1mlost: to Mount Marcy part two
Rt. 30 between the Catskills and The Adirondacks follows valleys of rolling farm land for many miles. I roll through these quickly and pleasantly. A farmers market here. A feedstore there. Just before the adirondacks, a weird new economy of junk starts to take over and then abruptly ends at the border of the Park. I don't believe my eyes, but I'm standing in front of the sign welcoming me to The Adirondack Park, Forever Wild. I have to double check the GPS, still 145 miles (2.5 hours) to my destination in the park.
The Adirondacks are big, about a quarter of the total area of Switzerland. There are only something like 6 roads through The Adirondacks and I have ridden them all. None more noteworthy than the others and they always seem to run me through a lake town called Speculator.
I stop again for gas. The woman filling up six red plastic 5 gallon tanks smiles at me. She rides, and she knows that I've been given a real gift with the weather today. My next stop will be the woods. I haven't stopped for food, coffee, to call my kids or to call my wife. I leave Rt. 30 and find that last road. The one that ends at a trailhead. I get there and the parking lot is overflowing. I make my way around some queued up cars and the tollbooth with the teenage attendants on walkies. The parking lot is "full" but I plenty of places to park a bike. These outdoors types like to drive big cars with every kind of rack attachment. A sweet old lady rides up on a mountain bike. She's helping to organize the huge parking effort. She knows I jumped the queue and gives me a slight smile as she tells me about her days riding 2-upf on a big Honda goldwing.
Once parked, I quickly perform the dance I've rehearsed in my garage. I swap my moto boots for hiking boots, stash the one piece suit in the topbox. Out pop the trekking poles, and I'm ready to leave the bike behind. I've made it to the muddy, buggy adirondacks on a perfect September day.
Hiking is a wonderful activity. To the uninitiated, us hikers probably look like a bunch of idiots gawking away at trees and mountains. My hikes are more internal journeys than external sight seeing. Take away all the man-made eye ticklers and the high fidelity, stereo mastered, lossless audio and give me a simple task like walking in a straight line. The bored mind will climb to new heights.
After a short bout with my thoughts I arrived at my base camp for the trip, Marcy Dam. I was anxious that all the "good spots" would be taken. One particular source claimed that so many people camped at Marcy Dam, that the bears in the area had learned to open certain bear proof food containers. I found a perfectly good spot. Far enough to be unseen from the trail but a short walk to a fishing spot. I set about the most urgent task of making myself a drink.
Now that I was a little dizzy, it was time to get into a stream. The adirondacks have skunked me on a few occasions. I wasn't going to rest easy tonight unless I shook it off. There is actually no Dam at Marcy Dam. The Dam was destroyed by hurricane Irene and the site has been slowly recovering for the last 11 years. A small stream running through the middle of where a lake once unfolded was cold enough to hold a brookie or two. I am admittedly a very bad fisherman, but managed to hook a fish on my third cast from a little bend below a high bank. For all it's savagery, fishing is a very delicate endeavor. Holding a brook trout in hand is truly a wonder. The complete smoothness of the skin, speckled with yellow and red spots, accented with striking white tips on the fins. I am shocked each time I hold one. Now that I had ruined the day of a tiny fish, I could rest easy. Tomorrow I'll climb as close to the heavens as is possible in the State of New York.
