and a half to the summit. To say I was wet at this time would be a comparatively insignificant statement. The constant brush that occurred at points when not on the main logging roads had transformed this creature who is mostly comprised of water into something that would be more akin to a prune. It was too warm to wear the tsunami, and the long sleeve poly I had on was saturated. I was hot, but my pant leg bottoms stayed on, a sign that I still was in some control of my better sense. By this time my forearm had a swelling that was very noticeable, being over three inches in diameter.
It was not long after I resumed the trek before you could hear Allen brook as it make sits way to the confluence with Skylight Brook and soon after to the Opalescent as it joins the mighty waterway that helped build this country. On most trails you learn to never trust a fallen tree trunk when it is wet (rule #4) and you know to avoid any moss when on a slope. But this was my first experience with the massive amount of red moss that is prevalent on this rock. While the esthetics of this trail is very pleasing, even the most nimble of us can take a bad turn no matter how vibrammated we might be. The trail for the first times takes a real upward pace and you finally get to chew up some gain. Since I was a walking sponge and there was no view, in fact it had started to rain a bit harder, I finally put on my gore-tex jacket and bee-lined straight to the top. There were many pretty cascades and waterfalls that I enjoyed on the descent, but now I just wanted to take off every article of clothing I had on.
It took just over four hours from car to summit and the actual topping was anti-climatic. A nice little sign, almost total grayness, and three traces of some type of paths leading down from the summit it three more or less equally spaced directions. I knew there was no view to be had, so it was senseless to try and follow any side routes. My biggest disappointment was finding not a single rock large enough to step on, let alone sit on. The ground was just that, ground, with all the mud and twigs that came with it. I planted my pole in the earth, unzipped my jacket and hoped that I would find enough space to try and get comfy. I knew balance would come in here. It was a wet and somewhat irritating day and I cannot say I was happy, but I was on a mountaintop, and that implies certain emotions no matter what the conditions.
After I laid my jacket over my pole, I grabbed at the bottom of my shirt to start shucking. The moment my shirt was abandoning my body, the first hint of sun, say only one good cloud cover away, fell upon me. In just a minute or two you could start to see the moisture as it began sweeping up the southwest side of the mount and racing away. A smile started upon my face. A had one extra long sleeve poly that was pretty dry, and after getting down too the bare facts and having a pretty good idea that no one else would be coming today, at least not for some time, I wrung out my stuff and I laid my clothes on some branches in the ever increasing brightness. I used the shirt I wore as a cushion and sat on the small log with nothing on but one shirt and a smile. I was surely going to have this fella all to myself today. It is funny how one good meal, some dry comfortable clothes and a feeling of a job done as well as could have hoped for can wash the residual grumpiness away pretty quickly. Things were looking up.
Keeping my balance on the log while maintaining some comfort was a challenge. The sole upright tree there served as well as could be hoped as back support. Since my socks were drying out a bit, and somehow the extra pair I always carry in my bag were transported out of my bag by some evil alien, keeping my feet from getting all yucked up was priority one. Thankfully the mushy odor eaters now were on their last mission, serving as a barrier between my feet lots of muck. I arrived about eleven. I planned to stay until threeish, so at one-twenty or so I started to put myself back together. The massive squishiness was now down to the dull roar of semi-soaked. I spent the next hour and a half visiting the three lookouts and admiring the slightly similar yet wholly different vistas. I think I liked the visage which showed Gothics and all its mass as it stretches from Armstrong over the summit then one arm over towards Marcy while the other arm extends over Pyramid and on towards Sawteeth. I really do love that mountain. Allen has such a unique view since you are just beyond the southern edge of the highest of the high peaks. After giving each viewpoint about a half hour each, it was closing in on three, and I wanted to be back before seven was well passed. I needed to eat and wash, then drive all the way home.
It had gotten to the point where I can say that I had a fair amount of sunshine for the last hour, and after packing up I grabbed a final memory and headed off just a few minutes after three. With not having to feel uncomfy, the trip down was a treat. The many waterfalls and cascades were well appreciated. Now and then the trees would open up and some pleasant views were to be had. The foliage had dried quite a bit, and there was a spring in my step. Only once did I slip on the ever so slippery moss and have to rely on some quick reflexes to save my butt from being sore and wet. It took as long to get down to Skylight Brook as it did to get from the teeming waterway to the summit. This is the only real threat on the long journey home and I was not going to give Miss Fortune any aid. Once again I took a brief break and enjoyed the roar of the river. Here I could cross this wonderful yet still budding body of water by hopping over a few rocks with little care in total isolation, while way downstream this waterway helps move a nation and carries the goods and people of our largest city as it makes its way past the blue line and beyond Albany and even further until it caresses the west bank of Manhattan and drifts towards the Statue Of Liberty and then passes between Brooklyn and Staten Island under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and into the Atlantic. All that starts right around here.
I found the forest very pleasant to walk through on the return trip. It seemed a little more open then some of the thickets you usually find. I even felt that extra gain you accumulated with the bump was not as harsh as it seemed when I was losing all that altitude while I had an attitude and was watching my arm swell earlier. My arm still had a swell, but it was easing a bit by now. What the heck was that thing that bit me anyway? I finished the middle stretch and felt I was making good time when I hit the large open space where you come upon the road. Roads can be very bland, but after a long day when you still have miles to go, we complain weakly. I tried a new game. How many berries can you pick without having to stop or slow down much. Timing is everything. I would stop for a minute at times and fill my paws when I found a few of the passed peak plants that still had numerous pickings that looked ripe.
Without the headphones the last few miles did drag. My body was reminding me of the wear and tear it was taking, and that it had not slept in a bed for two nights. I took a few minutes of sit time when I knew I was getting close, but was I just over a mile away, or was it more like a full two. It was six-forty, and I had been on the go for twelve hours plus, and I felt a few minutes were due. No more then ten minutes later I started off and in a very few paces I saw the first hiker of the day coming towards me, at almost seven at night on the Hanging Spear Falls trail. Two poles in hand. No backpack. Now, there is no place to go if you are here. None that I know of. Just to there, which is far away, or over there and that is even farther. Or back to your car. Maybe I had hiked a bit too far and was hallucinating. I just stopped and let her approach. She was an older woman, and I was relieved when I learned she was just out on a bit of a scouting mission. She had mistaken the Calamity Brook Trail to the Flowed Lands for this one. I helped her with some friendly info, glad to see she was not attempting something crazy with only the two small water bottles she had at her sides. I inquired about the Mt. Adams trail sign; it was a minute away. With a quickened step, I was almost home.
The last part of the trip from the Hudson to the road is less then one hundred strides (counting left-right as a stride). I counted. I like to count at times, and on semi-level ground I can gauge a mile pretty close to the bulls-eye. I grabbed a gallon jug and my washcloth, slipped on my sandals and just a pair of loose shorts, along with some soap and headed towards the shallow river. Half way down there was a little open area, so I dropped the soap and towel before continuing on to the water and dousing myself.
After a good scrubbing I filled the gallon jug and headed back to the soap so could wash my hair and body and not have to drive home feeling massively yucky. I just wish the jug had a spout on it to direct the rinsing effort. But a little soapy is better then very sweaty and dirty.
As I was eating the woman returned and parted, leaving me as the only person left in the lot. I straightened everything that I could, getting set for the journey home. Finish the soup on the way to Stewarts. Gas and ice cream at Stewarts. Home. It was a five-hour drive from Long Lake. I started the car and did not stop until I was backing up into my driveway. I unloaded, parked, and lumbered in. That transmission never worked again. My Lucky Day.