Ok, so work is wicked busy and I’m exhausted. I need to take my ass to bed. I’ve been meaning to put together a post about SoloJoe’s traverse of the Great Range in the Adirondacks this past Thursday, but just haven’t done so. Joe called me before he headed out, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to him; we spoke for a while this weekend about this massive hike. I’m at once jealous and incredibly proud to know him: this was way more than just a stroll in the woods. So I’m scraping it from the ADKHighPeaks forum – here’s the link to the original.
Date: 5/13/10
Peaks: Marcy, Haystack, Basin, Saddleback, Gothics, Armstrong, Upper Wolf Jaw, Lower Wolf Jaw
Trails: Phelps, State Range, Haystack spur, ADK Range, Lower Wolf Jaw spur, Southside
Miles: 24
Elevation gain: 8,500 feet (?)
Hours: 17(Part 1 of 2)
Took longer than expected. Managed to get it done, though.
Left home in central Jersey at 8 p.m. on Wednesday, saluted the Cats on the way north, and arrived at an empty Garden lot around 1:30 a.m. The night sky was starlit. I slipped an envelope with seven singles in the drop box, hung an orange pass from my rearview mirror, strapped on boots and gaiters, finalized my pack, pre-hydrated well, stretched, registered, and hit the trail around 2 a.m. It’s 9.1 miles and 3,821 feet in elevation gain to Marcy. Gave myself three and a half hours to get there in time to catch sunrise at 5:30. Figured I wouldn’t make it, but still, I’d try.
Taking a gamble, I realized one decision was crucial, a potential make-or-break move: ditching my snowshoes and crampons in the car, casting my fate with microspikes alone.
Despite darkness, under headlamp, amid the sound of Johns Brook flowing, I raced to the lodge, doing the initial 3.5 miles in 1:25. JBL was quiet, ghostly.
Conditions were good—a bit of mud, but less than I anticipated. It was cold out, maybe 35 F, so I wore three layers up top (techwick long sleeve base, fleece pullover, primaloft) and two on bottom (techwick long underwear, nylon pants). A wool cap and glove liners also helped until morning broke.
I was excited, nervous, a little afraid, but overall I felt confident. Been building up to this for 21 months—since August 2008 when, after dusting off my old hiking boots, I stumbled across a website that featured a story about the Crazy 8s. It was very inspiring, but I wasn’t ready for anything like that. Two years ago I weighed 210 pounds; now I’m down to 170. The time was right. Both Thursday and Friday this week are off, yet today had a gloomy forecast. I had 24 hours to pack as much in as possible. So I targeted a Great Range Traverse, believing that finally I might be able to pull one off.
Made it to Slant Rock, the 6.8-mile mark, by 5:15. That, however, is where the snow started—and when I dropped from fifth gear into second and third. The track was solid, spine thin yet sturdy, and the spikes worked wonders for traction. But it was slow going, slippery, and the elevation gain, spread over a moderate grade, caught up with me. Came out of the gate a bit too fast. And the further I got from the Garden, the more paranoid I became about potential foot injury. So I focused on every step, began taking my time. And as I ascended along the flank of Little Marcy, dawn struck.
After taking that photo, I chilled. With the light came a sense of relief. I knew I wouldn’t see sunrise from atop Marcy, so I turned down the volume, conserving fuel for the long haul, using two-plus hours to hike the final 2.3 miles to the summit.
I didn’t see any black flies. Not one. And there was barely a cloud in the sky. The 360 views were spectacular.
I had stood at the highest spot in the state once before—just five weeks ago, in fact. But the other seven summits would all be new to me. A fear lingered that I’d bonk midway through the traverse (I had memorized egress options in advance), but suddenly, looking over at the Haystacks, I got a second wind. I really don’t know if I can do this, I thought, but I’m definitely going to try—one peak at a time.
After resting a few minutes and snapping some photos, I did a 180 and headed back down into the saddle between the Marcys and Haystacks.
Ice, here and there, was thin; snow cover was solid, with decent footing, all the way to the Haystack spur junction; and I was grateful I hadn’t lugged my snowshoes and crampons. It was a tough choice. A posthole debacle would tank the effort, forcing me to descend; on the other hand, extra weight could wear me out too soon. But it seemed I’d made the right decision.
Soon, on the heels of a steep ascent out of the col, Little Haystack’s summit cone beckoned. And that’s when the trek’s spirit changed. I stared up at the rock and thought, ‘This is going to be a lot of fun.’ During the next six hours or so, from Haystack to Gothics, the rock climbing overshadowed the hiking. I put on and took off my spikes a dozen times, barebooting the steep pitches. While I traversed the Haystacks, the rest of the range loomed to the northeast, but I kept looking back at where I’d been—and found the view of Marcy and its cliffs stunning.
Atop Haystack, roughly halfway in terms of both mileage and elevation, I ate the first of two falafel subs and drank Powerade. I carried three liters of fruit punch and one of water. If I did the traverse again, with hindsight being 20/20, I would carry two liters of water and my Katahdin filter. I did have purification tablets, which require four hours between treatment and consumption; at any rate, if I ran out and got desperate, I planned to refill right from streams. Regardless, the 4-liter supply lasted all day, working out well—despite the excess weight.
Once back on Little Haystack, I shifted my focus to the range, its multiple summits and deep notches.
Unaware of what to expect from Basin, I was blown away. It was, to borrow a term recently coined by a forum member, ledgilicious. Crags, cracks and blocks, narrow dikes, ice and icicles, some holds firm, others slick. It seemed a path up the right side avoided the steep pitches, but I was having too much fun to bother using it. As I moved higher, I told myself, ‘This is unbelievable. It’s the coolest ascent of the year.’ And then the ladder I’d read about appeared.
From atop Basin you could clearly see, from left to right, an alpine trinity: Haystack, Skylight, and Marcy.
But it was the mountain I was standing on that held my attention. I loved climbing Basin. It quickly became my new favorite peak. It was 11:30 a.m. and I was now 3-for-8, with perhaps the toughest stretch just around the corner. Sore, ragged out, pushed to my limits, I worried about getting too far behind schedule. Yet I couldn’t stomach thinking about Saddleback and Gothics simultaneously, or even bear considering Armstrong and the Wolf Jaws.
At the same time, I knew in my gut the best was about to come.
The answer lies on the immediate horizon: Saddleback and Gothics, with the latter, thanks to its vicious slides, perhaps the most intimidating of the eight peaks.
During the steep descent of Basin my pace slowed terribly. Fell only once all day, and it happened here. Tweaked my right ankle, but only slightly, requiring a quick rest.
The .70-mile drop into the col felt double that, triple even, which was basically the case with the next four descents. Generally speaking, the north sides had snow below summit cones, and a little ice, leading down into and through the gaps. The track of crusty, brittle white stuff, which did soften a little in the afternoon, would continue briefly up from the col before petering out. Much of the ascents up south sides of peaks featured bare rock and clear trail. Once past Haystack, microspikes were worn mostly during descents.
Extreme ledges were also encountered on Saddleback, which was unique in that, lower down, the State Range Trail seemed to thin, becoming a bit overgrown, giving the ascent a slight bushwhack feel. While blowdown was relatively scarce during the first 14 miles of the traverse, patches appeared a few times up and over Saddleback. (I hope this is accurate. Please understand that my head is still spinning from the hike. Corrections are appreciated.)
From Saddleback’s NE peak, the lesser of its two summits, the sight of Gothics terrified me. Yet this is what I had come for. Able to see the narrow trail up the ridge, I knew my ascent of this mountain would be the highlight of this one-day odyssey.
After another drawn out descent, I sat in the col at the junction to the Orebed Brook Trail, ate some candy, and briefly flirted with bailing. Calling it quits would still mean four peaks—a Marcy/HaBaSa loop. Being this close, though, I’d never forgive myself, at least not until returning to do all eight in one swing. Thoughts of forum members and trip reports really helped. My suffering was minor compared to multi-day unsupported thru-hikes and such. (I hate to name names, so I won’t, but suffice to say that the story of two prolific peakbaggers who rallied from an early setback last summer to complete a 46 circuit in eight days went a long way in enabling me to reach my own goals.)
Motivated by their resilience and success, I stuck to my itinerary. Gothics it would be. Incredibly, a few hundred feet up, I heard voices in the col where moments earlier I’d sat. After reaching the initial cable, relied on to help me charge up the rock, I turned and saw two dudes, twentysomethings I guessed. But they might not have seen me. I hadn’t met anyone all day, which only intensified the wilderness experience. And so, focused on the climb, I kept moving.
Checked out the SW peak and then headed over to the true summit.
And this is when I knew I was home free. Armstrong and the Wolf Jaws would come with relative ease. Autopilot clicked on. As I rolled up and down, over three more summits and a couple bumps, I almost felt like I was watching myself, a slight out-of-body experience, a product of marginal food intake, sensory overload, sleep deprivation, and extreme fatigue.
Despite the reverie, I felt supremely safe. I believe there are spirits in the woods, and that they lead the way, looking after us like guardian angels, guiding us like sentinels: Native Americans, first and foremost, as well as Cartier, Champlain and Hudson, Old Mountain Phelps and his son Ed, Marshall, Colvin, Blake, those two unsupported thru-hikers, among many others. I don’t, or didn’t, know any of these people, not personally, I mean, but I’ve encountered their spirits. I may hike solo, yet I never walk alone.
Once atop Lower Wolf Jaw, I actually spoke out loud—to myself, I guess, or perhaps to no one:
“I can’t believe I did it. I just can’t believe this.”
I felt like breaking down and crying, but shed no tears, as I’d deliberately set out to avoid emotional extremes during this quest. And that’s probably, by being somewhat even-keeled, how I succeeded. My fatal flaw is my mind.
Ironically, near the end of the day, after traveling 23.5 miles up and around and across the peaks of some of the most beautiful mountains in the world, I got lost just half a mile from the Garden. Pathetic, right? But I was wiped out—my legs and mind, previously jello, now pudding. And that Southside Trail is one temperamental stepchild, huh? Good heavens. A while after pounding my way over rocks along the east side of Johns Brook, I got confused where the trail meanders further east, away from water’s edge.
I collapsed in the leaves on the forest floor—and now truly felt like weeping. I will, when pushed too far, embrace candor, wear my emotions on my sleeve. Hell, I have no shame. Yet I have to make it out of the woods. Or do I? This is insane. Maybe I should just pass out, sleep through the night, and hike the last stretch to the parking area at daybreak.
But I had an ace up my sleeve. You see, last fall, and over the winter, I learned a little about bushwhacking from the Daks’ lovely “little” cousins the Cats. So I stood up, walked straight to the edge of the raging brook, hopped a few rocks—and then plowed across the channel, thigh deep in water, didn’t care, just marched to the far side and emerged with legs soaked, boots squeaking. I actually broke out map and compass, did a short upward sidehill whack to the NW, and found the Phelps Trail. Ten minutes later I reached the Garden and signed out, adding the phrase ‘Great Range Traverse’ to the name of Marcy in my entry, and stumbled over to my car.
It was a few minutes after 7 p.m. Sadly, I hadn’t gotten out in time to finally visit the Mountaineer, a shop I’ve seen but never explored. My boots were trashed, gaiters cooked, and I need a bunch of other brand new equipment. My credit card was tucked in my first aid kit, ready to serve its purpose. 
An added bonus would’ve been meeting one of the unsupported thru-hikers who works there, a dude who once did a true Great Range Traverse, including Rooster Comb and Hedgehog, in little more than six hours. I wanted to brag to him about doing the partial loop in almost triple the time! Of course, he would’ve brought me down to earth by telling me I needed to go back and do the whole thing properly. 
But that’s okay. I’ll definitely return—to the mountains as well as to the Mountaineer. And soon. MasterCard in hand.
Hadn’t slept in 36 hours. Utterly exhausted, made it maybe 60 miles south in my car, as far as Lake George Village, before pulling into a Best Western, laying my credit card down on the counter—and my head on a pillow in a spacious, clean hotel room. Six hours of uninterrupted sleep worked wonders and I drove back to the Delaware Valley early Friday morning with a smile on my face and tunes cranked loud. This, now, was the greatest single day of hiking (and climbing) I had ever experienced.
A traverse of the Great Range, whether 21 or 24 or 27 miles, is one hardcore feat, no doubt. For me, though—a typical hiker, your average Joe, an armchair specialist—by consistently, hour after hour, minute upon minute, second by second, exposing my limits, the marathon reminded me of how soft I really am.
Thanks to all for reading. Good luck with your hikes and climbs. And please remember to do your best to Leave No Trace.
Slideshow set to “Ace of Spades” by Motorhead: http://solojoe.phanfare.com/slidesho…9&s_id=5171034
Sincerely,
Joe Whalen
Lambertville, New Jersey
CAT #1856
CATW #735
ADK 17/46
NH4K 17/48
VT4K 4/5
NJ1K 2/52
“People hike for views, people hike for the solitude, people hike to do something aerobic. We hike for all those reasons, I think, and just the joy of discovery, of exploration, just to see what’s out there, to find a place on a map … some obscure mountain. … Maybe there’s nothing there, but then again, maybe there’s something spectacular.” — Jeff Bennett, co-founder, nj1k.org
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{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
Epic!
Thats pretty awesome and the pictures are sweet.
I thought about you while I was traversing the Great Range and wished you were with me. The mountains will be there. And so will we—soon enough. Thanks for sharing. Cheers, Ted.