#nippletop

My head is in the stars and my feet are in the sky

Let me repeat that: A...LUGE...TRACK... Hmmm...that, combined with their expressions and attitudes, didn’t sound too good to us.  But, what the hell, we figured, those other hikers who had warned us on our way up Dial about the snow had been wrong, maybe these guys were also just exaggerating.  We mentally shrugged and figured we’d just have to wait and see on our way down.  We still had our sights and minds set on the Nippletop summit at that point, and so, we didn’t give that much thought to the descent in that moment. From the Elk Pass junction, we gained the Nippletop summit quite quickly and easily, and, finally, I decided that it was definitely past time for my lunch and summit beer.  We sat on the rocks facing west, admiring the dizzying views of Colvin and Blake, seemingly far below us, and the Great Range beyond that.  You’re right up on a ledge on that summit, so it really does feel like you’re staring down into this steep abyss, a sheer drop of the mountain face blanketed by pines.  It’s a little intimidating, but mostly, it’s magical.  You’re literally above it all--even the birds flitting from treetop to treetop seem far below you.  The treetops themselves seem like a fuzzy carpet.  Whenever I’m in a place like that, I always think of the title of a William Eggleston photography book, “The Democratic Forest” (I’d first made the association when visiting Yosemite).  Everything--the whole world--seems to become equalized by the sheer scale, the sheer vastness of everything before your eyes.  It’s truly transcendental. After spending some time enjoying the view and our lunch, we decided it was finally time to head down.  (Again, if we had been paying more attention/if we hadn’t been so blown away by those amazing views, we might have taken the big mud puddle near the Nippletop summit as a symbol of what was to come...)  We quickly reached the junction with the Elk Pass trail.  As we glanced down, we took note that it was pretty snowy and icy, but it still seemed pretty do-able, from where we were standing.  Ryley did remind me that those hikers had called the trail “a luge track,” and suggested that maybe we should just go back the way we’d come.  I stubbornly refused, however, citing that 1) we’d have to re-do all those bumps, 2) those other hikers we’d met on Dial had been wrong about the snow, maybe these guys were exaggerating too, and 3) we could always start down a little ways and come back up if it seemed really dicey.  (Remember, Lesson #5:  Get beta--AND HEED THE WARNINGS.)  Ryley, although somewhat reluctant, ultimately agreed, and off we went. Well.  To this day, I cannot think of a better descriptor for that trail than the one the other hikers had used--the Elk Pass trail was A LUGE TRACK.  The trail was very steep, and literally a sheet of ice, that, in some spots, was covered in a melting, mushy snow that was only making each step that much more treacherous (the mushy snow could slide out from under your feet at any time).  We must have descended maybe 100 feet before we realized, this was not a good decision, and it would probably be better to go back the other way.  But, as we turned back and looked back the way we had come, to climb back up even 100 feet or so of that icy trail seemed incredibly daunting. Lesson #6:  Trust your instincts.  A little struggle now is worth it to save yourself a LOT of struggle later! Feeling a bit intimidated, we decided to just keep going down.  We slowed to a crawl.  It truly felt like even the slightest misstep could mean certain death.  One wrong move, I thought, and we could go sliding down this steep mountain, right off the trail, cracking a skull on a tree below (our friend’s dad had once slid down an icy Adirondack trail in the winter and knocked himself unconscious for a few minutes...the story seemed to reverberate in my skull the entire descent).  I have literally never been more grateful for the investment I’d made in my hiking poles--to this day, I firmly believe they paid for themselves in that one afternoon.  Ryley was kicking himself for deciding to leave his ice axe in the car, back at the trailhead, that day. (Lesson #7: bring the extra gear.  Better to have it and not need it, than to NOT have it and NEED it.) Every step of the way was like a negotiation: carefully examine the terrain for a good foothold, test the spot you’re eyeing with a hiking pole and/or your foot, carefully plant your foot firmly to make sure you have traction with your microspikes, find your balance...repeat, repeat, repeat...for two miles we went through this.  Never once, until we reached the valley floor, did that trail get any easier. By the time we reached the valley, our spirits were broken.  I mean, we were literally changed people by this time.  The breathless, magical feeling of the Nippletop summit was replaced by a deep despair, our mental resilience was almost nil.  And we still had a six-mile hike back to the car (I had been convinced it was only three miles back to the car, until we reached a sign at the bottom of Elk Pass that broke my heart, informing me it was three to gain the Lake Road, and three more once on the Lake Road). Well, at least it would be mostly flat from here, we thought.  What we failed to take into account was that, precisely because it was flat, this part of the trail would be muddy.  Like, that black, boot-suckin’ type of Adirondack mud, the kind that has incredible suction and can make it easy to pull your foot right out of your boot just for trying to take a step (technically, no, that didn’t happen, but we came close a couple of times).  The kind that can make you slip and fall onto your butt and get mud all over your lower half (yes, that did happen).  The kind that can make your friend tell you, for the first time in several years of friendship, to “shut up” just for asking if they’re OK (yes, that happened, too--I decided, at that point, that speaking was strictly unnecessary for the next few miles, until we reached the significantly drier Lake Road...). Muddy and exhausted, both mentally and physically, we finally reached...the Lake Road.  Another three miles to go...  I was feeling all right, all things considered, by this point, feeling reassured by the sight of the road, knowing it was fairly smooth and flat and also, dry.  I began to pick up my pace, but I soon realized that Ryley was not keeping up.  I dropped back for a bit and hesitantly asked if he was all right, and got some sort of minimal response about how he was tired and this was the pace he could manage.  I tried to stay with him at this slower pace, really I did, but after a while, I just couldn’t take it.  I was eager to get back and it felt like moving this slowly was only exacerbating how tired and sore I was feeling--better to get it done quickly, like ripping off a band-aid, I thought.  Eventually, I started walking at a bit faster pace, and would stop and wait for a few minutes for Ryley to catch up before continuing.  I know I probably shouldn’t have done this, a good hiking partner would stay together, but since speaking was also still seemingly off the table at this point, I was feeling some “mountain madness” setting in and started whistling and humming to myself to pass the time.  I figured it’d be kinder to spare Ryley my off-key musical medley that featured tunes as varied as Gogol Bordello, Rancid, and The Allman Brothers Band (here, I’m confident, was my first good decision of that afternoon...). (Lesson #8:  Respect your hiking partner’s/partners’ limits, both mental and physical.) Finally...FINALLY...around 6 or 7pm, we made it out of the woods and reached the car.  Only one problem we still faced?  The 5+ hour drive home to NJ/Long Island.  After the day we’d just had, the greatest physical and mental endurance test we’d experienced to date in the Adirondacks, we faced this final insult of having to bang out a 5-hour drive home.  We debated whether we should hit the Noonmark Diner for some coffee, food, and also to use their bathroom (remember that earlier lesson about the call of nature...yeah, I still hadn’t answered it), but rather than backtrack even the 10-15 minutes it would take us to get to the diner, we decided to say “F*** it,” and just hit the Northway and headed home. Lesson #9:  Never try to bag some High Peaks the same day you have to drive 5 hours to get home. All in all, this is still one of among the best and most memorable hikes in the Adirondacks I’ve done.  I don’t use either term in the traditional sense, but this hike, to me, was an invaluable learning experience.  It’s often important to learn what NOT to do, just as much as what to do. A few final lessons: Lesson #10:  Learn from your mistakes. Lesson #11:  Learn to laugh at yourself and your mistakes. Lesson #12:  Mistakes always make the greatest stories in retrospect (as long as no one was gravely injured or killed). *I say “sorta” because, ultimately, we were, actually, fine by the end of the hike. Post-Script:  For what it’s worth, I still to this day often struggle to remember some of these lessons.  Unfortunately, I’ve repeated some of these same mistakes since that day (notably, not listening to my partner’s suggestions about backtracking the same way we’d come up the mountain, and not trying to bag high peaks the same day we have to do a long drive home).  Still, I like to think I’m a stronger, better hiker overall because of Dial and Nippletop.

Nippletop in the Adirondacks... why I just bought a new ski jacket. Climbing that Sunday.