More Hitching than Hiking in Northern Minnesota

My earliest outdoor adventure trips after the experiences through Camp Widjiwagan were backpacking trips with friends. In 2020, I re-connected with Paul, one of the accomplices on some of those trips. He kept a detailed journal! So combining his journal recollections with my pictures, here's a story about youthful adventures in the north woods of Minnesota.

On April 14th of 1973, Mark, Jeff, and I take a bus from Minneapolis to Grand Marais, where we meet Eric and Paul (who make the trip by hitch hiking). Grand Marais made it onto Outside Magazine's list of top 10 beach getaways along with Sanibel and Captiva Islands in Florida, and Poipu, Hawaii! Grand Marais is located on the North Shore of Lake Superior, and although it may not have the sand of Florida or Hawaii, it is beautiful.


With a water temperature of 32.4 degrees Fahrenheit during the winter, however, you might want to pack a dry suit for frolicking in the waves. I think it's interesting that the tourist information lists attractions like snowmobiling and snowshoeing in equal number with activities like biking and hiking. We're not burly enough to do a "Polar Bear Plunge" , so we opt for hiking.



After meeting up, we walk to the El Rey Cafe and eat dinner. Then we walk west a couple blocks to a park and campground to sleep for the night. All cities should have camping options "...just a rock skip away from downtown..."! It rains during the night and our stuff get a little wet. Since we're just a couple of blocks away anyways, we head back to the El Rey for breakfast.

Thu fortified, we start walking up the Gunflint Trail.

According to Justine Kerfoot in an article published in the Cook County News-Herald, "The Gunflint Trail was originally a winter trail for trappers and Indians, from Gunflint Lake to Grand Marais..." Now it is a paved road providing access to restaurants and camp resorts.



We catch a ride in a pickup to the turnoff for Devils Track Lake. Despite a backpacking trip where we have so far slept in a city park and eaten at a restaurant, we decide there are too many houses here. So we turn back to explore around the Little Devils Track River. At this point, everyone wants to go back to Grand Marais except Jeff. Outvoted, we start back and pause to take in the sights at a scenic overlook.

Unfortunately, fog obscures the view




We end back up at the same campground, camping under picnic tables. More rain and Eric freaks out and tries to karate kick in the door of the park building.

The next morning all of us except Mark go to the laundromat to dry our stuff. Mark, being a little more seasoned camper than us, has stayed dry and cozy and is still asleep. Once again to the El Rey for breakfast, and then one of many trips to the Standard Oil Station to use the bathroom.

At this point, the trip has become a delinquent's tour of the City, so we spend the day prowling for places to sleep indoors that night. We're not about to pay for a motel room, so first we walk up to the high school, then stop at a church, and then to the playground at a closed school, where at least we find suitable entertainment.







We then wander back to the laundromat (hobo hint: they're open long hours with lax supervision of loitering). Eric buys some moccasins, and we walk east out of town. We find a spot a little off the highway in the woods where we camp. No rain and a beautiful moon.

The next morning, the weather is nice and we walk back to town singing Hot Tuna songs. El Rey again, Standard Gas Station bathroom again (I wonder why we don't get preferred customer status at the El Rey by now), then out on to the peninsula for most of the day.

Local girls show up! Eric and Paul play air guitar and sing for them.

I don't know how to play air guitar, so I play a mixing board. Then Eric asks them about indoor places to stay. I suspect that he's hoping for a personal invitation, but they suggest a ski chalet way up on the hill, so off we go.  Note to self: learn to play air guitar.   

Our exploits have not gone unnoticed by others, and our trek is interrupted by an intervention from Sherriff Johnny Lyght. He tells us to stay out of trouble but ultimately let us be on our way.

We find the ski chalet, but judge it too ramshackle for our tastes. Then one of the girls remembers a hunting cabin, and we make our way there.

We're all running out of water, and when I hand my bottle to Mark to share a swig, he empties the remaining contents!

We cram ourselves into the little cabin where at least there's a roof. But of course no water! Paul and I are parched, and what comes to mind when you say parched? Corn of course. We open a can of corn and start drinking the juice. We add Tang to make it more palatable! If only we had some space food sticks to go along with the orange drink. Despite our woes, we can't stop laughing and have a great night!

The next morning, JoAnn and her sister Kendall bring us graham crackers. Is that sweet or what? Not enough sustenance evidently, so we head back to the El Rey.

By mid morning, Eric and Paul decide to head out. Jeff, and Mark I don't want to wait all day for the bus, so we start hitching in two groups. Ultimately we all end up in a big Cadillac together. The guy driving has the nods so we keep talking to him to keep him awake! He remains conscious long enough to drive us all the way to Duluth, dropping us off at 25th Av and London. Still in tourist mode, we walk 5 blocks to an A&W, where Paul can only afford a small root beer. Evidently, none of us cretins help him out.

From there we walk down to 10th Av to Leif Erikson park where there (was) a Viking ship. Interesting note: that ship actually did sail from Bergen, Norway to Duluth, arriving in 1927. By 1980, it had rotted so much that it was removed and refurbished, again put on display, but due to vandalism, was removed again in 2013. It remains in storage until it can again be displayed in a more secure setting.

Anyway, we all go down to the lake, except for Paul who stays up by the ship, since all our packs are up there. No sharing at the A&W, and now we leave him on guard duty? Then when when we return, to pour salt on Paul's wounds, Eric regales him with exploits about a cliff he had climbed.

After that we walk to the bus depot, where Mark, and Jeff I get our bus tickets refunded. We ask about places to stay and after taking in our appearance, the guy at the bus depot suggests the Lark Hotel. Not bashful we: as we walk through downtown, we ask people about indoor places to stay. That's when we meet Rick Raino. He tells us he has to check with his friend so we all traipse up to the sixth floor to a business called Interplanetary Descent. Something to do with wireless telephones. (They were ahead of their times!)  I notice their telephone wires are connected to the wall socket with alligator clips. hmmm.

At some point, we ask if he has a shower, and he responds that he has a sauna. Innocent though we are, we get an inkling of sketchiness, so we decline their offer of a place to stay and go back to the street. We discover that the Lark is a seedy flophouse unworthy of our patronage. Back on the street, we encounter Rick again who says, "Oh, so the Lark didn't want you. Well here's my pickup if you want to go with me." So Eric accepts and tells the rest of us Rick is probably just a nice guy. Eric and Jeff ride in the cab, the rest of us in the back. We're driving east on London and Paul confirms my thoughts that this is not a good idea. Rick stops at a Superamerica to buy milk. While he's in there, Eric and Jeff get out and Paul calls Eric a dumbass. Thus awakened to reality, Eric suddenly grabs his pack, and then we all follow suit and bolt! Like a dog after a squirrel, or a squirrel reacting to a dog, we run across London Avenue, not even checking to see if any cars are coming! After running about a block, we stop and as the adrenaline fades, we laugh, dubbing it "The Great Escape".

Eric pulls out his gravity knife for protection. Fortunately, we don't encounter Sherriff Lyght's Duluth counterpart. We get back downtown and Jeff has had enough. He leaves us to catch the bus back to Minneapolis.

Looking for shelter, we first try a church, no luck, then we stumble across historic Duluth Central high school. In the gym, there's a karate class going on. Not bashful we: we inquire about indoor places to stay. Unperturbed, the instructor queries his class without success. It has been hours since our last visit to the El Rey, and Paul is especially hungry, so Eric says we should go to Wing's. On the way there, we see a YMCA, but that doesn't pan out either. So we walk to Wing's and since they are open 24 hours, we decide to stay in a booth all night. After two hours, a waitress says we can go upstairs! We are very grateful and lay out our sleeping bags. Paul reads comic books, then we go to sleep.


At 3:40 in the morning a head waitress comes up and and tells us to get out before the police come. This falls under other duties as assigned, under the category of dealing with the outlandish public. Not bashful we: we ask why she called the police and she says they always came in late at night and that this isn't a hotel. So back out on the streets, we walk to the freeway entrance and climb some cliffs so we won't be spotted, hunker down below a bill board, and wait for first light.

At 4:50am, Eric and Paul start hitching. They catch a ride with the second car that comes along: a "ritzy Marquis station wagon", going all the way to Minneapolis! They get dropped off at 694 and University and ten seconds later Paul has a ride to southeast. He was home shortly after 7:00am, just in time for breakfast. If only there was an El Rey in Minneapolis.

Armed with the backpacking skills learned from that successful adventure, we head out again on June 18th. This time our destination is the Kekekabic Trail. Here's a link to a proper trip report.

Eric and Paul hitch hike to Grand Marais in four hours (interestingly, in 2021, Google map directions says the drive takes four hours and seventeen minutes!) Sam, Jeff, Mark, and I have traveled by car. We meet up, and all pile into Jeff's car to drive to the trailhead.

This time, we actually do hike on a trail.



The mosquitoes are fierce and plentiful!




We climb a lookout tower to escape the mosquito's wrath.





But we can't all fit in the lookout cabin, so we retreat to tents for the night. Even in the tents, the mosquitos are unbearable, so we only spend one night in the woods. I believe the frequency of mosquito buzzing may be honed through evolution to drive humans senseless, so that we run out of our tents where they can feast on us.

The next day we hike back out and go to Lutsen, where Sam's uncle has a cabin on the lake and we spent the night there.

The next day we go to the Temperance River.




Content with our wilderness adventures, we all ride together to Duluth. Six guys and six frame backpacks is a lot for even a 60's vintage four door family car, so Paul and I opt to hitchhike the rest of the way home.

We turn down the first six rides we are offered: two not going far enough, and four going over to Superior. We then get picked up by two girls who ask us if we want to go to a party in Garrison. Innocent foolish youth, we decline, wanting instead to stay on I-35. But they drive us to the Carlton exit. Our next ride comes from a really big guy with stringy long blonde hair wearing a Stars and Stripes type tank top. He seems nice enough but also a little bit scary, so after he drops us off at the exit for Willow River, we name him "Tiny". At this point it's quite late at night so we decide to camp next to the freeway and start up again at dawn. 

One last urban campsite, on adventures that turn out to be more hitching than hiking.

Thanks so much Paul for keeping and sharing your diary.

Kind Acts in the Dacks

Through a simple twist of fate (Mao bolting shut China's borders so that my parents were unable to return home after graduate studies in 1945), I spent the first few years of my life in Duluth, Minnesota listening to Bob Dylan (also from Duluth) instead of Bai Hong. And through another twist of fate, I spent three teenage summers canoe camping in the Boundary Waters of Minnesota and Ontario


courtesy of my parents and Camp Widjiwagan. This Kind Act resulted in a gift of 50 some days and nights in the wilderness.  That was followed by outdoor adventures with high school buddies.  Backpacking in Northern Minnesota,


and then a trip to the Tetons in Wyoming.

                                                   

I have been lucky to learn outdoor skills from camp counselors, books, friends, the internet, guides, my son, and... the professional educators of the Cornell Outdoor Education program.  Because of the generosity of these people to share their knowledge, because of their Kind Acts, my life has been enriched by 50 years of camping and outdoor adventures.  

COE Instructor costume climb

In an attempt to pay it forward, one of my life joys is to introduce and help others to experience the pleasures and challenges of trails, waterways, cliffs, and sleeping out: separated from nature's nocturnal revelry by a gossamer film of polyester.  I've hosted group outings for rock climbing, moonlight paddling, Adirondack winter trips, and sewing while socially distanced because of Covid-19, but never a summer adventure to the High Peaks.

With that in mind, in the fall of 2020, I invited friends from the Dynamic Social Interaction Workshop community to camp and climb a High Peak or two in the Adirondacks.  Three brave souls responded, so on Friday October 9th, 2020 I head up to the Dacks to pay it forward, with Kind Acts in the DACKS.  

Giant Mountain

I drive by myself: partly to limit cross exposure to Covid-19, and also because Helena, Elena, and Elizabeth will only stay one day and I am going to stay longer.  I have a score of Adirondack visits under my boots, and have adopted a tradition of buying a pizza for dinner on the way up.  Previously I stopped at a Stewarts shop, but this time I sidetrack into the Village of Schroon Lake.  A prominent sign advertising handmade pizza catches my eye, so I order a large cheese from Flanagan's Pub.   Half an hour later, with the fragrance of garlic and oregano filling the car, I pull into the Roaring Brook parking lot.  

Adirondack forums are full of discussion threads about the difficulty of finding a trailhead parking space, and evidently plenty of folks are willing to wake up in time to snag at spot at 5:30 or some such hour.  There is an alternative.  Although Adirondack parking areas fill to capacity early in the morning, spaces open up by the afternoon as those early bird hikers complete their objectives.  So I pull into a space next to a nondescript sedan.

After a slice for an appetizer, I pull out my pack of overnight gear and walk to the camp site.  Helena, Elena, and Elizabeth (HE&E) are relatively new to camping, and except for Helena's one day blitz to drive up, climb Mt. Marcy, and drive back to Ithaca(!!!), they are new to the Adirondacks.  So this camp site, set in open hardwood forest, a level half mile away from the parking lot, is a gentle introduction.  Sort of half way between car camping and a trail experience.  The site includes a scattering of cleared level spots for tents, stone fire rings, a few boulder and log arrangements for seating, and a shared three sided privy.    

Photo courtesy of Helena

I set up my tent, staking a claim and leaving spaces for HE&E, then return to the car, dine on pizza, and settle in for the evening.  Via text messages while I had service in Schroon Lake, I know that they left Ithaca after work and will arrive sometime after 9:00.  So I fold down the back seat, layout a couple of extra foam mats and a quilt, and retire with a book.  I see movement within the nondescript sedan next to me and see a woman who prepares a sleeping arrangement that involves a sheet of plywood.  The time Molly and I slept in Lucille in between hikes from this parking lot, there was also a solo woman sleeping in her car.  From those same Adirondack discussion forums mentioned previously, the general consensus seems to be that the DEC Rangers are lenient about hikers sleeping in vehicles at this parking lot.  Just don't blame me if you try it and get the dreaded flashlight knocking on the window in the middle of the night.

After reading and napping, HE&E arrive safely and excited for the upcomming adventure.  They gather camping gear, and the Kind Acts begin.  There are offers to help carry the various bundles and duffels and bags, warnings about conditions on the trail, encouraging words.  We soon arrive at the camp site and Helena sets up her tent.  Meanwhile, from a bag slightly smaller than my weekend backpack, a mass of nylon and poles and stakes is disgorged.  Helena and I help assemble the various poles and sleeves, fittings and tabs, and soon Elena & Elizabeth move into a mansion of a tent.  

Photo courtesy of Elena

Helena and I decide both of our tents could fit inside.

HE&E prepare dinner, and the Kind Acts continue: offers of hot water, food, places to sit...

In the morning, more Kind Acts.  coffee, help with chores and packing. Pop Tarts!  : )

                                                       

We pack up camp and schlepp luggage back to the cars

Photo courtesy of Helena
 

                                                                           

We pause briefly to check out Roaring Brook waterfall on the way to the parking lot.

The parking lot has filled up as we slept, and vehicles are crammed into inappropriate nooks and along the shoulders of the highway.  This has become a significant issue.

We sign into the trail register and begin our climb.  

The trail tilts upward almost immediately, and hardly levels out for the next three+ miles until the summit of Giant.  The fall foliage is gorgeous, though past peak: most of the red and orange maple leaves have fallen and now cover the forest floor.                                                               

              

Birch, beech, ash hang on with brilliant clouds of shimmering yellow.  The carpet of sunset hues sometimes obscures the trail and a couple of times we follow a misleading path until we realize our mistake.

We luck out with the weather and trail conditions.  

                                                         

There are hardly any mud bogs or puddles!  and relatively few exposed tree roots to dance over.

I give thanks for the Kind Acts of the trail crews who maintain, and have even construct stairways for us (and the health of the trail and surrounding forest).  We pause a few times to catch our breath, rehydrate and refuel, and to provide social distance as we encounter other hikers.  Most are also careful to pull up a mask or buff in the new norm of Covid-19 safety.  

There are a few places requiring deft footwork and the mental challenge of exposure.

                                                         

Everyone is fit and moving steadily, and shortly after noon we reach the summit.

It's windy, but I have my new trusty red anorak.

Can anyone explain what we're doing with our hands?

The weather continues to hold, though dark clouds build in the west.  Given the time, attention and care that will be required on the way down, and HE&E's plan to drive home tonight, we make the decision to relax and summibrate on Giant, and leave Rocky Peak Ridge for another day.  We find a spot on the lee side of the summit sheltered from the wind, and the sun is surprisingly warm.  We take our time to eat lunch, revel in the accomplishment and experiences, and talk about future adventures.  

All too soon, it is time to go.  As mountaineers say: when you reach the summit, you're half the way there.  A reminder that many accidents happen on the way down.  

More Kind Acts as we descend: cautions for loose and slippery footing, offers of helping hands.

                                                            

On the way down we pause to try some overhanging slab bouldering ; )

 

With our quads thoroughly hammered, we arrive back at the parking lot.
What a joy to share this physically and mentally challenging and satisfying adventure.  Thank you!

As Helena, Elena & Elizabeth pack up for their drive back to Ithaca, I shuffle gear around and pack for another hike.  In anticipation of the coming darkness and 3.5 miles to my campsite, I put my camera into a ziplock bag inside the pack and load a supply of snacks into my trusty red anorak.  We congratulate each other, enjoy the accomplishment, and wish each other safe travels. As they pull out of the parking lot and I shoulder my pack,

it starts to rain.

Colvin? Blake? Sawteeth? Pyramid? Gothics?

I had left Lisa with a hiking itinerary for places to search in case I didn't return home.  It turned out to be overly optimistic ; )  

I cross the highway, walk through the parking lot and along the now familiar private road owned by the Adirondack Mountain Reserve (AMR).

At first the rain is light and I rely on my wool base layer, trusty red anorak, and moving fast to generate enough heat to deal with the sprinkle.  It's late in the afternoon, and as I hike towards the mountains, a steady stream of hikers: singly, in pairs and in various groups pass in the other direction.  Their attire ranges from trail-stained function, to premium label gear- shiny from the showroom floor, to urban streetwear.  I'm glad the tennis sweaters and light down jackets are on their way back to the warming and drying effects of a car heater.  I ponder the interior of a dry car and consider turning back more than once.  Day trips while car camping are plenty fun.  Momentum wins out and I continue up.

Eventually, the droplets soak in faster than the heat pushes steam out, and I stop to put on a rain jacket.  Sooner than I remembered, I leave the gravel road and turn left onto the Gill Brook Trail.  The heavy cloud layer hastens the night and I pull the headlamp up from my neck and turn it on.  

I've hiked this trail in the dark before: one fine afternoon, Asa, his brother-in-law and I had driven from Ithaca to camp and climb Colvin, Blake, Dial and Nippletop Peaks.  We parked and started hiking up the then slightly-familiar-to-me AMR Road headed for a camp site on Gill Brook.  After a very short distance, Asa's brother-in-law (we'll call him Abil) started to feel unwell.  We took rest stops, proceeded at a slow pace, ate snacks to raise blood sugar levels, drank...  And, reconsidered our objectives.  Part way up the Gill Brook Trail it became clear that we needed to turn around and possibly seek medical help.  Asa and I took heavy items from Abil's pack to lessen his load.  There was no shortage of choices, though thankfully, no kitchen sink.  Luckily, the lighter pack and descending eased Abil's malady, and we hiked out and drove home without incident.  That was my one day Adirondack blitz experience.

The rain continues, sometimes as a steady soak, sometimes a drenching downpour.  This trail is more typical of the Adirondacks: lots of tree roots, now slippery with the rain and layers of slick leaves.  More than once I remind myself to slow down, a fall injury would not be a good thing.  In a couple of places threading steep drop offs, I hear my son's voice of caution: 'full attention here'.  Although much of the ground has a uniform covering of wet leaves, like Jackson Pollock linoleum, I only veer off trail and have to backtrack a couple of times.  Once again I thank the trail crews for their Kind Acts of installing trail markers.  I am heartened at the sight of a trail junction sign.  The camp sites are not too much farther.  I plod and squelch on.  The trail steepens and I'm getting tired.  

I hear voices and look up from the sodden trail to see light off to the right of the trail.  I follow a side path and am disappointed to see a high density of glowing domes, so I continue on.  After more climbing, I pause to consult my map.  There are three camp areas along this trail.  One to the left, and then two to the right.  I must have missed the trail marker and path to the left.  Did I also miss the first one to the right?  Did I just pass the second campsite on the right?  It seems like I should have reached the second site by now.  I continue climbing until I convince myself that I should turn back.  If I had brought a hammock, I would just walk into the woods and find a couple of suitable trees, but this terrain is constantly sloped and I haven't seen an opening large enough for my tent.

When I return to the lighted tents with the voices, I call out a hello.  Their comfortable banter stops and they cautiously return the salutation to the unseen stranger in the darkness beyond their nylon cocoon.  I apologize for bothering them and ask about the campsite situation.  They inform me that this is the first on the right, and the second is farther up the trail.  They also generously suggest that I could set up here.  With the number of residences already sprinkled through the trees, it would feel to me like trespassing in a neighbor's yard.  I thank them for the information and continue up.  After about half a mile, I see the trail marker and side path.  There's another glowing dome, and...

separated by a few trees...  a level space.  I call out and ask if they mind if I set up my tent, to which they respond.  YES!  You walked up in this rain?  That's an adventure!  Set up and get dried out!  : )

As I'm setting up my tent, three hikers come up the path.  They call out: 'are you the guy who stopped down below a little while ago?'  

They had willingly left their dry, warm tent, and hiked up in the dark and rain to check that I was okay!  Ain't that a Kind Act?!  I thank them profusely and they head off, cheered by my safety.  My optimism for society spikes 1,000%  

Once inside the tent, I reluctantly scrap bear safety practices and eat pizza.  After dinner, I clean up and move the bear cannister a proper distance from the camp site.  

Looking dryer than I feel

This is my second night in this tent, and I am forced to accept that I was dreaming like Walter Mitty when I bought it.  This tent is designed for alpine conditions: where precipitation falls as snow, wind blows all night, and bugs are smart enough not to live there.  Zipped shut against the cold rain on the outside and with me on the inside pumping out steamy breath and vaporizing moisture from my soggy clothes, condensation is soon running down the walls and puddling on the floor.  I need a tent like this about three nights every 65 years.  I just wish I needed it more often.

In the light of morning, I notice a dead tree leaning in the direction of my tent.  I'm thankful the wind and soggy soil didn't conspire to smash the tent before I bequeath it to someone more worthy.

The next morning, I load up a day pack and head off generally west toward Pyramid Peak and Gothics.  On the way I stop for the views from Fish Hawk Cliffs and Indian Head, some of the best scenery in the park I think.

There's a lot of elevation gained and lost, and I keep this in mind for my return later in the day.  The last half mile to the summit of Pyramid rises very steeply, and then I arrive at the base of a sheer slab of rock.  

I scout around the base of the blank white plane and don't see any sign of a detour in the adjacent woods.  I ponder the angle of the slope and height of the face.  I ponder the lack of cracks, flakes, pockets, or even shallow saucers.  I ponder the width of the ledge I'm on, the angle of the slope below the ledge, the nature of the vegetation I would fall into.  I wonder if I would tumble like a cartwheel? slide like a chunk of parmesan on a grater?  Unlike other similar challenges I've encountered in the Adirondacks, I don't see helpful trees along the margin of the slab.  I ponder turning around.  Instead, I tentatively proceed up, willing my boots to stick and wishing my palms had suction cups.  At the top of the slab, I take a few deep breaths and scout for a side trail to descend without success.  I continue on my way up to the top pondering how the heck to back down the slab on my way back to the campsite.

Although the summit elevation is 4,515 feet, Pyramid Peak is not one of the 46 High Peaks.  Due to a bureaucratic technicality it is listed as a sub peak of Gothics.  No matter how we classify it, the views are stunning.

I pause for a drink, chat with a few other hikers, and continue on to Gothics.  

The view from the summit of Gothics is also magnificent.  The sky sparkles and just a gentle breeze freshens the air.  The temperature however calls for another layer as I stop for lunch, and there are signs of approaching winter.  I ask everyone I meet about how to descend the slab on the way down Pyramid.  It turns out nobody else came up that way! though there is one hiker headed down that route as part of a loop.  I tell him to be careful and consult the map as I eat.  Although I'll walk a mile and a half farther, I decide to descend a different route than the one I came up.  

As much as I'd like to take a nap, there are five and a half or six miles of trail between me and my campsite, and that significant down and up to deal with.  So I start down.  This descent also feels unrelentingly steep!  At least I don't have to worry about the dreaded slab.  And when the slope eases, the trail is beautiful.

As I walk, part of my brain balances remaining daylight, character of the trail, immediate and future scenery, and I adjust my pace accordingly.  Sometimes I shuffle in a pathetic jog.  One of the destinations: Rainbow Falls,

and it lives up to its name!  

I arrive at the dam below Ausable Lake in the golden hour of the afternoon.

I am disappointed to find that the climb back up towards Indian Head has not become less steep during the day.  On my way up the unrelenting gradient, suddenly.  

Life Cracks.

Up ahead, primal screams. A woman's timbre.  And then silence. Broken only by a man's voice repeating 'Oh F..., Oh F...'.  My mind spirals to a bent body at the bottom of some cliff.  I speed up and my eyes take in what appear to be a husband, wife, and their young adult son at the bottom of some "stairs".  Imagine the steepest attic stairs built like a ship's ladder, but constructed of open 6x6 cribbing with no hand rail.  The woman is at the bottom, lying horizontal with her feet tangled in the bottom stringer and tread.  I offer assistance.  Thankfully, the woman is conscious, responsive, and begins moving.  Her husband helps her to a sitting position.  I suggest that they take a minute to assess her injuries and put on an extra layer, but they seem in a rush to leave.  Another hiker has the presence of mind to offer ibuprofin which she accepts.  They start down the trail slowly and seem to be doing okay.  

I continue upward, and then belatedly have a thought.  I stop another couple coming down the trail, tell them what happened, and ask them to stop at the AMR office to request a ride for the injured woman.

Lost in my thoughts for the family, I arrive at the Indian Head cliff.

I'm not the only one enjoying the view.  Instead of joining the throng, I continue to Fish Hawk Cliffs.

For half an hour, I have the lookout to myself.  I take off my boots to air my feet and socks, and confirm that a couple of hot spots indeed are blisters.  I possibly fall asleep.  One other hiker comes and sits quietly out of sight.  A slight rustling as they leave, and I watch the sun continue it's arc toward the horizon.  Shortly after it dips below the ridge, I rouse myself and head to the campsite.  There's still more steep up and down, and dinner beckons.

This time I arrive at the campsite dry, and with twilight to spare.  The dead tree has not smashed my tent, so I greet the other campers and ask if they mind if I move my tent to a closer space.  They don't mind.   

I retrieve the bear cannister and prepare dinner.  Since I've brought the stove, I might as well use it to rehydrate dinner instead of eating more pizza (it's kind of a magical pie that ultimately bestows an appetizer, two dinners, two lunches, and a snack on the drive home!  Either wizardry, or my capacity to metabolize calories ain't what it used to be).  I empty part of a ramen soup packet into my bowl and drink some broth while a mixture of couscous, dehydrated veggies and dehydrated refritos soak in their zip lock bag and insulated cozy.

The night is thankfully dry so I leave the tent partly open for air circulation with mixed results.  

                              

The next morning, though nice and dry, I discover that some critter came in to chew my phone tether apart.  I pack up quickly and start the hike out, hoping for good lighting.  I establish a new personal record!

My boot after swishing it clean in a puddle

My leg plunges into a mud hole the farthest I've ever sunk : )

I make one last visit to the scenic lookouts in hope of a National Geographic-worthy sunrise photo.

No such luck, though someone else is also hopeful.  

For a change of pace, I find a sunny sheltered spot and sit down for breakfast.  While I'm at it, I break out the stove and brew up a cup of tea.  Someone comes to join me.  It's tempting to share some home-made granola bar with the thought that it's a Kind Act, but feeding wildlife goes against the Leave No Trace principles.

I decide to maximize my time on trails rather than the AMR Road, so I backtrack down the Gill Brook Trail.  There's a lot more to see when my vision isn't limited by headlamp and rain!

Instead of continuing along the AMR road to the parking lot, I take a right to finish off the adventure with a side trip to Noonmark Mountain.   Although not a high peak, this is one of my favorite mountain hikes.  For the moderate effort to hike five and a half miles and climb 2,300 feet of elevation, you get the whole Adirondack experience: forest trails, almost continuous steep cardiovascular work out, ankle-threatening boulders, tripping roots, rock scrambles, and a bare rock summit with stunning views.  

I share the summit views with a couple, and am happy to answer their questions about other hikes, and thrilled to take their picture with the life affirming scenery in the background.  It's a perfect ending for Kind Acts in the DACKS.