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.