Wickedly tough at times, the getting home, temps hovering around and below freezing, relentless rain and snow. An eager prognosis of two days’ biking, in two eight-hour shifts from Burlington to Manchester, proved fraudulent and unrealistic, and it all takes three weeks instead of two, several motel stays required to recover from that cold and weather hammering throughout. Came to a point where 40 degrees and sunny was being positively spoiled, as a chance to both rewarm and dry my gear, although recognizing I’d better get this thing done before conditions intensify even more.
I eventually did get it done, though without actually summiting the intended mountain, and now weigh the next one, the philosophy being, if something looks enjoyable, go and make every effort, do it now. I’ll be better prepared, cleats for the ice climbing plus a rudimentary rope for the steepest sections. It’s fun but of course the suffering must be managed, via adequate gear and so on, and high pain tolerance is a plus, as is levelheadedness as cars whiz by your roadside ramshackle encampment in full view. When it’s really cold and wet, you prioritize more the raw survival.
The next major trek will be preceded by a short trip to the nearby mountains to test out new gear against the inevitable ice and snow. And the eventual goal will be a steep route up Franconia notch climbed solo and with a single 16-foot rope for emergencies. Seems like it should be documented, this brand of mountaineering which rarely fails to excite nor test one’s truest capabilities. To commit is to follow through, long battle ahead which somehow someway strangely ends up being worth it.
As you’ll see, a submerged boardwalk laden with a thin veneer of invisible ice was what ultimately stopped me in the Adirondacks, before the blizzard rendered it all impassable, but I was ‘rewarded’ with a pair of mitts which proved indispensable on the return. This is dangerous business, but I’m no slouch mountaineer adventurer and once you get a taste, you kinda need to see it all the way through. Ample preparations and precautions so that it’s not idiotic absurdity, and then bam, go for it.
From a State Parks website
Oh, and it only just occurs to me to mention this, but I found about $200 worth of heroin on the last trip into the mountains, all of which (in contrast to instances past) was passed up because it detracts from the adventuring. Oh it’ll be pleasant at first, then it hits you, I’ve got some explaining to do, explaining I’d rather not expend slimy circuitous energy upon, rather just wait until better gifts arise, for instance those gloves, or the food someone thankfully gifted me, or (perhaps most impressive of all) the propane-fueled space heater I was lent while suffering profoundly from hypothermia, and at the very moment before calling 911. True, this was before coming across the heroin, but it’s still far more appreciated overall since, again, it bolsters the adventure rather than detracts from it. I’ve got my own drugs of choice, but facing genuine threats to life, that’s also got its own unique insuppressible thrill to it. I gave my wallet’s monetary contents to those passersby rock climbers in exchange for the propane fuel, but really it’s that perfectly-timed god-gifted thing that is most appealing. And the day that heroin becomes useful and worthwhile again, well, maybe I’ll snatch it up, but for now I’ll focus on the trip ahead, rest and prep, prep and go, and don’t come home until there are some crazy good stories to tell, that is for damn well sure.