Vacation Day Seven -- Prologue
The Adirondack mountains, like mountains anywhere, are beautiful and inspiring, but also cruel and unforgiving. Just a few examples of recent rescues reported on this website include:
*A man attempting his final high peak became lost because the batteries on his GPS failed and he didn't have a compass and a map. Fortunately his cell phone still worked and rangers were able to reach him via the GPS signal from his phone.
*A woman rolled an ankle and had to have rangers splint it, then assist her to Avalanche Lake, row her across the lake, and then transport her via UTV to the Adirondack Loj
*A routine patrol found a distressed hiker at Marcy Dam who appeared to be severely dehydrated -- he was transported by UTV to South Meadow where he was met by an ambulance and taken to the local hospital for treatment
*A couple who signed in at the St. Huberts's trail registry was reported overdue at 1:30 a.m., prompting a search -- they showed up at 6:30 a.m. -- in good condition, but tired -- at Johns Brook Lodge, having taken a wrong turn and losing their way
*A woman was hiking at dusk when she fell and hit her knee on a rock. She was not wearing headlamp. She was assisted back to the trailhead
*A woman was about a quarter of a mile from the summit of Seward when she fell and injured an ankle. She was unable to bear any weight on the leg and had to be airlifted off the top of the mountain
In each case, the caution is: "Know you abilities and stay within them. Always notify someone of your itinerary. Carry enough water and be prepared to spend an unexpected night out. Carry a headlamp or flashlight at all times. Carry a map and compass and know how to use them."
Sometimes the smallest lapses of judgment can be fatal. Not having a headlamp, wearing cotton, not bringing enough water, relying on a cell phone to call for help, and, the classic: separating from the main group -- all have contributed to fatalities in these mountains.
In April, 1999, I climbed Algonquin, New York State's second highest mountain, with my friend, Mountain Goat. We both had milestone birthdays that year and decided to celebrate with a challenging hike.
From the road, it wasn't obvious that there was snow on the top, but we were warned by locals that the snowpack was still several feet deep. It was past required snowshoe season -- and it was actually before regulations were passed to require snowshoes during the winter hiking season -- but we brought along instep crampons just in case. We were well prepared with wicking winter clothing, extra clothing, goretex jackets for the summit, a backpacking stove, headlamps, plenty of water, a sleeping bag just in case one of us had to spend an unexpected night out while the other went for help, compass, map, and food -- too much food, as always. But no rope, or string, or duct tape, or even athletic tape -- that is to say, nothing to fix a broken crampon strap with.
We encountered the snowpack surprisingly early. I went to college near the Canadian border and was used to a late snowmelt, but we'd hardly gained any elevation before the path turned from frozen mud to hard-packed snow. It was still a herd path though, and easy to follow. And the hiking was actually easier than it is in the summer when you have to crawl up, over, and around huge boulders to make headway.
For reasons unknown to me, I deferred to Mountain Goat's judgment that we should wait until we were approaching the summit to put on our crampons. He weighed more than my mere 92 pounds and his feet sank into the snow just enough to keep him from sliding back. I slid back about half a footstep for every step forward I made. I figure my ascent was half again as much as his by the time we reached the top. It was fairly exhausting and frustrating, but I was in 22:09 5K shape and could run up a mile-long hill in eight minutes per mile pace while carrying on a conversation and not getting winded, which is to say, it was well within my capabilities. Just more tiring than it should have been. Once we broke out above tree line, we strapped on our crampons and suddenly the going was easy. The final rock ascent was ever changing terrain conditions, varying from sheer windblown ice to bare rock. The crampons were helpful on the ice, not so much on the rock. But we easily climbed the final 800 meters and topped out with a gorgeous 360 degree view of one of the most beautiful places on earth. The only reminder of civilization was the unsightly ski jumps to the northeast -- otherwise we were gazing out on a vast wilderness.
It was a bitterly cold day for almost May and the wind speed at the top was probably 30 - 40 miles per hour. We'd counted a total of 14 other hikers on our ascent. Why so many were deterred by the conditions, I don't know. The view couldn't have been more spectacular, and there were no bugs!
We found a spot out of the wind behind a rock and I pulled out my backpacking stove, set up the little metal windscreen, and heated up some vegetarian ramen noodle soup. It both warmed us and rehydrated us. After some photos and more gazing, we headed down.
Just as we got off the rock summit knob and back into the snowpack, my crampon strap snapped. Mountain Goat did his best to tie it, but it just couldn't be tied tight enough to make the crampon the least bit useful. Now that we were heading down, crampons weren't just a luxury, they were pretty essential. One slip on the hardpacked snow and you'd be glissading out of control off a ledge or into a tree -- you name the dangers. I didn't yet own hiking poles and any branch that could have been used for that purpose was probably three to four feet beneath the top of the snowpack. So I moved forward one careful step at a time.
Mountain Goat gamely stuck with me for a while, but soon became bored with the pace. He started going on ahead and then stopping to wait. This happened four or five times -- I would hike for about 15 minutes and then come around a bend and find him off to the side of the trail, patiently waiting.
Then one time 15 minutes went by, then 20, then 30, and then, man, was I ticked off. What if I'd hurt myself? With the day getting late and so few people on the trail, if I slipped and sprained an ankle, or worse, how long would I lie there waiting for him to figure out I was in trouble?
More time went by and still no sight of him. I was seriously grumbling to myself. Ok, I was going slowly, but the broken crampon strap wasn't my fault, and packed snow is slippery. Had he seriously gotten so tired of having to wait for me that he was hiking out by himself and leaving me to get out on my own?
Finally I hit the end of the snow, and the trail -- which had been frozen when we started out -- was now mud-season mud. I sat down to take off my one crampon. With two boots under me and no more snow, I could make time, and headed forward resolutely. Except within a couple hundred yards, the trail suddenly made several twists and turns with no trail markers to guide a hiker, in the same spot where several trails lead off to the west -- and which set of boot tracks in the mud was the actual trail? The one that seemed to have the most boot prints was a significant left hand turn, but I didn't remember any sharp rights coming up the trail. With no trail markers to be found either way, I headed down the herd path that seemed the most heavily used for a way. Shortly I came to a log crossing that didn't look at all familiar. It just didn't seem right. I would have remembered having to balance beam across a log. So I turned around and went back to the crossing. Just then I met up with another party coming off the mountain and found them as confused as me. Some tried to insist the path I'd just been down seemed right; others insisted it just couldn't be.
Finally one member of their party walked due north a few hundred feet and shouted, "I found a trail marker!" The presence of so many boot tracks on the false trail was probably because each person who went down the trail ended up turning around, thus doubling the number of tracks they left. But we were all back on the right trail now. Almost, apparently.
I explained to the the guys in that party that my hiking partner had gone on ahead of me and asked if I could hike with them. Nighttime comes early in the mountains and daylight was waning. They agreed, and kindly slowed their pace to accommodate the woman with the short legs. I kept expecting to find Mountain Goat at some notable spot in the trail -- but when we got to the intersection of the trail that splits off to go to Marcy Dam, and he was nowhere to be found, I resolved myself to the fact that I had indeed been totally ditched. The trail turns into a level rock-free dirt path there and the men asked if I'd be okay. I said yes and they sprinted off ahead of me.
I did the final nine-tenths of a mile alone, sputtering to myself about how much fun it was to go hiking with someone only to have him drop me. Then the trail register came into view -- where I fully expected to find Mountain Goat sitting and waiting -- but he wasn't there -- and, most alarmingly, he hadn't signed out. For the first time I had a sinking feeling that I wasn't the one in trouble. It was almost 5:00. The parking lot was emptying out. The High Peaks Information Center information desk had closed. I checked the building and the restrooms -- nothing. I found Mountain Goat's car. It was locked -- with my cell phone inside. Cell phone reception is non-existent there now and was worse then, but having a phone would have made me feel somewhat less...alone.
I hiked back in a short way, but there was still no sight of him. Mentally I frantically ran through a list of "what should I do next?" and "when should I call in the Reserves?" scenarios. Was there someplace else he could be? Did I just miss him inside the building? Was he in the restroom and just didn't answer? The number of cars in the parking lot was dwindling by the minute. At what point should I sound the alarm? I finally set a time: if there was still no sign of him by 5:30, I would ask someone to contact the state police.
At 5:25 I headed back to the trail register to hike in again for one final look before calling in the troopers. Just as I reached the trailhead, out strolled Mountain Goat.
"K," he said sheepishly, "I made the most classic of mistakes. I didn't stay with my hiking partner and I got off the trail."
At what I now call Grand Central Station intersection, he'd gone down the path of the most boot tracks. And kept going. For a long time. Until he decided to sit down and wait for me to show up.
After waiting for an hour, he decided something must have happened to me, so he got up and hiked back up the trail to rescue me. When he came to the intersection, he realized -- he'd gone off trail.
"I just read last night about someone who went on ahead because he got frustrated with the pace of the group," he said. "And he got off trail without realizing it, then night fell and he was completely lost, and by the time they found him two days later, he was dead of hypothermia. It's such a classic mistake, and I should have known better. I learned something today. I will never separate from my hiking partner again."
Our story ended happily, with a delicious meal in a Saranac Lake Italian restaurant -- and before search and rescue had to be called. But the mountains, while beautiful, can be unforgiving. We got lucky. I suspect that there are many near misses every year like ours that never make it into the search and rescue log. When you hike in the high peaks, you bring a compass and a map, a headlamp, extra warm clothing, a sleeping bag, plenty of water and food, an emergency blanket, a first aid kit, some rope or duct tape, and, most importantly, your smarts. Because sometimes for some people, luck runs out.
(post script: I have since heard of more than one person heading down that false trail and ending up having to wade a river while bushwhacking to make it back to the Adirondack Loj. This year I noticed a huge brush barrier across the false trailhead and trail markers clearly tacked to trees along the main trail as it twists and turns through that section)
*A man attempting his final high peak became lost because the batteries on his GPS failed and he didn't have a compass and a map. Fortunately his cell phone still worked and rangers were able to reach him via the GPS signal from his phone.
*A woman rolled an ankle and had to have rangers splint it, then assist her to Avalanche Lake, row her across the lake, and then transport her via UTV to the Adirondack Loj
*A routine patrol found a distressed hiker at Marcy Dam who appeared to be severely dehydrated -- he was transported by UTV to South Meadow where he was met by an ambulance and taken to the local hospital for treatment
*A couple who signed in at the St. Huberts's trail registry was reported overdue at 1:30 a.m., prompting a search -- they showed up at 6:30 a.m. -- in good condition, but tired -- at Johns Brook Lodge, having taken a wrong turn and losing their way
*A woman was hiking at dusk when she fell and hit her knee on a rock. She was not wearing headlamp. She was assisted back to the trailhead
*A woman was about a quarter of a mile from the summit of Seward when she fell and injured an ankle. She was unable to bear any weight on the leg and had to be airlifted off the top of the mountain
In each case, the caution is: "Know you abilities and stay within them. Always notify someone of your itinerary. Carry enough water and be prepared to spend an unexpected night out. Carry a headlamp or flashlight at all times. Carry a map and compass and know how to use them."
Sometimes the smallest lapses of judgment can be fatal. Not having a headlamp, wearing cotton, not bringing enough water, relying on a cell phone to call for help, and, the classic: separating from the main group -- all have contributed to fatalities in these mountains.
In April, 1999, I climbed Algonquin, New York State's second highest mountain, with my friend, Mountain Goat. We both had milestone birthdays that year and decided to celebrate with a challenging hike.
From the road, it wasn't obvious that there was snow on the top, but we were warned by locals that the snowpack was still several feet deep. It was past required snowshoe season -- and it was actually before regulations were passed to require snowshoes during the winter hiking season -- but we brought along instep crampons just in case. We were well prepared with wicking winter clothing, extra clothing, goretex jackets for the summit, a backpacking stove, headlamps, plenty of water, a sleeping bag just in case one of us had to spend an unexpected night out while the other went for help, compass, map, and food -- too much food, as always. But no rope, or string, or duct tape, or even athletic tape -- that is to say, nothing to fix a broken crampon strap with.
We encountered the snowpack surprisingly early. I went to college near the Canadian border and was used to a late snowmelt, but we'd hardly gained any elevation before the path turned from frozen mud to hard-packed snow. It was still a herd path though, and easy to follow. And the hiking was actually easier than it is in the summer when you have to crawl up, over, and around huge boulders to make headway.
Heading up Algonquin, with Wright Peak behind me. A mountain for another day year decade century.
It was a bitterly cold day for almost May and the wind speed at the top was probably 30 - 40 miles per hour. We'd counted a total of 14 other hikers on our ascent. Why so many were deterred by the conditions, I don't know. The view couldn't have been more spectacular, and there were no bugs!
Until looking through my photos from this adventure, I never realized that I caught Marcy in the background of this photo of a rock cairn. But there she is, in her snow-covered glory.
We found a spot out of the wind behind a rock and I pulled out my backpacking stove, set up the little metal windscreen, and heated up some vegetarian ramen noodle soup. It both warmed us and rehydrated us. After some photos and more gazing, we headed down.
One of my favorite photos -- probably because that backpacking stove hasn't been used a whole lot. It was a fun cooking up a pot of soup in below freezing temperatures on top of a mountain while braced against stiff winds. The photos in this posting aren't great because they are from the *gasp* film era and are scanned.
Just as we got off the rock summit knob and back into the snowpack, my crampon strap snapped. Mountain Goat did his best to tie it, but it just couldn't be tied tight enough to make the crampon the least bit useful. Now that we were heading down, crampons weren't just a luxury, they were pretty essential. One slip on the hardpacked snow and you'd be glissading out of control off a ledge or into a tree -- you name the dangers. I didn't yet own hiking poles and any branch that could have been used for that purpose was probably three to four feet beneath the top of the snowpack. So I moved forward one careful step at a time.
Mountain Goat gamely stuck with me for a while, but soon became bored with the pace. He started going on ahead and then stopping to wait. This happened four or five times -- I would hike for about 15 minutes and then come around a bend and find him off to the side of the trail, patiently waiting.
Then one time 15 minutes went by, then 20, then 30, and then, man, was I ticked off. What if I'd hurt myself? With the day getting late and so few people on the trail, if I slipped and sprained an ankle, or worse, how long would I lie there waiting for him to figure out I was in trouble?
More time went by and still no sight of him. I was seriously grumbling to myself. Ok, I was going slowly, but the broken crampon strap wasn't my fault, and packed snow is slippery. Had he seriously gotten so tired of having to wait for me that he was hiking out by himself and leaving me to get out on my own?
Finally I hit the end of the snow, and the trail -- which had been frozen when we started out -- was now mud-season mud. I sat down to take off my one crampon. With two boots under me and no more snow, I could make time, and headed forward resolutely. Except within a couple hundred yards, the trail suddenly made several twists and turns with no trail markers to guide a hiker, in the same spot where several trails lead off to the west -- and which set of boot tracks in the mud was the actual trail? The one that seemed to have the most boot prints was a significant left hand turn, but I didn't remember any sharp rights coming up the trail. With no trail markers to be found either way, I headed down the herd path that seemed the most heavily used for a way. Shortly I came to a log crossing that didn't look at all familiar. It just didn't seem right. I would have remembered having to balance beam across a log. So I turned around and went back to the crossing. Just then I met up with another party coming off the mountain and found them as confused as me. Some tried to insist the path I'd just been down seemed right; others insisted it just couldn't be.
Finally one member of their party walked due north a few hundred feet and shouted, "I found a trail marker!" The presence of so many boot tracks on the false trail was probably because each person who went down the trail ended up turning around, thus doubling the number of tracks they left. But we were all back on the right trail now. Almost, apparently.
I explained to the the guys in that party that my hiking partner had gone on ahead of me and asked if I could hike with them. Nighttime comes early in the mountains and daylight was waning. They agreed, and kindly slowed their pace to accommodate the woman with the short legs. I kept expecting to find Mountain Goat at some notable spot in the trail -- but when we got to the intersection of the trail that splits off to go to Marcy Dam, and he was nowhere to be found, I resolved myself to the fact that I had indeed been totally ditched. The trail turns into a level rock-free dirt path there and the men asked if I'd be okay. I said yes and they sprinted off ahead of me.
I did the final nine-tenths of a mile alone, sputtering to myself about how much fun it was to go hiking with someone only to have him drop me. Then the trail register came into view -- where I fully expected to find Mountain Goat sitting and waiting -- but he wasn't there -- and, most alarmingly, he hadn't signed out. For the first time I had a sinking feeling that I wasn't the one in trouble. It was almost 5:00. The parking lot was emptying out. The High Peaks Information Center information desk had closed. I checked the building and the restrooms -- nothing. I found Mountain Goat's car. It was locked -- with my cell phone inside. Cell phone reception is non-existent there now and was worse then, but having a phone would have made me feel somewhat less...alone.
I hiked back in a short way, but there was still no sight of him. Mentally I frantically ran through a list of "what should I do next?" and "when should I call in the Reserves?" scenarios. Was there someplace else he could be? Did I just miss him inside the building? Was he in the restroom and just didn't answer? The number of cars in the parking lot was dwindling by the minute. At what point should I sound the alarm? I finally set a time: if there was still no sign of him by 5:30, I would ask someone to contact the state police.
At 5:25 I headed back to the trail register to hike in again for one final look before calling in the troopers. Just as I reached the trailhead, out strolled Mountain Goat.
"K," he said sheepishly, "I made the most classic of mistakes. I didn't stay with my hiking partner and I got off the trail."
At what I now call Grand Central Station intersection, he'd gone down the path of the most boot tracks. And kept going. For a long time. Until he decided to sit down and wait for me to show up.
After waiting for an hour, he decided something must have happened to me, so he got up and hiked back up the trail to rescue me. When he came to the intersection, he realized -- he'd gone off trail.
"I just read last night about someone who went on ahead because he got frustrated with the pace of the group," he said. "And he got off trail without realizing it, then night fell and he was completely lost, and by the time they found him two days later, he was dead of hypothermia. It's such a classic mistake, and I should have known better. I learned something today. I will never separate from my hiking partner again."
Our story ended happily, with a delicious meal in a Saranac Lake Italian restaurant -- and before search and rescue had to be called. But the mountains, while beautiful, can be unforgiving. We got lucky. I suspect that there are many near misses every year like ours that never make it into the search and rescue log. When you hike in the high peaks, you bring a compass and a map, a headlamp, extra warm clothing, a sleeping bag, plenty of water and food, an emergency blanket, a first aid kit, some rope or duct tape, and, most importantly, your smarts. Because sometimes for some people, luck runs out.
(post script: I have since heard of more than one person heading down that false trail and ending up having to wade a river while bushwhacking to make it back to the Adirondack Loj. This year I noticed a huge brush barrier across the false trailhead and trail markers clearly tacked to trees along the main trail as it twists and turns through that section)
All's well that ends well. Looking up the trail at Mountain Goat. He is a really great friend and a fun traveling companion. I think the mountain wisdom goes something like, "It's okay if you make a mistake, as long as you learn from it...and don't die from it."
Comments
Post a Comment