A Hike in the Adirondacks

Grinning and mud-bellied dogs scramble down the rocks, four legs and digging claws a boon on these slopes. The hikers greet each other as they pass, without fail, possessed with a courtesy precipitated by the smell of fallen leaves and the silence of trees. Greetings grow terser as they near the top, interrupted by panting and concentration.

They pass through different climates, whole worlds stacked atop each other and separated by just a hundred feet. In the low-lying areas, tufts of grass line the track carpeted by red yellow and brown leaves, and paler shades from their undersides, rarely touched by sunlight. They grasp beech trees smooth-barked as skin and haul themselves upwards, legs pistoning upwards, ever upwards.

Further on, the grass yields to mud which sucks at their boots and makes footing treacherous. The track is littered with boulders, perhaps transported here by ancient rivers now run dry. A trickle of water feeds these muddy patches, originating god knows where. The trees grow leaner, sparser. Some stands have died, and their roots, sapped of vitality, have loosened their grip on the earth and they lean against each other with bare branches, mourning their own deaths. Blue mountains in the distance, seen fleetingly through the shifting windows framed by boughs. The wind grows more insistent, here, hands grow stiff. No more children descending the path, these are harsher climes reserved for older men, cheeks stubbled with iron filings, and hardy women, cheeks pointed with blushing exertion forgotten since youth. They still say hello as they pass.

A first vista, afforded by a bare shoulder of rock, overlooks what feels like all of creation. It is only a panorama of a small portion of the Adirondacks National Park. Hikers pause to gawk. The dogs mingle freely, sniffing eagerly at snacks withdrawn from packs and more warily at other dogs. Below, the lakes are mirrors of sky and the trees are surprised in their metamorphosis, leaves a colorful confusion. Nearby mountains stand in uneasy relation to one another, perhaps desiring escape but frozen by their geological sluggishness. Their solidity is a convincing illusion, however, and great cloud-shadows sweep their flanks. In the distance they see snowcaps, a place so high it is perpetually winter. Summer can not climb far enough. Specks of hail touch their cheeks, melt in their hair.

They’ve looked enough, more climbing. The track grows muddier still, pits must be traversed with mincing steps and broad jumps. The trees now have needles and an alpine fragrance. Lichen clings to rocks. The wind is harsh. Descending climbers, in fugues of concentration as they wrestle with gravity and slick rocks, distractedly answer that the top isn’t too far off. They keep climbing, grimmer now that this is a conquest.

On the summit they quickly lose sensation in their hands. Stuffing numb fingers into pockets, they stand atop the very highest rock they can locate and gaze out over the terrain. One can feel an energy in this place, leylines thrumming beneath the stone skin of the mountain. Perhaps witches congregated here long ago when the light was fading. The lower view was better, but here they might entertain notions of godhood, brought on by thin air and the height. The perspective is certainly right. They fumblingly prepare sandwiches and eat them, sheltered by the stubborn trees but not enough. Further along the ridge of the summit the trees close in and footsteps are silenced by a carpet of leaves. Clumps of snow, small and diminished as they might be in March, huddle about tree trunks.

They’ve climbed the mountain and touched the soles of their boots to the highest stones. Nothing left to do, they descend, waggling warmth back into their abused fingers, now silent as they negotiate the downward climb. They nod and greet those not yet to the top, owning a secret knowledge. “A little farther on,” they say, “maybe fifteen minutes.”