There is a new proposed trail connecting Moreau Lake State Park to Saratoga Springs. The trail doesn't exist yet. Here is the proposed trail overlaid on top of google maps and satellite imagery to show where the planned trails will go:
The trail starts at Moreau Lake State Park on the Palmertown Ridge Trail. From there it passes by Lake Ann, Lake Bonita, and cuts through the Lincoln Mountain State Forest. The trail goes through the Daniels Road/Skidmore College Mountain Bike Trails, ending up in Saratoga Springs.
To add to the excitement, the Zim Smith Trail is planned to extend from Mechanicville to Saratoga Springs, thereby linking Moreau to Mechanicville.
Links to maps
Running helps me to learn my own anatomy one sore muscle at a time. When a particular muscle gets sore, it's exact shape and location become readily apparent. It's as if the entire body is transparent except that one muscle, but instead of seeing it, I can feel it. It feels like a big bruised piece of meat inside my leg. Today that muscle is the fibularis longus. The fibularis longus plantar-flexes the foot. Plantar flexion is movement of the foot that flexes the foot or toes downward toward the sole. This is a muscle that I never knew existed until the non-stop steep ups and downs of the seven sisters trail race the other day. There it is, running down the front side of the leg.
It's nice to know that the soreness matches the obvious cause perfectly. I would imagine that plantar flexion occurs while pushing off when going uphill, and also to catch your fall with each downhill step (assuming a minimalist forefoot landing). The fibularis longus is also the most conveniently located muscle for massaging with a rolling massager. But ouch!
I hope you enjoyed your anatomy lesson for the day!
I've been dying to run the Seven Sisters Trail Run in Amherst, MA since I heard stories after my friend H ran it 4 years ago, back in 2010. He said it was brutal, and that pretty much everybody did a lot of walking. The 7 sisters are mountain peaks. Not giant mountains, but steep ones. And high enough. The race is an out-and-back over the 7 peaks so completing the race means summitting 14 times. Before experiencing the course I was skeptical that we would really cross 14 peaks, but now after completing it I'm a believer. Every year the race has fallen on an inopportune date so despite being high up on the list for things I *wanted* to do other events came up that meant I had to put it off another year. This year I had a pretty good excuse not to do it. Boston was 2 weeks ago, and technically I should be in recovery mode. But I *really* wanted to run the race, so I put sensibility aside for a few hours and signed up. As did B and H.
The course has been historically notorious for being a hard run to do your best in because it's steep, tight single-track the entire way making passing difficult. This has lead to long trains of people all stuck moving at someone else's pace. This year runners were released in waves to alleviate the problem. I lied my way into the first wave (they requested runners' previous finishing times and I have no history).
I was wearing my New Balance Minimus MT00 shoes. They were in pretty rough shape to begin with. A tear across the top of both shoes a few inches behind my toes allows the front of the shoe to flop down when it catches on a rock leaving the front half of my foot completely exposed, with the bottom of the shoe flopping around underfoot. The solution has been to bend down and fix it when it happens. This method didn't work so well for this race, which I'll get into more later.
Everyone waited calmly until the race started. When the start was announced, we funneled into the narrow trail. The only flat part of the course occurs during the first few hundred yards where one runner tripped on a root and hit the ground hard. Everyone leaped over and around her and started the long first ascent. At this point most people around me were running as best they could (as opposed to walking, which would soon become the norm for a lot of the uphills). For the first few miles, we were all huffing and puffing and pushing hard. Too hard. I was passing people, foolishly working my way closer to the front.
The trail is absolutely beautiful. I can't imagine a more wonderful place for a *hike*. For a run on the other hand, the word wonderful doesn't quite fit. The trail is made of giant jagged rocks. Basalt so they claim. Most of the footfalls dance from sharp rock to sharp rock. On the gravelly sections in between, big gnarly rocks are everywhere, pointing ominously at your teeth. Tripping anywhere could be disastrous. And yet we're all running as fast as we can, scrambling up little cliff faces and bombing down hills.
As I'm galloping down one hill, the front of my sneaker touches a rock and my toes flop out. I bend down and flop it back on. It happens again. And again. I start to worry that this is going to ruin the race. The bottom of the shoe flopping around might catch on something and cause a major face plant. But I'm getting sick of fixing it every couple of minutes. So for a while I leave it hanging, but that plan doesn't last long. RIP! RIP! RIP! The problem gets worse and worse, it turns out that without my toe in the shoe holding it all together, the shoe tears away more and more from the sole until there is next to nothing holding the sole to my foot. Now I'm committed to bending over every time it comes loose. And it's coming loose more often because the shoes are both in tatters. Here is what I ran in for most of the race:
I'm on a slick descent and a shoe comes loose. I bend over and fix it quickly, but two steps later I lose my footing and take a scary sliding header down the cliffy trail, but recover quickly with nothing more than some desperate cries outloud. Luckily nobody is close enough to take much notice, saving me from an embarrasing "I'm ok just took a little spill that's all!".
The run continues like this. Steep long up, steep long down, repeat 14 times. Food and drinks await at the turnaround at the halfway point. I grab a quick Gatorade and head back up the hill. Within 2 minutes of leaving the food behind I think to myself, "boy am I hungry. I could sure use some food right now". Doh! Maybe I shouldn't have been quite so hasty at the turnaround point. Before long my stomach starts actively growling in hunger, while my legs exhaust the last of their dwindling energy on the uphills. here's nothing I can do about it now. The quickest cure for all of my problems is to keep running.
The runner who finished directly ahead of me said at one point the runner in front of him slipped and went flying off a cliff. He stopped to find the runner hanging from a sapling, so he held out a hand and pulled the guy up. Everyone was fine and kept on running.
Another runner was limping along using a stick as a crutch after having broken or sprained his ankle. This could have been any one of us at any second of the race. Yet that's what makes it so exhilarating to run. Intense focus is needed with every footstep, nothing comes easy.
Peak after peak after peak I think to myself, "is this the last one and it's all downhill from here?". Eventually the final peak comes. I'm feeling quite content to mosey down to the finish. But someone comes up from behind and hauls ass down the steep hill. I watch in awe. "Wow he's going fast. Why... Don't... I?" Screw it, I speed up significantly, enough to maintain the distance that separates us. It's incredibly energizing to amputate the blerch in my head and just go.
We dash along the last few hundred yards of flat to the finish. We made it! As soon as I stop, a shivering chill hits the air. I desperately need food (first) and some warm clothes. I grab a nutella-covered bagel, some peanut butter-covered pretzels, warm clothes and return to the finish to cheer on my friends.
I headed out today for a morning kayak of the Anthony Kill and took some video of the course:
As soon as we were allowed to approach our corrals, I started jogging along, afraid I was going to miss my spot. At first I was one of the few joggers, but eventually we caught up to the masses where everyone was hurrying along. Or warming up. I'm not quite sure which.
Just before reaching the corrals I came across a huge port-a-potty lot with hundreds of stalls and NO PEOPLE. My heart lifted with excitement. Hundreds of port-a-potties and they're ALL MINE! I ran up to the first one, but the red indicator on the front told me it was occupied. So was the next. And the next. I jogged past 50 of these things and they were all occupied. For a minute I thought I was in a pre-race anxiety nightmare. But eventually I reached an available one.
After taking care of business I headed to my corral. I looked around at the people I was competing with, and oh, my god did they look like serious runners, every last one of them. Traveling light, none of them had anything but shoes, socks, shorts, and a tank top. I felt out of place with my fanny pack (it carried my phone so I could find people at the finish line). I decided at that point that whatever everyone else did, I was going to do. Nobody warmed up. Nobody stretched. Everybody sat down on the pavement. And so did I. But my bony butt can't handle sitting on the pavement so I stood up. And I stretched and jogged in place a little. Then the elite runners paraded past the corrals. First the women, then the men. Everyone jumped up and ran over to check 'em out and cheer.
I ran through my race plan in my head. I wore my Timex IronMan watch on my left hand, and a pace bracelet on my right. The pace bracelet displays my planned pace, and my expected time at every mile split. While researching the course, I read recommendations to run slower early in the race, faster later in the race, faster on the downhills, and faster during the long middle flat section. As complicated as it sounds, it all seemed to add up to roughly running a steady pace throughout. My planned pace was 6:15.
The starting gun went off, and my corral quickly worked it's way to the starting line then ran as a mass at a good clip. For the first mile, we ran along at 6:15, my target pace. Once I had some freedom to move, I started passing people slowly. I was feeling really good, it felt like a pace I could keep up for a while so I stuck with it. However, at around mile 6, something unexpected happened. I had been running along confident that I was banking 15 seconds at every mile. A fellow minimalist runner in Vibram Five Fingers hovered next to me and told me he was shooting to finish the race in 2:48 or so. We were on pace to run 2:40 or less! I chuckled to myself thinking, "he's going way too fast". However a short bit later I looked down at my watch and compared it to my pace bracelet to find that *I* was behind by several minutes! Maybe he was exactly on target, and I'm falling behind! Agh! What is happening?!? When I'm running a race I completely lose the ability to do any kind of simple math, and finally I concluded that I was, in fact, way behind schedule. So I sped up. For 3 miles I averaged a 5:50 pace before correcting my situation. It turns out I had done something goofy like maybe hit my lap timer after seeing a kilometer sign instead of a mile sign. My watch was screwy, I had been going too fast, and now I'm going even faster. After realizing my mistake, I returned to my still-too-fast 6:00 pace.
Why am I going 15 seconds faster than my goal pace? You know what? I just felt awesome. I believed in the impossible. I was running along comfortably, so why slow down? When I reached the halfway point at 13.1 miles, I noticed my time was 1:18:50. My fastest half marathon is 1:18:01, so I was going pretty darned close to my fastest half marathon pace. That's when I realized I was going way too fast and was going to pay for my mistake. But I held on, and continued my 6-minute pace all the way to the famed Newton Hills at which point I slowed to a 6:30 pace, which seems pretty reasonable for the uphills. However, my physical state was steadily declining. My calves occasionally cramped. My hands started going numb. I worried I was going to pass out. I had banked several minutes during the first 16 miles. Not a good idea mind you, but I knew that slowing down a little was going to be way better at this point than bombing out completely. By the time I was really suffering, I only had six miles left to go. Surely I could hang on for that long.
Just then, I spotted M and her crew cheering me on. I turned to M and opened my mouth to announce my limitless love and joy at seeing her, run over and give her a huge hug! What came out of my mouth was a miserable-sounding, "BLEEEAAAARGHHHHH!" while my legs just kept instinctively moving forward as if a small change in direction would lead to complete collapse. So no hug.
The uphills were not bad at all. In fact it felt refreshing to slow down and chug up them. The last 6 miles are all downhill. I had it in my head that once I reached the top of Heartbreak Hill it was all going to be smooth sailing. It was anything but. My pace was slower on the final descent than during the uphills. With each mile I lost a little speed. My final mile was the slowest at 7 minutes. Not bad at all under the circumstances.
The last mile or two of the race take you through downtown Boston. Grandstands were set up along either side of the course filled will screaming people. It felt like entering a huge arena, a national stage, where I am part of the main event. At mile 26, amongst a deafening roar of cheering, I clearly heard a yell of "STOOOOOOKEEEEEY!!!" and looked to my right where my eyes landed squarely on my friend J with his hand cupped around his mouth, mid-"STOOOOOOOKEEEEEEY!!!!". I flapped my arms and gave him my best look of excitement, and felt a renewed spirit for the final .2 miles.
I stopped my watch as I crossed the finish line. With blurred vision I checked out my time: 2:43:45. I blinked once or twice. That number sounds familiar. I looked at my target finishing time on my other hand: 2:43:45. I couldn't believe it. By sheer coincidence, or twist of fate, through the fast miles and the slow miles, it all evened itself out so that I hit my goal to the exact second. I did it!!!
I was in rough shape after crossing the finish line. Barely able to hobble, unable to lift my legs more than an inch or two. Fortunately, a lot of walking was necessary which helps to keep from tightening up too much. I wandered around eating bananas and chugging water. After a half hour or so I actually felt reasonably ok. Sore and tired of course, but able to walk. M, J, M, and I met up for lunch where I had a veggie burger, beer, and water. We sat at a tall table with bar stools which allowed me to stand up some of the time and stretch. My leg muscles didn't tighten up, instead they were a soggy mess and sore, with an almost bruised feeling. Particularly my quads, calves and more than anything else my lower calves. Over the next two days they tightened up while I did occasional light walking, stretching, and spinning on a stationary bike. On the third day I went for a 4 mile jog. For the jog I was a little tight, sore, and gingerly, but it made me very optimistic that I would not have much longer to recover. As of day 4, I have not experienced any kind of joint pain or pulled muscles (knock on wood) which were my main concerns. I had a sore knee that put me somewhat out of commission for a couple of months after the last marathon where I really pushed it. So far this has been a really successful recovery.
Yesterday I did an hour+ of yoga with some massage. Oh, and maybe got a little ahead of myself and made plans for a tough 15k trail run for today at Moreau Lake State Park. Yesterday evening, my left calf felt really sore. Not sure if it's from anxiety for the upcoming run, or if I stretched a little too far yesterday. Perhaps the massage brought something to the surface that had been lying in wait. Or it could be just a delayed reaction to the whole marathon thing. Today's run will definitely let me know where things stand based on whether I loosen up during the run or not.
This spring, we were hit with a triple dose of river-filling events, all coming together for one spectacular day at the 2014 Tenandeho White Water Derby. The two lakes feeding the Anthony Kill have an extremely thick layer of ice and a covering of snow after a long and cold winter without any warm spells. Then a week before the race we were hit with extraordinarily heavy rains. With the warm weather beginning to melt the ice and snow, the water level was extremely high making for some tremendous waves along much of the course. And COLD water.
The race course starts out with a swift but calm trip from just below Round Lake towards Mechanicville and builds in intensity all the way to the end where intense rapids drop boaters into the Hudson River. Early in the course I hit a turn with a set of rapids that pushed me up against a rock wall and I barely managed to stay vertical. After these first rapids, I passed capsized boats all along the course. By the time I finished the race, I had seen at least 8 capsized boats, their captains nowhere to be seen. I was the 19th boater to start and I passed a few contestants along the way, so this means more than half of the boats ended up upside-down.
These first rapids were a real wake up call. With half the boaters out of the running, racing no longer seemed important. Surviving was the name of this game. During the second half of the race, the river meanders through tough rapids in Mechanicville. The river goes under trestles, through tunnels, under roads, and eventually into a concrete maze before dropping into the Hudson. The whole while, holding on for dear life, huge crowds of people yell from both sides and all along bridges directly overhead. At first the excited yells from the crowd are uplifting, but with the audible disappointment upon surviving a set of terrifying rapids comes a stark realization. To the fans, the river is the home team, and I am the away team. With everyone rooting against me, it feels like I'm on my own. Except of course for the rescue team lining the shores.
While getting tossed around like debris caught in the surf, paddling like I've never paddled before in my life, three things keep me from pulling over and quitting at the next stop. Firstly I'm so focused on not falling into the water, it leaves little time to think about safe places to pull over. Secondly I know M is watching and waiting for me at the finish, it would be a shame to leave her hanging after spending the day anxiously awaiting my arrival. The other is that there is a huge rescue team ready to pull me out if I get into trouble. If there was ever a time to "see what happens" with the water level so high, this is the day to do it.
By the time I reached the long set of rapids at the end of the race, my arms were completely spent. The only thing keeping them moving was adrenaline supplied by a healthy fear of death. I was yelling at the top of my lungs through the final rapids as though the sounds of my screams would fuel my arms for just a few more much needed paddle strokes. With a facefull of water I crashed through the final set of waves and found myself in the relative calm of the Hudson River. I blinked my eyes a few times and looked to see not only M watching from the side, but a good friend had finished the race and was safely on shore! We're all alive, we made it! That was a close one.
Comparison of Tenandeho Water Levels
Click on the photos for high-resolution images:
|Coons Crossing Bridge||Rapids|
|After October Rain|
|Day After Irene|
|After May Rain|
|After cold snowy winter|
Video of the course taken a month later, when the water level was much lower
As anyone who has ever been asked to create a random pattern will tell you, there is no such thing. It's an oxymoron. Given a pile of bricks with two different colors, it is often desirable to build a wall in such a way as to avoid creating a distinct pattern. Building such a wall can be a frustrating endeavor. As you lay down bricks randomly, order appears before you. Lines, squares, circles, all of which make the pattern seem "not random enough". But it's like flipping a coin: sometimes you will flip a coin 5 times in a row. Patterns and shapes occur naturally. And when they do, you might decide to tear down the wall and try again. At which point order has been created, not randomness. At first your goal is to create the perfect random pattern so that when you step back and stare, nothing stands out as ordered. But over time as you create more of these walls, you can't help but look for ways to leave your mark. A mentor once explained, "you want to leave something behind that an inquisitive child would notice". Make a circle. Make a Mario. Over time an individual develops all sorts of clever ways to leave a personal touch. The flaws in the random pattern become magic.
At Albany International Airport random patterns of two-colored brick abound.
If you look closely with the eye of an inquisitive child, there may be magic hiding in those bricks.
Was this an uninhibited random pattern that by coincidence seems to spell out RGS? Or are those the initials of an unscrupulous Albany bricklayer?
I joined some friends for Utica's Thanksgiving Run for Hunger 5k race. The run is very close to my parents' house where I would be feasting later in the day. I struggled to decide which footwear to run in. The temperature was 19 degrees with snow, ice, and road salt covering the ground and clouds blocking the sun. I am comfortable running barefoot in 20 degree sunny weather on pavement, and running for a bit through snow has not been a problem. So I decided to run barefoot despite the fact that it was a little outside of my comfort zone in several ways. The plan was to run the race in 20 minutes and scurry back to a warm place in case my feet got cold. How cold could my feet get in 20 minutes? As it turns out they could get pretty cold and freeze solid in just 20 minutes.
I took my shoes off and jogged in place for 3 or 4 minutes before the race started. We took our marks, got set, and went. A group of us in the front discussed where we were heading. "Up to The Eagle, just like the Boilermaker developmental runs". We headed into the golf course up the steep hill. The road was icy but plowed. After a right turn near the top of the hill the road was no longer plowed. Running along tire tracks was the only way to avoid running through several inches of chunky snow. It was quite a bit colder with a howling wind near The Eagle, the large statue looming over the top of Val Bialis Ski Resort. As I reached the turn-around point, a race official yelled, "slow down I gotta get a picture of this!".
On my way back down the long steep hill, I zig-zagged through crowds of people running up. In all my barefoot running I had never before heard comments like what I was hearing now. Nearly every comment included an f-bomb, so things like "omg wtf" were coming at me at regular intervals.
My adrenaline was pumping from the excitement of the race. My feet felt cold for a bit, then I suspect they went numb and so I didn't notice anything unusual. I was all alone as I approached the bottom of the hill. I noticed that the sound of my feet touching the road no longer had the usual barefoot soft and silent quality to it. Each footfall produced a sound like hard plastic hitting the pavement. There wasn't much I could do about it at this point besides finish the race, so I made a mental note and ran towards the finish line.
After finishing the race, I grabbed my shoes. I was distracted with conversation with other runners and family so it took me a while to notice that my feet were completely numb making it nearly impossible to put them into shoes. My dad walked up and made the comment, "looks like frostbite to me".
That's when the gravity of the situation hit me. I tuned everyone out and crammed my dead white rock solid toes into socks and shoes and ran indoors. I put my feet next to a heater (which apparently is a huge frostbite no-no, I should have soaked them in 105-degree water instead) and tried to warm them up. After a while with surprisingly little progress, I put my shoes back on and scurried to my parents house where I warmed them up some more by a heater. It took 30 minutes or so for them to warm and soften up, much longer than I expected. Once thawed, I felt a growing sensation of burning. This feeling continued to get worse and worse until I was writhing around in pain. My wife suggested going to Urgent Care. I quickly agreed. During the short car ride, I hit a solid 10 on the pain scale, crying and all:
Urgent care was closed for Thanksgiving, so we went to the emergency room. As soon as I entered the hospital, the pain went away and things were looking up. A doctor reamed me out pretty harshly after which a nurse told me the doctor was crazy and I was going to have a full recovery. I went home with a prescription for pain medications and antibiotics, but otherwise my feet had their color back and looked normal, so I expected everything was going to be fine.
We enjoyed a wonderful Thanksgiving meal and had lots to give thanks for. At the end of the evening I went to change my socks so I could put shoes on for the ride home. Upon removing my socks, I let out a huge gasp. I was not counting on the giant inner-tube blisters surrounding most of my toes. I quickly put them into socks and shoes and we drove home.
Here's what they looked like later that evening. Blisters yes, but the undersides of my feet looked perfectly fine:
The condition is slowly progressing. After a long day of sitting at a desk my toes feel dead, but after spinning on an exercise bike for 25 minutes they feel great. It seems like moving really brings circulation and life back.
The tops of all toes feel basically perfect except of course where the big blister is. The tips of all toes are a little numb but actually seem to have some direct sensitivity to light touch. The rest of the foot besides the toes is totally fine. The pinkie toes are a little dry and beat up but otherwise feel normal. The middle toes are slightly numb and tingly along the bottom with hardened toe pads, and the worst fourth toe is hard and most of the surface tissue has turned soft with with a ghostly white color. The big toe seems totally fine except for a bit of white flesh where the fourth toe was touching the big toe.
A woman with a condition similar to mine blogged about her experience with frostbite. It's hard to say but hers is probably worse because she had some dark blue areas on her big toe after her feet stayed frozen for several hours. I hope that following her story gives me sort of a worst-case scenario for myself (and her story really doesn't sound too bad):
After spending countless hours fruitlessly searching Google to try and find out if I was going to survive, I realized that I had no idea what I was looking at. The blisters on the tops of my toes didn't seem like a big deal, but I started panicking that the ghastly white zombie flesh on the bottoms of my toes was gangrenous necrotic flesh which sounded pretty scary. (Turns out they were pretty much just blisters, they looked different largely because the foot is tougher on the bottom). I made the trip to Urgent Care to talk to a Doctor. Doc pulled rubber gloves on his hands, reached out to inspect my feet, and just before touching them said, "uhhhhm this looks bad, I don't like this. We're going to get you set up with a surgeon to take a look, I don't want you losing toes on my watch. I've never seen frostbite this bad before." A few minutes later, I had a new appointment scheduled at a plastic surgery place for later that day.
At the plastic surgeon's I was placed in a small room. In it was a small table with a shot glass of disinfectant, a medical paper towel, small scissors, and tweezers. I was expecting a discussion to possibly schedule a time to take action. Instead the doctor immediately grabbed tools and got to work. She said she doesn't usually use any pain killers for this type of debridement. The assistant asked if I would be able to watch. I said, "I don't know." I can definitely be squeamish at times, but watching I felt no attachment to the awful dead stuff she was pulling, tearing, and snipping away. She might has well have been working in paper mache. Occasionally I'd let her know when something hurt a little because that meant she was getting close to healthy skin.
To her my condition might as well have been toenails that needed clipping. She said I'll recover fully. About a week for the skin to grow back, then another 2 weeks or so for most everything else to return to normal. The assistant bandaged me up and I headed home. I asked if it would be good if I removed the bandages while I slept to allow some airflow. She said no, right now what they need is to remain moist. The blisters were providing the moisture, and for now it will come from antibiotic ointment and bandages.
As soon as I got home I did some bandage readjustment to try and guarantee as much circulation as possible. It takes very little for them to feel like they have fallen asleep. While the bandages were off, I snapped a few pictures.
I haven't been getting out much at all. The slightest bit of pressure stops blood circulation in my toes after which they feel awful: asleep or dead. In shoes I walk around like I'm crippled. In socks I can walk around like perfectly normal. So I went on a mission to find a pair of shoes so I can walk outside again. I hobbled around 10 different stores getting increasingly frustrated until I finally tried on a pair of weird rag shoes. As soon as I put them on and started moving, I couldn't help but break into a run right there in the shoe store. They are perfect for loosely bandaged feet. When I got home I walked and ran around the block a few times and felt great. The next day it was more like 4 miles. I could get used to this.
While my toes have some feeling, there is still a fair amount of numbness. Keeping circulation going is tough. After sitting at a desk for 7 hours or so they feel dead. A few minutes of spinning on an exercise bike has worked well, and more recently going for a run with my new shoes in 40-degree weather helps get them warm and circulating. Some of the skin that I haven't lost, particularly on the tips of my toes is thick and half-dead. I expect to shed some of that skin slowly over the next few weeks. The skin under the blisters is healing really well.
Today almost all of the thick dead skin peeled away leaving behind fairly normal looking toes. This feels like a huge step towards full recovery. They still have a way to go before they will feel 100% normal, but at least they look ok.
I have been running for the past week. A week ago I managed to eke out 13 miles by going out on 3 separate runs throughout the day. I had to return to the house regularly to warm up my toes. It's not so much that they got too cold, but they have been very sensitive and I can't gauge how cold they are by feel. Also it has been a struggle to comfortably wear shoes. Apart from that running hasn't been problem. A few days ago my feet felt too cold while running in 20 degree weather, but today I was able to run 6 miles in 10 degrees with reasonably comfortable toes. Tomorrow I'm hoping to run 15. I prepared before-hand with a warm shower and some time on the exercise bike to get the blood flowing. Oh, and I wore regular shoes for several hours this evening which is a first. I still need to be careful, I'm keeping them moist with Vaseline twice a day, but they are improving every day and it's not much to deal with at this point. I feel incredibly lucky that within just two short weeks most of the damage has been reversed.
Both feet are back to 96%. Old dead skin continues to peel away and needs to be snipped away every few days. The tips of my toes have only remnants of numbness. They feel much more normal and are not significantly sensitive to the cold like they were. As of only very recently, wearing regular shoes is comfortable again.
Since my last post, my feet and toes have been almost perfectly normal except for a few minor things. My toes have often been unusually red. And as of the last week or two, my toenails have started falling off. 3 toenails down, and I expect at least one more to come off eventually. They also seem to get cold easily when they are completely exposed.
With the wife being in NYC for the weekend, I had to come up with something to keep me occupied. I tossed around different ideas. Expecting to be going solo, the name "Tarzan Weekend" sort of summed up what I was looking for. One thought was to run south as far as I could, staying in cheap hotels along the way, and have her pick me up on her way north. Another was to do a Great Range Traverse in the high peaks, which is something I've been meaning to do as a long and brutal day hike. Neither seemed to quite fit the bill. I grew familiar with all of the high peaks hiking the 46, but I only grasped each of the little mountain ranges as separate entities. I wanted something to tie it all together. The Seward Range is the furthest mountain group to the northwest, and Giant Mountain/Rocky Peak Ridge are the furthest mountain group to the southeast. In between lies, well, just about everything so the plan became: Start at the Seward trailhead, run alongside the Sewards, pass the Santanoni's to the right, scoot under the MacIntyre Range, between Cliff and Colden, Redfield, Skylight, and Gray, over Marcy, then alongside the Great Range, coming out at the Garden and running along the road to the Giant Mountain Trailhead. 38 miles, roughly 16,000 feet of elevation change. 50 miles by car. How to make that happen? I could drop off a car at the finish and bike to the start. However, that would mean biking for hours on Friday evening. The 38 mile hike I can handle, but I don't know what a bike ride like that will do to my legs. Luckily, two days before I talked to a friend who frequents the high peaks forums. He suggested getting in touch with RandomScoots. RandomScoots has a few cabins in the Adirondacks for rent, and on the side provides transportation to hikers on Adirondack adventures. He typically facilitates hikes along the Northville-Placid trail. I emailed him, and on short notice RandomScoots was 100% on-board with helping me out for a very reasonable fare. Incredible. Problem solved.
So what was I envisioning for this trip? Crisp, cool autumn air, multi-colored leaves scattered along the ground, some rain, maybe even a flurry of snowfall. I agonized over what to pack. In the beginning the idea was to run most of the way. Pack super-light, bare necessities only, and fly, nap, fly, nap, fly. Heck maybe I'd get near Marcy ahead of schedule, full of pizzazz, and run across the Great Range. I checked the weather forecast for Lake Placid (I should have checked the Santanoni mountaintop weather forecast). It called for temperatures down to the mid-to-high 20's, thunderstorms, and the forecast eventually changed to snow. My one-track mind had trouble perceiving the reality of that: it was going to be cold up top those mountains. I've come to understand that when the weatherman reports a low temperature, they're really only talking the early morning-to-late-evening hours. It usually gets colder than that if you're going to be outside all night. Also, temperature tends to drop 3.3 degrees per 1,000 feet of elevation. Lake Placid is over 3,000 feet lower than Mt. Marcy, so we're definitely talking sub-20 degree weather, probably colder in the wee hours of the night.
So I stood scratching my head staring at my light wool sweater, light windbreaker, light gloves, light wool hat. For a while. After lots of deliberation, I threw a big down jacket, winter gloves, and a heavy winter hat into the pile. I hated to do it because it meant I was crossing over into the winter pack weight and a lot less running and more hiking. With my sleeping bag rated to 30 degrees, I couldn't see any way around it. A safety net if you will. At this point I didn't expect to use any of the extra equipment, but in the end it was all essential.
What I chose not to bring for better or for worse:
1) Cooking equipment. I made a hummus wrap, a vegan chili wrap, a pb&j, and carried nuts, cold oatmeal, dried fruit, granola bars, a couple of goo packs, and a clif bar, and a little ginseng chew. Oh, and I bought a nice fat sub at Sorrentino's. Nothing that would require heat, so I didn't need a stove, fire, or cookpot.
2) Water. My primary water supply was going to be a LifeStraw. I'd scoop a cup of water out of streams and suck it down through a filtering tube. What I didn't realize was how cold it was going to be from the Cold River to lake COLDen on up to the higher elevations where the lifestraw would freeze in a jiffy. I carried two mostly empty 1-liter bottles in case I ended up hiking the Great Range, which has few water stops. Carrying a bottle ended up being very important.
3) Real shoes. I wore sandals and carried two pairs of wool toe socks, one light and one heavy. As an emergency backup I brought my winter running rig: Old torn up New Balance Minumus MT00's (nothing more than slippers with a bit of traction), cut up EMS shopping bags as a waterproof layer, and a pair of wool socks.
4) A compass. I can't find my favorite compass which I've had since the 7th grade. To replace it would be like replacing a dog, it just doesn't seem right.
5) A waterproof layer. I just picked up an awesome super-light running windbreaker, with huge areas without cover allowing for lots of evaporation in places like the armpits, down the back, and in the lower front.
Things that were really important, whether I brought them or not:
1) Two extra pairs of socks
2) A waterproof layer (which I didn't really have)
3) A water bottle and water purification pills, even if it's just a backup
4) Down jacket
5) Winter hat
6) Light headband to keep cool but cover ears while active
7) Winter gloves (very very important)
8) Warm but lighter fleece-type gloves
I took a half-day on Friday and drove to the Giant Mountain trailhead to meet RandomScoots at 4pm. As I approached the high peaks region, I could see some white at the tops of the mountains which took me a little by surprise. I was convinced that what I was looking at was nothing more than flurried deposits, it couldn't be real snow. I arrived at the parking area a few minutes early. A car pulled up right on time, a man got out and introduced himself. We shook hands and I hopped into his car. I fully expected to get someone telling me that my plan was dumb. Something like, "You'll shoot you're eye out kid". What I got was the complete opposite. I started talking about how awesome I was, having hiked all 46 High Peaks and my Wakely Dam Ultramarathon success. Within seconds, if this were a verbal arm wrestling match, he had the back of my hand pinned to the table. 46er? Ha! He's working on his 52x46er. Do you know what that means? Allow me to explain. My spreadsheet for completing the 46 high peaks consists of 46 rows, one for each peak, and a single column with x's for each completed peak. This guy has... Get this... A spreadsheet with 46 rows and *52 columns* representing each week of the year. So at some point in his life, the plan is to hike mount Marcy during the 1st week of a year, the second week, 3rd, all the way up to the 52nd week. So yeah, 52 Marcy summits, each one at very specific times of the year. And similarly for all the other 46 peaks, totalling 2392 summits. He has his 12x46er completed for each month of the year and is taking a little break from the 52x46er. What else? He ran the Wakely Dam Ultra, but not during race time. He ran it alone, just to see how he'd stack up to the competition. In his 50's he attempted a speed record for climbing all 46-peaks, and was on-target for the record after 36 hours of hiking, with 16 peaks when things started go awry. Skeptical? Yeah, me too. Until he proved himself to be RandomScoots the ADK Omniscient. I happened to mention seeing a deer on a trail munching mushrooms, the deer looking at me funny and refusing to budge. RandomScoots says to me, "let me ask you something. Did this happen to take place in the Ausable Valley?" It took place a few hundred feet from the Lower Ausable Lake. I guess that's the only place in the Adirondacks where deer behave like that. Wow. Ok dude, you've got my attention, I will never question you again! What does RandomScoots say about my trip? My attempt to outdo myself after a long life of outdoing myself? The ultimate culmination of my life and study? And complete measure of myself, man, vs. nature? He says, "you're coming out Sunday? You're not gonna break any records on this trip." Wow ouch! Even if complete this cockamamie scheme I'm still a wuss! Although I gotta say, what a great motivating way to start the trip.
The Seward Range Trailhead
RandomScoots drops me off at the Summer Trailhead for the Seward Range with a fond farewell. I am thrilled after an amazing encounter, what inspiration. RandomScoots. Random indeed! Or maybe it's anything but random: something to think about during the endless hours ahead. I sign into the trailhead and skim the names on the page I'm filling out. I see two familiar names. Friends of mine who are working on the 46 high peaks who I've hiked a few times with, and another is the uncle of a friend with whom I finished the 46.
The Ward Brook Trail
The trail is very wet and muddy. I'm wearing sandals with no socks. It's chilly, leaves cover the ground everywhere. My feet get cold, and a bit red, then suddenly become toasty warm despite dunking them in ice water at repeated intervals every 60 seconds or so. It seems as though smashing them into the ground with every step helps pulsate warm blood into and out of the foot keeping them 100 times warmer than my cold hands.
Before long I switch to my winter gloves, but my feet stay fancy free in the sandals. It's getting dark, and I put on a headlamp. I pass a few lean-tos (Blueberry and Ward Brook), and eventually reach an awesome lean-to with a place to tie up horses. For a while I'm running on a trail wide enough to drive a truck down. The elevation steadily rises, and before long I'm running on a thin covering of snow. My feet get progressively colder as they mingle with the ice. I start to wonder if I have taken a wrong turn, it feels like I am approaching a mountain. I check the map, this is a 2-mile section with a 500 foot climb. The trail is now a tunnel through the pines. The hill eventually crests, and I start descending towards Duck Hole. I pass an intersection with the Northville-Placid trail followed by the Cold River Lean-To. A sign outside the lean-to points in all directions with lots of words and mileages. My brain is a bit muddled so I stop for a bit to try and sort out this puzzle of arrows. My headlamp is pointing through the sign, toward the lean-to off in the distance. After I stand there for a few minutes, a headlamp emerges from the lean-to. A hiker introduces himself. He has been solo hiking the Northville-Placid trail from the beginning for the last 8 days. He hiked 20 miles today, and has 15 more to go to reach Lake Placid and will finish tomorrow. He has always wanted to make the trip, and finally took the opportunity. We talk for a bit, and I head to Duck hole.
I arrive at an intersection at Duck Hole. I could continue on my way, but instead I check out another trail to the nearby Duck Hole Lean-to. Looking over the edge of a drop-off reveals half of a wooden structure crooked and crumbled sunken in a river, massive by Adirondack standards. I recall stories about the beautiful Duck Hole, something about a dam breach during hurricane Irene. There is a strong sense of history here, rare in the U.S. and particularly in the wilderness! I am strongly tempted to stay the night at this lean-to, but I'm feeling strong and RandomScoots' chiding urges me onward.
I hang a right onto the Preston Ponds trail towards the northern tip of Henderson Lake. This is a bit of a no-mans land of the Adirondacks. I've never been anywhere near this place before. It is a wet swampy mess. The trail winds to-and-fro, clearly in this area the trees got dibs on territory before the trail. It's nearing midnight, my headlamp is dimming a bit. My uncovered feet are feeling the bite from thousands of cold water dunks. I find myself walking seemingly at random in a foot or two of water, holding onto trees to keep me from sinking any deeper. I am walking in completely random directions: south then west then north then west then east, and suddenly it occurs to me that I could be totally lost in a swamp right now. If I can't find the trail (with no compass) I'll be in really big trouble. I look around and see a trail marker confirming that I am still on track. This must be an area that has been dammed by beavers, submerging the trail. I'm on the trail, but to call this a trail is really stretching it. I'm cussing at this point, this is ridiculous. I gotta be approaching the north end of Henderson Lake, I just gotta. Finally I come to a brook crossing with Henderson Lake visible to the south. I cross the river, and come to an unexpected intersection. Trying to fit the area to the map, I take a left which takes me immediately back across the river I just crossed, only this time over a beaver dam in foot-deep water! Argh! This can't be it. So I cross back over the beaver dam, back down the trail and across the river where I crossed the first time. I am confused. I suppose the beaver dam must be the right way. So I cross again, then cross the beaver dam again, and continue down the trail. Which takes me right back where I started! I pause and realize that the original crossing was not the trail. Officially I should have only crossed via the beaver dam. Now I know what's going on and I proceed.
I see an odd cement structure in the distance with a "no campfires" sign on it. I'm tired. I stop and look around, and I notice a "Lean-to" sign high up on a tree. I follow the sign and set up my sleeping pad and sleeping bag. A flurry of snow covers the lean-to floor, which I brush off with a broom. I hang up my pants and jacket, set up my bear canister, brush my teeth, and chow down on some of my sub and crash for the night at midnight. I sleep well and wake up around 8am.
It's cold. An inch of snow covers the ground. I'm warm in my sleeping bag, but I need to either be huffing it on the trail or nestled in my sleeping bag. If I stand around at all I'm going to freeze. I could really use a good breakfast and some water, but there's no time for that. I quickly pack up my stuff and grab my bear canister. I put toe socks on with my sandals and hurry down to the cement structure. Trails head in multiple directions. For the life of me I cannot recall which direction I came from. I stand there for a while trying to remember. I curse myself for not having a compass. I try walking towards the cement structure from each direction to see if I can remember which approach looks the most familiar. I have a guess, but I'm still not certain. I look at the nearby river and note which direction it's flowing. My map kinda sucks, and the contour lines are not quite visible so I can't tell which direction the river is flowing, but eventually I make an educated guess based on the elevations of nearby ponds that flow into Henderson Lake. Everything points in one direction, so I take it. I'm still not sure, but I figure I'll definitely remember the beaver dam before long if I'm going the wrong way. I get lucky, and I'm heading in the right direction. I'll get lucky like this a lot on the trip.
I'm now entering the area of the Adirondacks where building fires is prohibited. I am not using any stoves, or producing heat of any kind. My mantra is, "be the fire". I am the fire. I need to stay well fed, rested, and keep the fire burning by running or hiking aggressively.
Calamity Brook Trail
The hike to Lake Colden along the Calamity Brook involves 1,000 feet of elevation gain over 5 miles or so. If you'll recall that means a drop in temperature of how much? That's right, 3.3 degrees. 3.3 degrees is really significant this time of year because we're right around the freezing point. That means the snow is getting steadily deeper as I walk. The sandals provide no traction whatsoever so I am falling on my ass constantly. I need a cartoony "whoopwhoopwhoopwhoop" sound playing in the background as my feet are a constant blur of slipping and sliding. I'm wearing sandals with soaking wet thin wool socks, so my feet are mighty cold. Never numb, but chilly. I catch up to a couple hiking. The girls says, "aren't your feet cold?" I answer plainly, "yes" and continue on my way.
You might be thinking right now, "why on earth would you be wearing sandals with socks in conditions like this"? I'm not sure I can answer that to satisfaction, but I can try. If I were wearing boots they would be soaking wet. Permanently. There is a huge benefit to wearing footwear that dries off instantly. The more conditions I can use the sandals the better. So I'm testing the limits. And my feet held up totally fine, except that they felt cold. Not numb, not frostbitten, just cold.
A second reason is that I have worked really hard over the last few years to condition my feet to the point they are at now. They are the reason I can go on joyous adventures. They are like my children who I have raised, and now that they have matured I want to take them out into the world and show them around. Take them to Disney World if you will. Take them places they would never experience if they were not as strong as they are.
Thirdly, my A-game footware is my minimalist running shoes, significantly less shoe than sneakers. I had not foreseen hiking through this much snow and I have to get over Mount Marcy. Any kind of plan B probably involves a longer hike, or bailing out to Heart Lake and hitching a ride back to my car. Or perhaps hiking something that will be as bad or worse than Marcy, for example Haystack, which involves two separate peaks, which might be twice as bad as one. Marcy is just a single up-and-over. Therefore I'm committed to attempting Mount Marcy. It's going to be rough I know, and for that reason my best shoes and socks are staying in my pack for as long as possible because when I approach Marcy I'm going to start fresh and give it everything I've got. I figure that as long as I can get to the peak of Marcy, it will be a quick scurry down the other side. I will turn back as soon as it seems like it's too much and head to Heart Lake, but until that time there will be no hesitating. Let's do this.
It's 11am. I am wrapped in my sleeping bag at a lean-to in Flowed Lands, working on warming my feet.
I need a vessel of infinite warmth, and just such a vessel I have found. I quickly master the art of transferring heat from my nuts to my feet, using my hands as a go-between. I rest up and get thoroughly warm. I finish eating my sub, drink all my water, and when an hour has passed, I don my battle gear: wool socks wrapped in cut up EMS shopping bags (EMS shopping bags work incredibly well for this purpose, I've tried many types of bag and there's just nothing like these), in my loosely tied shoes. Wool long underwear and thin hiking pants. Wool t-shirt, medium weight wool sweater, and superlight hooded windbreaker. Heavy wool hat and ski gloves. In my pack I have an extra polypropylene shirt and my down jacket just in case, although I won't end up using these for this leg of the trip. I drop a few iodine tablets into my empty water bottle so I won't have to fuss with it later.
I boogie to the bridge at the south end of Lake Colden where I fill up my liter water bottle. The walk along the Uphill Brook to the Uphill Lean-to is spectacular. It's a fairly steep hike with tall waterfalls to the left for the entire way. A perfect place for a cold shower in a warmer season. I stop and talk to a group of hikers on their way down. We're all shocked by the foot-deep snow we are traipsing through. None of us expected it to be like this. They asked me where I came from and I told them the Seward trailhead. They said, "I have no idea where that is". I wish I asked them which direction they came from so I know when I should diverge from their tracks, but I don't think of it until it's too late. I pass by a cairn, I'm not sure if it was marking the route up to Cliff or Redfield. With my eyes pointed at the ground, I blindly follow the tracks of the previous group. The intersection with the trail to the Feldspar lean-to blows right by without my noticing. At this point it is just dumb luck that the footprints I'm following take me where I need to go. It crossed my mind that if I happen to be going the wrong way, I'll take it as a sign that I should be going around Marcy, not over it.
Not surprisingly, it's slow going. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. Maybe a little too much. I start using a new mantra. "Go quickly but without haste". I really don't want to wear myself out or cause some major blowout like an injury or a heart attack. I take an occasional break on the ascent. I am relieved to see Lake Tear of the Clouds and the cairn marking the Gray Peak trailhead. A really cool spiral has been drawn in moss on a nearby boulder. Clever vandals. I know it's not far now to Four Corners where the official hike up Mount Marcy begins. I pass a group of confident hikers, well equipped dudes. Heavy mountaineering boots, microspikes, hiking poles, and big burly backpacks contrasts with my little daypack. They just hiked Skylight and will now hike Gray and stay in the Feldspar Lean-to for the night. They express concerns that if it snows much more they will need snowshoes. Shortly after I arrive at Four Corners. So far so good.
This is the test, the fate of the trip rests on the next hour or so. The snow here is maybe a foot-and-a-half deep. A small bit of climbing is required to get up some big round bouldery sections. Grabbing fistfulls of bush is a huge help, but probably a bit of an ADK no-no. The traction on my little shoes is astounding, they stick to the snowy ground like glue. For the first half, I'm surrounded by shrinking trees. I finally pop out into a windswept desert. Gigantic cairns clearly mark the way up the steep rocky slope. I scramble up mostly bare rock, whenever possible avoiding icy spots and snow drifts of potentially infinite depths. Amazingly the trail, marked with yellow stripes, is largely visible most of the way to the top. It is a fairly easy climb. Once at the top I am getting creamed with stinging blizzard wind. Snowflakes. Ha. They are moving so ferociously with the wind that they stretch out into long needles like stars in hyperspace. Walking forward with the wind is tolerable, but on occasion when I have to turn around and double back, the snowneedles want to tear off my face, you'd think I just opened the Ark of the Covenant.
Why not hang out a while and enjoy the view? Ha, screw that I gotta get off this crazy peak as quickly as possible. I spent a few seconds looking for the peak marker, but quickly give up and start taking a few steps downward. It's nearly impossible to tell which way to go. Visibility is maybe 20 or 30 feet and this side of the mountain is all snow drifts anywhere from a foot deep to waist-deep. A group of hikers approaches. We trade a few quick words, one guy rubs it in what a great idea it was to bring goggles on this trip. I am thrilled because I should be able to follow their tracks quickly off the mountain. My elation is very short-lived, however. I immediately realize that the tracks are getting completely buried seconds after they are made. Damn, I'm on my own here. I wander along and come across a signpost saying "leave rocks here" so I know I'm on the path. Further along I come across a large cairn. Excellent. I put my hand on the cairn and look around for the next one. I look all around and realize that I can't see anything but white. Forget the next cairn, I'm starting to lose all sense of direction! I start walking forward. I gotta get off this peak NOW! I walk 50 feet down the side of the mountain despite the fact that I see no indication that I'm going the right way. I'm ready to keep going when suddenly I stop dead in my tracks remembering the fate of this guy who did exactly that and ended up spending a long night on top of this very mountain. When I heard the story I talked a lot of smack about how stupid it was to just wander down the side of the mountain. But in this moment I was standing squarely in his shoes, and knowing his story may very well be the only reason I didn't repeat his mistake. As I paused there I felt his shadow pass through my body on down the slope. Every instinct in my body is screaming to just go, get off the mountain. But no, I need to back track and search around and find the real trail. I do so and pick a different direction, and eventually find the next cairn, and the next. I have to repeat the backtracking process a few times but eventually find the exit. As soon as I'm below the treeline I am reasonably safe. Yes my feet are a bit chilly as I bound down through two feet of snow, but at least I'm through the dangerous part. I have travelled this section of trail a dozen times in the summertime and know it like the back of my hand, yet with the snow cover it is completely foreign. It is usually an easy stretch, much like climbing down a staircase of rocks. However, with the rocks covered in snow, I can't use the staircase to any advantage. Instead the rocks are obstacles making for difficult travel.
Partway down the mountain I come across footprints. A group of people had walked up most of the way but turned back. Tracks make going easier, and provide some comfort that I am not alone out here. I find my way to Slant Rock, and follow the long and confusing trail to Slant Rock lean-to.
Sleeping Bag Odyssey
I start sweeping snow out of the shelter, then I stop and assess my situation. I'm at 3500 feet of elevation which is still pretty darned high. The wind is howling, it is super cold, and snow is dumping. It is now 5pm and the sun will soon set after which the temperature will drop significantly. I know that if I travel another 2 miles the weather will be significantly gentler and will make for a much better place to rest. However, I'm in rough shape. There's a chance the next lean-to will be occupied. Here I have an available lean-to that will provide the shelter I need to survive the night. The problem is the timing. Once I get in the sleeping bag, there is no getting out until I'm ready to hike again. I am just not equipped for standing around even for a few minutes. I have decided that I don't want to take any chances with hiking in the cold dark. This means that staying at this lean-to is a commitment to lay here for the next 14 hours. Rather than face the next few miles with cold wet feet, I pull out the sleeping bag and cocoon up. I spend the next 14 hours like this, with my nose poking out of a tennis-ball-size hole in the top of the sleeping bag. I only step out twice to pee.
My water bottle is half ice. It is the only thing I have to drink, and I'd rather dehydrate than get myself cold and wet again by wandering through the snow to get more water. I stick the icy bottle into the sleeping bag with me. I'm now back to my mantra, "be the fire". I wear my winter cap and down jacket. I put the icy water bottle in the jacket and let it thaw for a few hours while I doze. Noticing that my upper body is warm but my feet and legs are cold, once the water has thawed I take off my down jacket and stick my legs down the arm holes and soon everything is toasty warm.
I'm getting a strong sense of commodities that are plentiful and commodities that are in short supply. Inside the sleeping bag I have a surplus of warmth and dryness. On the other hand I have accrued some debt in the wet sock department. Dry socks are my lifeline. One pair of dry socks is enough to get me through a good 6 hours of hiking before I need to take a sleeping bag break. I have one pair of dry socks in my bag, but I don't want to use them. When all else fails, it might save my life having one extra pair of socks to get me through another 6 hours of hiking. I wonder as I lay there if there is a way to convert my body heat into dry socks? I reach out and fetch my wool socks. They were soaking wet, and are now frozen solidly into shape. I put my warm hand in the sock. It slowly softens as my hand freezes. When my hand gets too cold I put the other hand in the sock and the cold hand on my nuts. I swap back and forth a few times until the sock becomes wet but warm, then take a nap with the sock on my hand. I sleep exactly one hour at a time and each time I wake up I start a new project. I put the sock on my foot and start with the other one. I put that wet sock on the other foot. I fan out my arms and legs, filling up the sleeping bag with cold air then pull everything back in again to get the humid air out. Throughout the night while I'm drying my clothes, I regularly use the sleeping bag like a bellows in this way. I imagine a plume of steam rising out of the small hole in the top of the sleeping bag as I work my drying factory.
At two a.m. I hear strange sounds, like someone talking through a megaphone in the distance. With the howling wind it's hard to tell what I'm hearing. I hear it again, and this time I perk up and stick my head out of the sleeping bag after which I hear nothing more. I say to myself, "no worries, you're hallucinating, go back to sleep".
Throughout the night I snack on a big hummus burrito. With only a few hours left of my 14-hour sentence, I try to dry my frozen gloves. They are very wet, and are by no means completely dry by the time the sun comes up. As they thaw I am oderiferously reminded that the last time I used these gloves was for ice fishing. Warm steaming fish odor fills my 1x8' home, but at least the gloves are a little more comfortable.
Johns Brook Trail
With the sun up I quickly gather my things and head down the trail. I stick my pb&j in my pocket along with a few other snacks. On the trail, I am shocked to find very fresh tracks. As strange as this sounds, the tracks clearly state a visible hopelessness. One set of footprints pounds directly through the deepest water holes, each footstep pressing onward with no regard to keeping warm or dry or any other kind of sensibility. The tracks make easy going for me. Not only is the snow packed down nicely, but I can clearly distinguish dry footprints vs. wet footprints so I know exactly where I can safely step without getting wet. Pretty much all Adirondack trails are so well-traveled that they make a small rut that acts as a stream for water to flow downhill. All of these trails act as streams so there is generally a steady flow of water everywhere you want to step. Avoiding stepping in water is generally impossible, so these tracks are a huge help.
I make amazing time trotting along to Bushnell Falls. I feel well rested, dry, and all-around fantastic, smiling from ear-to-ear. The trail passes directly through the lean-to there where a group of friendly Québécois are just waking up and are too busy boiling water and various other duties to hear me on my first hello. I say it louder and they turn around and say "you're too early, the coffee's not ready yet". We have a good long chat. At 2am a group of people passed through, soaking wet, and had a *very* long hike ahead of them. After reaching the parking area, 5 miles or so away, they had to continue on past Keene Valley to Keene proper. The voices I heard in the night weren't hallucinations after all. The Québécois were the tracks that had hiked most of the way up Marcy before turning back. They asked me where I came from, and I told them the Seward trailhead. They said I don't know where that is, but they turned to each other and deliberated in French for a while, when finally the woman said, "you came from the Seward range?". They marvelled at my tiny backpack and asked, "you fit a sleeping bag in there rated for these temperatures"? They looked at my shoes and said, "Wait, you're hiking in those? Do those have any traction? Did you say you're heading towards Marcy or coming from Marcy?".
I half jogged down to John's Brook Lodge where I took a bit of pleasure in sitting on a man-made bench before continuing along. The sun was shining brightly and it was a beautiful morning. I jogged and jogged with my eyes staring at the ground. In one moment I blinked my eyes and noticed that there was no snow on the trail. I looked around. There is no snow anywhere! Holy S, in the span of merely 3 hours I traveled from arctic tundra to a pleasant autumn morning! Unbelievable!
Soon I was at the Garden parking lot. I signed out, and dropped my bag next to the port-a-potty. There were no signs of bad weather when I stepped inside. However as I sat there it started raining heavily outside. I stepped out, picked up my bag, and started jogging down the road. It got pretty steep so I went with it and ran a bit faster. Then I got a bit of a sore feeling in my shin, my first and only malaise of the trip. For the next few hours, I walked carefully to the Giant Mountain Ridge trailhead where my car was waiting for me. I was surprised to find that the walk along 73 was amazing. It followed the climbing cliffs along the left side of the road, and then Chapel Pond on the right, all places worth checking out to be sure. A car pulled up on the side of the road and a woman hopped out up ahead. She walked over to a sign and stared at it for a while. She came up to me and asked, "this trail goes to Cascade right?" I looked at the sign. It read something like, "Giant Mountain via ?? Trail". I told her no definitely not, and showed her the map and pointed her in the right direction. She went back to the car and speeded away in the wrong direction.
I was psyched to finally reach the car. Thanks to RandomScoots I could simply drive straight home, no need to drive a few extra hours to pick up a bicycle at the Seward trailhead. I drove home and stopped at Druthers in Saratoga along the way. Yum! Now I'm home and super psyched to have had a wildly successful Tarzan Weekend. Hopefully this satisfied my craving for adventure for a while, youch!