Adirondack Peeks Summer 2024

song among the pines was part of a crazy weekend, full of other moments. Sharing these adventures with friends has been soul fuel. I’m looking forward to being there with Kent when he finishes his W46. He was part of the original three to start these adventures. It’ll be sweet and mean ingful to be there with him when he finishes. Though Kent wasn’t with Tom and me when the grosbeak sang, he was on that trip. In different ways, we’ve both had some rough times since then. On a Friday in January 2014, Tom, Kent, our friend Kelly, and I backpacked from the Garden up to Bushnell Falls, planning Haystack the next day, but stopping on the near side of John’s Brook due to forecasted heavy rain, not sure that, if we crossed the brook, we’d be able to get back a couple days later. Along the way, Kelly pointed out a patch of springtails on top of snow—weird but cool. And indeed, it did rain overnight and then all day Saturday, reaching 50 degrees. After sleeping in to 8 a.m., we called an audible and decided to hang around the lean-to, playing games and watching John’s Brook. We had never had a hang day while winter camping. We donned crampons and rain gear and walked down to the base of the falls on an iced-over trail, overflowing with water. It was magical, glistening. Then back up to scout for possible crossings, hoping to stick to our plan and hike Haystack the following day. The old bridge was out. There was too much ice over the brook to see where the rocks were, too many little runs where the ice was already cav ing in with running water. A guy came to the other side. He told us that he had made it up to the next creek cross ing, but it looked too sketchy with the rain and turned back. He fell in while crossing back over John’s Brook but was headed out. A few hours later, John’s Brook was impassable, just roaring water over ice, filling the banks’ width, with huge chunks of ice cleaving off and slamming into each other. It was awesome in the true sense of the word, nature’s power inspiring awe in us. Even peering upstream from the banks felt risky, as if the rest of the ice might let go and wash us away. It turned into a chill day in the lean-to. We read through the lean-to’s journal, which included some rather cryptic hallucinogenic musings (did the purple Smurfs get that guy’s finger or his friends?). We played euchre and backgammon and schemed a plan B, figuring Hay stack was unlikely the next day. I saw a snowshoe hare hop away into the woods after dinner. From the lean-to, it sounded like a 747 was idling on a runway just below us as we nodded off to sleep. Overnight, the rain finally changed over to snow. We had decided to head up the Hopkins Trail, since we weren’t risking a brook crossing, to the Van Ho and Mount Marcy, and see what we thought about hitting Haystack while we were up there. On Sunday, Hopkins was wonderful with more fresh snow than we expected, some open areas, some strenuous segments, some easy. Marcy was windy and cold, with low visibility. We summited but didn’t dwell. Back at the junction with the State Range Trail to Hay stack, Kent fired up his compact canister stove for a warm

bevy and a snack. Up the Van Ho trail a family came bounding: a kid in a sweatshirt, his sister, and their dad in a dress shirt under a shell, headed for Marcy. We shared our intel and they kept on despite our concern. Kelly and Kent decided to head back to camp, and Tom and I decid ed to take a shot at Haystack, setting a turnaround time so that we wouldn’t hike too long by headlamps and bor rowing Kent’s watch for that purpose. We dropped down the Range trail to the top of Panther Gorge, couldn’t see much and started climbing up the icy trail to Haystack. Not knowing quite what to expect and being somewhat socked in, we didn’t realize how much farther we had to go until the clouds broke and we saw Little Haystack and Haystack proper, looming large above us. A watch and body check told us it was time to turn around and save Haystack for another day. We were disappointed in a way, but glad we turned around when we did; otherwise, we might have missed that finch singing to us. My journal for the day ends with: Made good time coming down. Did some dam age to my feet, but it was an awesome day. Had a blast. Didn’t get what we came for, but we had to adjust due to field conditions—some crazy ones at that. And still had an awesome day. Looking forward to a good night sleep and a burger & beer in the valley tomorrow. We’ve had a lot of successes hiking our W46 over the years, but that weekend stands out as special. Some times life throws you a curveball or sucker punches you and you have to decide how to deal with it and how to move forward. You could pack up your stuff and head out, mad that you didn’t get what you came for. Or you can get creative, make your own meaning out of an absurd life and find (or stumble into) the magical moments that the wild world has to offer. And you can lean on your friends and family for a bit until you can walk without falling off the trail. I’m so grateful to have a wonderful and caring family; supportive, inspiring, and reliable friends; and ac cess to top-notch health care. And I’m so glad we took that trip to Bushnell Falls and Marcy despite the forecast and our scrambled plans. It was full of wonder, awe, and friendship and not quite like any of our other trips to the high peaks. Untitled Aftyn Bartholomay, #15306 * * * W ill #15308 and I have spent the last seven years working toward the goal of becoming Adiron dack 46ers. In the beginning, we didn’t realize that would be our goal, but after a few hikes in the high peaks we quickly caught the bug. I have left so much of myself on these mountains (sweat, tears, blood, and my dignity, to name a few) and somehow, I walked away with

SUMMER 2024 | 31