“All by Yourself”

A journal entry from July, 2018.

I wake up – in the John’s Brook Valley – curled tightly in my sleeping bag, and watch as my breath appears in the first hint of morning light. Despite being the middle of July, the temperatures had dipped below freezing the night before. I watch the shadow of a spider as it makes its way along the top of my tent. The tiny body turns the orange poly fabric grey as it picks its way over the strange landscape.

Reluctantly, I pry myself out of my warm cocoon, and trade pink long johns for grey hiking pants, and a black thermal top for a kaki Summit Steward uniform. Re-layering in a sweatshirt, puffy jacket, and fleece hat I lace up my hiking boots and poke my head out into the fresh morning. 

I love how clean everything feels in the early hours. Moss drips down the red spruces, and the smell of wet leaves and pitch hangs thick in the air, interrupted only by the melodic flow of thrushes.

 But at the same time, it is freaking cold. I shiver as I make my way to my bear canister, positioned a strategic 200 feet from the sleep tent, and collect the necessary food for the day. 

After heating up some water for breakfast, oatmeal mixed with walnuts, cranberries, and shredded coconut along with a luxurious cup of instant hot coco I’m ready to hit the trail. There is no one in sight. Occasionally I pass a few early-risers on my way up the rocky trail, but today is quiet. A lovely respite from the busy weekend two days earlier. 

I keep an eye out for the large flat rock that signifies I have enough radio service to call in. I listen on the way up as assistant forest rangers, rangers, and my fellow summit stewards sign into service.

Finally I see the rock, and hold the radio high in the air towards a clearing in the trees.

“Marcy Steward to Raybrook on Whiteface”

“Raybrook on Whiteface”

“Marcy Steward is in Service”

“Received”

“Thank you, Marcy Steward Clear”

The morning ritual complete, I stow my radio and continue on towards the summit. I know every rock in the trail at this point, which ones will move, what sections tend to be slippery, and I keep an eye out for the familiar landmarks that indicate how far I am from the top.

A man and his son are hiking up the trail behind me, making great time. I pause to let them pass. I’m prepared for the usual harmless chides about how they were beating the steward up, but instead they stop. 

“See, Fin, these are the people I was telling you about – they come up these mountains everyday”

Turning to me, he smiled wistfully

“You must love hiking up here alone, you can hear all the little wrens and thrushes….. what a magical experience.”

He was right. Hiking the same trails never gets old to me, each day I see something different, and walking by the same trees and the same rocks becomes like passing old friends. 

• 

• 

I was heading up Marcy, and they had a different summit in mind. So we chatted briefly and parted ways.

Three large steps up in a row, about 0.7 miles left, reaching the Phelps Junction, just 0.6. At a clearing I look towards where I know the summit must be, it is obscured in a thick veil of clouds.

I pull on my rain jacket and rain pants, it is misting slightly. 

Through the mist I can see a shape moving down the trail towards me, a young man who looks to be in his late 20’s. 

He’s clutching his hat and staying low to the ground. He jumps when he notices me, then collects himself. He sizes up my patches and radio, and asks the age-old question.

“Do you work here?”

I explain what my job is and why I’m there, quickly throwing in the alpine plant message in case he finds himself on another alpine summit in the future.

He nods and casts an appreciative glance towards the plants. Then his chest puffs up, and his voice drops a few octaves.

“It’s windy up there! I mean it’s really windy. At least 65 mph, I could barely stand up! It was crazy, I thought I was going to get blown off the mountain. It’s not safe, I needed to get back down. It’s insane.”

He pauses for effect and turns to stare back up the trail. I wonder if he’s about to drop and start doing push ups.

“It was tough…. but when I got to that rock-stack marking the summit I managed to take a selfie. It was dangerous, I know, but I needed proof that I conquered the highest mountain in New York.”

He turns to me again, and in the tone you might use with a child adds.

“Are you going up there all by yourself?”

I stare at him in disbelief.

Sometimes I don’t have the heart to tell people they didn’t actually make it to the summit, but today I have zero reservations.

I explain that the rock stack he saw is called a Cairn, and the first trail marker above tree-line. The cloud was so thick he didn’t see that the trail continued on after that.

He stutters and visibly deflates, I hear a few muffled expletives.

In a polite tone, I add:

“I understand if you don’t want to go up there all by yourself, wind can be scary if you’re not used to it.”

When I reach the plaque, at the real summit, I quickly change into dry clothes and bundle up.

It’s a little breezy, but an anemometer confirms my suspicion.

The winds are gusting up to an insane 18 mph.