Walking the White Carpet to Mt Marcy

Last week was one of the few weeks this year that has consistently felt like winter. Every day brought lightly falling snow and below freezing temperatures, creating excellent conditions for snowshoeing and skiing in the Adirondacks. I know from the past that these conditions won't last long, so I had to take advantage of it by doing an all-day hike, something big that would give me an expansive view of the Adirondacks cloaked in snow, so I decided to go for the big one and climb Mt. Marcy.

View from Mt Marcy in the fall of 2011

The first time I climbed Mt. Marcy, two autumns ago, was very emotional for me. I never thought in a million years that I would be able to someday climb the highest peak in the state, as I wasn't born with athleticism and my asthma has always made climbing difficult. I grew up hiking smaller mountains, and found those so challenging that I never thought I could do anything bigger. I've learned in recent years that our bodies are capable of so much more than we think they are, so long as you're willing to work hard at something and put up with some temporary pain. Marcy was a big goal for me, one that I worked up to by hiking easier peaks first, such as Giant and Big Slide, as well as long distance hikes to build my endurance. The first time I climbed Marcy I was very intimidated by the distance--at 14.3 miles round trip it was the longest hike I had ever attempted, so I started hiking at dawn thinking that it would take me the entire day to hike. To my surprise the hike was so much easier than I expected, and I found myself on the summit by late morning. It was a gorgeous day, warm for September with temperatures in the mid-60's, a blazing sun, and no wind, which is a rarity on Marcy. When I got to the top my eyes filled with tears, and I think I would have all-out cried if there weren't other people on the summit. I was overwhelmed with emotion, shocked that I had found a way to stand above and look down upon all the peaks, valleys, lakes, and streams of the Adirondacks that have been such an important part of my life. To many people Marcy is just a peak to tick off a list, or a way to "conquer" the Adirondacks, or, for some people I met that day, just one of 4 peaks that they planned to "bag", but for me it meant so much more. I consider it one of my greatest accomplishments because I spent so much of my life convinced I that I would never be able to stand on top of Marcy, it's a great feeling to be able to prove yourself wrong.

Since that day I've done much harder hikes than that one, since Marcy, even though it stands above all the others, is actually an easier hike than most of the high peaks. Though the distance is great the trail itself is a very gradual climb and lacks the steep, rocky sections that so many other trails have. Unlike many if it's neighbors Marcy doesn't require any technical climbing at all in good conditions, which is why I chose to hike it solo last week. With the amount of snow that had fallen recently I knew that snowshoes would be all that was required for the hike, and that even my snowshoes, which don't have good enough crampons for steep climbing, should suffice. I decided to start my hike shortly after sunrise--early enough that I shouldn't feel pressed for time even with the short winter days, but late enough that someone else might hit the trail before me so that I wouldn't have to break trail. Having broken trail in some parts of Lyon Mtn earlier that week I know I'm not in shape enough to break trail for 7 miles, so I was happy to see that there was a group of 12 people ahead of me that were kind enough to make a nice packed down carpet of snow for me to follow the entire way.The trail to Marcy has a number of natural resting places--Marcy Dam at 2 miles, a bridge just past the Phelps junction 1.5 miles later, and Indian Falls 1.5 miles after that.  I started from the Loj parking lot at 7:30 am, and reached Marcy Dam about 45 minutes later.Though I didn't need much of a rest at Marcy Dam I couldn't resist stopping for photos, and the moment I did so I was approached by a Black-capped Chickadee looking for handouts. I forgot to pack sunflower seeds for the chickadees that I knew from experience would be there, so this one had to settle for some of my raw almonds instead. The chickadees at the dam, like too many other creatures in the high peaks, have grown so accustomed to hikers that they've learned to associate hikers with food. While I don't condone feeding most critters I don't see much harm in feeding a bird (since birdfeeding is so popular) and look forward to feeding these little guys. A bird in the hand always makes me smile, so I shared a few almonds with the critter and then continued on my way.

Nearby Haystack Mtn

The first view of Marcy from the trail

Once past the dam the trail begins to climb at a steady but easy grade all the way to the treeline of Marcy's summit. The path was surrounded by snow-covered trees, which gradually became shorter in height and more thickly covered in snow and ice. Just before Indian Falls the call of a Boreal Chickadee, which was curious enough to come check me out, was proof that I wasn't too far from the alpine zone. From Indian Falls to Marcy's shoulder the path was wide and covered in 2-3 feet of packed snow, perfect for snowshoes. After 5.5 miles, about 1.5 miles from the summit, Marcy finally comes into view on the right, looming above a mile-long swath of snow-covered balsams. Shortly after that the balsams become more sparse and for the last half mile across the ridge there are incredible views of Haystack to the southeast and the McIntyre range to the north. On this particular day, however, clouds had come rolling in to obscure views to the north, but there was still an amazing view to the south and east. The steep, rocky summit of Haystack looms nearby as the closest neighbor, beckoning me to climb it next. Further beyond I could see the Great Range, though the tips of each peak were covered by a sheet of low-lying clouds. I was fearful that the clouds would roll in and obscure the view completely, but they remained to the north while I was there. There is something eerie and almost frightening about being so exposed on a bare summit in a sea of clouds, as if they could swallow you whole. There is some reason to be afraid, as clouds can also bring blinding snow, and on a broad summit like Marcy white-out conditions can become quite dangerous (last year a man was forced to camp on the summit for a night after becoming lost in a white-out, fortunately he had the skills and gear to survive). A few hundred feet from the summit the trees disappear and the trail becomes a scramble over rock and ice, and here I have to admit that I didn't make it all the way to Marcy's true summit. About 100 feet below I encountered some icy patches that I knew my snowshoes would not be able to grip, and I had left my crampons in the car. While I probably could have ascended the icy pitch without any problems I was reluctant to do so alone, as I wasn't sure if any other hikers were behind me. When hiking alone I tend to be very cautious, and though it sounds crazy to most people, it didn't really matter to me if I made it to the top, especially when most of the view was obscured by clouds. So I walked back down a few hundred feet to a less-exposed area and enjoyed my lunch in the alpine zone surrounded by plants concealed by snow and ice rime, looking out at the gorgeous view of Haystack and the dozens of peaks beyond it.

Being in the alpine zone of Mt Marcy is worth all the effort

Even though Marcy is an easier hike than many other high peaks, it is still far from easy. Reaching the summit (or near it, in my case) still requires ascending over 3000 feet in 7 miles, and is exhausting. But what's more exhausting is hiking 7 MORE miles after that to return to the car. Of course hiking up and hiking down are very different beasts--on the way up you have the option of giving up, but on the way down you have no choice but to just keep moving, no matter how much your body doesn't want to. For me exhaustion usually sets in after about 10 miles, and pain after about 12. Due to an excruciating blister on my right heel the pain and exhaustion both set in at about 10 miles, making for a long hike back to the car. Fortunately I began keeping pace with some nice retirees from Rochester for a couple of those miles, and their conversation helped take my mind of the pain. But I lost them when I stopped at Marcy Dam to feed the chickadees again, which had grown ten-fold in number and kept me occupied for much longer this time. In fact the chickadees were quite entertaining this time, having numerous squabbles over the almond in my hand and often landing two at a time to take them. I could have sat there are fed them all day, but the last two miles were haunting me and I wanted them to be over. The last two miles between the dam and the Loj are my least favorite part of the entire Adirondack Park, as it is a relentless stretch of ascents and descents, culminating in one final climb to the parking area that uses every bit of energy you have left in your exhausted and pain-ridden body. Those two miles seem like so much longer, but somehow I always make it to the lot just when I think I can't take another step, and collapse in the car.

Sculpted snow in the krummhotlz zone

Even though I didn't make it all the way to the top the climb up Marcy was well worth the effort. There is something so awe-inspiring about being higher than any other mountain, it's more like being in the sky than like being on land when the clouds are below you and you're looking down at everything you know. And I find so much to admire in the krummholz zone (where the balsams become shorter and eventually give way to bare rock), like the way the snow becomes sculpted by the wind as it clings to branches, or turns to crystals on the rocks, or twists and turns with the wind-driven branches of the balsam firs. To me the krummholz zone is so surreal that it's more exciting than the bare rock summit, and was the perfect destination for me.

The Great Range in the distance