Brian leads the way off the summit of Little Haystack

Road map beside me, directions on my lap, I chugged up the Northway, one wheel in the snow, one on ice. It was midwinter, and they had just closed the highway due to freezing rain. Some people were turning around, heading south. I figured "what the heck, it'll probably turn to snow soon enough." And I was right. The only region safe from the freezing rain was the high Adirondacks, and that was enjoying close to a foot of new snow.

At Keene Valley, I found the left, turned, and followed the road to the entrance to the "Garden". Not plowed in the winter, my Rodeo was the first to leave tracks up the mountainside road. I pulled into the lot to wait for the others. Soon enough, an Audi Quattro came blasting into the lot, rooster-tails from all four wheels as Brian slid in. Eventually, about half of the folks arrived and we set out. Road conditions what they were, there was no telling when the others might arrive.

Phil's latest invention

I barely kept my waxed skis under me, trudging up the long incline of the Johns Brook Trail, muttering about the snowshoes I left behind in the car. My pack weighed mightily upon my shoulders. Four miles later, we arrived at camp Peggy O'Brien. Gas heat, lights and stove. It was a relief to get into a warm dry place. The first chore fell to Skeeter and Bri, who went back to the brook, chopped a hole in the ice and retrieved several buckets full of water.

The guys had a tradition of taking turns cooking breakfast and dinnner. Since the guys that were scheduled to cook the first night were nowhere to be seen, me and Brian pulled out some giant, oversized cast-iron pans and kettles and fired up some bean burritos. Throughout the evening, folks trickled in until Steve arrived close to midnight.

Howie

Being a three day weekend, that meant there were two full days of adventure at the camp, then the third day would be spent getting out and getting home. The first daytrip was up toward the Gothics, where a large snowfield was beckoning the telemarkers. Unfortunately, without snowshoes or climbing skins, I couldn't make the trail up. I did have crampons though, which I carried uselessly the whole way. Brian led the way down the slope, with flawlessly executed turns, then the others followed, sometimes on one leg, sometimes on one butt, and often disappearing into the woods.

After a few runs, they returned by way of the Ore Bed. The Ore Bed is a stream, which was frozen over and snow covered. The advantage of using a stream bed is the extra clear width for making turns. The disadvantage, as Howie found out (twice), is that the thin spots are virtually invisible and the water is actually quite cold in winter.

The next day, Sunday, we decided to head for Haystack Mountain. Vicker opted out due to blisters and graciously let me borrow his climbing skins. I was in heaven. We had to break trail through all that new snow. We started from Peggy O, and another group on snowshoes headed out from Johns Brook Lodge, across the stream. They certainly enjoyed our trail-breaking efforts and toodled along behind us. After a time, we decided to let them take a turn at trail breaking, which they did for a good ten minutes before taking a lunch break.

Breaking Trail

OK, so here's my bragging photo

In the end, we broke trail for those guys all the way until we turned left at the trail to Haystack. They actually pleaded with us to keep heading for Marcy, so they could follow us to the top. No dice, we went to Haystack. Turning onto the trail, we discovered this one hadn't been traversed all winter and the soft snow was at least two feet deep. Steve, Jim and Howie were on snowshoes while Brian and I followed on skis with climbing skins.

At first, we descended through a small saddle to reach the Haystack Ridge. Magnificent views began to spring up here and there. The snow accumulated on the open parts of the western slopes that we ascended and became quite deep at times. For the lead man, the snow was chest high in front, and barely past his ankles behind. Imagine trying to get your snowshoe on top of that for the next step. Eventually, it was the skiers' turn at the front, holding the skis by the binding and kicking footholds into the snow beneath. It was in this manner that we reached the summit of Little Haystack.

Sasquatch?...Is that you?

The moment we crested the top, the howling wind hit us full force. No one needed reminding to put on those parkas. It was 2:30 by the time we arrived, a half hour past our pre-determined turn-around time. We could see Haystack, our actual goal for the day, but we decided this was good enough and took a break.

Nothing like an ice cold beer on top of New York in midwinter, sorta like biting into a Peppermint Patty. We hung out for a while, enjoyed the view of Marcy, identified all the peaks around us, shared the binoculars. We could just make out a few people over on the approach to Marcy Summit, but they looked as though they were heading down, and not the folks who followed us for a while. I followed Howie, who was on snowshoes, over to an overlook between the stubby spruce tops around us. One step off the expose bedrock and I was up to my armpits in snow. Nobody bothered to estimate the wildchill or temperature, but it was one of those instant nose-bite days.

Skiing from the summit was a blast. The skis were surprisingly controllable with skins on, although it felt somewhat like running through waste deep water. I finally made it back in the dark, at 5:40. I would have been last, except Howie hung back to bring up the rear. I was pleased to see the Visker boys hard at work, making their famous chicken stew.