Adirondack Peeks Winter 2024

A Different Kind of 46er Jonathan Kronstadt M y son is a 46er. My daughter is a 46er. My broth er-in-law, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew are 46ers. My wife is half a 46er. At age 67, and with an eclectic but paltry list of seven peaks to my credit—Cas cade, Giant, Rocky Peak Ridge, Dial, Sawteeth, Tabletop, and Seymour—I have no such aspirations. My annually un dulating fitness level combined with ever-escalating joint creakiness has rendered me realistic regarding my moun tain math. But I am approaching 46er status, just not the or dinary, run-of-the-mill, walk-up-the-trail-to-the-top-of-the mountain kind. I am almost . . . wait for it . . . a sandwich 46er. In other words, sandwiches fashioned by my stubby mayonnaise-, mustard-, even Asian pesto–smeared fingers have summited—and been lustily consumed atop—41 of the Adirondacks’ 46 official high peaks. And while I haven’t had to slog up Allen, polish off the five-peak Dix range in a day, or navigate Colden’s trap dike like the hiking 46ers, I’m pretty confident I’ll be in much more select company when I cross the last summit off my crumb-flecked list. The sandwich maker is hiking’s unsung hero, the most unheralded yet arguably most important member of the team. We don’t just assemble monuments of meat, cheese, veggies, and condiments. We provide an element critical to every hike’s success: a reason to keep going when all you want to do is lie down. To have a truly great hike, you need three things: good boots, ample water, and a killer summit sandwich. I’ve made hundreds of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for hikes over the years, but these and their brethren—trail mix, energy bars, and the like—are the stuff of fundamental fuel, not foodie fantasies. The summit sandwich is a com pletely different animal, one that provides inspiration when you’re drenched with perspiration and struggling with res piration; one that keeps your legs and lungs going when your will to walk is gone. Yes, the views at the top are awe some, and the journeys can be life changing. But without an equally spectacular sandwich to look forward to, the experience is incomplete. For some it’s as simple as ham and mayonnaise on whole wheat. For others, grilled lamb and eggplant with red pepper pesto, feta, heirloom tomato, and arugula on herbed focaccia. The ingredients matter only insofar as was at the age of 34 during the 1980 Olympics. We came in from the south and spent four hours breaking trail to the Algonquin/Boundary col. It was another two hours through deep powder to the top of Iroquois, quite different from what the Lake Placid Olympics were experiencing below. As we watched the sunset from the top and the Olympic flame below, we realized we were running out of daylight and quickly retreated. Fortunately, one of the beauties of a winter climb is the trip back down on a broken trail that has had time to set. It was one of my quickest descents (one

they satisfy a hiker’s desire for a culinary reward worthy of their effort. I am not a methodical person—except when making summit sandwiches, because it’s that important and meaningful a job. My mis en place would turn Jacques Pepin baby spinach green with envy. My meats, cheeses, breads, spreads, vegetables, and condiments are care fully arranged to ensure one reality: nothing is forgotten. I consult my notebook with detailed sandwich specs mul tiple times during each creation’s assembly. Some finished products are small and simple enough to fit in a normal sized sandwich bag, while others require a layer of plastic wrap followed by a thick envelope of aluminum foil to main tain their structural integrity all the way to the top. Each package is then personalized in black Sharpie—the official marker of the High Peaks. My son, Max, who has trouble finding his way around our triangular, 15-acre neighborhood in suburban Maryland, has an encyclopedic knowledge of Adirondack geography, and is the keeper of each family member’s High Peaks spreadsheet, tallying summits hiked and sandwich es hoovered. I knew I was getting close, and so needed his unerring memory to determine which mountains I was missing. After consulting both his memory bank and the written record, he determined that going into the summer of 2024 my unchecked boxes numbered seven, including Haystack, Basin, and Saddleback—my customary custom ers had hiked in pre-season to Johns Brook Lodge, spent the night and had sandwiches packed for them by pleasant but clearly second-tier sandwicheers. Max’s recall is clear on this—he said sandwiches “sucked,” and I don’t think he did so just to make me feel better. The others—Skylight, Gray, Cliff, and Redfield—were also done as pre-season overnights, and so I wasn’t around to make my mustardy mountain magic. A week ago, Max and three friends set off on a planned three-night backpacking trip and, though they had all the food they needed, agreed to take along three of my creations and eat them atop Haystack, Basin, and Saddleback. Being young and having already climbed this trio the conventional, following-the-trail method, Max took his mates on a challenging course involving a lot of bushwhacking and a couple of slides—huge expanses of exposed rock, usually caused by walls of water washing away all vegetation. Biting off a bit more than Max and crew could chew, they wound up whiffing on Haystack, so I still have five more to go. But the sandwiches apparently sparked some that my interest in camping has waned. Although much has changed in terms of clothing and the number of climbers, the mountains and views have remained the same. Each time I am in contact with one of my old hiking friends, the conversation always fondly returns to the experiences and memories we shared so many years ago. hour!) and driven by the thought of sharing a tea bag with Charlie. I continue to winter climb regularly but must admit

WINTER 2024 | 29