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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

The Heart and Sole of Mud Season

A muddy path

Winter has passed, but spring hasn’t quite started yet. We are in the transitional period that results in that fifth season, known all too well by North Country residents: Mud Season.

As a child, this was by far my favorite “season.” My mother would no longer be nagging me to button up and put a hat on. I could slip into my (very fashionable) classic black rubber boots with red soles, to which I had formed a rather strong attachment. To me, those boots meant adventure, the freedom to explore beyond the fair-weathered limits to which my sneakers confined me.

I would romp around in the puddles and wallow in the mud like a little pig. Well OK, maybe I didn’t wallow per se, but I really liked to play in the mud. I loved the sounds my boots would make when I walked through a particularly deep patch. I fought with the soggy soil to keep my boots, even though the ground tried to suck them right off my feet.

A young pig playing in the mud

Sometimes I lost the battle. North Country mud puts up a good fight, mind you, and at times can be too much for a youngster. On a few of my wild expeditions, I can recall walking faster than my boots, and I would therefore out-step them, planting my exposed toes straight into a slimy mud pit. I’d look over my shoulder, as if I were doing something wrong, and silently slide my muddy foot back into my boot and carry on like nothing happened.

But that’s the beauty of rubber boots. They are designed to get dirty. When they are covered with mud, inside and out, the simple remedy is to blast them with the garden hose and hang them upside down to dry. In those days, it was always so simple.

Since then, I’ve taken quite a different view of Mud Season. I no longer envision slimy days of play and adventure, but rather annoyance at never being able to keep my car clean. I tire of raking up the clumps of mud that inevitably make their way into the house. I finally understand why my mother would get so upset when I accidentally walked inside before taking off my muddy rubber boots.

Muddy ruts in a North Country field

That’s how I discovered that I’m finally growing up. I’m not a little kid anymore, and those days of muddy adventures are over. They always told me to enjoy it while I could, and as much as I’d like to be able to say I made the best of it, I’m sure I could have squeezed a little more fun and excitement out of my childhood.

But for now, as a testament to my youth—and a strong resentment toward my adulthood—I’m going out to buy a pair of rubber boots. They will not be pink with purple polka dots, or anything as fashionable as that. I want a solid black pair, with red soles, of course.

On the Road (Again)

Over the past few years, I’ve driven the Northway dozens of times. I’ve braved the open roads in every type of weather imaginable– clear skies to torrential downpours so heavy I couldn’t see the flashers from the car 10 feet ahead of me. I’ve driven it alone and with friends, with time to dawdle or in a rush, with great tunes coming from my radio, and once, in an unbearable, droning silence when my radio just couldn’t last any longer. Now, I’m not going to bore you with proper road etiquette or anything like that. I guess this is just my musing, from the best of my memory,  as I enjoyed the drive on I-87 today.

My view from the passenger's seat

The ride has been “my thinking time.” It’s almost five uninterrupted hours where I can bounce thoughts around in my head, or just get into the driving zone. It’s been therapeutic, it’s been relieving, it’s been exciting. No matter what it’s been, it’s been one of the most influential experiences I’ve had in the Adirondacks. After all, most of my views of the Adirondacks have been through the glass of my windshield.

I can recall my first impression of the Adirondacks, as I made my first trip up to Plattsburgh. I was in that in-between state of sleep and wakefulness, as my mother navigated through the mountains. I can remember the enormous gray shadows of mountains looming in the distance behind a light fog, their summits rounded  like the bellies of sleeping giants.  It didn’t impress me much, but the dozens of rides since then have changed that.  I love, love, love driving through the mountains now; it’s so familiar, yet so new each time. I’m amazed by the changes the forest makes as the year transitions.

I remember sunny, cool, autumn days when the forest was on fire with the gorgeous colors of fall foliage and the view looked like something off a post card. I tried once, with little success, to capture the awe-inspiring vistas on my camera phone. Autumn is always my favorite time of year to drive through because, honestly, what better time is there?

I can still feel the sticky humidity of summer drives where I rolled the windows all the way down, turned my music all the way up, and gave thanks to the trees when their shadows provided a cool relief from the sun’s relentless beating on my car. The smell of summer is always so rich and fresh, intensified as I zip by the road markers and the grass and earth baking under the sun.

I can recall the most atrocious snowstorm during an evening two years ago, and the only time I ever went off the road in my lucky old ‘98 Dodge Stratus. The feeling of having the open road to myself in the huge Adirondack Park as evening approached wasn’t so great,  nor was the frustration of losing my cell service every time I called 911 to ask for help. That was the only time the road ever betrayed me. Its black ice was undetectable, unlike the dent left in my door as a reminder that even a slow crawl in a snow storm can be too fast.

But today, as I made my way back to school from my hometown four and a half hours away, the ride was different. Usually, I am the driver, but the untimely death of my beloved car meant that this time I caught a ride back with a friend. As the passenger, the ride was so familiar, yet still unrecognizable, like a family member you haven‘t seen in years. I thought back on all the time I’d spent racing along, counting white lines pass by. I overlooked all of the landmarks I used to gauge my distance in favor for the details I missed out on while I was focusing on the road, like the waterfalls that gushed out exuberantly from the craggy rock walls lining the road.

It was an incredibly different experience, and it reconnected me to how beautiful the park is, even when it’s muddy and the sky is gray, like it was today. I loved coasting over miles and miles of pavement and being able to just enjoy the environment. It gave me an odd, wonderful sense of satisfaction.

Tweet, tweet, tweetly-tweet!

It’s heeeeeere! Well, almost. Even though temperatures have been rising recently, getting into the mid-fifties, even the low sixties in some places,  I can’t say that spring has sprung just yet. There’s one thing I’m waiting for.

I’m giddy like a little kid for a personal tradition that I look forward to ever year: spotting the original early bird, the red-breasted American Robin. Every year, I can’t wait to see my first Robin.

As symbols of the end of winter and the coming of spring, the American Robin (turdus migratorius), is one of the first indicators to me that the long, snowy (or not, this year) winter is over. When the Robin is out, singing and darting around hunting for worms, I start to anticipate spring.  Soon it’ll be time to work on the garden, pull my bike out of the shed, and do the dreaded yearly overhaul my mom cheerfully calls “Spring Cleaning.” But let’s not think about that for now.

American Robin photo by Wikipedia user Mdf

Also called the North American Robin and the Red-Breasted Robin, the migratory songbird is a type of thrush, which explains its scientific name (turdus meaning thrush, migratorius meaning migrating). Even though it’s named after the European Robin, the American Robin is a completely different species, of which there are seven hazily-defined subspecies.

With gray-brown feathers and distinctively reddish orange chests and bellies, the American Robin is one of the most easily identifiable birds.  The head of the bird is darker than the body, the bill is yellow, and the belly and underside of the tail are white or light gray. There is a vague distinction between the sexes; females are usually lighter, compared to males.

According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, the American Robin is  “the largest of the North American thrushes.”  Because they are so easily recognizable, they’re a good starting point for beginning birdwatchers. The Cornell Lab of Ornithology also says, “Robins make a good reference point for comparing the size and shape of other birds, too.”

Robins are known as early birds for several reasons, the most obvious being that they are one of the first birds to be seen after the winter. Surprisingly, even though they migrate to breed, Robins can be found in our area year-round. They are just more likely roosting in the trees than on the ground searching for berries, fruit, insects and earthworms. In the spring, birdwatchers have a better chance of seeing the bird engage in its quirky “running and stopping” behavior, another of the Robin’s distinguishing characteristics.

Because Robins are so well-known, it’s no surprise to find their many inclusions in our culture. The Robin is the state bird of Connecticut, Michigan and Wisconsin, and there’s even a crayon named for the color of their eggs, Robin’s egg blue. If you haven’t gotten the tune of  “Rockin’ Robin” by Bobby Day stuck in your head yet, well, it won’t be long. And if you have, click here to listen.  Even Robin of Batman fame is clearly inspired by the American Robin; his red shirt isn’t just a coincidence. I’m sure there are countless other references to the Robin in pop culture.

One of my favorite things about Robins is their song. They provide the soundtrack to spring. There is nothing like throwing open the windows on a sunny spring day, and letting the breeze and melody of the Robin float into your home. Whether it’s a warning call, or their clear, lilting song, I’m listening. Since Robins are starting to be more active, I know that even if I haven’t seen one yet, I’ll probably hear them announcing spring’s arrival soon.

Have you seen the American Robin yet?

I Want to Ride My Bicycle

A riding trail in spring

Pump your tires and grease your chains, folks, biking season is upon us! 

The change in seasons can be an invigorating time that inspires us to spring into outdoor activity and take on nature at full throttle. My favorite way to enjoy spring is by breaking out my mountain bike. 

It can be tempting to pick up your riding where you left off when the snow started flying back in November, but believe me, a lot has changed over the last four months with your bike, your body and the trails. Here are a few tips on how to get you and your bike ready to open the riding season with as little suffering as possible. 

If you’re anything like me, your bike has probably been sitting in the corner collecting dust and laundry since last fall. Although it is tempting to drag it out and take a spin around the block as is, it’s not a great idea if you plan on getting the most out of your bike this season. 

At the very least, you’ll need to grease your chain and pump your tires. If you have some degreaser handy, use it to clean the chain with an old towel before you apply new lubricant. 

Chances are your tires have lost a lot of air in their hibernation, so you’ll have to refill them, but be sure to check the recommended pressure on the sidewall. Most mountain bike tires have a recommended pressure of 55-65 PSI, or pounds-per-square-inch, which usually can’t be achieved with an average foot or hand pump. Grab some quarters and take it to your local gas station and use their pump. Stewart’s Shops usually have free air, but if you don’t live near one, make sure you bring some extra quarters to the gas station, just in case your time runs out mid-fill. 

Warning: Don’t ride your bike to the gas station, walk it or drive instead. Riding with low tires is an easy way to get a pinch-flat, or roll the whole front end on a turn, which can lead to injury and bent rims. Bent rims are worse.

Of course, you can avoid all of that and just take your bike to the shop for an annual tune-up. For around $50 in the beginning of the season, you can save the time, stress and expense of dealing with crooked wheels, slacked chains and loose shifting cables that will end your season by June. I also highly recommend getting your bike to the shop as soon as possible. If you wait until there’s a problem, not only will it cost more to fix, but come summer, the average bike shop has a two or three week backlog of repairs. That’s a lot of riding to miss out on.

After your bike is ready to go, the next problem to overcome is saddle-sore. Over the last four months, the nerves in your seat have regenerated and it’s time to kill them again. I’ve found that there are two ways to deal with getting your riding seat back. You can buy a pair of riding shorts with a padded seat to keep the bruising to a minimum, or you can just ride everyday for two weeks until you can’t feel it anymore. Either way, it’s the biggest obstacle to overcome, so make it your prime objective of the pre-season. Don’t worry about getting your hard learned skills back from last season; by the time your saddle-sore is gone, a lot of your skills will be back. It’s just like riding a bike.

Not only have you and your bike change over the winter, no doubt your favorite trails have too. The path you knew like the back of your hand last fall could be much different in the spring, thanks to downed limbs, fallen rocks and overgrown brush. Before you go gung-ho on your usual loop, take a slow ride on it and reacquaint yourself with the terrain. A good way to shorten your riding season is to fly down your favorite hill into a blind curve that may have a fallen tree at the bottom. This slow pre-season ride is also a good time to take a long a few grooming tools as well. Some hedge-clippers, a pack-saw and a few strong friends should be able to clear anything from the trail.

Not only have the trails changed, the rules may have too. The Adirondack Park has an extensive trail system, with an extensive set of regulations for hikers and bikers. Of the Adirondack Park Agency’s 15 classifications for land use, only seven apply to public lands, and only four of those apply to recreational users. The APA classifies these lands as wilderness, canoe, primitive and wild forest. Mountain bikers are only allowed to ride on trails in the wild forest areas and although this seems unfair, the wild forest area makes up over a million acres of the Park and has countless miles of trails to ride. So be sure you check to make sure your favorite trails are still “legal” to ride on.

 The last thing we should brush up on is some basic trail etiquette. According to the book, Mountain Biking in the Adirondacks, by Gary Thomann, mountain bikers in the Adirondacks have no right-of-way, and you should yield to pretty much everyone. It’s easy to scare the daylights out of hikers when flying down a mountain trail. Keep your eyes and ears alert for hikers, dogs, horses and anyone else who may be on the trails and try to stay to the right when you come to them. Although four-wheelers and dirt-bikes aren’t allowed on most trails in the park, that doesn’t mean you won’t come across one, so stay alert.

 Spring riding can be a muddy affair, but as any Adirondack hiker knows, some trails have mud holes year round. When it comes to these, ride through the middle. It’s better to make a mud hole deeper than wider, and if you’re using a proper biking technique you should be dirty anyway.

As with any other activity, there is countless advice to give, but hopefully this will get you started on the right track. There is nothing worse than ending your riding season before it begins with a broken bike or body part. Enjoy the season and your bike, and I hope to see you on the trails.

Oh, and wear a helmet.

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.

Time to Listen

Cedar waxwing resting on a branch

I always hear them before I see them. Their soft, charming songs echo throughout the forest and eventually reach my ears. They flutter at the branches of fruit-bearing trees to nab a tasty snack. They are cedar waxwings, and to me, they are the most marvelous birds there are.

 I’m not positive why I love them so much – it’s just one of those things. The birds aren’t rare in our parts; they aren’t flashy or remarkably colorful, yet I always get excited when I spot one.

 I feel that cedar waxwings are very much underrated. Cardinals get a lot of attention; everyone recognizes the bird when they see it. But a cedar waxwing… what is that?

 Allow me.

Cedar waxwings can be found across the United States all year, and make their way to Canada in the summer. Acclimated to the cool weather of the North Country, cedar waxwings sometimes remain in the area during the winter. Although they do migrate south, the birds generally follow a nomadic migration pattern, moving where the food is. They feed mainly on fruits and berries, but they eat insects as well.

The cedar waxwing, scientifically labeled Bombycilla cedrorum, is a medium-sized bird with a brown head and chest; it blends in. The color fades from brown to a light gray on the wings, which are tipped with bright yellow droplets. The subtle hues of earth tones adorned by the bird enable it to hide and go unnoticed.

Their bellies are lemon-yellow, a trait that distinguishes cedar waxwings from their relatives, Bohemian waxwings. Sporting a black mask neatly traced in white, the birds strike me as very mysterious, which is perhaps why I find them so fascinating. Atop their heads, the birds are crowned with subtle crests, appropriate of the modest creatures.

Perhaps because the cedar waxwing appears to be so simple – an average Joe, if you will – I can relate to the bird so strongly. It doesn’t want attention. It just wants to live and let live.

I feel that in general, people tend to be in such a rush these days that they don’t “stop to smell the roses,” to be cliché. But I find this also applies when lending an ear to the lovely notes of a songbird.

They may not be extraordinary, unusual, or the most strikingly beautiful birds of the forest, but cedar waxwings should not be overlooked because of their normalcy; they deserve a little recognition once in a while. I think it’s about time we listen.

Range map: Yellow - summer range; Green - all year range; Blue - winter range

Missed Connections

Photo by Jessica Dubé

I was a tomboy as a kid. Seriously. My mom believed that children should play outdoors unless it was raining or unbearably hot, and my dad always preferred to live in secluded areas in the country, so I spent most of my non-school hours entertaining myself (with the help of Chewy, a somewhat wild pit-bull mix). I was a tree-climbing champion who didn‘t mind dirt or bugs.

Now, well, not so much. Unfortunately, with age also came laziness (I’m still working on that wisdom thing). As a college student, I spend hours upon hours looking at a computer screen or reading every week. I do not spend too many hours outdoors enjoying nature, which is a shame. I mean, I chose a school in the Adirondacks. I planned to go hiking, or white-water rafting, or even just walking the trails in beautiful Point-au-Roche State Park. I just… got caught up in things. I forgot to make time and enjoy my surroundings, and it was all too easy to disconnect.

So I propose this: I’m going to do something outside. Not just, you know, walking to class or sitting on the bench in front of my dorm. I want to do something that puts me out of my element.  I can’t believe I’ve never hiked Poke-O-Moonshine! A lot of students have done that during their freshman year.

Now, I don’t want to sound all “city-girl-goes-North-Country,” but I’m from Syracuse. I’m a beginner, and my goal is simple– I just want to feel close to nature again. I would love to remember what it felt like to come back home smelling like the outside, and with all the opportunities the Adirondacks are putting on the menu, there’s no better time.

Got any suggestions or challenges? Let me know.

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.