Allen Mountain-A Rite of Passage

With a hike of over 16 miles I feel like Allen Mountain is like a right of passage for an aspiring 46er. Once you've climbed Allen, there's really no reason to turn back. I've heard many things over the years about Allen, most of them intimidating. Mostly I've heard about the river crossings that can all be a challenge in wet seasons, and I'd also heard about some infamous red slime that makes ascending the bare rock sections of the trail a little perilous. And of course I knew that the distance alone, 16.2 miles, was not an easy feat for a single day, and that such a distance usually requires hiking in the dark in at least one direction. Because of that it's not easy to find someone who is willing to hike Allen just for fun, they have to be looking to check  it off their list. So when a friend of mine asked if I wanted to join her and another aspiring 46er on a hike to Allen, I figured I should take the chance despite knowing that it would be the hardest thing I've done so far.

Allen Mtn. itself isn't much of a giant, at 4340 feet it is only the 26th highest peak, but what makes it so challenging is the lack of easy access, which means a 6 mile hike into the base of the mountain. From there the trail eases into a moderate grade for the next mile or so, and then the final mile is a steep, slippery slope to the top that is made all the more difficult by the fact that you've already been hiking for 3-4 hours. The round trip hike can take anywhere from 10-14 hours depending on one's ability, so an early start is essential. A late start was our first mistake of the day, as some miscommunication due to poor cell phone reception caused us to start an hour later than we had planned, at 8:30am. We knew we were going to have to keep a strong pace all day if we wanted to be back to the car before dark, which meant walking quickly, taking only short breaks for food and water, and no naps on the summit--it was going to be a rough day for me. After only about 5 minutes on the trail we came to the first river crossing, over a narrow stretch of the headwaters of the Hudson. Fortunately a dry August meant the water level was low enough to cross fairly easily, though we did take our shoes off to do it. Ten minutes later we reached another crossing, over what looked like a slow moving river but what is actually a small lake, and made our second mistake of the day. I had read that the bridge over Lake Jimmy was out but that a new trail had been made around it, but didn't realize that Lake Jimmy was so close to the start of the trail. The old bridge was mostly intact except for the first two stretches of bridge, so we chose to wade through the mucky water to take the bridge across. The first person to go became the guinea pig, and when she sunk up to her waist in water the next person across found an easier route. With my pants rolled as high as they could go I managed to get just the bottoms wet, and was thankful that I at least managed to keep my underwear dry--for now.

Due to our grueling pace and pouring rain this
is the only photo I took on our hike as we
descended the streambed

After the lake the trail follows an old road for a while, where raspberries and blackberries made excellent snacks. The trail eventually becomes more heavily wooded and a soft carpet of dirt and leaf litter make for easy walking. The Opalescent, a gorgeous river on every stretch I've seen it, was easily crossed but I could see it being a challenge in other seasons. After 6.5 miles the trail comes to a nice cascading waterfall, and from there the real climbing begins. Like may herd paths the trail meanders around a brook, which means a steep, rocky, and wet trail. We quickly found ourselves combating the infamous red slime, which made the rocks extremely slick even at the slightest grade.This and other challenges makes the climb up the last 1.5 miles very slow going. We had been hiking at a little over 2 miles an hour to that point, but it took us another 2 hours to make the final "ascent". Why the quotation marks? Well, our third mistake of the day was following the stream all the way to the top, even though we knew by our maps that the trail should veer to the left from the streambed at some point. We were definitely not the first people to make this mistake, as we were clearly following a trail, but it was not the right trail. We realized this was probably the case when the balsams started to close in around us, as my gut was telling me that with thousands of 46ers even a herd path should be much more distinct. So why did we continue on? That had something to do with the rumbles of thunder that were starting to get closer and closer as we neared the top, and we figured at the very least we would come out near the summit and the trail we were on would still guide us to it. We came out to a summit that was concealed by trees, and spent a long time convincing ourselves that we were on the summit, even though we could see a higher summit a short distance away. As we debated our true location the thunder got closer and the wind was starting to rip through the trees, so we knew that trying to bushwhack to the true summit wasn't possible, that we needed to get off the "top" of the mountain. As we hurried down the herdpath we started to hear voices to our right, and when we got to an open rock slide we ran into three guys who had just come down from the real summit. Conveniently we met them at the exact spot where we had gone astray, where the trail veers left from the slide. I was very disappointed to see that there was no cairn or any other marker at this crucial turn, which is why we so easily missed it. At this point the rain was starting to fall, and the thunderstorm was just about over us. Of the three guys one told us that the summit was only 20 minutes away and we should get it while we're here, one gave us a sympathetic look, and the other told us that our lives were more important than reaching a summit in a thunderstorm. For one of the people I was hiking with Allen was her 43rd peak, and she had plans to finish the 46 with family and friends on Porter next week, so she needed that peak. So we all started up the slide, but when it started downpouring and we passed a nice rocky overhang that could keep us dry two of us decided to seek refuge while she raced up to the top. She made it, and good for her. As for me, it looks like I'll be climbing Allen again someday.

Our hike back definitely ranks as my most miserable descent of a mountain, as the rain continued for at least another hour until every inch of our bodies were soaked. The rocky streambed that was partially dry on the way up had become a roaring stream. The same dry footholds we had used on the way up became small waterfalls on the way down. My pants were soaked and chaffing my skin. My shoes squished every time I took a step. I changed my socks once, which stopped the squishing for a bit but when you're exhausted it is nearly impossible to keep your feet dry for long because you just don't care about going around the puddles anymore. One the way back we only took 2 breaks in 8 miles--once at the waterfall and once at the trail register that is about halfway. Other than that we walked the fastest pace we could, which for me was a little slower than my companions. My body ached more than it ever has, and three days later I can still feel the effects of Allen. We made it back to the car just as the forest was growing too dark to see, at around 8:00pm, after 11.5 hours of hiking. We all changed into dry clothes and had a much-deserved celebratory beer in the parking lot, because despite how wet, tired, and incredibly sore I was, despite the fact that I hadn't even made it to the top, I felt like celebrating simply because I survived. What we did was just as hard as making the summit, maybe harder since we had to bushwhack, and I felt that I had made the rite of passage anyway. I was more exhausted than I've ever been, but I still felt exhilarated by what we had done. And I had learned many important lessons that day, so that the next time I climb Allen Mtn., I'll be ready. Allen Mtn., we will meet again, but next time it will be an overnight trip on a clear sunny day.

Traversing Through the Alpine from Algonquin to Iroquois

The first time I climbed Algonquin was back in 2007, nearly five years ago when I first started hiking the high peaks. I was very much looking forward to exploring the broad summit, soaking in the views of more than 100 peaks, but the weather had other ideas. Although it was a fairly warm day at the bottom, at the top the winds were so fierce that I had to hold onto all by belongings to keep them from flying off the mountain, and even had to brace myself to keep from falling over. I stayed on the summit just long enough to snap some pictures and then descended to the Wright trail junction to eat and log the hike into my journal. But I always knew I would return to the mountain someday in a quest to climb Iroquois, for the which the shortest route is to take the trail from the Loj to Algonquin and continue onto Boundary and Iroquois. I made sure I waited for a better day this time so that I could enjoy the summit, and the weather turned out to be absolutely perfect.

Alpine grasses and sedges  create lush meadows

The main reason I was looking so forward to climbing Algonquin is because its height (the second highest at 5,114 feet) and broad summit make it the perfect habitat for alpine species of plants. Many of the Adirondack high peaks have plants that are found only in alpine habitats, but none of them have as much alpine vegetation as Algonquin. There are only 85 acres of alpine habitat in the Adirondacks, and more than half of that is found on the McIntyre range, which is the collective term for the ridgeline that is composed of Algonquin, Boundary, and Iroquois peaks. The trail to Algonquin from the Loj is only 3.6 miles, but  with an ascent of nearly 3,000 feet it is a very steep, relentlessly rocky hike to the summit. A few hundred feet below the summit the trees give way to open rock and the largest alpine meadow I've seen in the Adirondacks. It looks like a sea of grass (sedge actually), the way the Deer's Hair Sedge flows in the wind. Upon closer inspection one can find alpine species of wildflowers, lichens, and shrubs. On one part of the summit a puddle of water nestled in the sedge meadow made a beautiful foreground for photos of the surrounding peaks. Algonquin is a very popular trail, we probably saw a couple dozen other hikers just in the time that we spent on the summit, but there is room on the summit for everyone to have their own space. To protect the fragile alpine vegetation from so many hikers small rocks have been put in place to keep people on the bare rock, and furthermore a summit steward is present to educate people on the importance of preserving the rare alpine plants. Alpine plants need to have very shallow root systems in order to grow in such a thin layer of soil, which makes them very vulnerable to the pressure of people's footsteps. Heavy traffic in the 1970's ruined a great deal of alpine vegetation in the Adirondacks, but conservation and education efforts to keep people off the soil have been effective in restoring the alpine character of the Adirondack high peaks so that people like me can enjoy it today.

The alpine ecosystem of Algonquin's summit

Boundary and Iroquois from Algonquin

This McIntyre range is one of the most distinctive ridgelines in the Adirondacks, as thousands of people glance at it each day as they pass the Loj Road on route 73. I look at it almost every day, and can't count the number of sunrises and sunsets I've seen painting the ridge in color. Just last week I had a closer view of it from the summit of Colden, which is separated from the McIntyre Range by the steep walls of Avalanche Pass. From Colden the traverse from Algonquin to Boundary and Iroquois, so named because Boundary
was once the landmark that separated hunting grounds between the Algonquin and Iroquois tribes, looked like it would be an easy one. It looks like there is minimal elevation gain between the two peaks, as you simply descend Algonquin, hike over the small bump that is Boundary, and then scramble up a few hundred feet to the summit of Iroquois. What you don't see from the summit of Colden is the two steep sections of bare rock that you have to climb hand-over-foot in order to reach the summit. The walk over the ridgeline is very pleasant, the trail is so narrow that you feel as though you're being embraced by the balsam fir, and you have to brush up against other people to pass them on the trail. A new series of wooden planks, just built this year, carries you over the muddy sections of the cols between the peaks, and gives your feet respite from the rocks and mud. You break out of the balsams for just a moment to reach the bare rock bump of boundary, then dip back down into them to make your way toward Iroquois. The last tenth of a mile to Iroquois is more challenging than I expected, and the last ten feet is the worst. There is one large rock at the edge of the summit, the last step before the destination, that I had a tough time mustering up the courage to leap up, but fortunately was saved by a nice person on the summit that came to give us a hand. The summit of Iroquois doesn't have glorious alpine meadows like Algonquin, but it does have peace and quiet, as only a handful of people that climb Algonquin continue onto Iroquois. The view is just as amazing, looking down at Lake Colden and Flowed lands, and peering further to the peaks of the south and west than Algonquin. We didn't stay long, though, because we knew the hardest part of the hike was yet to come.

View from Algonquin to the west

Hiking down from Iroquois was a mental challenge, and hiking back up over the summit of Algonquin was a physical challenge. That was the first point in the day where my legs just refused to keep going, and we had to rest a few times while making that last ascent to Algonquin's summit. Once we reached the top we collapsed and stayed to enjoy the summit for a long time. The weather was mostly sunny with only a light breeze, which is an uncommonly perfect day to be on Algonquin. I stripped off my shoes and socks, ditched the windbreaker, and laid my head back on my pack to relax. For a while I just laid there watching the Deer's Hair Sedge flow with the breeze, gazing at the striking slides of Colden beyond. I didn't ever want to leave, but I knew it wouldn't stay 70 and sunny for too much longer. The hike back seemed longer than the hike in, and took us just as much time, almost 3 hours. Navigating the rocky terrain of Algonquin's trail for the next 2.5 miles was very slow going, and even as slow as we were going my hiking partner slipped a few times. We were relieved to finally reach the main trail back to the Loj, relishing the soft dirt for the past mile. We were completely exhausted, but exhilarated to have completed the hike.

View from Algonquin to the east, with Mt. Colden prominent in the center

Algonquin's alpine summit

As I hiked I couldn't help thinking about what life was like in the time of the tribes that those two peaks are named for, how much more difficult it must have been to climb those peaks before trails. Did they take the same route that we had taken, or did they know an easier way? So many of the Adirondack mountains had been named by the tribes but were later renamed for famous settlers and explorers. I think Tahawus, meaning "cloudsplitter" is a much better name than Mt. Marcy and wish it had stayed that way. It's little consolation that people had the sense to at least recognize the significance of the peaks to native tribes by choosing to name two of the giants "Algonquin" and "Iroquois", but at least in doing so they've retained a small part of the region's pre-settlement history. I wonder how often the native tribes climbed such mountains, whether they did so to hunt game and gather fruit, like the cranberries I saw growing on Boundary, or if they, like me, just climbed it for sheer enjoyment, to gaze at all the peaks below and remind themselves of how magnificent the Adirondacks truly are.

Hiking Solo to Mount Colden

It's been a while since I hiked a high peak on my own, as I've been fortunate enough to make a lot of hiking friends in the past year, but sometimes the weather is just too perfect to wait for those friends to have a day off. While I enjoy the solitude of hiking on smaller mountains, I prefer company on the bigger ones for three reasons. One, safety in numbers in case an accident should happen. Two,the distraction of conversation to keep my mind off of how sore my feet are after ten plus miles. Third, a helping hand to get past the tricky spots on the trail, those spots where your next step looks like an impenetrable wall of rock with no hand or foot holds, and it takes teamwork to figure out how to get past it. It seems almost every high peak has at least one of those spots, as if mother nature herself put it there to weed out the people like me who actually fear falling and breaking something. But I really wanted to hike something this weekend, and after talking to people and reading trip reports it sounded like Mount Colden was a fairly safe and straight-forward hike up the Lake Arnold trail, making it a good candidate for a solo hike.

Closed Gentian, so named because it never opens

I expected the 11th highest peak in the Adirondacks, with it's steep slides looming over Avalanche Lake, to be a challenging hike that I would barely make it back from. The hike itself from the Loj is about 13 miles and has 2900 feet of elevation gain, certainly nothing to shake a stick at. So I was pleasantly surprised to find myself keeping a good pace all the way to the top, with just a few rests to refuel along the way. One of those rests was at Lake Arnold, which is really a small boggy pond, at 3,772 feet, a quaint body of water with dragonflies buzzing about. One of my favorite late-summer wildflowers, Closed Gentian, was blooming along the shore. The trail from the Loj to the lake is a nice, gradual climb that winds back and forth across a brook. From the lake it is only 1.4 more miles to the top, though it is certainly the steepest and muddiest section of the entire trail. The trail rises steadily from the lakeshore to top out at bald summit that looks like it could be the end, except for the fact that the real summit is clearly looming over it another .25 miles away. Although this false summit is not the destination, it has a spectacular view in all directions and warrants taking a breather. I stopped here on my way up and my way back, as it was a little warmer and less windy than the true summit and made a better spot to relax. The descent from the false summit to the col between the summit is the steepest part of the hike, with a few tricky spots, one of which was a challenge to climb back up (which is exactly the type pf spot I was referencing in my first paragraph!). The trail dips down and over a small bump, and then makes a quick steep climb to the true summit.

Lake Arnold

McIntryre range and Avalanche Lake at the bottom

Lake Colden from the summit

The summit itself is broad and by wandering around it you can get a spectacular 360 degree view of the Adirondacks, with almost every other high peak in view. What is even more spectacular is the view of all the bodies of water below. You can look straight down to Avalanche Lake and see the wooden planks that guide hikers along the sheer rock walls. From the far end of the summit you can see Lake Colden, Colden dam, and the Flowed Lands. In the far distance you can see Lake Placid, including the town itself with Whiteface looming beyond it. Look the other way and Mt. Marcy is looming over you, along with all the peaks around it. I could recognize Cascade and the patchwork of rock that is Pitchoff just over the hill of the false summit.  Obviously I had a clear day, with blue sky and fluffy clouds, so it seemed like I could see forever. It was a perfect day for hiking, just cool enough to keep from overheating, though that meant staying on the windy summit required a few layers to keep warm. I ate my lunch and rested a bit on the summit, then made my way down to the first summit to take a little nap out of the wind. Then I reluctantly headed back.

Indian Pipe

The hike back was fairly easy with the exception of that one tricky spot that I spent a few minutes trying to find a way up before a nice person coming down the trail offered me a hand. The hike down was fairly uneventful, as the birds were quiet and there weren't many people coming up the trail that time of day. My only highlight coming down was a nice patch of Indian Pipe nestled between some Bunchberry, making a nice photograph. The trail was very wet after Friday's rains and by the time I got back to the Loj I was a muddy and sweaty mess. But I was happy to find that I wasn't completely exhausted, like I usually am after long hikes, which was nice. It seems I've finally gotten my hiking muscles in good enough shape to enjoy these hikes without suffering the long way back. Looks like I'm ready to climb some more....

Mt. Marcy and endless other peaks

The McIntrye Range and steep walls of Avalanche Lake