Adirondack Peeks Winter 2023

ing journal records Ellen as the last of the five Vermont peaks on “gorgeous, clear, warm” October 1, 2001. What made the hike unforgettable, however, was the swim I took in Plattsburgh Bay later that afternoon. “Snow geese and a swan shared the water with me,” I wrote later that evening. It wasn’t only mountains that made an impres sion. In August of 2005 it was time to tackle Maine. That spring/summer had been emotionally demanding. I’d walked the journey with my oldest friend from her diagno sis with pancreatic cancer in April to her death less than two months later. I gave the eulogy at her funeral. I was still emotionally drained two months later and could not bear to attend the dispersal of her ashes on her birthday later that summer. On August 24, I opted out and chose to climb Old Speck—my first peak in Maine. Little did I know that Maine would raise the ante on how I viewed hiking. It would take thirteen years to finish. A year later I retired from my job and, apparently, from hiking as well. It would take another six years to get back on track. Summer of 2011 saw magical hikes up Abraham and the Saddlebacks. I remember hiking paths off the summit through entire slopes covered in mountain lupine that reached the top of my head. The climb down a ski trail is the only time I ever saw a moose in all the trips to New Hampshire and Maine. In mid-September of 2012 I misjudged the time it would take to reach the summit of Crocker Mountain. I foolishly started too late in the morning for the grueling five-hour hike. Any plans to do South Crocker ended when I realized that even my fifteen-minute turn-around time was insuffi cient. Descending the mountain on that late summer’s day changed the way I viewed Maine’s wilderness. I’d seen no one all day. Coming down I heard animal noises that were not birds. People at home, of course, thought it was funny, but I couldn’t get off that mountain fast enough. I got to my car in almost pitch darkness. I privately vowed that I’d never do this sort of thing again. Two weeks later I tripped on badly placed curb ing in my hometown and broke the patella of my right knee. It was all downhill from there. By mid-2013 I had two choices: live with the pain or have the knee replaced. For me there was only one option. I wanted my life back and I would do whatever it took to get back into the game. A year later I was ready to climb again, but the combination of the hike off Crocker with its spooky ser enade of animal sounds and a skittishness toward get ting really aggressive in the mountains led me to hire the terrific team of Melissa Shea and Jim Albert of Mountain Guide Services in New Vineyard, Maine. On a blazing hot September 4, a year to the date that I’d had my knee re placed, we scored South Crocker. A day later we tack led the Bigelows. I was back in the game, but only briefly. Three years later my other knee was replaced, which led to more delays. I once again hired Melissa and Jim. My goal was North Brother and the Katahdin twins of Baxter and Ham lin in Baxter State Park. It had only been a year since the second replacement, and I was physically unable to finish

all three. Hamlin was a monster of a climb done on the first day of autumn. Melissa almost called a turn-around but saw how motivated I was to finish. We ate a quick lunch on the summit, but the descent was slow and by the time we reached the junction of the Chimney Pond and Ham lin Ridge Trails dusk had settled in. For more than three miles we walked out in the dark, glad to have followed the Park’s requirements that all hikers have a flashlight. I was determined to finish in 2018. The day for the ascent was perfect—hot and sunny with a stiff wind on the summit to cool us down. It was the summer of our fortieth anniversary, and my partner, whose idea of a good time is not climbing mountains like Baxter, agreed to come along. I could not have been happier. The hike was surprisingly easy compared to Hamlin or the Bigelows. With the ex ception of the 0.2 mile stretch up a scree-studded slide, we were at the summit by early afternoon. At 1:38, on July 10, my hands touched the signage atop the mountain. I was a bit overwhelmed. It had taken a long, long time to reach this goal. Decades change the way we live . . . and hike. When I started on Whiteface Mountain that June day in 1971, I was paying $100.00 a month for a nice one-bed room apartment. Ten dollars more got me a garage. In 2017, the bunkhouse at Roaring Brook Campground in Baxter State Park cost $110.00. The bunkhouse. Two nights. No electricity. No showers. In 1971, I borrowed my father’s state-of-the-art Kodak Instamatic for the rare time I took snapshots. On July 10, 2018, when I finished on Baxter, I posted triumphant photographs via Facebook and Whatsapp to friends on five continents. In 1971, 23 people hiked end to end on the Appalachian Trail. On an uneventful, eight-hour, nine-mile return hike on Spaulding in late August 2017, I counted 24 through-hikers—18 head ing north and 6 going south. Times had certainly changed. But what had not changed, despite mountain and trail congestion at all lo cations, was the dazzling beauty of our beautiful corner of the world. Mountain lupines still grace trails; sunsets still sparkle. The smell of wood smoke hurtles me back decades. The sound of a loon on a lake or pond can still send goosebumps up and down my arm. Our mountains are more than precious. I know it would be difficult for me to live in a place where the earth didn’t rise to meet the sky or where lakes, ponds, and rivers did not exist. A month after I finished, my friend Michaela re turned to Plattsburgh. It was the fiftieth anniversary of our friendship. On our day together, we headed to White face, this time driving to the summit. Unlike that June day in 1971 when our entire future lay ahead of us, we ac knowledged how finite time was. While we had certainly changed, what lay below us had not. To the west, Lake Placid glistened in the late afternoon sun and to the east lay Vermont’s Green Mountains. Forever wild! New York led the way in the Northeast. Let us hope that future gen erations will enjoy the same that we have come to love. The remarkable trek from Whiteface to Baxter had taken 47 years and 14 days. It had been an extraordinary, five decades-long walk in the woods. WINTER 2023 | 35