Arctic Alpine Zone?

7/4/12         

        Rain insured that everything was wet during the night. An early break from camp promised a parking spot at the Adirondack Loj trail head to Mt. Marcy. An overcast sky with an early start meant we packed our gear wet.

        "Heavy showers and isolated thunderstorms after 2PM," Christopher reported, after checking a website forecast.

        The parking lot, with only a few dozen cars, has a capacity for two hundred vehicles, according to Dr. Bobo, but, "If you don't get a spot, there's no other place to park."

        "How long is the trail?" Christopher asked on our drive there.

        "Seven point two miles, one way," Dr. Bobo said.

        I wasn't looking forward to this hike. Primate was ready.

        The trail started down within one quarter mile. "I don't like this," I said. "Going down here means we'll be coming up at the end of our hike."

        The trail soon climbed up and around a hill. The tree-shaded path blocked views except in our immediate vicinity. Glances upward between the foliage proved the sky remained overcast. No breeze amongst the sheltering trees, along with the high humidity, soon made our trek a walk in a sauna. Perspiration soaked our shirts, then dripped off our noses. I removed my hat and constantly wiped my face and head with my hand in an attempt to avoid sweat in my eyes. My glasses fogged over.

        The trail steepened and shared the way with a stream bed, dry at the moment, or nearly so.

        We separated as we climbed. Christopher, the fastest, went on ahead. For awhile I kept up with Dr. Bobo, but lagged behind as we proceeded up the mountain. Fatigue, along with gravity, conspired to hold me back, but I reminded myself, according to Tensing Norgay's advice to Edmond Hillary on Everest, "Slow means success."

        Stream bed and trail parted. The trail eased. We congregated at a junction on a ridge where three other hikers had stopped. One hiker, familiar with the trail, said, "It goes down here, not very far, then goes up. It gets steep on bare rock, straight up." He used one hand to indicate the slope, then added, "Well, not that steep."

        A few moments rest and we set off again, separating immediately in our previous order. The sun broke through clouds occasionally and short breezes provided brief periods of cooling. Trail over and around boulders transitioned to walking up bare rock face. The rock faces grew steeper while the trees grew shorter. A sign, "Entering an artic alpine zone," extolled hikers to stay off the "fragile" vegetation.

        How much steeper can this get?

        The sight of others coming down and of cairns piled on rounded slopes provided encouragement.     Clouds thinned, the sun broke through.

        Take a breather, and then push a little higher.

        As the rock above diminished, as the view of surrounding mountains and forests increased, and as the breeze intensified to strong sustained wind, I grew encouraged. And finally at 5,344 feet the mountain topped out and I stood at the summit, the highest point in New York.

        We all commiserated on our struggle uphill, a climb of 3,200 feet from the parking lot, posed for photos and snacked on our lunch sandwiches. Primate played in a puddle and wanted to take a nap.

        Dr. Bobo said, "I guess we'd better get going. I'm surprised it hasn't rained."

        "I'm ready," Christopher said.

        "Yea, I wouldn't want to climb down these rocks when they're wet. I imagine they'd be slippery," as I shouldered my day pack.

        Christopher started ahead. Dr. Bobo and I headed down together. Step after step seemed torture. I knew what I faced going down, over seven miles worth. Slowly, one step, one slip, one stumble at a time, we retraced our earlier travel. Breezes stirred the air; intermittent sun reduced the humidity while some clouds shaded the forest canopy to keep it cooler; my leg muscles and joints fought an on-going battle against gravity. And I felt it.

        Dr. Bobo and I joked, half seriously, or was it, we complained, half joking?

        "How much longer does this river bed go on?" I didn't expect Dr. Bobo to have the answer.

        "You just have to put in the distance," he responded. "Man, I thought this would level out by now," he said.

         How much farther? "I think somebody saw a stream coming down the mountain and said, 'Let's go up it.' How about some switchbacks?" I complained.

         We came to a trail junction with a sign, "Adirondack Loj .9 miles."

         "I can do that, piece of cake," Dr. Bobo said.

         "Less than one mile. Less ... than one mile." I wanted to reassure myself I could make it. My legs begged to differ. Time seemed to slow, distance seemed to stretch.

         We passed a family with two young children. There's hope.

         Plod, plod. I see the parking lot. It's all over but the after-pain, the soreness and aching, the stiffness, the grunting, and the slow shuffling gait that others, who watch me, dismiss or pay no attention, while I know what I have earned through my suffering.

         Christopher approached the car. "I forgot. I left my wallet in the car and I was looking at the ice cream and cold drinks in the shop, and saying, 'Oh, I wish I had some money.'"

         We took a few minutes to collect our wits, drink water, and buy a cold drink in the shop before we drove away, towards a distant campsite, as yet undetermined.

         Dr. Bobo looked at Primate. "How far do you want to drive?"

         "Just before dark."

         Christopher and Dr. Bobo found a suitable campground for the evening.

         We set up camp, encouraged by the owner's words, "We're not expecting rain tonight." However, we did need to fight off the local mosquito population.

         Low points - twenty three ; high points - nineteen. The odometer said we did another 115 miles today.

7/5/12          

        A clear sky and dry gear welcomed us to a new day.

        Primate drove us out of the Adirondack State Park, headed us west towards Watertown. We looked for a grocery to resupply our staples, as well as morning coffee and pastry. From Watertown the "toll road" provided a fast transit across New York, although it took us some time to cover the distance, but the road cut through forests, and so provided an ample view of trees in summer foliage. We passed through Syracuse, then Buffalo, before we nipped the northeastern corner of Pennsylvania on our way past Cleveland and through Toledo, Ohio, then briefly into Michigan to touch water of Lake Erie at an obscure and defunct marina where we considered that the low point of Michigan.

        We back tracked into Toledo, headed west across the flat, then gently rolling terrain, of northern Ohio farmlands on rural roads, where the traffic thinned and the towns grew less populated.

        "Drive, drive, drive, drive," Primate complained. But Dr. Bobo shared some of the driving and I didn't feel rushed.

        We found suitable camping near the western edge of Ohio, just twelve miles from the Indiana border.

        The humidity and temperature, both high, prompted me to say, as I looked at trees across the pond near our campsite at the Funny Farm, "The haze, from the high humidity, reminds me we're in the mid-west, land of tornadoes."

        Low points - twenty-four; high points - nineteen. Our odometer read an additional 628 miles.