A peak less traveled:Catamount

For me, one of the most alluring features of the High Peaks is climbing the open expanses of rock that characterize the region’s tallest mountains. It is no wonder that so many hikers share the same sentiment and flock to the summit of Marcy or Algonquin as the Adirondack summer rolls along. For this reason, I have often sought refuge from the human entrenched peaks by opting to climb smaller, lesser known mountains. My favorite of these little gems is Catamount, a short hike that offers all of the rock scrambling rewards of its lofty brethren—for half the effort.

The beginning of the path up Catamount is almost as difficult to find as its

A unique rock chimney is one of the many exciting aspects of a hike up Catamount. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

namesake, the mountain lion. But unlike the elusive cougar, there is evidence of the trail; one just has to know where to look. Unlike most trailheads in the Adirondacks, there is no big wooden sign to mark the trail—just a well worn path that juts into the thick green forest like a splinter. A trail register let my hiking partner, Tim, and I know we had found the right spot. We signed in and began our journey up one of the Adirondacks most overlooked mountains.

It only takes a few minutes of walking to experience a dramatic change in the forest composition at the base of Catamount. An otherworldly setting, reindeer lichen blankets the ground like a crusty layer of snow, and Tamaracks stand tall and crooked, their long branches gently dancing in the breeze.

Tamaracks are among my favorite trees in the Adirondacks. They are the only deciduous conifer in the area, which means their soft needles turn a lovely shade of burnt-autumn orange before descending to the forest floor come winter. Just past this unique stretch the trail dips and meanders into a hardwood forest, laden with stately white birch. It is here that the climbing begins, and it only gets steeper as it gains elevation.

Tim and I took a couple of short breathers as we made our way up the rock garden path. During our second break we looked through the treetops and saw the summit—an ominous mound of granite freckled with stunted evergreens. My heart rate increased with anticipation, and as I remarked to Tim, this is where the hike gets good.

After a little more elevation gain, and even steeper terrain, we reached a level area where the forest gives way to open rock. From there, Catamount’s smaller summit is in full view. It looms above like a sleeping giant, and its rocky slopes offer no promise of an easy ascent. Easy is overrated, however, and this is best characterized by the rock chimney that stands guard at the base of the summit.

The second of many great views on Catamount. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

The chimney is an awesome geological wonder. It is here that an intrusion of rock eroded over the course of a million rainy years, leaving a narrow passage in the granite that leads precipitously up to the second awe-inducing view. Tim and I clambered up the chimney, laughing and commenting on how enormous Whiteface is. After we emerged from the stone gate, we lingered for a moment and reveled in our surroundings—the steep terrain above, the road, now just a twisting chalk line far below, and the gritty rocks we were precariously perched upon. It was all too perfect, and we had it all to ourselves.

The next section of trail is one of the best in the Adirondacks. Care must be taken, as Tim quickly learned when he was forced to retrieve his water bottle after watching it roll down the mountain, headed for oblivion. Care must be taken here, as the use of both hands is often required to navigate the various sections of open rock. The trail is marked with cairns, small piles of rock that serve as beacons for the intrepid hiker. The exposure on Catamount can be understandably intimidating to those who are afraid of heights, but for those who seek such grandeur, there are few better places to find it.

We made the first summit and relaxed in the shadow of the higher, second summit. The true summit. After a snack and some enlightening conversation regarding the woes of modern society, we pushed onward, bound for the top and fully invigorated.

The final push up Catamount is much like the first, there’s just more of it. Tim

Tim enjoys the view from Catamount's first summit. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

and I took our time and enjoyed ourselves, an easy task in such a playground of open air. At the top we relaxed and tried to name the High Peaks that stab the horizon to the south. I had left my map in the car, leaving us no resolution, but it was okay. To the north we agreed upon Silver Lake Mountain, with its cliff-laden ridge, and Union Falls Pond, which stretches past in the broad valley to the west. Whiteface is there too, its presence impossible to ignore.

As we made our way back to the car without encountering another soul, I was relieved to know that Catamount is still as I remember it—a rugged, solitary little mountain that offers big rewards for those who take the time to find it.

A Lyon of a Mountain

Lyon Mountain from Route 374 in Dannemora

On the northern most edge of the Adirondack Park, just to the west of Chazy Lake, lies a sleeping giant. This formidable peak will reward brave hikers with sweeping views from the Adirondacks to Montreal. But at 3,830 feet, with 1,790 feet of vertical ascent, Lyon Mountain is not for the faint of heart.

When my wife, Andrea, and I moved to Plattsburgh in 2005, Lyon Mountain was the first mountain we climbed. Although the trail was only 2.5 miles long, reaching the decaying fire tower was a steep, rugged, and rigorous trek. Finding the unmarked trailhead was a feat in itself, but it was nothing compared to the trail ahead.

The trail opens with a gentle walk for a few tenths of a mile, providing the illusion of an easy walk through the woods. But things changed as it abruptly began its steep ascent up a rocky old stream bed, which didn’t end for two miles. This climb took us more than two hours and left us as broken as the old fire tower when we finally reached the top.

This is me by a stream on the new trail.

A lot has changed in five years. Although the trailhead is still unmarked, a new path has been cut into the side of this massive mountain. Rather than the direct approach of the original trail, the new route makes a detour through a vibrant and healthy birch forest and hikers can now enjoy a well made path marked with red trail makers and loaded with switchbacks.

This new trail adds another hour or so to the hike, but meandering through a forest loaded with wildlife more than makes up for it. On our hike, we encountered at least a dozen toads, several streams, a snake, a downy woodpecker, and a healthy growth of Lady Slipper flowers.

One of a dozen toads on the new Lyon Mountain trail.

Although the original trail is still open for more ambitious hikers, don’t think you’re getting off easy on this new path. Just as it detours off of the original trail, it joins up with it again near the top, making sure everyone gets a taste how steep and rocky the old route is. After a few hours of winding up the mountain, joining up on this path seems to be a cruel joke, but hikers are rewarded with a stunning view of Chazy Lake and the Champlain Valley, which will stay at their backs as they pick their way up the old trail.

Fear not, however, as this only continues for about half a mile where the trail levels out in a thickly wooded area. As it continues across the top of the mountain, the newly repaired fire tower and bald peak come into view. The ultimate reward after this rigorous hike is the stunning 360 degree view. From the tower, you can see the High Peaks in the south, Malone and its farms and windmills to the northwest and on a clear day, so I’ve been told, Montreal to the northeast. Thanks to Canadian wildfires, it was not a clear day.

Lady Slipper flowers may be endangered but they seem to be doing well here.

If so inclined, hikers can continue on south of the tower through a thick pine forest to the end of an old logging road that runs from the top of the mountain to Route 374 on the bottom. I love hiking and truly enjoy the rigors and challenges a good trail has to offer, but few things are more defeating than learning I could have driven to the top of the mountain—which is why you’ll never see me on Prospect Mountain in Lake George again. I don’t think you can drive up this road but either way it’s a sad thought, to say the least.

As is our tradition, Andrea and I ate our lunch on top of the mountain before heading back down. I tell you, no gourmet meal in the world tastes better than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the top of a mountain.

After our lunch we made our way back down to our car, sweaty, bug bitten and happy. All in all, our trek took us about four hours and it was worth every second. I highly recommend this peak.

The Adirondack's can be seen from this beautiful souther view.

Little Giants

The traihead to Rattlesnake Mountain

Every mountain has its own personality. Steep or jagged, wooded or bald, wet or dry, each climb is unique. A lot can be said for climbing the biggest mountain you can find and adding its name to the list of peaks on your conquered landscape.

But I’d like to talk about the little guys out there. Recently my wife, Andrea, and I climbed two smaller mountains: Rattlesnake Mountain in Willsboro and Silver Lake Mountain just outside of Hawkeye. We may not have racked up the miles on these hikes, but they were every bit as enjoyable as any mountain twice their size.

The trails up both of these peaks are less than 2 miles, and often hikers see these as beginner climbs or family hikes. Don’t get me wrong, they are great for that, but they shouldn’t be overlooked by the experienced hiker. They may be short, but what they lack in length and height, they make up for with something special: diverse wildlife and great summits for exploring. On both of these little peaks we found tremendous views, families of hawks, and their large, relatively flat wooded summits made me feel like a kid again.

Willsboro Bay and Lake Champlain from Rattlesnake Mountain

Rattlesnake is a privately owned mountain, which welcomes hikers, just a few miles down Route 22 from Northway exit 33. This little climb may be short, but it offers a commanding view of Willsboro Bay, Lake Champlain, Burlington, and the Green Mountains in Vermont. The hike begins with a peaceful walk up an old logging road, where it makes a sharp right turn and begins ascending to the actual trailhead. Here, the real trails up the mountain begin. This mountain offers a variety of routes to a variety of peaks, all of which are poorly marked but easily spotted. Whether you want to meander up a rocky switchback or scramble up large boulders with excellent views of Lincoln pond and Poke-O-Moonshine at your back, the choice is yours.

The Rattlesnake rock garden

As enjoyable as that is, the fun for me doesn’t begin until I reach the top. Immediately to the right of the trail is a large “balanced rock,” which is more or less the trickiest thing to climb on the whole mountain. Not only is it a blast to scramble up, but it’s a great place to relax, catch your breath, eat lunch, meditate or just soak up the sun. But this is just the beginning of the summit, and I would argue that there is just as much to explore on the top of the mountain as there is trail to there. Between my two summit markers, the balanced rock to the south and the WCPV radio tower to the north, there is at least half a mile of summit to enjoy with a panoramic view Willsboro Bay and Lake Champlain, complete with a family of red-tailed hawks and a large garden of rock statues built by the mountain’s visitors. Andrea and I have climbed Rattlesnake Mountain three or four times, and each trip we spend more time exploring the top than we do hiking. Be warned, there is a long and lovely trail down the backside of this mountain, but if you plan on hiking up the front and down the back, prepare yourself for a 10 mile walk back to your car. I know this from experience. 

Short as it is, the steep bald scramble to the summit should satisfy the experienced hiker looking for a challenge, for which they will be generously rewarded with a panoramic view and families of hawks to observe. But that’s not all.

The summit of Silver Lake Mountain also offers nearly two more miles of bushwhacking and exploring for those inclined. At the top, you’ll find a myriad of dead-end trails that cover the densely wooded crescent shaped mountain. Its many bluffs overlooking Mud Pond offer adventure, exploring, and majestic views of Taylor Pond, Silver Lake, and Catamount and Whiteface Mountains.

 Small as they are, I love these little peaks. What they lack in stature, they make up for with adventure, excitement, and just plain old fun. Next time you find yourself at the top of a high-peak, don’t forget to look down. Maybe next time you can humble your ego, and take a little hike.

The complete view from Silver Lake Mountain

She

To my beloved friend Jade,

 I am writing this letter from the summit of Jay Mountain, and I keep thinking about the last time I was here, and you were with me. We climbed up the steep side of Jay, you always in the lead, and you took to your business as I took to mine. I would stop to check out the bark and the goose-foot leaves of the young striped maple, or the scraggly troll-hair appearance of the bearded lichen, or the finest specimen of morel mushroom I have yet to find, and you would sniff your way through the understory, detecting things I can only imagine. That day was a good day.

 Today you are not here because age is taking its toll, and I miss you. You can no longer climb mountains because arthritis has stiffened your joints, although you still wag your tail in anticipation every time you see me

Jade refusing to smile for the camera

preparing my backpack for an outing. It pains me to leave you behind, old friend. It pains me to walk alone knowing you are sitting at home, peeking out of the window and awaiting my return. We had so many great adventures, didn’t we?

 Do you remember the time we climbed Cascade with Mike and Heather? It rained all day and the summit was engulfed in cloud cover, making it impossible to see anything but the rock we were walking on. We played hide-and-go-seek by simply walking ten feet in any direction, and the insurmountable mist took care of the rest. It was a wet, dreary day, but we were in good company, and could not help but feel the sense of freedom the mountains instill.

 How about the time we took a short hike up to the Giant’s Nubble two summers ago? I was climbing the slippery rocks at the base of Roaring Brook Falls and you got nervous and started barking at me, begging me to come down. I returned soaking wet and you glared at me, and then proceeded to walk back down the trail without so much as a glance to see if I was following. Such attitude! But I laughed because I knew you meant well.

The Jay Range from Silver Lake Mountain

The last big adventure we had was a hike up Silver Lake Mountain, late last spring. I knew your fourteen years could not handle anything too long or steep, so it was the perfect choice. You were yourself that day, young again, and bounding after any poor creature that triggered your senses. There was still snow lingering on the summit, and I lobbed snowballs to you and you chomped them out of the air, just as you’ve always done. It filled me with joy to see you that way, and your happiness almost made up for the sadness I felt at the limp you developed on the final stretch of our return.

 So on this sunny afternoon I have been thinking about all of the times we have shared, and all of the times you have made me happy. I swear sometimes I still see you as I walk through these woods. Whenever I hear a stick snap I expect to look up and catch you chasing after a chipmunk, like a perfect black shadow crashing through the forest. You’re still there, like a ghost, waiting for me to catch up at the crest of every steep section on the path. Perhaps most of all, I feel like you should be sitting here next to me, basking in this, the warmest of mountain glows.

 Although I cannot reverse the imposition of age, or restore the vitality you have lost, I can promise to do my best to make sure you are content. Our walks are shorter now, but there are still plenty of car rides and relaxing afternoons by the lake to enjoy, and when I come home tonight, we will sit out on the patio and enjoy the pleasant spring weather for a while.

Although I cannot have you by my side as often as I’d like to these days, you will always be with me in spirit, and the thought of you will always bring a smile to my face. You are a gentle creature with a crazy streak that might just rival my own knack for insanity. You are a good friend, a protective friend, and a loyal friend.

I cannot ask for anything more.

 Shaun

It looks like alien blood!

Map lichen on Wright Peak

Few summers have been as dreary as the one we suffered in 2009, and no summer has made me appreciate sunshine more. The grey finally took a day off, affording me the privilege of embarking upon a warm, clear-sky, cool-breeze hike up Wright Peak in late August. To my delight, I found something more stunning than a superb view patiently awaiting my arrival atop the mountain’s rocky summit.

As the sun made its way closer to the tops of the rugged ranges of the western Adirondacks, I was zipping up my wind breaker and catching one last glimpse of Mt. Colden’s slides before heading off of Wright’s summit. I removed my sunglasses so I could see the features of the steep rock better and there it was—what had once appeared as dark blotches leapt from every slab of anorthosite in a brilliant display of lime green. “My God,” I uttered. “It looks like something with green blood was slaughtered up here!”

From a distance, Rhizocarpon geographicum, or map lichen, looks like green splatter marks with a black spore border. It dots every exposed surface of the rock on Wright Peak in various size splotches; some are over a foot across and others barely an inch. In places where several splotches have converged, the green coloration coupled with a darker border gives it the appearance of continents on a map. Up close, it has a dry, scaly look and it is surprisingly brittle to the touch, especially considering the harsh environment it calls home. No stranger to the elements, map lichen favors cold, open areas of rock, making the exposed alpine zones of the High Peaks prime territory for this species.

Mt. Marcy from the alpine zone on Wright

Research is showing that the environment map lichen lives in might not be quite as harsh as expected. Climatologists consider healthy patches of map lichen to be an indicator of good air quality, and also use them to estimate the age of glacial deposits, a technique called lichenometry. The technique is based on the fact that crustose lichens, of which map lichen is a part, can live for more than 4,000 years.

Map lichen’s ability to grow old gracefully is truly a testament to the resiliency of the species. They are so resilient, in fact, that when the European Space Agency sent map lichen into orbit around Earth in 2005 and exposed it to outer space for 15 days, it returned virtually unaffected.

It is as if this species only criteria are conditions deemed inhospitable by other species. Despite the struggles surviving in such locales must entail, the map lichen just sits there, biding its time and giving an otherworldly brilliance to alpine regions world wide.

Get Lost!

A basic Google map showing roads and steams.

Recently there was another incident in the Adirondack Park that has raised safety concerns about the absence of cell phone towers. According to an article published in the Press Republican, a woman in her 60s got her car stuck after walking her dog in Duane, N.Y. It seems that when she went for help, she became lost and was eventually found hours later near the entrance to the Paul Smith’s visitor’s center.

            A passing motorist saw the woman and attempted to call 911 for help, but the call was dropped, even though it was just a mile from Verizon’s new tower. The lost woman suffered frostbite and hypothermia in the 8 degree weather.

            Now, I’m not about to sit here and debate whether or not there should be more cell phone towers in the Adirondacks or to place blame on the woman who was lost. I would like to make this an opportunity to discuss some basic outdoor safety.

            Having been lost in the woods myself, I know that it can be a bit nerve-racking, but it can also be an opportunity for fun and excitement. The old Boy Scout motto of “be prepared” is a bit cliché these days, but it is absolutely true. I’m not suggesting that you need 70 lbs of survival gear in your rucksack. In fact, the best survival tools weigh nothing at all; they’re the knowledge you carry out into the woods.

            For starters, make sure you are dressed appropriately for the weather, not just where you are, but where you are going, since many mountains can be much colder at the top than at the bottom.

            Also, whenever you embark on an outdoor excursion, alone or with friends, make sure that you tell someone where you are going and when you should be back. It can be a neighbor, a friend or a relative. They can even live in California, as long as you call them when you get home. That way, if you aren’t back by your designated time, someone will know to start looking for you.

A topographical map showing mountains and streams. Courtesy of Google

             Next, take a few minutes before you leave to study a map of where you are going. It doesn’t have to be a topographic surveyor’s map, though that will do just fine, any map from Google will work. All you need to look for are roads and streams or other bodies of water, as these make the easiest and most obvious landmarks to use as reference points.

            It is also every easy to get disoriented or to follow the wrong trail, particularly if you hiking on a trail you are either not familiar with or at a different time of year than you normally would. One time I got lost on the east side of Lake George when I accidentally began following a well used deer run that looked enough like the trail I was on. To make matters worse I was following a compass that being thrown off by massive iron ore deposits. Although that is not a typical problem, it is something to consider.

            There are ways to roughly determine north, and from there decide which way you came into the woods so you can backtrack to your car. On that particular day, I knew that the road I had parked on was west of the trails so I walked towards the late-afternoon sun. I’ll admit it didn’t work quite as well as I thought it would, but it got me to a road that I could follow out.

            I’ve since learned that the sun can be used as a more accurate compass than I’d ever imagined. According to “The Backpacker’s Field Manual,” by Rick Curtis, you can use your watch to determine a basic direction. To do this, point the hour-hand at the sun and south will be halfway between the hour-hand and the 12. Although this method is not super accurate, it is better than nothing.

            All of this advice is useless, however, if you panic. Having a proper positive attitude is essential for any survival situation, as panic can lead to hasty decisions that can be fatal. If you have trouble doing this, pretend you are a kid again on a backyard adventure. Sure it’s silly, but at least you’ll increase your chances of survival.

            This blog is far too small to list everything you need to know to survive being lost, but hopefully it inspires you to do a bit more digging of your own. At the very least, maybe if you are lost someday, my words on the subject come back to you in your time of need.

            If you are interested in knowing more about hiking and survival, I highly recommend “The Backpacker’s Field Manual,” by Rick Curtis, director of Princeton’s Outdoor Acton program for basic hiking info. Then for survival information there is “Tom Brown’s Field Guide to Wilderness Survival,” which is an indispensable source on the subject.

Good luck out there.

A lesson in self preservation

The weather in the mountains mirrors human emotion in a dynamic way.  Its mood can shift with a bipolar quality that is startling and seemingly unpredictable, yet there are usually warning signs that can urge even the most intrepid hiker to turn back.  A failed attempt at Porter Mountain last summer made me realize that even under the best of conditions, it is often wise to heed what a temperamental sky is trying to tell me.    

My drive to the Porter Mountain trailhead took place during the most ideal of mornings.  I remember looking up and seeing large, puffy white clouds framed by an open, deep blue sky.  It made me feel welcome, like an inviting smile.  “Come.” it said to me.   “Get to know me today.”  The air was warm and the breeze was telling the black flies to stay away, protecting me from annoyance and pain.  Everything felt right, and I decided it was a good day to take my time.

The thickening gray above Giant. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

Approaching Porter from the Marcy Airfield requires an ascent of a rugged little cobble called Blueberry Mountain.  It probably took over an hour for me to reach the first of Blueberry’s many open rock stretches, and as I turned to enjoy the view I noticed some pale gray clouds collecting in the sky to the south.  I interpreted this as some late afternoon showers, something I was prepared to cope with on the final leg of my return.   It was nothing to worry about, because the skies above were still compelling me to come closer.

Several vistas later I was standing atop Blueberry scanning the ridge I was to follow up Porter, whose summit was now in clear view.  Up above clouds were racing by, the way thoughts pass through the anxious mind in a moment of panicked frenzy.  My mind, however, was calm.  So far the day had been superb, so it seemed a shame to turn my back on the mountain.  There was, after all, still a backdrop of blue in the sky, and the distance I had to cover was a mere two miles.  In hindsight I realize I had ignored obvious warning signs.  This was no passing mood—the sky was telling me to stay away, that today would not be my day.

It took me a little while to find the faded paint blaze that marks where the trail reenters the forest.  After I finally discovered the opening, I took one last look over my shoulder and noticed I could no longer see the rocky top of Giant Mountain across the valley.  Thin wisps of mist had cloaked the summit and were beginning to stretch down into the great cirque that characterizes Giant’s western flank.  I now only had memories of the view that once was.  Common sense dictated a retreat, and the thought had crossed my mind, but for some reason I couldn’t stop.  I had to try to go a little farther, just in case the weather miraculously improved. 

Turning my back on logic, I began the steep descent into the soggy col that separates Blueberry from Porter.  Entering the vegetation at the bottom of the col is like walking into the throat of some tremendous beast.  It is extremely wet and dense, and it gives a true sense of being closed in.  I caught few glimpses of the sky as I fought my way through this miserable stretch, and was shocked by what was waiting for me on the other side. 

My mind snapped into focus, and I immediately turned around and began a speedy retreat.  I plowed through the throat of the beast, ignoring the sharp branches that tore at my skin and whipped my face.  Upon returning to Blueberry’s naked dome, I saw that the stage had been set for a full-scale downpour.  Everything to the south had been consumed by darkness and a flash of lightning, quickly followed by a burst of thunder, reaffirmed that I was now in the wrong place at the wrong time.  The mountain which lies just east of my vantage point, the aptly named Hurricane Mountain, was also beginning to vanish.  I was being surrounded by the storm.  The good times were over, I had my fun.  It would be a mad dash to safety from here on out.

Charging down Blueberry, my objective became simple—get past the exposed sections of trail before the lightning could punish me for my lack of reasoning.  The entire experience was frightening, as every bolt that split the sky was closer and every shout that followed was more deafening than its predecessor.  The frequent views I had previously enjoyed now instilled fear.  The sky above was no longer amicable, it was enraged.  There were no signs of wildlife; no chirping birds, no scurrying chipmunks.  Even the trees were different; they were swaying violently and I could hear their branches clacking together.  It was as if everything that was good on this adventure was turning against me, and I longed to be back in the shelter of the valley below.

Looking south from Blueberry. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

The descent became a race against the elements.  The details are scattered, and all I clearly remember is jogging across every exposed section of trail, hoping my haste didn’t cause an injury.  The forest below never seemed as close as the lightning, my breath never seemed as heavy as the wind, and my heart never beat as loud as the thunder.  I was running out of time.

When I finally set foot onto flat ground, I felt a surge of delight fill me.  I was finally off of the mountain, but I still had a half mile to go.  As I approached a brook the sky lit up and crackled, refreshing my memory that lightning does strike trees, and I was surrounded by them.  I could hear rain, but it was not upon me yet.  I switched from a jog to a run, with nothing but the sound of the impending downpour to keep me focused on the task at hand. 

Minutes later, I was standing at the trailhead.  I was almost there, but there was one more obstacle to overcome.  Between me and my car was about 100 feet of dirt parking lot.  I was now a lightning rod.  Raindrops began slapping against the ground and the wind was fierce.  It was cursing me, mocking me.  The tiny mountain on the other side of the valley was the only feature I could see—everything behind it was gone.  I removed my keys from my backpack and got ready to run.  I took a deep breath and FLASH!  A bolt of lightning struck the backside of the tiny mountain and I was off before the last grumble of thunder echoed into oblivion. 

I wasted no time getting into the sanctuary of my car, where I rested, quiet and relieved.  The full brunt of the storm hit and I just sat there, enjoying its brilliance and waiting for it to pass me by.  From this vantage the lightning was stunning, and the thunder no longer seemed to be clapping in anger.  Instead, I felt like it was applauding me.  I sighed, and realized I had learned my lesson the hard way.  Sometimes it is better to appreciate the intense nature of things from a safe place.  In life, as in with the mountains, there is no shame in turning your back on something that can only bring you harm.

The art of solitude

Last summer, I successfully climbed 15 High Peaks and countless smaller mountains. Having grown weary of trying to convince others to join me, I spent the majority of my time exploring the Adirondacks alone.  People hear this and are quick to show their surprise at such an endeavor.  “You mean, you spent that much time, out there, alone?”  Yes, I did, and it taught me the difference between loneliness and solitude.

Looking toward the Flowed Lands from Mount Colden. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

In my mind, finding something that truly brings joy is a precious thing.  Hiking has that effect on me; I am always happy when I am in the woods.  It was lonesome at first, seeing all of this beauty and having no one to share it with, and yet I felt drawn to it.  I came to terms with the fact that if I wanted to be out there, I had to go no matter what.

The first few solo hikes were strange.  I found myself hurrying along to give myself more time just in case something happened.  I became nervous when I saw clouds rolling in, and every skinned knee felt like a warning that next time, it could be my skull bouncing off that rock.  Arriving at my destination brought a sense of accomplishment, until I realized that the journey was only half over.  I still had to make it back. 

Persistence is a terrible disease of mine.  I could not let fear, or loneliness, stop me from being close to something that felt so good.  Spring melted into summer, and I continued to hit the trails.  As the days grew longer, I discovered that I was no longer calling everyone I could think of, looking for a partner.  My pace on the trails slowed, affording me the opportunity to look around, into the forest  instead of at the obstacles at my feet.  I was becoming comfortable out there, and it felt good.

As I opened up to my surroundings, they welcomed me in the gentlest of ways.  Life began to spring forth from every granite stone, every rotten snag, every fern grove.  It swam in the waters, dove from the sky, and peeked at me from the most unlikely of places.  There I was, surrounded by nature, standing waist deep in John’s Brook with the hot summer sun warming the frigid water that was dripping down my chest.  I had found my peace, but the loneliness of solitude remained.

It was sometime in July when I decided to make the 12-mile loop over Mount Colden. The day was pleasant and warm, with occasional bands of clouds slowly rolling by overhead.  I made the summit and relaxed, facing the Flowed Lands as I wrote and enjoyed the view.  Over the course of an hour, the clouds thickened, and I decided it was time to head back.  As I descended Colden’s smaller summit, I stopped to take a drink and noticed there was an inchworm on my shoulder.  A stowaway!  I let it climb onto my finger and watched as it crawled along.  It was then that I realized that I was not alone.  I set the inchworm down and saw my surroundings in a new light.  I no longer just looked at the life around me, I recognized it.  

As I continued walking back, toward Adirondak Loj, every turn of the trail put me in touch with something familiar.  At the time I was unable to identify them by name, but they were there.  The smell of balsam fir, the trillium that add artist’s strokes to the forest floor, the knock knock knock of the pileated woodpecker.  There was a hint of rain in the air, and I could hear the leaves above me shivering.  I have always felt an uncanny sense of energy in the forest, and as I made my retreat, I realized why.  The energy does not come from me; it comes from the life that surrounds me. 

So now, when people tell me they can’t join me on my next excursion, I tell them it’s OK.  I no longer tell them I’ll be going alone.  Instead, I tell them I’m going to visit a few close friends, and I’m fine with that.  My pace on the trail has slowed considerably, and I now find myself enjoying every nuance of the forest.  Sure, the view at the end is inspiring, but it is the experience of being in nature that I find most rewarding.  I am forever indebted to the Adirondacks because they have taught me something I will never forget: With so much life around us, we are never truly alone in this world.