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June 7, 2001 Windfall Time
"Wooo Hooo!"
I am accelerating down the hill from my house into the the middle of nowhere. It has been too long for the Beetle and me. I drive like I am escaping, over 25 miles of dirt road. I try to get the Beetle in the air over every mound and hilltop. Only the bank of the road holds me on course. I lose control of the back wheels several times. I am driving too fast. I am where car handling, driving ability, road conditions and disaster meet. And I LOVE it. I know people who have gone over the edge (figuratively and literally) on this very road.
I see a large doe as I come around a corner. It's fawn is still at the roads edge, as big as a large cat with a long neck and spindly legs. It's spots as big as oranges and as white as snow.
A fox pops out of the tall grass at the edge of the highway. He seems tobe contemplating the road. In the rear view mirror I see he has made up hismind and turns back into the woods. He is not going where I am, I guess.
From nowhere to nowhere, Number Four to Upper Works, in two and quarter hours. I stop at the only grocery store I pass for Corn Pops. I stop at Stewarts for gas. I waste ten minutes second guessing myself about where the turnoff is.
Upper Works or Tahawus is my favorite trail head in the Adirondacks. It is where I hiked into the Adirondacks for the first time. It is closeto home. It has a much cooler name than the Loj, or Ausable Club. But theplace would be magical to me with or without all that. Upper Works refersto this section of an iron and titanium mine. I park near abandoned housesthat were part of a whole village of miners. From the parking lot I see thenew mountains of tailings. I don't know why this all seems special. Maybethat the mineis closed and is being taken over, slowly invaded by the treesand animalsof the neighboring wilderness. Maybe that the peaks are moretreasured whenyou run the gauntlet of human destruction to get to them.Or, I'm not ashamedto admit, I am in awe of the human power that has subduedthe wilderness,this wilderness that I will conquer with my five pound bootsand my fortypound pack.
I sign in.
I pass the turn off for Duck Hole. I traverse lots of mud that I collectively call 'Muck Hole.' I am grateful for my boots that keep my feet clean and dry, though I would be just as happy with mud between my toes. I am grateful for frogs in Muck Hole. I am grateful for the relatively small number ofblack flies.
When I look at the tattoo on my leg, ' fibula', I remember the last time I was on this trail wasjust three days before a UPS truck broke my fibula.
I eat lunch next to Indian Pass Brook. There are more flies now, but notthe black cloud I feared.
This is the kind of letter that I like to write. This could be a letter to a friend. You could be that friend, that friend that I have just met, orhave known for some time, but want to get to know better. Not the friendthat I have already shared with. To them I would write, "I went to Tahawus."or nothing at all, and I would expect them to know about the flight, thefawn, the fox, the fragmented fibula and the frogs. I want a friend who willlay behind me awake at night, and listen to the owl, and never have to ask,"Did you hear the owl?" I want a friend with whom I have shared so much,or so little that there is nothing left to say . I want a friend to be humanwith, and these words are NOT human. A touch. A kiss. A shared meal. A dayin the rain. Body heat. These things are human. You could be That friendbut with this letter you are not.
I have one toe of a boot on a rock. With this grip and the help of two hands on rocks, I hope to take one more step toward the summit of Indian Pass.Soon will be the ladders that took all of my strength 3 1/2 years ago toclimb. It is easier now with a lighter pack and no snow.
I hear Blue Jays.
Two Boys walk by, ruining what might have been a peopleless hike. I had a few hours, anyway.
At the pass peak overlook, I am sitting so close to Wallface that I can't take a picture of it. Since you can't see it, I'll describe it. It's like sitting next to a wall, except there is a canyon between me and the wall.
One bird makes the sound of a smoke alarm. One makes the sound of city bus brakes screeching. I look for eagles with my binoculars. They are the only bird I know big enough to make the sound of a bus.
I realize I have forgotten my spoon. A spoon that I have had for 12 years. It is the perfect size. I use it every day, and it comes with me on trips. That spoon may be the best thing I got out of college.
I hear my favorite bird. The call sounds like crystal. I once resolved to learn to identify local birds. Someone told me the name of this bird, but I promptly forgot. Some type of warbler. I call it the crystal warbler.
At Scott's Clearing, I decide to go into Scott and Wallface Ponds. Thereare like seven ponds, but only two names. I don't know anyone who has beenhere. The guide book promises seclusion and a view of the McIntyre Range.
This is one of the worst trails I have ever seen. I have special curses for obstructions, one for mud pits that swallow my leg up to my knee, and one for tress I have to crawl under. I swear a lot.
In one pond I watch two beavers paddle leisurely. I have never seen themso close and undisturbed.
In another pond I see my promised McIntyre Range: Wright, Algonquin, andIroquois.
I am not at all happy with my camp site. The woods are so dense that I have to clear branches just to make room for a sleeping bag. Once I settle init is fine. I read. I dream of running through streets, naked except formy sleeping bag.
June 8, 2001
I am very happy with my campsite. I lounge in my bag as it gets lighter and lighter. Then I read as the sun comes over the hill and shines right on me. It is now warm enough to entice me out of my bag and back through the muck to civilization.
I hike two more days. I have no more words. Walking shakes them loose, and now they are here. I am happy to have just my human self left. I am now thinking in ideas and not sentences. I am mulling relationships rather than punctuation. I am at peace here.
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