Seven hours of open bar. Two shots of tequila. A few hours of sleep. A 1300-foot ascent.
Not everything adds up to the smartest mountaineering adventure. But I was attacking Mount St. Regis in the Adirondacks, not Mount Everest.
Still, Mt. St. Regis attains the rating of "moderately difficult" by The Adirondack Monthly, making it one of the toughest of their dozens of recommended day hikes.
Did I mention the open bar was Guinness Stout? Not your diet low-cal watered-down beer. A real man's brew. Seven hours worth.
Which is to say nothing of the tequila, the natural enemy of mountain climbers everywhere. I would think someone assaulting Everest would have to abstain from tequila for the whole year prior to the attempt.
I desperately needed some kind of pain reliever. Ibuprofen, aspirin, anything. One of these years, I'll think to pack such a product for out-of-town trips.
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It was a picturesque Labor Day weekend in the Adirondacks. Little did we know that a few hours south, a ferocious storm would lash Central New York that Sunday, doing millions of dollars of damage and cancelling the final day of the New York State Fair. Where my mother lived, outside Weedsport, the same ferocious weather turned my ancestral backyard into a giant bowling alley.
But all was idyllic in the Adironacks. Two friends who I had introduced to each other were married that Saturday near Saranac Lake. Dozens of family members and friends descended upon the Hotel Saranac, putting the college students who staffed the place, for course credit, a stiff academic challenge.
Friday night had seen its share of wildlife encounters. We ventured to a local bar that could be best described as "memorable." We went to see a band, but the patrons proved to be the real entertainment. The scene downstairs seemed to be loggers (or logger wannabes?) trying to pick up young granola girls.
The closest we would come to danger involved a woman of local color dragging me onto the dance floor twice. Fortunately, she eventually found another partner who appreciated her character strengths more than I, and our expedition retreated to the hotel without further incident.
Saturday would be a long day. The wedding was on beautiful Chapel Island, dominated by a rustic church that lacked electricity. To get there, we took a trolley to a boat to the island, then the boat back to the trolley to the hotel after the ceremony. One of my favorite photos of the experience pictured the bride and groom with bulky orange life vests over their nuptial finery.
I had planned the Mount St. Regis ascent by this time - partially on the advice of friends and ultimately verifying, through research, that it would be a fine challenge.
The wedding reception's early afternoon start time should have tipped me to the possibility that it would be a lengthy celebration - which promised to be detrimental to such an assault. Heck, that amount of drinking and dancing should have been detrimental to me getting out of bed in the morning, let alone targetting a 2800-foot peak.
But, hey, it was a fun day. I suspect even the wisest of outdoorsmen have succumbed at some time to the lure of free alcohol and a great party. Or maybe not.
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In retrospect, I was probably fortunate not to be more hung over on Sunday morning. If it's possible to be simultaneously numb and sore, lightheaded and congested, then that would have been my condition when I dragged out of bed.
The local outfitter, The Blue Line in downtown Saranac Lake, did an excellent job finding me the topographic map, giving directions and a few pointers, and - partially because I was quite dry by this time - helping pick up a fine medium-sized canteen (US$12).
The next stop was the local A?. I highly doubt that A? stores make many appearances in magazines like Outdoors or Adirondack Life, but I needed to pick up some granola bars somewhere. Turned out that I purchased the Extra-Dry, Extra-Tastefree variety (US$1.99). My favorite.
I packed my provisions at the hotel, noting that I probably should have picked up some - any - type of pain reliever at A?. Oh well.
Following the expert directions of the man at The Blue Line, I turned the car onto Route 86 north and headed out of town.
Route 86 snaked along several miles to the campus of Paul Smith's College, whose students had the good fortune of dealing with our party at the Hotel Saranac. A quick right onto Route 36, then a left onto Keese Mill Road. A couple of miles west, I parked in a lot about a half-mile from the trailhead.
My trek would commence around 3 miles from the peak. I checked my gear: canteen, camera, and a fanny pack carrying a few flavorless granola bars, two rolls of film, sunscreen, insect repellent, and the trail map. Everything, with the possible exception of my still-persistent hangover, seemed to be in order.
I followed an entry road that passed over a river with a pretty waterfall. Reaching the trailhead, I signed the guestbook. There seemed to be a fair amount of traffic on the mountain today, as well as some interesting entries such as one listing "3 people & 2 dogs."
Noting that I had as many functioning facilities as a hungover man could expect, I began my ascent of Mount St. Regis.
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Starting elevation was around 480 meters and the summit was listed as 876 meters. The writeup in The Adirondack Monthly noted that the five-mile hike traversed "mixed hardwood forest to a south-facing summit and an abandoned fire tower. The summit views encompass myriad lakes and the distant high peaks."
Assuming that much of the alcohol had left my system by now (just its toxic after-effects hanging around), the eventual vista at the mountain-top seemed worth the effort.
The first mile featured as many downhill marches as uphill assays, which worked against the ideal plan of a well-paced approach. This rapid hiking rate caused me to burn more energy than I should have.
But soaking in the atmosphere itself was more than a bit intoxicating. The air was fresher than any I had breathed in some time. Sunshine cascaded around a visually stunning forest. All around was the sound of nature, not man and machine. It felt like heaven on earth.
Even when I encountered other hikers, they would invariably say hello. Quite a marked contrast to recent visits to cities like Montreal, Seattle, and Toronto where people would sooner cut themselves open with barbed wire than even make eye contact. Everyone on the mountain was part of one big family.
I passed a passel of college students who had pulled to the side to regroup and hydrate. They all smiled and/or offered warm salutations. Folks should be this friendly everywhere.
Surprisingly, I was even passed by a pair of fellows running up the mountain. Yes, running. Not exactly my speed. Probably athletes from Paul Smith College. Or competitive runners. Or just crazy. The lead one looked like a marathon runner; he gobbled up real estate with an alarming grace. The second runner showed a bit more fatigue, seeming almost human compared with the first.
Around the second mile, the downhills gradually disappeared, replaced by increasingly steep grades.
Occasionally, I gave thought to being cautious of wildlife on the mountain. By the middle of the second mile, it was clear that I would not be in the type of shape to outrun any hungry critter. Was it true that if you meet a bear that you are supposed to play dead? Should that occur, playing dead would be my only hope. If the bear did eat me, would he catch a buzz?
The thought of bear would not have been there if not for one of my friends saying, back at the hotel lobby, "Don't get eaten by a bear." Why did she have to say that?
Fortunately, the four-legged animal that seemed prevalent on Mount St. Regis appeared to be the domesticated dog - usually with its owner somewhere behind it. The few times I saw dogs on the trails, the canines appeared much fresher than their owners. At one slow point, I think I encountered the "3 people & 2 dogs" of the sign-in register. "How did the dogs like the climb?" I asked, curiously.
"They love it," one man said. "We're a bit tired."
The path grew ever steeper. The effects of the day before began to re-manifest. Where is that ibuprofen when I need it? Or at least a shot of gin? Best to think of something other than my overall soreness, but usually Plan B was obsessing over being eaten by a bear. Great.
Around the start of the third mile, my stamina was going. I leaned again a sculptured ascent and took a deep drink of water. Then I went for a granola bar, which was when I discovered they were nearly inedible. I couldn't stomach more than a couple of bites. The granola bar would most likely be needed if I desperately needed food to survive. Or if I fed it to an attacking bear, the animal could lose its appetite.
Although the trail often consisted of natural steps, the average grade had probably gone from around 40 degrees for the second mile to closer to a 60-degree incline in the third mile. Keeping my legs moving had sufficed until now, but my inclination to attack the trail with gusto was diminishing.
A good look at the map - showing the topographic lines especially close to each other nearer the summit - probably would have given me a clue. The ascent continued to grow steeper at 3/4 of a mile from the top.
I began taking rest breaks. First one, then another, then an even longer one. My psyche was not helped by seeing the lead marathon runner making his way intently but gently down the rocks. His friend was nowhere in sight. Stopped tired, dead, or eaten by a bear, I assumed.
I went a few hundred feet more to find what may have been the steepest part of the mountain. Pride stepped in line behind rational thought and I decided to take a few minutes of rest. I forced myself to breathe slower and slower as I leaned against the forbiddingly vertical rock structure.
A couple in their 40s came down gingerly while I rested. "Does it get much worse?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"Not really," the gentleman said. "It's like this for a ways, but there's only about a half mile to go."
The main thing driving me now was the knowledge that I could not - would not - go back to the hotel and confess that I hadn't made it to the summit. Vanity is a terrible friend, but it serves as a useful adversary.
Of course, I could lie about reaching the top. But I would know that I had failed, and that would never sit well. Plus, someone may ask someday if they could see the photos I took from the peak.
I decided that, barring unyielding pain or fatigue (or becoming a bear aperitif), I would keep going.
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I plodded along, legs dragging as if my Reebok hiking boots (US$65) were filled with sand. But I pressed on, slow but sure, figuring the peak just couldn't be far. No thoughts of pain. No thoughts of tequila. No thoughts of being bearbait. No pain reliever, dang it.
Suddenly, I could feel a very strong, fresh breeze in my face. Certainly this had to be evidence that the top was imminent.
The treeline began to fall away along the path and, up ahead, I saw a rocky ridge with nothing on the other side. I scrambled up and saw a majestic view, unobstructed by additional mountain, unfold before me.
Feeling victorious, I took a big drink of water and snapped several photos of the magnificent countryside. I looked around and realized that there was no tower. Could the guidebook be incorrect?
I took out the compass on my keychain. It told me I was facing west. West? Is that possible? The guidebook mentioned a south-facing summit.
Then I heard some hikers back in the thinly wooded section continuing past this place. By diverting off the path the first time I saw an opening, I had "discovered" the west face, not the actual top of the mountain.
I looped back onto the trail and hiked for a minute until I discovered I had come full circle to the west face again. Hmm. True, I had left my glasses safely tucked in the car's glove compartment, but my eyesight was not that bad. I looked closely and noticed that the trail continued on the other side of some flat rocks. I was searching for a grassy trail, not even considering that the existing trail would continue over a rocky floor.
Regaining my bearings, I picked up a stronger trail through the high grass. I rounded a bend of large outcroppings and was greeted by a glorious mountain top facing much of the High Peaks region of the Adirondacks. A few parties of people - four there, two here, one up thataway - lounging in the sun and soaking in the picturesque view.
Of equal importance, the tower was right here, where it supposed to be.
I shot the rest of a roll, then changed film. This expanse deserved more than a few snapshots.
People occasionally ask, upon seeing the photos, how I managed to have a few pictures of myself, with the grandiose backdrop unfurled behind me. "Did you place the camera on a rock and set the timer?" they often ask.
Actually, I tried awkwardly taking my picture at arm's length, but with little success. The camera was fairly new and I had not yet learned the timer function. Fortunately, a solo climber, just preparing to head back down, saw me struggling and offered to take a couple of pictures of me.
Had he been a dishonest rogue, deciding to take off with the camera, I suspect I was in no condition to catch him. Fortunately, he was honest and pretty decent at taking pictures to boot.
The only camera-related problem involved accidentally disengaging the lens cap. The lens cap hit the ground, rolled, and disappeared over the precipice. Looking over the edge, I quickly decided I could always get another one. As of this writing, I hadn't yet replaced it. Not having a lens cap lends itself to a pretty good story on how I lost the last one.
I took off my equipment and stretched out, the canteen under my head as a pillow. As I rested a while, the climbers ahead of me moved down the slope and a couple of new groups arrived to pay homage to the awesome expanse. I didn't pay that much attention, as I was enjoying a view I had earned through sweat and determination. Or vanity. Whichever.
Then I got up and stretched. I smiled at the fellow mountain-toppers, then stalked off in what I hoped appeared a manly fashion.
And promptly lost the trail again. And again.
I walked in a circle and found the south face ahead of me once more. I checked my swagger to retrace my steps carefully to find the path over the smooth rocks.
Once I made contact with the trail again, I eased down the sharp grade carefully. This seemed treacherous if a tired soul were to lean too far forward and tumble, but I felt well-rested now.
Around a half-mile down, near where I forged a final determination, I came across a couple a few years older than I who were watching me come down the steep section slowly.
"Does it get much steeper?" the man asked. He and his wife appeared tired. I knew the feeling.
"It stays steep for a little while," I said, "But it's only about half a mile to the top."
On the way down, I even gained the companionship of an adoptive dog. A well-maintained animal, the dog actually belonged to the trio behind me. An older-looking couple and what appeared to be a cute woman in her 20s followed me - and their dog - by around 20 to 30 yards.
I pondered stopping to wait for the group to catch up. The best introductory line I could think of at the time was "Is this your dog?" Way too lame. I decided to keep going at a decent pace.
The dog was mistaken for my regular companion from time to time. A couple of middle-aged ladies asked, "What's your dog's name?"
"Not sure," I replied. "It belongs to the people behind me."
Since the trio was in hearing distance, I should have called back, "What's the dog's name?" to them. It would have been cute, and a good icebreaker with the young lady. Ah well, you know what they say about hindsight.
Most of the descent went fine, the main challenge arriving in the last mile. Remember how I mentioned all the hills and valleys at the start of the trail?
After five miles of hiking, the last thing I wanted to see was more uphill stretches. But I navigated them, with a bit of a grimace. Couldn't look like a wimp in front of a woman. Or a dog, for that matter. No one likes to lose a dog's respect.
I eavesdropped a bit on the party behind me. Much of the discussion sounded a tad highbrow, the young woman mentioning things like "when I was in Europe..." I was feeling outclassed.
Finally, I saw a home below me on the trail and knew I was near the bottom. I exhaled and nearly coasted down to the trailhead. I proudly signed out in the registry and left some sort of comment like "Awesome view!" Not exactly Hemingway, but it seemed appropriate.
The dog came over to hang out with me. At last I had the chance to meet its owners. "Thanks for letting me borrow your dog," I said. The young lady smiled at me and said (jokingly, I suspect), "Any time."
I conversed with them for a couple of hundred yards along the lead-in road until they came to their vehicle. A Volvo wagon with out-of-state plates. Massachusetts, I think.
Thanking them again, I headed back to the parking area. My 1994 Pontiac Sunbird was nestled there among European luxury cars and sports utility vehicles. Clearly, the trails boasted an affluent crowd on this day. But the mountain treats everyone equally, regardless of income, race, gender, age, or place of origin.
Getting back to the hotel was a nice scenic drive, thanks in part to taking a wrong turn and discovering that Keese Mill Road does indeed turn into a dirt logging trail a few miles to the west. On the road back to town, my body ached and my headache resurfaced.
Back at the hotel, I strode proudly through the lobby, feeling every bit the part of The Man Who Conquered The Wilderness. But once I was in my room, I sprawled onto the bed and took a nap.
The ringing of the phone pulled me back to consciousness. The father of the groom was on the line, asking me if I'd like to join a few people going to Lake Placid for dinner. Absolutely, I said.
"Did you get your mountain?" he asked.
"I sure did," I said proudly. Then I added, "Say, Jack, do you have, like, aspirin or something?"