Monadnock
By Steve Keri
I'm not one of these people who can sit in front of the television watching other people hike mountains on the Discovery Channel. I need to be physically involved.
Recently, I pack food and gear, jump in my car and drive to New Hampshire in search of a snow-covered mountain to hike for the day.
Just over the New Hampshire border and east of Keene is the town of Jaffrey - home to the 3,200-foot baldface Mount Monadnock, centerpiece of the 5,000-acre state park of the same name, and one of the most hiked mountains in the world.
The word "Monadnock" comes from the Abnacki Indian language meaning "mountain that stands alone." Views from the tree-less summit stretch far into the distant surrounding states.
Mount Monadnock forms one end of the Monadnock-Sunapee Trail and is the terminus of the Monadnock-Metacomet Trail that traverses Connecticut and Massachusetts. It has at least a dozen accessible trails graduated to climbers' abilities.
Thoreau and Emerson hiked this mountain and wrote of it as a symbol of spiritual and environmental awareness.
At the parking lot at the end of the dirt road, I register with the park ranger at the visitor center and ask about weather and trail conditions. The temperature is minus 8 degrees with a 10 mph wind; rocky sections of the main trails are ice-packed.
I ask if snowshoes and in-steps are needed, and he says most people hiking the trails today have been doing fine with boots - using in-steps for the icy sections; he hands me a map and points out the areas of ice on the main trails. I study the map briefly and choose the White Dot Trail to start.
I pay my $3 park entrance fee, grab my gear from the trunk, and head through the connecting path between parking lots toward Mount Monadnock.
As I start up the trail, flurries begin to fall. I stand still for a moment or two enclaved in a winterland of peace and silence until the distant sound of other hikers breaks my trance.
I continue to follow the trail to its junction with the White Cross trail and Falcon Spring, stopping to chat with other hikers about wind conditions at the top.
Climbing gradually up the side of the mountain for the next mile, I become engrossed in the quiet, white surroundings, while carefully negotiating my steps between the ice-covered rocks. It's a good thing I put on my in-steps.
Continuing my ascent at a sharper incline, I roam through a forest of shortened in height evergreens, while listening to the wind above tree line and the crunching of my in-steps.
Part of the rocky trail is covered in frozen still water, reminding me of a camera freeze-frame of little waterfalls. As I wind my way through the shrub-like trees, I break tree-line, pause to check my map against the visible summit and conclude that I am somewhere around the 2,700-foot mark.
Viewing the summit in front of me, I am awed by an image of the snow-capped slabs of exposed granite as the dizzy swirl of snowflakes catapults me into another dimension.
Suddenly, my reverie is interrupted by a pair of descending hikers. We exchange hellos.
Finally I reach the wide open ledges beneath the summit. I stand here in a semitrance, taking in the arc of a winter-forested valley dotted with frozen ponds and smoke-swirling chimneys.
The wind is blowing fiercely as I ascend the summit. I pick my way through slabs of snow-covered granite and mounds of icy boulders, wondering if anybody else is at the top braving the elements. The winds have increased to a steady blow, scattering swirls of snow in my face.
I summit the peak and try to keep my balance in th wind, then take a 360-degree turn, lavishing in the 15-mile view of a white rural picturesque landscape. I feel serene and continue to marvel at the postcard winter scene. I glimpse a couple of other hikers hunkered down in a pit of granite boulders and walk over to greet them. Soon, we all head down, no longer able to withstand the intense wind and dropping temperature.
Having a hard time picking up the trail I ascended - everything looks the same on the summit - I decide to follow the other hikers, who are more familiar with Mount Monadnock.
We pick up the Pumpelly Trail, following the cairns on its exposed ridge through frozen scrub and granite. I get down to tree line, but the arctic wind won't let up. Shortly thereafter, I pick up the Red Dot Trail, which leads to a connecting trail to the parking lot. The trail winds this way and that, with dips that test my knees. I navigate over and between ice-covered rocks, which after a while melt into one long frozen waterfall. I feel more comfortable amongst the snow-covered evergreens than in the direct path of arctic winds.
Finally, the trail flattens out as it winds through a low-lying stream of run-off full of stones. The trail becomes wider and less filled with obstacles, and I slide down the not-so-steep hills, like a kid on his first sled ride.
I reach a T-bar with the Cascade Link Trail at 2,000 feet. This trail parallels a stream with small waterfalls, now frozen, and winds gently through a forest of mixed hardwoods. It connects me with the White Dot trail. I stop for one last look and listen to the winter silence before heading back to the parking lot.
Holyoke Range
By Steve Keri
Having been cooped up for a couple of weekends, I started to feel the effects of hiking withdrawal. I am looking forward to leading a challenging hike on the M/M trail that traverses the Holyoke Range in Skinner State Park (wedged between Amherst and Holyoke, Mass).
The 390-acre park is named for Joseph Allen Skinner, wealthy industrialist who donated the land to the state in 1940. The 1,100-foot mountain range formed about 200 million years ago when lava flowed from the valley floor, cooled and was upended. Glacial formation also left its marks in a combination of jaggedness and smoothness, with exposure of bedrock, clay and sand.
Upon my arrival at the Mount Holyoke visitor’s lot, I absorb the quiet stillness before the others arrive. The seven of us depart in two cars, drive to the other end of the mountain range and begin our hike from Harris-Mountain Road.
At 9 a.m. we hit the trail head in a cold, windy tunnel of hardwoods under cloudy skies for a short but tame walk to the base of Long Mountain, the first of 14 peaks we will climb throughout the day.
As we ascend Long Mountain, the muscles in my legs start to wake up. As my breathing increases, I wish for a switchback instead of a straight-up climb on a muddy trail. For the next half-mile, the trail increases in steepness until, what seems like an eternity, we bag Long Mountain and stop for a water break. I comment that there is nothing like a lung-buster first thing in the morning, and the response I receive is heavy breathing while everybody breaks out the water bottles. We sit there observing the breathtaking view north to Amherst and west to our next peak.
Descending the leaf-covered trail brings the group down a muddy, rocky cliff side and through the first of two areas of flat terrain zigzagging between bike trails. Content for a while strolling through beach trees, I mentally start to prepare myself for the next steep climb. Ascent of the next peak breaks the groups pace, and personal adjustments are made for climbing to the top of Rattlesnake Knob where we all rest. A relaxing feeling comes over me as I take in the view to Long Mountain and the farmlands off in the distance.
We descend off the knob and spend the next half-mile hiking hard and breathing heavy as we navigate the rocky ups and downs. The muddy trail takes us to the base of Mount Norwottuck, which holds horse caves, which traces its name to Revolutionary times when Daniel Shays sheltered the horses for Shays’ Rebellion. After exploring the caves, we start our lung-busting ascent to the top of the 1,100-foot Mount Norwottuck, the highest peak on the Holyoke Range. It presents us with a 360-degree view of a pleasantly serene, pine tree-dusted valley of forest, farmland and Mount Tom to the west; it’s the perfect setting for our lunch break.
The steep descend off our third peak challenges our knees as we negotiate our way over the somewhat muddy trail into a slight ditch prior to paralleling the side of the mountain and descending into Visitors Center Notch. Arriving at the Notch, we hear guns going off at the shooting range not far away. We are now at our half-way point.
We take a short break, cross Route 116 and continue on the M/M trail, ascending another straight up climb, once again taking in a spectacular view east and north, while noticing the dirt roads we’ve crossed and the peaks we’ve climbed. Heading west, the trail parallels the spine of the ridge for a half-mile, making for some easier hiking, before we come up and around the north side of mount Hitchcock. I pull briefly ahead of the group and come upon a few rare red-tail squirrels chasing each other. As the others catch up, we ascend and bag Mount Hitchcock, and are again rewarded with spectacular views. Though the sun is shining, the cold wind quickly cools us down. Our descent off Mount Hitchcock takes us through a number of ups and downs as we make our way through a gray, bare forest of hardwoods.
We cross the Low Place trail and start to ascend the first bump of the Seven Sisters mountain range. We ascend sharply then descend, ascend again and descend between 800 and 900 feet to the last bump and our last view of the countryside and Route 47 below.
We rest here for a while, savoring the picturesque image, knowing it will be the last one for the day, and then descend over loose Basaltic rock into Taylor’s Notch and back to our cars. All in all, we bagged 14 peaks with at least 5,000 feet of elevation change in 10 miles. Something of an accomplishment!
The Backyard
by Steve Keri
Today’s society is in a fast mode. Wherever I look, there is the hustle and bustle of dealing with the congestion of getting to work, putting in extra hours, and then consuming more time returning home to a list of responsibilities, commitments and, for some of us, a second job.
I don’t know about you, but I become drained and exhausted from the fast pace. I yearn to slow down and take it easy. Relax and go at my own pace. Serenity? Peace of mind? Almost seems out of reach. Where does one find such tranquility when the day is full to the brim of human doing and everybody wants it yesterday…whatever it is?
Upon awakening each morning, I slam the alarm clock button to off, shake the cobwebs out of my head and put on the coffee. My rented top floor apartment in a 1921 house, is a handyman’s special with slanted floors and a crooked staircase balcony that overlooks the backyard. It is not your typical backyard with the patio on a picture perfect manicured lawn, surrounded by paper cut-out trees. It consists mostly of a patched asphalt driveway, overgrown honeysuckle hedges, and a small square of lawn next to a garage that is on the verge of collapsing.
With a birds-eye view and a different attitude, I look past all of this every morning while drinking my coffee on the balcony. For a few minutes, I absorb the smell of the honeysuckle bush and the still quiet that emulates from the woods that divide the neighborhood properties. As my eyes start to adjust to the dawn, I make out silhouettes of four deer in the far yard having their breakfast. I stand there observing quietly. The need to clear my throat is easily heard by them, and with a flash of white tail, the deer dart into the woods. The grayish-blue sky is now waking up with life as I watch a small coven of fruit bats flutter and dart erratically above me. Their spontaneous flight patterns are mesmerizing and instill in me a sense of wonder.
After a few minutes, I carefully poke my head over the wood rail on the left side of my balcony to check the grey squirrel nest that wedged in the triangular space of the roof overhang. Amongst the bedded leaves and twigs, I see a slight stirring of a grey, bushy tail. I attempt to draw the squirrel out by mimicking their familiar chirping sound. Vanished are some of the breadcrumbs that I laid out the day before.
The sky is now a lighter shade of grey-blue and alive with the sounds of chirping warblers darting back and forth between the trees and honeysuckle bush, several breaking from their flight patterns and stopping on my balcony rail to peck and nibble at the remaining bread crumbs. Up close, warblers have an intricate pattern of earthy colors over-lapping one-another. I would think one would have to study these birds closer to be able to tell the difference between the 100 plus species that are in New England.
From the white pines at the edge of the backyard, a couple of blue jays announce their arrival by squawking. I raise my binoculars towards their direction and spot the two jays fighting over a squirming worm that has been plucked fresh from the dew-soaked lawn.
Following the blue jay’s brisk flight pattern, I happen to spot the neighborhood woodchuck digging up grubs. With my binoculars raised again, I take in a ‘close-up’ and notice how meticulous the woodchuck is with it’s method of feeding. Looking away from it, I take notice of the house spider sitting completely still in the center of her precision spun web, attached to the side of the balcony stairs. I study the cobweb closely, admiring the exactness of rectangular spacing the circular design. The thought of reaching out and gently touching the back of the spider crosses my mind, but I withhold for not wanting to disturb her stillness.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I catch something circling above the far tree tops at the edge of the woods. Large wing span and gracefulness while gliding with the invisible wind currents. Too large for a hawk. Must be a turkey vulture. Ah, another one enters the circling. I am mesmerized by their gliding, as they approach closer. I raise my binoculars and my eyes fill with feathers of detail. Swoosh! One of the vultures swings down and across my backyard, maneuvering its way through the pine trees, and landing within an umbrella of branches. The vulture lets out an odd cawing as if to greet me good morning.
Did I mention the two red tail hawks that fly between the oak trees of neighboring yards? My curiosity of the red tail is enough of an excuse to take the day off from work and just observe them. I wish I could, but....Any case, it’s time to get ready for work.
As I retreat from my private backyard sanctuary, I hear myself starting to grumble about having to jump into the congestion of the day, do not stop/go directly to jail, uh, I mean work and earn my paycheck. Oh well, such is life. I thank God for my backyard.
Remote Mahoosac Range
By Steve Keri
I decided to get into the woods for the July 4 weekend and hike solo, so prior to the trip I mapped out a two-day loop route on the rugged Mahoosac Range in northern New Hampshire.
After a 2-mile road walk from the parking lot on Route 2 and the A.T. trail crossing in Shelburne, I start a 3.1-mile, 2,700-foot ascent on the Peabody Trail through a grove of hemlock, hobblebush, maple, beech, oak and white birch trees.
The quiet of the early morning hours and pockets of fog between the mountain ranges feel peaceful and relaxing, yet eerie, with only the occasional rustle of a chipmunk and the chirp of a sparrow.
With the hazy sun waking up and an increase in temperature and humidity, the mosquitoes become more active and start to feed, so I put on my headnet and continue to ascend to my first view and absorb the picturesque slopes of the Carter-Moriah Range and the Androscoggin River in the distance.
A nice breeze helps keep the mosquitoes at bay while I listen to the chirps of sparrows and thrushers entwined within the rushing of water from the Great Falls below. Now this is really living.
I continue to ascend just as the sun bursts open from behind the low, gray clouds and enter a muddy area where the south branch of the Peabody Brook flows. I spot a mink scurrying off and wedging itself behind rotten logs and hobblebush. I stop and try to pursue it for a snapshot, but the sweat pouring into my eyes blinds me.
I take a brief break among the hemlocks and beeches, splashing water on my face to cool down, and wouldn't you know, within minutes the mosquitoes are ready to feed again. I think two dozen bites is more than my share.
Leaving the gurgling of the brook behind, I finish ascending the Peabody Trail and enter a vast and thick spruce grove that surrounds Dream Lake, immediately engulfed in a feeling of remoteness.
My first thought is that this is definitely an attraction for moose and, sure enough, for the next half-mile there are very large moose prints in the mud. The thought of seeing moose again pumps me up.
As I continue to hike around the lake, I am surrounded by an abundance of moths and butterflies that zig-zag in all directions, and as quickly as they flutter in, they are gone.
Lost in thought with the distant sound of bullfrogs croaking, I startle a pair of grouse who are a few feet into the thickets from the trail. The male grouse comes at me fluttering, squawking and expanding its chest in a defensive stance while the female takes off deeper into the thickets, dragging a wing in a gesture of injury. Grouse have a tendency to display this kind of behavior when protecting the nest.
This commotion jerks me out of my "lost in thought" mode, and I am so taken aback fumbling around with the camera, that I lose the opportunity as the male grouse retreats quickly into the thickets.
With a feeling of loss, I go on my way, climbing the feeder trail until it connects with the A.T. and proceed southwest, hiking around Dream Lake and dodging piles of fresh moose dung.
As I start to descend into a creek saddle, I come across fresh bear prints in the mud and immediately become excited by the idea of seeing a black bear, then think it highly unlikely, since bears have a keen sense of smell and hearing, and any there are probably long gone. Continuing to hike along the muddy and remote trail, I am jolted out of the "lost in thought" mode again by a high-pitched screech and start mimicking it. As I come closer to where the screech came from, for a split second I see the break of a Bald Eagle from the top of a spruce tree. A feeling of awe comes over me. It is the first time I have seen an eagle in the wild. I just stand there feeling numb for a while.
I continue along the A.T. with the image of the eagle taking flight still in my head and climb to the top of Wocket Ledge, the spur of Bald Cap Mountain at 2,800 feet, take in the view and cool down with the breeze. Descending down the trail 1,000 feet, I pass a few thru hikers on their way to Mount Katahdin in Maine and inquire about water sources; as luck would have it, there is a cold spring about a mile up the trail. As I chug some water, I check my temperature gauge; it reads 86 degrees. I can hardly wait to get to that cold spring. It is 1 p.m. as I continue to descend, looking forward to the cool spring water.
About halfway down my descent, the trail edges along Paige Pond, crossing over a 30-yard, sturdily built beaver dam, and I stop to admire their work while moving toward Trident Col tent site to spend the night. Coming along the edge of the trail, I spot three garter snakes and attempt to photograph them, but as usual they slither off under leaves and debris.
After a short climb, I came to an open-face exposure of the first of three pinnacles that make up the Trident Col Peak with a spectacular view south encompassing Mount Crag, Middle Mountain and First Mountain, which makes up the slope that borders the Peabody Trail. With a nice breeze blowing and my nose stuffed up with pollen, I take a break and absorb the surrounding area. What calmness.
Moving on after an hour of lingering, I ascend the A.T. to its junction with the blue trail, which takes me about a mile off the main trail to Trident Col tent site, where I set up camp and freshen up at the spring. After having a snack and watching red tail squirrels play, I head back out to the open face exposure to take in more view and let my thoughts wander. Two hours pass and I go back to camp, make dinner and mingle with the other campers. After relaxing a while, I turn in for the night and doze off to the sounds of nature.
I wake the next morning to the sounds of sparrows and the buzzing of black flies, and take my time with breakfast and packing as usual, then set off ascending the A.T. 700 feet out of Trident Col to a pinnacle of Cascade Mountain. At the top, I take in another view of the surrounding mountain ranges while another pair of grouse scoots off into the thickets squawking. I feel grateful for yet another rewarding view and being up close to wildlife. Coming down from the pinnacle, the A.T. mends through a field of wood fern, hobblebush and the occasional weathered white birch, which makes for a nice contrast of texture and balance.
As I come out of the field of fern, I ascend into the cool shade of a spruce and hemlock grove, welcome relief from the heat and humidity, then a quick descent into a swampy col and an ascent through a mix of hemlock, spruce and beech trees to the top of Cascade Mountain. Descending down from the top, I follow the trail through a boggy col containing a mix of hemlock, spruce, briarwood, hobblebush, wood fern, white birch and beech. The col being very buggy, I don my headnet - instant comfort.
Leaving the col, I begin the ascent of Mount Hayes, following the winding trail through a mix of maple, beech and spruce that take me up steeply from 1,900 feet to 2,600 feet. I pass a couple out for a few days, and while sweating profusively, I ask them how much farther it is to the top and they tell me I am almost there, giving me motivation to continue in spite of the high humidity and heat.
Climbing toward the top of Mount Hayes, I come across another garter snake and more signs of moose. Finally I reach the summit dripping in sweat, and welcoming a breeze, I strip off my drenched shirt, chug some water and rest. Soon, I doze off to the sound of silence.
Awakening shortly later, I have a quick lunch, pack up and follow the A.T. descending off of Mount Hayes through a buggy spruce and hemlock grove in rugged terrain toward Route 2.
Coming off one of several stone staircases on the southwest side of Mount Hayes, I almost step on another garter snake stretched out across the trail. A few hundred yards down the trail, I come to an open ledge with a view of the Androscoggin River below and spend some time looking out at the hazy landscape. The sun is now high amongst the cottonball clouds and the temperature is up to 90 degrees. Running low on water, I drink conservatively. According to the map there are no water sources available on this stretch of the trail. I think to myself, "Only 1,600 feet remaining in my descent." As chipmunks cross my path, I pass from the spruce and hemlock grove into a mixed hardwood forest of white and yellow birch, oak, maple and hobblebush with wood fern lining the trail, making for interesting quilt-like patterns of greens.
The trail flattens out a little at 500-foot elevation, so I take a break for about an hour, listening and watching for wildlife, and even though having seen only the usual suspects, I don't want to leave the woods. Finally I reach the bottom of the trail, where it turns onto an old logging road that takes me back to Route 2, and ends my two-day journey in the lower Mahoosac Range.
Bagging Adams
Buy Steve Keri
It was 8 a.m. on a recent Saturday when I met other members of the Connecticut Chapter-Green Mountain Club at Hiker's Paradise Hostel in Gorham. As we were finishing breakfast and waiting out the passing shower, the rest of the group arrived for our hike to the top of Mount Adams, the second-highest peak in New Hampshire, towering at 5,771 feet.
Our hike leader, Jack Sanga, outlines the loop-hike that would take us up Loewe's Path off of Route 2 to King Ravine Trail, across the five peaks that make up Mount Adams ridge and down the Airline Trail to Route 2. Mount Adams is within the Presidential Range of the White Mountains National Forest. The range includes Mount Washington, the highest peak in New England (6,288 feet), and is notorious for its unpredictable weather.
After parking the cars at the hiker's trailheads, the six of us head into the woods and start an ascent of Loewe's Path, winding through second-growth forest of beech, birch, maple, oak and elm, and patches of polypody and wood fern, common at this lower elevation. As we continue to ascend Loewe's Path, we branch off to the left and pick up the King Ravine Trail, ascending at a sharper incline.
About 11 a.m., we take a break and notice we were engulfed in a forest of black spruce and balsam fir with scattered patches of mountain ash and striped maple trees, which occur above 2,500 feet.
Our continued ascent to Mount Adams takes us through a tunnel-maze of quartz caves and low-lying spruce called "The Subway," and brings us to an elevation above 4,000 feet. Above treeline, the landscape contains an overgrowth of shrub-looking, dwarf-like trees called krummholz.
We have a snack while resting at the base of King Ravine while taking in the huge glacial bowl and notice the floor containing a jumble of huge boulders surrounded by three steep walls that rise up over 1,100 feet. The Nowell and Durange ridges form the western and eastern walls respectively.
We continue ascending King Ravine Trail climbing steeply up the 600 headwall of the bowl covering 1,100 in a half-mile, to the junction with the Airline Trail and encounter a few other hikers ascending Mount Adams via the Airline Trail.
We all decide to lunch on top of the exposed ridge just below the peak of Quincy Adams and a short distance from the top of Mount Adams. Mount Madison and Madison Springs Hut can be seen to the east.
Our relaxing lunch came with sunny skies, clear views and a welcoming breeze.
About 1 p.m., we start ascending the first of the five peaks that make up the Mount Adams chain. One hour later, we bag the gusty peak of Mount Adams. Amongst the boulders we snack, snap pictures and absorb the 3,600-foot view, which includes Mount Washington, Madison, Jefferson and the Great Gulf Wilderness. At our feet, for miles around, lay fragile and rare plants called the alpine tundra, in a magnificent landscape containing the absence of trees. While some of the group opts to remain at the peak, a few of us proceed on to Sam Adams, Adams 4 and Adams 5, a couple of miles farther along the ridge, and back again.
Our descent down the Airline Trail on Durange Ridge brings us continuous views east and west as we carefully select our footing between the rocky points and krummholz.
As we leave treeline heading back into the forest of spruce and fir, we come across Mossy Falls, small yet deserving of photography. We continue our descent of the Airline Trail taking several breaks to chat and rest our now aching feet and knees, then head back down through scattered patches of fern amongst the hardwoods and out to the hiker's trailhead in the town of Appalachia where we gather for group pictures against the now-setting sun.
Mount Clay
By Steve Keri
I wanted to hike Mount Clay, N.H., in the Presidential Range of the White Mountains, but I didn't want to spend a long time climbing to the top, so I decide on the Jewell Trail.
Mount Clay (5,533 feet) sits in a small col between Mount Washington (6,288 feet) and Mount Jefferson (5,716 feet) on the Appalachian Trail with the Great Gulf Wilderness sharply dropping thousands of feet east of the ridge. After what seems an incredible time poring over maps and traveling dirt roads, I arrive at the parking lot on Base Road and begin my hike. The Jewell Trail ascends the unnamed western ridge of Mount Clay, parallel to the Cog Railway off in the distance.
The Cog Railway is the world's first mountain climbing railway, (grade of 37.5 percent) - a passenger diesel train ride that ascends Jacobs Ladder on its way to the top of Mount Washington. The Jewell Trail is named for Sargent Winfield Jewell, who was an observer for the Army Signal Corps on Mount Washington.
As I enter the moist low woodlands on this drizzly, warm July day, the scent of damp spruce forest perks up my senses and immediately engulfs my soul. Crossing the Ammonoosuc River, I follow the footpath northeast, ascending at an easy grade through patches of wood fern.
Leaving the soothing sound of rushing water behind, I enter a quiet sanctuary of stillness with a light drizzle that glazes over the spruce and mixed hardwood forest. My continued ascent on the crest of the low ridge brings me to a short saddle containing a variety of fern, and just as I step down into it, I catch a glimpse of what I think is a mink. It disappears quickly, leaving me scratching my head.
Having finished climbing about two miles of switch-backs through a wetter and slightly cooler spruce forest, I am awakened from my meditative stupor by the sound of the diesel engine from the Cogs Railway making its way up Jacob's Ladder.
Proceeding upward at a fast pace, I take a break at an open blow down patch at the edge of Burt Ravine, just in time to snap a picture of the train on the far ridge as its smoke entwines with the thick fog now moving in.
For the next mile, I meander through the spruce forest, aware of the wind blowing through small expansions within the thickets. Swinging to the northside of the ridge and climbing east, I exit the massive roof of the spruce forest and am smacked with intense wind and rain.
I don my raingear while taking in the view of the ridge lines of Mount Clay and Washington. I linger for a while taking pictures of the massive ridge and steep walls of Burt Ravine and almost fall asleep on my feet listening to the sound of the splattering rain.
I reach treeline at the three-mile mark on the trail at about 4,200 feet and see a couple of other hikers braving the elements. For the next half-mile, I follow the same path up the ridgecrest zigzagging at a moderate grade between krumoltz and over rough and rocky terrain, which quickly becomes less prominent and blends into the slope of Mount Clay.
I continue to follow the barren trail up the now easy slope to the Gulfside Trail. As the wind increases and the downpour makes footing on the rocks a serious challenge, I occasionally stop to take pictures while taking in a 360-degree view of the rocky geography. It makes me feel like I'm sent back in time to a world that has just been formed by the shifting continents.
I can feel a chill coming on as the temperature starts to drop, so putting on my glove liners, I head toward the top of Mount Clay, which is really a bump of a rock straddled by a north and south saddle. About halfway to the top, I stop for lunch and take in the krumoltz scenery partially covering the rocky slides of the Great Gulf bowl.
Finally, at about 2 p.m. I bag Mount Clay and immediately become engulfed in a wind tunnel with the cold rain pelting my rainshell. I ask myself, "Is this it?" No sign indicating I have reached the summit? No other people enjoying the view?
I stand atop Mount Clay, slowly admiring the views of the distant ranges and the Great Gulf Wilderness while holding onto a feeling of accomplishment. I stay here for quite a while, feeling like I belong.
As I start to descend, I come across a plaque in the ground. It is dedicated to a hiker who perished one day on this weathered ridge.
As a meloncholy feeling creeps up on me and the wind and rain increase, I think about a friend, Guy Waterman, who committed suicide one winter day on Mount Lafayette. He hiked up the mountain without sufficient clothing and gear and froze to death. I can't understand why someone would want to do that when one could keep coming back to these wonderful mountains.
I take one last look at the wet landscape, and breathe deeply as if by doing so I am taking a piece with me.
As the wind batters the rain against my face, I pull the hood of my rainshell up over my head and continue to descend.
A 'Sterling' experience hiking the Appalachian Trail in New York
By Steve Keri
Every chance I get, I head to the woods. This two-day backpacking trip took place on the southern sections of the Appalachian trail in New York.
The trail is within Sterling Forest, which is named for Lord Sterling, a Scottish general who fought in the battle of Long Island, N.Y., during the Revolutionary War. His original name was William Alexander, though he later claimed the title Earl of Sterling. His father had purchased parcels of land around the New York-New Jersey border that contained iron and other minerals, then sold them to the Harriman family in the late 1800s, which in turn sold the land to private interests.
In the 1970s, the National Park Service acquired a narrow corridor through which the trail presently runs.
In the 1980s, other park and environmental groups joined with the NPS to preserve the area against development.
After a slight delay in shuttling cars, we head out of Elks Pen Trailhead on our 27-mile hike going south on the Appalachian Trail, feeling that we will probably roll into Wild Cat Shelter near sundown.
Our first day contains a number of ups and downs with mostly rocky terrain and slippery leaves. We all get a major cardiovascular workout and a surprising assortment of views to our east, south and north. Even though most of the leaves have turned breadcrumb brown, there are still speckles of yellow, lime-green and red, and patches of burnt orange scattered throughout the mountainsides that glisten in the warm sun. We spend a fair amount of time absorbing the surrounding landscape, and listening to the wind rustling through the trees.
Heading toward our destination, we pass at least a dozen other hikers out for the day. We stumble into the shelter site around sundown, and using the remaining daylight, set out to find a water source, since the brook is dried up and the supposed water pump had been removed last year, according to the deer hunter we run into, or should I say scares the heck out of us.
Sometime into early evening we locate a puddle of water at the end of the dry brook bed and filter it. One of us is able to get a tent up before dark, and the rest of us set up our sleeping gear inside the shelter, which is nicely equipped with candles, log books (which state water shortage problems in the area), food bag pegs, stairs, plenty of space and a roof and sides in great condition. We eat supper, and chat about seeing signs of deer and about hawks and vultures circling the mountain slopes. Shortly thereafter we fall asleep, exhausted from a long, hard day.
I wake before sunrise in hopes of spotting black bear, which are presumed abundant in the area, but don't see any. As I adsorb the stillness of the woods, I make coffee, climb a perch and watch the sun break over the burnt-orange mountainside as the surrounding landscape sparkles to life. My mind begins to wander as the serenity envelopes me. Around 7 a.m., we have a delicious breakfast of oatmeal and blueberries, toasted corn muffins, trail mix and coffee. We then pack our gear and head south on the Appalachian Trail over Catrocks and Pinnacles toward Mount Peter.
Our second day of hiking entails a fairly easy and quick pace with the miles just going by as we skirt across the near flat ridge containing Mount Peter, Bellvale Mountain, Furnace Brook Ravine and Mount Prospect at 1,500 feet with numerous 360-degree views including Greenwood Lake, Warwick Mountain and Taylor Mountain to the west.
Around 1 p.m., we all hunker down below a slight ridge to get out of the wind and enjoy a hot lunchwhile enjoying our view of Greenwood Lake to the east.
Several miles later we come to the New York/New Jersey state line and follow the steep Stateline Trail east down to our carspot in the lot below the ridge, drive back to Arden, thank the troops for making it to the front line without casualties, and say our good-byes. Until next time, happy trails.
If you go-
Road approaches: The northern and southern ends of these sections are accessible by vehicle. At the northern end, the trail crosses Route 17 at its junction with Arden Valley Road, .7 miles south of Arden. Free parking is available at Elk Pen parking area on Arden Valley Road, .3 miles east of its intersection with Route 17. At the southern end, free parking is available for three to five cars at the Greenwood Lake Marina on Route 210 where the Stateline Trail begins.
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