Ever notice how people, without trying to be sarcastic or duplicitous, can say one thing and mean the exact opposite? Consider, for example, the statement, “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” given by a middle-aged backpacker after hearing I was going to start the arduous Appalachian-to-Lincoln Gap hike at 11:30 in the morning. What she meant was, “I’m sure you’ll be fine, if there’s a guardian angel for complete idiots.” I think she was put off by the fact that at the end of this one-way hike, I also needed to hitchhike back to my car on a Sunday evening in rural Vermont. Everyone seems biased against my risk-assessment capabilities… even complete strangers!
The hike itself seemed quite manageable. After all, I’d decided to do the six-peak traverse from north-to-south, which psychologically – though not factually – means downhill. The magazine and internet descriptions had promised beautiful views and warned of dangerous exposure along the high-altitude ridgeline. But my expectations slowly contracted as the afternoon progressed.
In the Rocky Mountains, a “ridgeline” almost guarantees a panoramic vista. I’d forgotten that in the Green Mountains, ridgeline hiking usually requires a healthy imagination, because without a chainsaw, it’s difficult to know whether you’re standing on a mountaintop or somewhere near sea level. Most summits along the route were cloaked in forest and occasionally featured platforms that poked out above the trees. For almost the whole journey, branches obscured every horizon, and treeline was a theoretical 1,000 feet above my head. I found myself wishing I’d brought a compass in case I lost my bearings, but the trail was a straight shot, north-to-south. I couldn’t really get lost if I just followed the ridgeline, right?
Right! Yes, I managed to defy convention and reach the final 4,006-foot peak without any difficulty. Who says mishaps have to befall me at every corner? On the exposed summit rocks of Mt. Abraham, I finally was rewarded with the view I’d been promised – a succession of emerald hills rippling outward into the summer haze. From my lofty vantage point, the distant trees mimicked the texture of a well-worn fleece blanket - a green blanket thrown over the undulations of a restless ocean. The silhouettes of the Adirondack high peaks stood sentinel along the western horizon, far beyond the state boundary and the sprawling inlets of Lake Champlain.
Three days earlier, I, too, had been on the opposite side of the state line, camping by a lake in New York’s Adirondack Mountains. But my fortunes there had been less than stellar. I was prefacing my West Coast travels with a two-week vacation back east, visiting family and investigating outdoor opportunities closer to my hometown. During the rainstorm that kept me trapped within my tent on the shore of Falls Pond for twelve hours, I began to acknowledge that a gap existed between my nostalgic impressions of upstate New York and reality.
It’s true that you can hike for 45 minutes in the Adirondacks and have a lake all to yourself for days, but if you go too early in the season, then the black flies, horseflies and mosquitoes will seriously impact your ability to commune with nature. Black flies pierce the skin, lap up the blood, and leave behind wounds that can bleed afterwards, thanks to the anticoagulants in their saliva. Between the bugs and the rain, I was driven to spend much more quality time in the tent than I’d intended.
