Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold (Part One)


Here follows a long overdue account of the Mt. Marcy hiking expedition undertaken by James Brinkerhoff, Kris Thompson, John Hayward, and myself the week after our college graduation, circa May 2011:

The planning of the trip took the same shape as most other great plans, especially those that spring from idealistic young men. I believe it started as a desire to see the western United States and do so through an old fashioned road trip; eventually it evolved into a camping/backpacking trip, which seemed a bit more affordable and realistic. Nevertheless, we put most of the planning into effect at the end of our final Spring Semester of college, and things came together nicely. We decided upon my old ’96 Ford Explorer as the vessel that would carry us due North from Lancaster, PA (our convening point) and into the Adirondacks. I distinctly remember that great beast of a vehicle chugging and groaning along the wide freeways of Pennsylvania and New York, and my own hopes and prayers for the car’s endurance (this would be its last long journey in its humble lifetime).

            I don’t remember much of the drive, only that John and James calmly debated the meaning behind the lyrics to Mumford & Son’s “Sigh No More” album in the front seats. James was sure most of the lyrics were vague at best and only hinted at deeper truths without engaging them with true conviction. Needless to say, John disagreed. I don’t believe there was a resolution to that argument.

            Upon our arrival in Essex County (near Lake Placid), we parked at the foot of Mt. Marcy’s main trail and peered through the car windows disagreeably at the light rain. We attempted to rig up makeshift ponchos with trash bags, but I’m still unsure as to their effectiveness. The hike in was fairly muddy – a mere taste of things to come – but we moved at a brisk pace, crossing over Marcy Dam and setting up camp at our first lean-to. After we had made a fire, with the night setting in, we made Cincinnati Chili and spent the waning hours talking. We were so caught up in our conversation that we had to grope our way to the river’s edge and wash our dishes in the pitch dark.

            We set out the following morning up a fairly easy grade – the foot of the mountain –  that traced Phelps Brook and offered us plenty of river stones to scramble across. This ascent eventually reached Marcy Brook, which afforded us the first of many water-crossing decisions we would have to make in our short three-day adventure. Do we attempt a leap, or do we attempt a fording? At this juncture we chose to leap, and thankfully stuck the landing (lack of gracefulness aside). Upon jumping the creek we emerged from a tree-line and onto the Indian Falls lookout (see photo above).

            Though this precipice offered us a spectacular view of the MacIntyre mountain range (including the Algonquin, New York’s second-highest mountain next to Marcy), we also discovered that almost the entire vista was obscured in dense fog (again, an omen of things to come).

            It was at this point in our journey that began to notice that the once sturdy earth beneath our feet was gradually turning to thick snowdrifts as we climbed in altitude. Though the snow was fairly packed under the footfalls of previous climbers, at times we would accidentally find weak spots in the snow layer, causing our feet to plunge into the twelve inches of slush underneath. This trial-and-error way of trekking through the snow, unsure which step would result in a wet and frigid ankle, plagued us the rest of the trip.

            We paused before the final ascent up the mountain’s face for a brief repast of summer sausage, cheese, and pita bread (our protein routine, so to speak). The last half-mile or so offered some decent bouldering as the vegetation slowly thinned out and the summit’s stony skin began to show. We finally reached the summit only to gaze into an impenetrable wall of cloud-cover – one of the greatest views in the Adirondack High Peaks, the tower’s edge at the pinnacle of New York’s tallest mountain, had crystallized into a sea-like void of impassive obscurity, blank and faceless. Though I certainly didn’t think it at the time, I later begrudgingly admitted that this was some sort of lesson the Lord was inclined to teach us about the meaning of work, suffering, and perseverance – that the journey was what mattered, and was surely sanctifying and shaping us into better men. But at the time all I could feel was disappointment. However, my aching joints and beaten dreams were mollified somewhat by the feel of the stone underfoot, that last humble floor beneath the Heavens, and the promise that somewhere through the fog lay the wide world below. Looking at the plaque that proclaimed our arrival at the summit, I thought in some mysterious way that we were in God’s country.


            Lingering just long enough to revel in our success (for the cold wind was breathtaking, quite literally) we began the descent down the other side of the mountain, into Panther’s Gorge. I’ve made myself a promise: that if I were ever to have children or even grandchildren of my own, and they were to endlessly complain about some petty trial they were enduring, I would censure them by saying “at least you didn’t make the hike down Panther’s Gorge.” The trail was so named for the supposed wild cats that lingered in its shadows and thickets, but the real threat was the terrain itself – a natural slide of ice that, if not treaded carefully, would pull you careening into a wall of thorny bramble or worse. We were like animals desperately slipping and clambering down a frictionless surface we couldn’t begin to understand. Each step seemed treacherous. It was certainly the most demanding hike of the whole excursion, and it was downhill. At each turn in the trail I looked up in hope to see the blessed lean-to, our symbol of arrival and deliverance; but it never came, and it felt like we were descending into that accursed pit through an endless night. At this point a cold sleet had begun to fall, chilling us to the bone, and our footing was rendered perpetually unsure and unbalanced by the aforementioned fragility of the snowdrifts. But I haven’t told you the worst part yet: there was no separate trail leading out of Panther’s Gorge, meaning we would have to make the very same hike out of the valley the following morning. For every step down this hellish trail we were purchasing in pain another step back up. The thought was too much to dwell on.

Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold (Part Two)

Eventually we came to a determined creek that somehow seeped into the air its intense frigidness. We surveyed the water body, looked at each other, and decided to use a small outcropping of growth – a shrub, really – growing from our own bank to swing across to the other side. Was it a foolish plan? I’m not sure. All I know is that I watched my three companions make the crossing, seeing with terrible alertness the rescue-shrub become more and more disentangled from its rooted position as each man dared the attempt. Finally I stood up to cross. I grasped the shrub, felt its shakiness, and tried to silently convey my trust in it, as any man might make a gesture of solidarity to someone who stood ready to lend a hand. But my trust was shattered. As I used the shrub to propel myself across the creek, I never made it; the plant came completely uprooted, the bit of muddy bank underfoot crumbled away, and I awkwardly half-plunged into the freezing creekwater. Thankfully I was only half-submerged, and my friends rushed to pull me out.

            To this day, I have never experienced a more intense or frightening coldness. The one side of my body that touched the river’s surface was moving from shocked numbness to a deep and purposeful aching. Trying desperately to forget any story I’d heard about hypothermia, we trudged down the last bit of the trail, making one more river crossing and finally arriving at the promised land. That lean-to was beautiful. I immediately peeled off my drenched clothes, stripping down to my long-johns and an Irish fisherman’s sweater my parents had recently given me as a gift. As my friends hurried to make a fire I immersed myself in layers of sleeping-bag to prevent my body from succumbing to the cold. The fire we built that night was a magnificently raging inferno, and completely illegal, as campers were not supposed to make fires so close to the wooden structure of the lean-tos. One of us voiced this concern, but James stated that he didn’t care; it had been a long, cold, painful journey into that valley, and he was going to make as big a fire as his imagination and foraging skills would allow. The fire was indeed large, and as it warmed our aching bones and feeling slowly returned to my body, we shared stories, read Scripture, and dined on canned Haggis (it’s a strange Scottish dish – look it up) and mashed potatoes, the hardiest food we brought with us.

            We also found an open journal in the lean-to, which was a sort of record or log to which any camper staying there could add their own story. We read through the various accounts and entries that dated back several years, the most memorable ones involving two park rangers searching for a missing person on the trails, a man hiking joyfully with his dog, and two lovers on a honeymoon. We obligingly added our own entry to the ongoing chronicle, and I wonder if perhaps that book still lies dusty and dark in the belly of the gorge. Just before bed we each took a nightcap of whiskey to warm us and lull us to sleep. We were unconscious within minutes.

            The next morning we awoke and prayed together, giving thanks for our deliverance the previous night and beseeching the Lord’s blessing on that day’s endeavors (as was our routine). I’m pleased to say that the morning hike out of the gorge was much easier than the descent, even downright enjoyable. I’m not sure how this was possible, and perhaps it was a divine gift, but our spirits lifted as we climbed up the cold snowy banks. The sun had still not emerged and it appeared an even mistier day than the day before. We rested at Lake Tear of the Clouds, the very spot where then-vice president Theodore Roosevelt, out for a manly hike as he was wont to do, learned that William McKinley would not survive his gunshot wounds. We sat and ate Wilbur Buds (chocolate fragments of paradise – again, look them up), looking out on the dreary swamp and musing on this historical moment.

            The descent back down to the main trailhead was fraught with peril due again to the unpredictable snowdrifts: the path itself had shrunk to a snow bridge barely two feet in width, with sheer walls plummeting down either side. The trail twisted lazily around and around, and we moved with slow deliberateness. As the snow gradually faded into blessed stony earth, we practically bounded down the mountain and sang old hymns at the top of our lungs.

            We crossed Marcy Dam again, treating it like an old friend. Our last night of camping was bittersweet, as we knew the adventure would be at an end soon. In celebration we cooked (in my opinion) our classiest meal: salmon with wild rice. As men tend to do when bound together in adversity, surrounded by God’s good earth on all sides with no whisper of civilization beyond the roaring dam in the distance, we shared with one another our hopes and fears; we laughed and talked and prayed. After all, following this journey we would all be going our separate ways, embarking upon the far scarier journey of becoming men in the world, no longer Grove City College students. I remember feeling stripped to an emotional core, because there was nothing else to distract me. I would be leaving these men for some time, leaving behind their fellowship and companionship. We tried to enjoy these moments, alone as men with the Lord feeling close amid the trees and the wild of the evening.

On the following morning we found the hike out to be surprisingly brief, and before we knew it we were arriving at the old Ford Explorer, drenched in sweat. It was still very early in the morning, so we drove into a small town in the valley (I forget its name) and had homemade apple pie at the local diner. I tell you that pie was heavenly.

            I don’t remember much of the drive home, only that I was desperately looking forward to the showers and hot food awaiting us at the Hayward Homestead. Mr. and Mrs. Hayward are some of the most generous and hospitable people I know (they’ve welcomed me into their home and fed me many times), and they were in particularly fine form this occasion. We had one more day together, my friends and I, and we spent it at the Hayward house engaging in all types of joyous play (furious swimming pool basketball, Frisbee golf, backyard baseball, and hours of boardgames) as well as bountiful belt-loosening meals at the dining room table.

            Then, almost as soon as it had began, it was all over. I was driving back home through the pleasant thoroughfare that is Route 30, through the small towns of Lancaster County and over farmland back to West Chester. But still lingering, if not immediately in the rearview mirror, then at least in the twin lands of heart and memory that towering peak, enfolded in cloud. The land belongs to the Lord, and we belong to the Lord, and the story of our fellowship on the long and crooked road through springtime snowy trails, across shivering rivers, and beneath the mighty boughs belongs to each of us. It was a great adventure, my lads, a great adventure.

Here ends my written account; some of the details have not made it here, or have arrived in some different fashion from the true story, because the truest memories live within me, and will there continue to grow and mature with me, until perhaps I sit down with a grandchild on the knee and tell this story again in full. Until then, the story goes with me from this juncture on, until the Day of the Lord.