Adirondack Peeks Winter 2024

The Varney Indirect Brian Hoody, #4410WV Y ou’ve never heard of this route? Haven’t seen it on an AllTrails or a Strava heat map? Well, read on hardy peak bagger, and I’ll tell you the tale of the Varney Indirect—a route that ascends the oft-underappreciated Mount Marshall. Like a mirage, the Indirect appears every so often during the long Adirondack High Peaks winter, brought to life by a trick of the landscape, entangling the doomed climber within its snare . . . But enough of this—who is Varney you ask? Why, it’s the legendary 46 gridder Doug Varney—a long-time 46er Trail Master, who may or may not possess some sort of mystical powers (more on that later). Doug cruises through the wilderness like a young Noah John Rondeau, stopping occasionally to put in some rock steps or move a tree out of the way. You think that I might be exaggerating, but I’ve witnessed these powers for myself . . . Imagine, if you will, an early April day, still cold and snowy enough to warrant snowshoes. Your intrepid author tromps down the path toward Street and Nye Mountains, following a lone set of tracks only to find Indian Pass Brook at the usual crossing running open and deep in places. There were a few janky-looking ice bridges here and there, appearing as though they wouldn’t hold a red squirrel. Being the shameless peak bagger that I was (am), I headed downstream from the usual crossing until some cracking ice underfoot told me not to. For once I wisely abandoned a route and scurried upstream like a deranged otter, looking for safe passage to the opposite bank. Ah! Some tracks—the ones that I had been following earlier in deed headed this way. Their path crossed to a small island and then seemed to stop at the water’s edge—a strong, deep, ice-choked channel guarding the passage to the op posite embankment. Upon closer examination I noted the unmistakable tracks of a set of solitary snowshoes prints continuing on the other side . . . I made it over to the island, which was surrounded by ice shelves and plenty of open water. Probing with my trekking pole, I tested the icy rocks but was at a complete loss as to how to get myself over. This person ahead of me was undeniably no mere mortal and I dejectedly held my head in shame and went instead to climb Mount Jo. A few weeks later spring had sprung in the moun tains and Memorial Day weekend found me with the 46er slightly bitter food-related discussion during the trip. The boys forgot a large package of sausages destined to be wrapped in tortillas along with cheese, Cheetos and mus tard, and their replacement protein—Slim Jims—seemed a disappointment. Also, Max apparently fell down on the job when it came to cookies and refused to make up for the Slim Jim/cookie debacle by allowing anyone to eat my sandwiches anywhere other than on their appointed sum mits. He admitted that “if it involves cookies we did a bad job and if it involves cheese we did a good job,” to which

his pal Alex replied, “And if it involves sandwiches, there’s a lot of red tape.” My mother was a terrible cook, but a fabulous feeder of people. I have added solid culinary skills to my genetic chain—both my kids have serious kitchen chops— and perhaps nowhere have they been more lovingly ar ticulated than in these well-traveled sandwiches. I may not have made it to the top with them, but even if no one asked for their sammie on a six-inch roll, I was the hero of every hike.

Brian Hoody at the Summit of Mt. Marshall

trail crew, talking about our latest adventures (or misadven tures in my case) this past winter, when I told my tale of woe about my April attempt on Street and Nye. Doug looked over at me and told me that it was himself who had been ahead of me—he had remembered the hazardous crossing of Indian Pass Brook that day, with its dicey island crossing. In wonderment I exclaimed, “How the heck (I didn’t say heck) did you get across that open part of the brook?” “I jumped,” Doug casually explained. “Did you even take your snowshoes off?” I shout ed (again in wonderment). “I don’t think so,” Doug again casually exclaimed, and once more my head drooped in shame. And so, the following winter I found myself strug gling across a frozen, windy Flowed Lands. This time I was straight-up “vulturing” (e.g., I already knew that Doug had been up Marshall a few days before, and I could therefore easily follow his tracks) on a rather bleak February day. I could see dark clouds scuttling across the mountains, blot ting out the summits in what I imagined were snow squalls. A good snowpack had made the passage up the Calamity Brook Trail swift, its usual rooty, rocky, muddy route buried beneath several feet of snow. It wasn’t until I emerged from the cover of the trees onto the frozen Flowed Lands that the going became tough—a stiff wind howling across the open space where a vague path (that was quickly becoming filled in with snow) wound across the snowy expanse. The biting breeze was relentless as I made my way toward the Herbert Brook lean-to. Upon reaching the lean-to, glad to be out of the wind, I took a few minutes to take stock before setting out for the start of the herd path. Finding the path up Marshall was to be the easiest

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