Adirondack Peeks Summer 2024

contrast of orange, white, and dark greenish grey from Giant ridge at sunset in January 2023. And a favorite pas time is to argue over peak identification from a new sum mit. But memories of summit views tend to blend. Rather, my most indelible memories are of small and brief mo ments of shared connection to something bigger than ourselves: windows into the immutable power, beauty, timelessness, and universality of nature and the moun tains. These experiences, at once ephemeral and expan sive, can’t be planned for or easily explained. But let me try to describe one among many. At the end of a long day on the trail after glancing at Hay stack through intermittent clouds from the summit of Little Haystack and deciding to leave it for another day, then retreating up over the flanks of Marcy toward our friends and camp at Bushnell Falls lean-to, Tim and I were joined by a Pine Grosbeak. It was near the end of a strenuous day on the trail, but one in which our bodies felt strong, and we were in tune with our senses. We had the feeling of being very intrepid, going further, pushing ourselves as dark approached, still high on the mountain, but also perceiving and not stepping over some edge. Then ap peared the small bird, nice looking but not particularly flashy, happily flitting from branch to branch, eating pine nuts. We were traversing through its wintry home. A pro found sense of connection to other living creatures came over me at the same time as an understanding that the meaning of my presence in that place was only the sense of what I might try to make of it. It was a momentary awak ening to the natural order and my place in it. The exis tence of this special spot and creature had its own value and meaning, indifferent and separate from me. I am privileged to know that this place exists, that other places and creatures exist, and that I, too, exist for this moment. I think of this knowledge as a gift that has been revealed to me by spending time adventuring in the ADKs. And it is made richer by being shared. Tim and I experienced this moment together, which he later called a “magical, transcendental experience.” Now, we need only say to each other, “remember that time with the bird coming back from Little Haystack” and we each recall the spirit we touched in that moment and know that we both understand. In early March 2023, John Licitra, John Guttridge, Tim, and I hatched a plan for a winter traverse of the Great Range. The Johns needed most of the peaks in the range for their W46. Tim and I already had finished our W46 on a glorious day on Whiteface the year before but were ex cited for the challenge. We estimated the travel time and agreed reluctantly on a 1:30 a.m. departure from our rent ed house in Keene Valley, which was half a mile from the end of the trail at the base of Rooster Comb. We would drive one car to Heart Lake, with a 2 a.m. trailhead depar ture, and then walk back to the Rooster Comb trailhead in 18 to 20 hours, putting us back between 8 p.m. and 10 p.m. There were several bail points if our pace was off. Adventure

We could return to the car in Heart Lake from the sum mit of Marcy or go down the trail to Slant Rock from Hay stack. We could also bail to the Johns Brook Valley on the Orebed Brook Trail between Saddleback and Gothics, or between the Wolfjaws if we didn’t have the time or energy for Hedgehog and Rooster Comb. At our pre-trip planning meeting at a Thai restau rant in downtown Ithaca, Tim confessed that he had been experiencing some fatigue and strange “brain fog” symp toms for a few weeks. Our mutual colleague Erin said that she thought he had a small seizure at lunch a few weeks back. His doctor suspected a vitamin B-12 deficiency and gave him some oral supplements, a neurological referral, and the green light for the trip. A couple of days before leaving, Becca called me and told me that she was wor ried about Tim, but that she had some comfort knowing that we’d be together and didn’t want to hold Tim back. She asked me to look out for him. In our many winter climbing trips together, this was a first. We also made an agreement as a group to communicate with each other honestly about how we were feeling and not be afraid to turn back. In no case would we leave anyone on his own. I had a hard time falling asleep and wasn’t happy when the alarm went off at 1 a.m. But it meant I was done struggling with sleep and I was excited for the adventure ahead. We had readied the packs the night before and we needed only to make coffee, don our layers, fill our water bottles and head out. I grumbled at Guttridge and Licitra when they piled into the car at 1:38. “Where’s Tim?” I asked. “We’re already late.” “He’s just putting on his shoes.” At 1:50 a.m., I went back inside again, annoyed with Tim, and found him fiddling with his water bottle. “Do you need help, man? We were going to leave at 1:30.” “I couldn’t find my boots. I’ll be right out,” he said. Finally, at 2 a.m., Tim slipped into the car, and we hit the road. Once on the trail, Tim started at a slower pace. Guttridge and I were moving at about two and a half miles per hour at the front, which is a decent pace on snow, but the trail was also well packed down in that section, and Tim had never had an issue keeping pace with the group in the past. Over the previous five years, Tim and I had gotten into long-distance trail running and I knew his fitness was solid. At one mile, Tim was 20 minutes slow er. At Marcy Dam, he was nearly an hour behind. We re grouped and conferred. Tim wasn’t ready to turn around, so we made a plan to split up. Tim and I would go for Marcy and turn around there since we had both climbed all the peaks already anyway, and the Johns would con tinue the traverse attempt. Tim’s pace continued to slow as the morning pro gressed, but he was content to be out in the woods on a trail and wanted to keep going. It was evident by sunrise that Marcy would not be attainable, so we agreed to go to Indian Falls and turn around. I had never been there, and Tim wanted to see it in the winter. When the trail started climbing more steeply, his pace became agonizingly slow.

SUMMER 2024 | 29