Great Range Traverse - Adirondacks, NY

Since I moved to Vermont five years ago, I'd read about hiking in the Great Range, and I'd been intimidated by those accounts.  Fixed cables, ladders, iron rungs, gut-wrenching descents over slippery rocks... I've climbed Hurricane Mountain just north of Keene Valley at least once a year to drool over its sweeping panoramic view of the Great Range, always swearing that this would be the year I'd finally get out there and do it.  But the dire warnings about the difficulty of these hills always managed to keep me at bay.

In its May 2005 edition, Backpacker Magazine rated the Great Range Traverse as the third toughest day hike in North America, behind only the Timberline Trail on Mt Hood in Oregon (#1) and the Pemi Loop in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

Considering that this year has seen me train for and finish both my first Marathon (Burlington) and Ultra-Marathon (Moosalamoo 36-miler), I felt it was finally time to raise the bar on hiking, and this was definitely the toughest hike I've ever undertaken.

My intrepid mountain-running/adventure/training partner Scott and I opted to follow the same route as Fastest-Known-Timer Jan Wellford, who set a record on this course of 6h40m44s on September 21, 2009.  That record has since been beaten twice, but Jan's post had the nicest map and descriptions, so we went with that.  We knew we weren't going to come anywhere close to an FKT, but were hoping to grind out a respectable time somewhere in the 10 to 12-hour range.  We can be kind of silly like that sometimes.

We started the adventure at 7AM sharp, and it started with a pleasant steady uphill through primarily coniferous forest.  The trail was singletrack and not too technical - the rocks and roots typical to hiking in the northeast were present, but not excessive.  This is apparently the trek's way of luring in unwary hikers who might be thinking the hike won't be as tough as promised.  We even managed to run quite a bit of this early trail, and made it to Rooster Comb in good time.  I dutifully pulled out the bottle of Woodchuck Cider that I planned to take a shot of on every peak throughout the adventure.

Rooster Comb, 2762'

The trek up Lower Wolfjaw is where things started to get a little more technical.  The grade increased dramatically, and the terrain went from Northeast Singletrack to Northeast Plyometrics.  If you're not familiar with plyometrics, it's also referred to as "jump training" and is generally considered the toughest way to do body-weight exercises. The rocks in the path were too big and spaced to far apart to feel like steps, so we basically felt like we were doing lunges and single-leg squats all the way up the mountain.  And down the mountain. And around the mountain.

Lower Wolfjaw, 4175'

Upper Wolfjaw, 4185'

 Most of the peaks along this traverse are spaced about a mile apart, and we'd occasionally be surprised by a summit, saying, "We're here already? Wow!"

The summits of Rooster Comb, Hedgehog and the Wolfjaws were fairly unimpressive.  We actually didn't even realize we'd summited Hedgehog (3389') until we saw a sign pointing to it 0.5 miles back the way we'd come through.  This traverse marked the first time I've ever agreed with hikers who post about "disappointing summits."  Reaching each one was a battle of burning muscles, and I found myself wanting a view as a reward.  

Armstrong (4400') from Upper Wolfjaw

As we delved deeper into the range, the difficulty level steadily increased, but so did the rewards.  After nearly 7 miles of plyometric slogging through scrubby semi-alpine conifers,we caught our first solid views of what was to come.  

Scott, kickin' it after kicking ass.

Heading up Gothics is where the going started to get really challenging.  Scott, being an experienced rock climber who's led multi-pitch climbs on some of the Northeast's more remote rock faces, wasn't fazed at all.  But I've got very little rock climbing under my belt, so several stretches of the trail were more mentally challenging for me than I'd expected them to be.

Every so often in the cols between summits, we'd come across these beautiful stretches of trail that were like little snatches of heaven.  Bordered by plush moss, the path was smooth, level and forgiving to my ever-more-aching knees.




But it was always a brief respite of only a few dozen yards before we'd begin the plyometrics again.  Onward and upward!

Gothics, 4736'

The summit of Gothics marked the first truly open view of the Range, and this is where we opted to take lunch.  After 9 miles of constant movement with only the briefest pauses to catch our breath or for me to regain my equilibrium after a tough climb, we were ready to sit down and take in some food along with the amazing vistas.  Behind the Woodchuck, you can see (left to right) Saddleback, Basin, Little Haystack, Haystack and Marcy.  From this point, we still have a lot of hiking to do!

We couldn't resist the little side trek to Sawteeth, and it was absolutely worth it.  

Sawteeth (4100')

Interesting tidbits on the side of trails is one reason I've never found myself disappointed when summits are socked in by clouds or vistas are tree-choked.  The contrast of the bright blue flowers with the deep red leaves caught my eye.  These flowers only seemed to grow between 3500' and 4100' or so, but were plentiful in their comfort zone.

The descent down the back side of Saddleback was my first real taste of what I'd been so nervous about.  But it wasn't until the descent down Basin that things got really hairy.

The section with cables actually wasn't as bad as I'd worried it would be.  In fact, it seemed more hazardous to hold onto the cable than it was to take my time shuffle-stepping down the rock face.  But Scott and I agreed that climbing up with a heavy pack or going in either direction during inclement weather, these cables might quite literally be a life-saver.

Next time, I'd like to do this Traverse in the opposite direction of this trek.  It would be fun to climb up all these knee-creaking descents.

There are many false summits within the Great Range, but there are also some amazing true summits.  In order to be considered a true summit, a peak must have a prominence of at least 200 feet, and there were many times we weren't certain whether we'd actually hit a summit.

Basin, 4827'

Trail marking in New York is far superior to that of Vermont and Maine, thanks primarily to the use of plastic discs instead of paint blazes. The one thing trails in Maine do unquestionably better than any of the other states mentioned is summit marking.  We were often left guessing as to whether we could check off a peak and haul out the cider to mark the occasion.

"See, it's not so bad!" 

Looking back at one of the more challenging section

Much of the descent down Basin was more like rock-climbing than hiking.  This is the section of trail that took the longest for me to descend, and required quite a bit of patience and coaxing on Scott's behalf.  There were many times I had to grit my teeth and really force myself to move forward, and the biggest reason I didn't give up was knowing that it was now a longer hike back to the car than forging on ahead.


Following the blazes here reminded me very much of my few trips to indoor climbing gyms.  I was grateful for the little bouldering I'd managed to learn, as it gave me a lot of confidence moving over the rocks.  I wouldn't say that climbing experience is necessary for this hike, but it definitely doesn't hurt.

  As we were coming down Basin, we encountered another hiker from Vermont, who was going the same direction as us and had his dog along for the hike.  We were going a little faster than him most of the time, though he caught up to us when we stopped for a water refill between Basin and Haystack.  I asked him how his brown lab, Willow, had negotiated this ladder.  "She just ran down the side of the rock face," he said.

I need a dog like Willow!

Some of the trail signs are more weather-worn than others, but for the most part I've found that trail signs in NY are in good condition and can be relied upon to appear at every trail junction.  This is direct contrast to Vermont's approach to trail marking, which seems designed to encourage hikers to learn map-and-compass navigation.

















The view from Haystack, looking back from whence we came.  It's been a tough day already, and we've only completed about half our mileage!

View of Marcy from Haystack, 4960'

Looking at it from this angle, Marcy doesn't look like it's going to be that tough of a hike from here.  What you can't see is that the trail goes off to the right, descending some 1,000 feet so that the ascent up Marcy is one of the longest climbs of the day.

It's one hell of a hill.

This sign was greeted with relief and a brief refreshing of spirits and energy.  The ascent from this point is a little over 1200 feet, a far cry from the view at the top of Haystack, where the difference in summit elevations is only 384 feet.










By the time we got to the alpine bog on the slopes of Marcy, my mental reserves had reached their limit.  The climbing, descending and general mental strain had taken their toll and even though my legs were strong enough to keep going, I'd have given a lot to just lie down on those beautifully smooth, level planks and just take a nap.







But Scott would have none of that! The Mountain Slayer had one more conquest to reach, and we were now racing the sun, hoping to be through the majority of the descent and out of the rock zone (and hence done with the plyometrics for the day) before full dark.



 The summit plaque on Marcy, commemorating its Native American name (Tahawus, meaning "cloud-splitter) and the first recorded ascent in 1837.  Something tells me it may have been climbed a few times before that because the views were worth every minute of hiking we'd done to get there.

Mt. Marcy, 5344'

And that's where most blog entries about a hike would end.  The final summit, the money shot vista, glorious panoramas of a sweeping mountain range graced by fluffy cumulus clouds and two happy but tired hikers who accomplished a difficult task and can bask in the glorious feeling of contented success.

But it's not where my story ends. Oh, no.  The contentment on top of Marcy was decidedly short-lived.  We reached the summit around 6 pm, and the wind had picked up, chilling my sweaty clothes and sending me digging in my pack for my windshirt.  I was nearly out of water and had gone through most of my food due to my vast under-estimation of this hike.

We still had over 9 miles of trail plus a 2-mile road walk back to the car.  

"No problem," I thought.  "The trail is going to level out, it's all downhill from here, and these boulders can't go on forever."  I think the mountain is still laughing at me.

The boulders didn't end until we were nearly at Bushnell Falls, four miles off the summit of Marcy.  By then it was full dark and we were navigating by headlamp.  I've made a few mentions of how mentally taxing the rock-climbing bits had been for me, but they were nothing compared to the anxiety I felt hiking under headlamp in bear country.  I opted to hold my lamp in my hand so that I could shine it into the bushes whenever I heard an alarming sound, which was every few steps.  In the dark in bear country, every mouse becomes a bear and what sounds like a crickets is almost definitely a chupacabra.  My breathing became progressively more shallow and rapid, and I began stumbling due to paying more attention to my imagination than the rocks still choking the path.

Scott's wrist-top computer, also known as a Suunto Ambit 2 GPS watch, had lost battery life sometime after the 12-hour mark, so I had less and less confidence of how much ground we had left to cover.  Bears, monsters, rocks, an unending trail, no food and increasing thirst all conspired to end me.  I started feeling light-headed, then outright dizzy, but I kept plodding on, following the pool of light cast by Scott's headlamp ahead, ruthlessly quashing the panic that threatened me whenever that pool disappeared around a bend or down a slope.  I have a simple mantra I use on long runs and difficult hikes: I repeat, "I can do this," over and over to myself, usually in a cheerfully optimistic and self-affirming inner voice.  But that inner voice became progressively more tremulous and questioning as the trail continued on.  

Looking back, my panic was not as much in control as I thought and the final straw came just a couple miles from the end of the trail when Scott waited for me to catch up.  "You go on ahead," he said, "I'll be right along."  I couldn't frame a reply other than a mumbled "ok," but every muscle in my body went tense at the thought of having to find my own way.  What if I got on a side trail or a game trail and he didn't know? I could be lost wandering forever or - more likely - become a meal for the bears and chupacabra to fight over.  I stumbled. I tried to tell myself I could do it.  Scott would be right along.  I didn't know what he was doing, and due to twists and turns in the trail, soon couldn't see his headlamp behind me.

I was cold, exhausted, hungry, thirsty.  And now alone.  For someone who vaunts her independence as much as I do, it was shocking to me to be so terrified to be alone.  I'd backpacked solo, camped solo, done countless hikes and long runs, flights, road trips... most of the things I'd done so far in life, I'd done alone.  All I can guess is that the mental fatigue that had been steadily increasing throughout the day had finally taken over my entire mental capacity.  

Scott caught up to me and proudly held out a bottle of water that was the reason he'd dropped behind.  The chemical treatment he uses takes five minutes to take effect, and he'd stopped because he knew I needed more.  I was so grateful I nearly passed out.  No, seriously.  I nearly passed out.  I tried to stand back up from the crouched position I'd been resting in while Scott caught up to me, and the world went sideways and grey.  I laid down beside the trail and Scott covered my legs with his fleece pullover to help me warm up.  While I laid there half asleep, he dug through my pack to find the salty trail mix I'd forgotten about, put the bag in my hand and told me to eat some and drink some water.  

No, thank you.  I'm just going to lie here and die.  I just hope I finish the dying part before the bears start the dining part.

I think Scott was laughing at me, but in a good way.  He'd been there, done that and knew exactly what I was going through.  This was the moment I'd read about on countless endurance runner blogs and heard about on some of my favorite trail runner podcasts.  And here I was, doing it. I had pushed myself to the end of my mental endurance and reached the low that Scott had started calling "Death-con 2" after his experience of it during a trail run several weeks before.  I'd watched him go through it and felt sympathetic, but not empathetic.  In fact, a small part of my brain thought the whole idea was just plain pathetic.  

Until it happened to me.

After just a few minutes, a miracle occurred.  Just like I'd read about, just like I'd heard on the podcasts, a switch flipped in my brain.  That bag of trail mix was the most delicious thing I'd ever eaten and the cold mountain stream water was a heavenly elixir.  I felt like Pop-eye after eating a can of spinach.  I suddenly had the power to sit up, then stand up.  I'm pretty sure I even smiled.  "Let's do this," I said, and we headed back down the trail.

Hey, guess what.  Those chupacabras I'd been so worried about?  Mice! I even saw a few, and they were actually kind of cute.  The bears that were hunting me down?  Also mice!  Tell you what, there are some noisy damned mice out in the mountains.

Anyway, after my own Death-con 2 experience, I came back feeling strong.  We finished the hike down the trail and the 2-mile road walk back to the car pretty uneventfully.  By the time we got there and I'd changed into fresh, dry clothes, I even felt good enough to drive the hour home.  It's amazing what a little rest, some food, water and, most of all, moral support can do for the human spirit.

All told, this hike lasted from 7 AM to 10:45 pm, covered about 25 miles, 12 peaks (9 over 4000', including the highest peak in NY) and included a total climb and descent of just over 10,300 vertical feet.

A special thanks goes out to Scott for pulling me through the most difficult hike I've ever done.

Finally!

I call it "hiker hair."  Not sure why I'm making that face.

Scott, hamming it up on Upper Wolfjaw

"Yeah. I climbed that."