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I don’t post trip reports frequently, other than those pertaining to quite obscure targets that I hit up now and then in my quest to attain the highest ~460 ADK peaks. More frequently, my hikes are detailed by my partner-in-crime, NickUSA. This particular trip, however, was to be a solo expedition.
I’ve been hiking in the ADK (and other) mountains for 32 years now. I try to learn lessons from my failures, generally navigate quite well, plan quite diligently, and always try my utmost to come prepared for most any (reasonable) contingency that could be encountered. This trip has helped me to re-affirm many of my practices, and my post-mortem analysis has suggested to me a number of additional points that I wanted to share with others who may consider for themselves if they’d qualify as best practices for their own adventures. Furthermore, some of my scouting may prove helpful to others who may have similar(ly absurd) hiking goals in mind.
The day was Thursday – June 26th – and I was up and at my computer at 4 AM. I had shifted my work hours as I do a few select days per year to allow me to exit work early and head off for a half-day ADK adventure. I had watched as the weather forecast had steadily improved over the past week, culminating in a quite reasonable 10-30% chance of showers for a brief, mid-day period and a second brief, mid-afternoon period. I had rain gear, so worst case I’d be ready.
At 11:30 AM, I ended my work day and hopped into the car. After the obligatory Stewart’s stop, I arrived at my destination at 1:35 PM: The Vanderwhacker trailhead. It had been several years since I’d been on this trail; I feel that the road in has been improved, but perhaps my memory has simply faded. Regardless, the new bridge is an excellent-looking structure. God-willing, it will serve many eager (on the way in) and either heartened or disheartened (on the way out) adventurers. My drive up was generally uneventful, although it had lightly rained for a good portion of the drive.
My goal for the day was not the namesake peak but rather the completely obscure destination of Beaver Mtn, WSW of Moose Pond. The private hunting club – whose contact information I’d never been able to find despite periodic searching therefore over the years – owns a sizable portion of land to the S of Vanderwhacker. As such, my assumed approach had necessarily been one of taking the trail towards the namesake peak for ~1.2 miles, then to turn hard left and more-or-less parallel the private property line over the next ~2.8 miles. (Apparently, I’ve become so accustomed to bushwhacking that the idea of a ~5.6 mile bushwhack as a ‘half-day’ outing doesn’t instinctively cause me to question my own sanity…?!?!) I had set a strict turnaround time of 4:00 PM at the summit. That meant I needed to hike fairly aggressively, but I nonetheless considered this an attainable goal.
Once I turned off of Rt. 28, I saw no evidence of other human activities excepting a large tarp just past the new bridge – perhaps some campers, I suggested to myself. After parking the car at the trailhead turnaround I exited and donned my equipment. It was eerily quiet except for the gentle patter of light raindrops. The forecast had seemed true to this point, so I set off down the trail in my normal getup sans rain gear. I signed in at the register and noted that the last signee was 4 days prior. That seemed odd to me, but the multitudinous spiderwebs that I unwittingly cleaned from across the trail seemed to confirm what the register suggested: no one had recently hiked the main target [and no one else was apparently stupid enough to attempt Beaver Mtn]. The latter shouldn’t surprise me; I surmised that there would be no more than an average of 1-2 people per year who would enjoin such a foolish group of adventurers who would choose to aim for the pain and suffering to of a >5 mile bushwhack to attain a peak with no view, especially when a proximal and higher peak with a nice trail, a marvelous view, and a shorter hike was available. Why? Because it’s there…that’s why. And if you don’t understand that logic, then you’re not the type of person who would aim for Beaver Mtn.
I made good time to the start of the bushwhack. In my previous pair of climbs up Vanderwhacker, I’d kept a watchful eye for signs of the snowmobile trail but had never been able to locate such. The same was true once again here so the fates made clear to me that this was going to be a bushwhack from the get-go. As I approached my turnoff, the rain had steadily intensified. It was now coming down quite consistently and did so until 6 PM when I finally arrived at the car that evening. My estimate was that it rained 0.75-1.25 inches during my hike; not a downpour, but well beyond the forecasted quantity, and more than adequate to ensure a thorough soaking of all things.
After accepting the inevitability of the weather conditions and briefly flirting with the idea of calling it off, I “manned up”, donned my rain gear, then dove into the fray. I had no idea what awaited me.
The first natural milestone was the swampy area ~0.5 miles to the SW. Apparently, I managed to choose a path which involved ~0.5 miles of waste-deep cripplebush because it didn’t let up until I arrived at said area. While I was driven largely by the “it’s slightly less thick over there” mentality, it never really lessened up. At the swampy area, it was 25 minutes in and I was largely soaked already. My boots had already both made the acquaintance of several ADK-famous, boot-soaking mud holes, and I several times again contemplated admitting defeat but re-assured myself that the worst was behind me, which it seemingly was.
After crossing the drainage, I continued on a SW trajectory as I “asymptoted” towards the property boundary. If one looks at CalTopo and/or OpenStreetMap, they may notice a number of road or trail-like indicators around this SW/NE public/private property line. The first one that I came to was the one showing a hairpin turn some 2000’ due N of the center of Moose Pond. This road does not extend as far NE into the valley as the map would suggest but rather a few hundred feet beyond the hairpin turn. It clearly extends into the public property by a minor amount and is periodically driven upon. There is a trail cam mounted in the grassy knoll right at the turn. Assuming the Essex County tax maps and online mapping sources are accurate, then the club likely extends their leisure activities a bit beyond their boundaries so there is some minor encroachment there – but hardly a hell-worthy sin and not worth any fuss. There are no private property markers anywhere along this SW/NE border that I encountered.
There is a second, 0.3 mile-long segment of road shown on the map which perhaps crosses the border closer to the end. I also found this road, although it was largely grown back in but still followable. After some while (still no posted signage, no signs of structures or improvements, and no persons) it conjoined the more frequently used dirt road which, if followed further to the E would roughly parallel the N side of Moose Pond, but here heads W and arcs around a slight hill, then ultimately meets Moose Pond Brook where a sharp, 90-degree turn takes place then allows stream crossing via a unusual wooden bridge. I'm quite confident that most of the arc of that road would be on private land and so isn't fair game. I do again think that the little "bridge" is probably on state land according to the maps but who am I to put up a fuss? If it is on state land, it's only barely so. I recall thinking that to cross that bridge and the subsequent 200’ of grassland must take a vehicle with tremendously high clearance. After a brief climb to a slight plateau 0.2 miles after the stream crossing, the road turns left and clearly enters the private property; I assume it would circle around and return to the pond..? Just prior to this turn to the S, I noted a flagged (pink-colored ribbons) pathway which clearly receives periodic maintenance. Thinking that perhaps this was perhaps a secret pathway to climb Beaver Mtn or perhaps to ascend to a nice hunting area, I greedily accepted the beckoning invitation to follow it. The ribbons headed to the NE for a few hundred feet then turned to the N and went downhill. So much for that! I took a waypoint then again jumped into the fray. Incredibly, I still had ~1.0 linear miles to bushwhack and I was slowly closing in on my turnaround time. (Folks, ALWAYS have a turnaround time selected and respect it.)
I began ascending the E/W ridge which – if followed to its conclusion – would have lofted me up to the ridge which connects NNW to Little Beaver. The forest was hardly scratchy but it was much thicker than I wanted. I found a somewhat easier time by turning further to the SW and crossing the main drainage. Once on the Beaver Mtn side of the drainage, things were a bit better, but still less than ideal. I made good time with the ascent then as I approached the 2600’ mark, things opened into a glorious forest of high-canopied, mature evergreens. In moments, this visually lovely site gave way into a forest of waste-to-above-head-deep evergreens and interspersed blowdown. We all know the type: it’s the stuff of nightmares. I had only 0.4 miles to go at this point so I could push through if I needed to.
Once on the W side of this false summit, the evergreens finally relented and adequately open forest gave me smooth sailing up until the peak. There are 2 features worth mentioning here. First, the summit proper itself is a pocket of extremely thick, ~5-30 year-old trees and consequently provides no view. Second, there is a tremendous and lovely cliff just to the E of the summit. It’s easily bypassed but it’s quite a sight to behold!
What time was it? My struggle against the false peak had taken its mental toll and I had failed to check. It was 4:01 PM. I apparently hit the peak right at my turnaround time. That meant it had taken me 2 hours to bushwhack 2.8 miles. Not bad, considering the generally unforgiving woods and wetness. I knew what was awaited me and hoped that the way back would be no worse than the way up. Since we were at the longest daylight of the year I'd no concerns; I had plenty of time and a pair of headlamps worst-case.
After re-attaining the col I decided to try the N side of the accursed eastern bump. I stayed about 60-80 vertical feet below the summit and, in so doing, was able to bypass the entirety of the nastiness by exchanging it for a pathway which consisted of perhaps 2 or 3 waves of minor thickness alternating with excellent open areas. A few moments of effort brought me quickly to the NE flank of the false peak. It had been better on the N side, so I decided to try and press my luck by staying N of my original route as I approached the drainage, heading due E until I picked up said feature. This too turned into an excellent decision as my new route was one which bushwhackers crave for. I made it back to the drainage and followed it downstream for the next few hundred lateral feet because it was clearly thicker on the N side thereof so I didn’t dare enter. Once I re-attained my original drainage crossing, it was time to turn NE once again and aim for that mini-plateau.
My chosen descent route had manifested the idea that thickness can vary so much in such a short distance and had also given me a sense of elation as I descended the slopes in approximately 1/3 the time of my ascent. So easy, in fact, was my descent that I began to think back on the whole, rain-filled mess. I had had a very long bushwhack. Things were soaking wet. Conditions were thicker than desired. But despite all of that, I hadn’t fallen a single time. I hadn’t taken a single branch to the face. I hadn’t even been scratched up, despite the thick woods. (Largely, this was probably due to the bucklers I’d been wearing to defend off the rain. Thank you, rain gear!) I was contemplating this and somehow it didn’t add up. Bushwhacks always make you pay in some fashion. I stopped and looked at my GPS and map. I was right where I needed to be, but I hadn’t paid the price. Was the bushwhack really as long as I had thought? Yes! It seemed strange but maybe I’d just been lucky. This luck was NOT going to continue.
Just after crossing the stream and the miniature crest on the other side – having arrived at what I can now best guess as 43.87269, -74.10272, I finally fell. Nothing serious: a simple root had caught my foot and caused me to lurch forward. I didn’t even fully hit the ground but instead caught myself as I was falling. I did what we all do: fully stand up and take stock. I’d no broken bones, no twisted ankles, no amputated digits. But, there it was. I had jammed my finger a bit while catching myself and it was slightly bleeding at the knuckle. Hardly anything to get worked up about. I almost chuckled to myself as I thought of the irony of this occurring merely moments after questioning how the hike could have left me unscathed to this point. That’ll teach me to over-think it…
I continued another hundred feet or so. I was effectively at the aforementioned mini-plateau, which really consisted of a series of minor bumps and hills that fall within the noise of the contour measurements. It all looked the same in all directions. Everything was wet and it was actually reasonably dark due to the overcast skies and active rain, and I was ready to start the long bushwhack across the relatively flat expanse before me. As I always do in such circumstances I reached down to grab my GPS and ensure that I was on the right track. It was gone! I had a grey-colored camera case which attached to my person with a strap around my waist. The strap has a safety release which – if pulled hard enough, will engage and so allow the strap to release. (I believe that this is an anti-choking safety feature in case one wears the strap around one’s neck.) My guess is that it probably got caught when I had tripped a short while ago. My GPS was contained in a brown-colored case which was tethered to the phone case.
What was I to do? I know! I’ll use my GPS to backtrack and follow the path…oh wait. Okay, I’ll use my phone’s compass. Oh wait, my phone was in the camera case. Okay…I’ll backtrack and see if I can find them. No chance; it was a fool’s errand. I couldn’t even tell from which way I’d come. I took a moment or two to ensure I was calm and collected, then again tried to figure it out what direction was what. The local topography, thick vegetation, and lack of sunlight confounded me. I took my best guess and looked for several minutes but it was to no avail.
I prayed for calm and safety, knowing that I needed such. The situation suddenly didn’t look good: I couldn’t tell what direction was what. It was dark, cool (but not cold), and rainy. There were no obvious landmarks around me and it was flat enough that it all looked the same. Those of you who have hiked with me know that my sense of direction is generally quite excellent; when I’ve no clue at the direction it’s because there’s just not much to go by.
Alright. I took a moment to strategize and looked at the map. I knew that if I headed SW, W, or NW that I would start climbing after a few minutes of walking, so the contours would hopefully make things clear. If I headed too far S I could really run into problems as it would be flat and swampy then descend. If I went too far north it would descend then get flat and swampy. I ultimately needed to head NE where it was…flat and swampy. Initially, I felt that I really needed to go due E, if possible; I needed to find that pink-flagged trail or else the road. Either of those and I would be in much better shape. The absolute worst-case situation if I’d found the road would be to walk it until I eventually came to the hunting camp, explain my situation, apologize for intruding, then to follow the road back to my car.
I took my best guess then headed back to work. I’ve been trained to stay calm in such situations, but inevitably the mind races. You have to constantly keep your imagination in check. Yes, several people know where you were planning on hiking and your expected arrival time, but no, the rangers weren’t going to magically show up with a hot chocolate and a new GPS.
After perhaps 10 minutes – I was going a bit slowly on purpose to be absolutely sure I wasn’t doubling back – I came over a tiny rise and there was the road. It was the one which led back to Moose Pond Brook! I turned left and headed in the right direction. I immediately passed the pink-colored flagging “trail”, which was reassuring, as it meant that I had hosen my direction quite accurately to escape the low-land abyss.
As I continued down the road towards the ‘funky’ wooden bridge, I began to reflect more on my vicissitude. Was there anything else I could’ve done? Should I have stayed for another 10 minutes to try and find my GPS and cell phone case? Another 20 minutes? 30? If I had, then how much longer would’ve been wise before I started to fight against nightfall, given that it was already dark due to the storm? What information was on my phone that I wouldn’t be able to recover, and was it worth the risk? When was the last time the phone had backed itself up to the cloud? I had my headlamps, so I was ready, but how would a headlamp help me to bushwhack at night without a compass? If only I had….I did! Of course. Somehow, it never dawned on me. I had my work phone (with its electronic compass) and my manual compass. I was right at the crossing of the swampy brook when this dawned on me, so I finished crossing then pulled them out. My map was completely soaked at this point. (Despite the rain, the bugs had been constantly at an annoying but not unreasonable level throughout the day. There were no blackflies, but rather flies of the mesquite and venison varieties…) They chose this, my moment of joy and elation at finding my redundant tools, to swarm around me and have a party of their own. My first order of business was to take pictures of the drenched map. I needed a backup as this one was disintegrating quickly, but that phone’s battery was not going to last long. My second order of business was confirming that the phone’s electronic compass (no signal so no way of using GPS to my advantage) and my handheld compass were consistent. They were, so that was good to know. My third order of business was to strategize.
I’ll jump ahead and simply say that after a longer and almost entirely uneventful bushwhack out, I made it back to the trail a few hundred feet north of where I originally jumped in, then hotfooted to the car without further incident, although my map fully disintegrated and I indeed almost lost my hand-held compass.
All in all, a “successful” bushwhack up Beaver Mtn 1700’ & 8.2 miles total with ~5.8 of those miles being a formal bushwhack…but some lost equipment. To the few people who plan to climb this mountain over the next few years, if you happen upon my equipment, please let me know! If you are a hunting club member, any chance you’d allow me access through the property via bicycle on the road to directly get back to the area of state land so as to try to spend a few hours looking for the equipment? I know my chances of finding it would be next to zero, but I hate littering and would be willing to go after it, but only if I were to have several hours, which would necessitate getting close quickly and not bushwhacking a couple miles to it. (It should be easy, after all, as after studying the map I believe I have the area of loss narrowed down to about 4 acres, or ~175000 square feet. Any chance about 100 forum members want to get together to help me look for the proverbial needle in a haystack, especially when the items are reasonably well camouflaged?) Overall, it’s unhappy to lose equipment but equipment can be replaced.
As mentioned above, part of the reason I am sharing this is to share my lessons learned. I have noted the following:
I’ve been hiking in the ADK (and other) mountains for 32 years now. I try to learn lessons from my failures, generally navigate quite well, plan quite diligently, and always try my utmost to come prepared for most any (reasonable) contingency that could be encountered. This trip has helped me to re-affirm many of my practices, and my post-mortem analysis has suggested to me a number of additional points that I wanted to share with others who may consider for themselves if they’d qualify as best practices for their own adventures. Furthermore, some of my scouting may prove helpful to others who may have similar(ly absurd) hiking goals in mind.
The day was Thursday – June 26th – and I was up and at my computer at 4 AM. I had shifted my work hours as I do a few select days per year to allow me to exit work early and head off for a half-day ADK adventure. I had watched as the weather forecast had steadily improved over the past week, culminating in a quite reasonable 10-30% chance of showers for a brief, mid-day period and a second brief, mid-afternoon period. I had rain gear, so worst case I’d be ready.
At 11:30 AM, I ended my work day and hopped into the car. After the obligatory Stewart’s stop, I arrived at my destination at 1:35 PM: The Vanderwhacker trailhead. It had been several years since I’d been on this trail; I feel that the road in has been improved, but perhaps my memory has simply faded. Regardless, the new bridge is an excellent-looking structure. God-willing, it will serve many eager (on the way in) and either heartened or disheartened (on the way out) adventurers. My drive up was generally uneventful, although it had lightly rained for a good portion of the drive.
My goal for the day was not the namesake peak but rather the completely obscure destination of Beaver Mtn, WSW of Moose Pond. The private hunting club – whose contact information I’d never been able to find despite periodic searching therefore over the years – owns a sizable portion of land to the S of Vanderwhacker. As such, my assumed approach had necessarily been one of taking the trail towards the namesake peak for ~1.2 miles, then to turn hard left and more-or-less parallel the private property line over the next ~2.8 miles. (Apparently, I’ve become so accustomed to bushwhacking that the idea of a ~5.6 mile bushwhack as a ‘half-day’ outing doesn’t instinctively cause me to question my own sanity…?!?!) I had set a strict turnaround time of 4:00 PM at the summit. That meant I needed to hike fairly aggressively, but I nonetheless considered this an attainable goal.
Once I turned off of Rt. 28, I saw no evidence of other human activities excepting a large tarp just past the new bridge – perhaps some campers, I suggested to myself. After parking the car at the trailhead turnaround I exited and donned my equipment. It was eerily quiet except for the gentle patter of light raindrops. The forecast had seemed true to this point, so I set off down the trail in my normal getup sans rain gear. I signed in at the register and noted that the last signee was 4 days prior. That seemed odd to me, but the multitudinous spiderwebs that I unwittingly cleaned from across the trail seemed to confirm what the register suggested: no one had recently hiked the main target [and no one else was apparently stupid enough to attempt Beaver Mtn]. The latter shouldn’t surprise me; I surmised that there would be no more than an average of 1-2 people per year who would enjoin such a foolish group of adventurers who would choose to aim for the pain and suffering to of a >5 mile bushwhack to attain a peak with no view, especially when a proximal and higher peak with a nice trail, a marvelous view, and a shorter hike was available. Why? Because it’s there…that’s why. And if you don’t understand that logic, then you’re not the type of person who would aim for Beaver Mtn.
I made good time to the start of the bushwhack. In my previous pair of climbs up Vanderwhacker, I’d kept a watchful eye for signs of the snowmobile trail but had never been able to locate such. The same was true once again here so the fates made clear to me that this was going to be a bushwhack from the get-go. As I approached my turnoff, the rain had steadily intensified. It was now coming down quite consistently and did so until 6 PM when I finally arrived at the car that evening. My estimate was that it rained 0.75-1.25 inches during my hike; not a downpour, but well beyond the forecasted quantity, and more than adequate to ensure a thorough soaking of all things.
After accepting the inevitability of the weather conditions and briefly flirting with the idea of calling it off, I “manned up”, donned my rain gear, then dove into the fray. I had no idea what awaited me.
The first natural milestone was the swampy area ~0.5 miles to the SW. Apparently, I managed to choose a path which involved ~0.5 miles of waste-deep cripplebush because it didn’t let up until I arrived at said area. While I was driven largely by the “it’s slightly less thick over there” mentality, it never really lessened up. At the swampy area, it was 25 minutes in and I was largely soaked already. My boots had already both made the acquaintance of several ADK-famous, boot-soaking mud holes, and I several times again contemplated admitting defeat but re-assured myself that the worst was behind me, which it seemingly was.
After crossing the drainage, I continued on a SW trajectory as I “asymptoted” towards the property boundary. If one looks at CalTopo and/or OpenStreetMap, they may notice a number of road or trail-like indicators around this SW/NE public/private property line. The first one that I came to was the one showing a hairpin turn some 2000’ due N of the center of Moose Pond. This road does not extend as far NE into the valley as the map would suggest but rather a few hundred feet beyond the hairpin turn. It clearly extends into the public property by a minor amount and is periodically driven upon. There is a trail cam mounted in the grassy knoll right at the turn. Assuming the Essex County tax maps and online mapping sources are accurate, then the club likely extends their leisure activities a bit beyond their boundaries so there is some minor encroachment there – but hardly a hell-worthy sin and not worth any fuss. There are no private property markers anywhere along this SW/NE border that I encountered.
There is a second, 0.3 mile-long segment of road shown on the map which perhaps crosses the border closer to the end. I also found this road, although it was largely grown back in but still followable. After some while (still no posted signage, no signs of structures or improvements, and no persons) it conjoined the more frequently used dirt road which, if followed further to the E would roughly parallel the N side of Moose Pond, but here heads W and arcs around a slight hill, then ultimately meets Moose Pond Brook where a sharp, 90-degree turn takes place then allows stream crossing via a unusual wooden bridge. I'm quite confident that most of the arc of that road would be on private land and so isn't fair game. I do again think that the little "bridge" is probably on state land according to the maps but who am I to put up a fuss? If it is on state land, it's only barely so. I recall thinking that to cross that bridge and the subsequent 200’ of grassland must take a vehicle with tremendously high clearance. After a brief climb to a slight plateau 0.2 miles after the stream crossing, the road turns left and clearly enters the private property; I assume it would circle around and return to the pond..? Just prior to this turn to the S, I noted a flagged (pink-colored ribbons) pathway which clearly receives periodic maintenance. Thinking that perhaps this was perhaps a secret pathway to climb Beaver Mtn or perhaps to ascend to a nice hunting area, I greedily accepted the beckoning invitation to follow it. The ribbons headed to the NE for a few hundred feet then turned to the N and went downhill. So much for that! I took a waypoint then again jumped into the fray. Incredibly, I still had ~1.0 linear miles to bushwhack and I was slowly closing in on my turnaround time. (Folks, ALWAYS have a turnaround time selected and respect it.)
I began ascending the E/W ridge which – if followed to its conclusion – would have lofted me up to the ridge which connects NNW to Little Beaver. The forest was hardly scratchy but it was much thicker than I wanted. I found a somewhat easier time by turning further to the SW and crossing the main drainage. Once on the Beaver Mtn side of the drainage, things were a bit better, but still less than ideal. I made good time with the ascent then as I approached the 2600’ mark, things opened into a glorious forest of high-canopied, mature evergreens. In moments, this visually lovely site gave way into a forest of waste-to-above-head-deep evergreens and interspersed blowdown. We all know the type: it’s the stuff of nightmares. I had only 0.4 miles to go at this point so I could push through if I needed to.
Once on the W side of this false summit, the evergreens finally relented and adequately open forest gave me smooth sailing up until the peak. There are 2 features worth mentioning here. First, the summit proper itself is a pocket of extremely thick, ~5-30 year-old trees and consequently provides no view. Second, there is a tremendous and lovely cliff just to the E of the summit. It’s easily bypassed but it’s quite a sight to behold!
What time was it? My struggle against the false peak had taken its mental toll and I had failed to check. It was 4:01 PM. I apparently hit the peak right at my turnaround time. That meant it had taken me 2 hours to bushwhack 2.8 miles. Not bad, considering the generally unforgiving woods and wetness. I knew what was awaited me and hoped that the way back would be no worse than the way up. Since we were at the longest daylight of the year I'd no concerns; I had plenty of time and a pair of headlamps worst-case.
After re-attaining the col I decided to try the N side of the accursed eastern bump. I stayed about 60-80 vertical feet below the summit and, in so doing, was able to bypass the entirety of the nastiness by exchanging it for a pathway which consisted of perhaps 2 or 3 waves of minor thickness alternating with excellent open areas. A few moments of effort brought me quickly to the NE flank of the false peak. It had been better on the N side, so I decided to try and press my luck by staying N of my original route as I approached the drainage, heading due E until I picked up said feature. This too turned into an excellent decision as my new route was one which bushwhackers crave for. I made it back to the drainage and followed it downstream for the next few hundred lateral feet because it was clearly thicker on the N side thereof so I didn’t dare enter. Once I re-attained my original drainage crossing, it was time to turn NE once again and aim for that mini-plateau.
My chosen descent route had manifested the idea that thickness can vary so much in such a short distance and had also given me a sense of elation as I descended the slopes in approximately 1/3 the time of my ascent. So easy, in fact, was my descent that I began to think back on the whole, rain-filled mess. I had had a very long bushwhack. Things were soaking wet. Conditions were thicker than desired. But despite all of that, I hadn’t fallen a single time. I hadn’t taken a single branch to the face. I hadn’t even been scratched up, despite the thick woods. (Largely, this was probably due to the bucklers I’d been wearing to defend off the rain. Thank you, rain gear!) I was contemplating this and somehow it didn’t add up. Bushwhacks always make you pay in some fashion. I stopped and looked at my GPS and map. I was right where I needed to be, but I hadn’t paid the price. Was the bushwhack really as long as I had thought? Yes! It seemed strange but maybe I’d just been lucky. This luck was NOT going to continue.
Just after crossing the stream and the miniature crest on the other side – having arrived at what I can now best guess as 43.87269, -74.10272, I finally fell. Nothing serious: a simple root had caught my foot and caused me to lurch forward. I didn’t even fully hit the ground but instead caught myself as I was falling. I did what we all do: fully stand up and take stock. I’d no broken bones, no twisted ankles, no amputated digits. But, there it was. I had jammed my finger a bit while catching myself and it was slightly bleeding at the knuckle. Hardly anything to get worked up about. I almost chuckled to myself as I thought of the irony of this occurring merely moments after questioning how the hike could have left me unscathed to this point. That’ll teach me to over-think it…
I continued another hundred feet or so. I was effectively at the aforementioned mini-plateau, which really consisted of a series of minor bumps and hills that fall within the noise of the contour measurements. It all looked the same in all directions. Everything was wet and it was actually reasonably dark due to the overcast skies and active rain, and I was ready to start the long bushwhack across the relatively flat expanse before me. As I always do in such circumstances I reached down to grab my GPS and ensure that I was on the right track. It was gone! I had a grey-colored camera case which attached to my person with a strap around my waist. The strap has a safety release which – if pulled hard enough, will engage and so allow the strap to release. (I believe that this is an anti-choking safety feature in case one wears the strap around one’s neck.) My guess is that it probably got caught when I had tripped a short while ago. My GPS was contained in a brown-colored case which was tethered to the phone case.
What was I to do? I know! I’ll use my GPS to backtrack and follow the path…oh wait. Okay, I’ll use my phone’s compass. Oh wait, my phone was in the camera case. Okay…I’ll backtrack and see if I can find them. No chance; it was a fool’s errand. I couldn’t even tell from which way I’d come. I took a moment or two to ensure I was calm and collected, then again tried to figure it out what direction was what. The local topography, thick vegetation, and lack of sunlight confounded me. I took my best guess and looked for several minutes but it was to no avail.
I prayed for calm and safety, knowing that I needed such. The situation suddenly didn’t look good: I couldn’t tell what direction was what. It was dark, cool (but not cold), and rainy. There were no obvious landmarks around me and it was flat enough that it all looked the same. Those of you who have hiked with me know that my sense of direction is generally quite excellent; when I’ve no clue at the direction it’s because there’s just not much to go by.
Alright. I took a moment to strategize and looked at the map. I knew that if I headed SW, W, or NW that I would start climbing after a few minutes of walking, so the contours would hopefully make things clear. If I headed too far S I could really run into problems as it would be flat and swampy then descend. If I went too far north it would descend then get flat and swampy. I ultimately needed to head NE where it was…flat and swampy. Initially, I felt that I really needed to go due E, if possible; I needed to find that pink-flagged trail or else the road. Either of those and I would be in much better shape. The absolute worst-case situation if I’d found the road would be to walk it until I eventually came to the hunting camp, explain my situation, apologize for intruding, then to follow the road back to my car.
I took my best guess then headed back to work. I’ve been trained to stay calm in such situations, but inevitably the mind races. You have to constantly keep your imagination in check. Yes, several people know where you were planning on hiking and your expected arrival time, but no, the rangers weren’t going to magically show up with a hot chocolate and a new GPS.
After perhaps 10 minutes – I was going a bit slowly on purpose to be absolutely sure I wasn’t doubling back – I came over a tiny rise and there was the road. It was the one which led back to Moose Pond Brook! I turned left and headed in the right direction. I immediately passed the pink-colored flagging “trail”, which was reassuring, as it meant that I had hosen my direction quite accurately to escape the low-land abyss.
As I continued down the road towards the ‘funky’ wooden bridge, I began to reflect more on my vicissitude. Was there anything else I could’ve done? Should I have stayed for another 10 minutes to try and find my GPS and cell phone case? Another 20 minutes? 30? If I had, then how much longer would’ve been wise before I started to fight against nightfall, given that it was already dark due to the storm? What information was on my phone that I wouldn’t be able to recover, and was it worth the risk? When was the last time the phone had backed itself up to the cloud? I had my headlamps, so I was ready, but how would a headlamp help me to bushwhack at night without a compass? If only I had….I did! Of course. Somehow, it never dawned on me. I had my work phone (with its electronic compass) and my manual compass. I was right at the crossing of the swampy brook when this dawned on me, so I finished crossing then pulled them out. My map was completely soaked at this point. (Despite the rain, the bugs had been constantly at an annoying but not unreasonable level throughout the day. There were no blackflies, but rather flies of the mesquite and venison varieties…) They chose this, my moment of joy and elation at finding my redundant tools, to swarm around me and have a party of their own. My first order of business was to take pictures of the drenched map. I needed a backup as this one was disintegrating quickly, but that phone’s battery was not going to last long. My second order of business was confirming that the phone’s electronic compass (no signal so no way of using GPS to my advantage) and my handheld compass were consistent. They were, so that was good to know. My third order of business was to strategize.
I’ll jump ahead and simply say that after a longer and almost entirely uneventful bushwhack out, I made it back to the trail a few hundred feet north of where I originally jumped in, then hotfooted to the car without further incident, although my map fully disintegrated and I indeed almost lost my hand-held compass.
All in all, a “successful” bushwhack up Beaver Mtn 1700’ & 8.2 miles total with ~5.8 of those miles being a formal bushwhack…but some lost equipment. To the few people who plan to climb this mountain over the next few years, if you happen upon my equipment, please let me know! If you are a hunting club member, any chance you’d allow me access through the property via bicycle on the road to directly get back to the area of state land so as to try to spend a few hours looking for the equipment? I know my chances of finding it would be next to zero, but I hate littering and would be willing to go after it, but only if I were to have several hours, which would necessitate getting close quickly and not bushwhacking a couple miles to it. (It should be easy, after all, as after studying the map I believe I have the area of loss narrowed down to about 4 acres, or ~175000 square feet. Any chance about 100 forum members want to get together to help me look for the proverbial needle in a haystack, especially when the items are reasonably well camouflaged?) Overall, it’s unhappy to lose equipment but equipment can be replaced.
As mentioned above, part of the reason I am sharing this is to share my lessons learned. I have noted the following:
- Keep your phone’s bluetooth turned while hiking.
- I always put both of my phones into airplane mode to save battery life while hiking. This is wise. But keeping Bluetooth on would allow for a Bluetooth-based “Find My Device” search approach. Supposedly, this will work up to as much as 100’ away, although I suspect much less in thick woods. Even if it worked to within 10 feet my chances of equipment recovery would likely have been good to excellent.
- Keep an airtag within the equipment as well.
- This is the same principle as #1 above but would allow for communication with a redundant backup device.
- Conspicuous coloring for covers.
- I never considered the color choice of my phone and GPS covers before this. At least for the GPS, I bought what was available. Had they been outfitted with conspicuous colors – perhaps a bright yellow or white color – they would’ve stood out and made visually locating them much more likely.
- Secondary tethering.
- My GPS was singly attached to my camera case which is single attached to my person. I will seriously consider a backup tether for both in the future.
- Relief device.
- The relief device I described earlier is completely unnecessary for a waist-based piece of equipment. I should have bypassed it since it’s not worn around my neck.
- Backup maps.
- I always carry a map. I never carry a backup. Moving forward, I’ll likely bring 3 copies: my main map, a secondary in a ziplock bag, and a tertiary, digital copy on my phone(s).
- Primary compass confirmation.
- I realized that I simply took for granted that I always had my backup compass with me in my pack. It would be much wiser to explicitly confirm that it is in my pack for each hike as a part of pre-hike preparations.
- Backup compass.
- I’d never thought to carry a backup compass as GPS is my primary method of navigation. In this case, however, having a secondary one would’ve offered me peace of mind. It would also protect against a potential compass failure such as a broken or demagnetized compass.
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