Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Skiing is Skiing, No Matter How Much Snow

There's not a lot of snow, they say.
In fact, it hasn't snowed at all, they say.
There isn't that much open, they say.
The Skiing is Boring, they say.

I'm Sorry, What did you say?!

The skiing is boring?
You have to be wrong!
There isn't snow everywhere ...
well let me explain with a song:

Skiing is Skiing,
no matter how much snow
We turn left and we turn right,
it doesn't matter how far we go.

Every DAY it is different
Every TRAIL its own way
Every TURN's a new challenge
Every DAY you get to play

I am having a sweet time,
my ski buddies and I,
we are laughing and skiing
and sometimes I even cry.

We make our own fun,
as we play in the snow,
we don't need steeps or powder
we can go fast or even slow.

All we need is snowmakers and lifties,
just to make everything go.
And groomers, ski patrol, & park crew
to help us play in the snow.

Skiing is Skiing,
no matter how much snow
We turn left and we turn right,
it doesn't matter how far we go.

We ride the poma, the gondi 
and the really slow chair
And on the way down,
we feel the wind in our hair.

There is no reason for stopping,
unless you can't feel your legs.
We not moping in the house,
with the doldrums and dregs.

We are the ones out skiing
and having a blast.
As long as there is some manmade
and we can go really fast

My friends and I will be on the mountain,
having a hell of a time,
We'll be laughing and screaming,
and feeling wicked fine.

Because Skiing is Skiing,
no matter how much snow.
We turn left and we turn right,
It doesn't matter how far we go.

So when you're sitting at home
complaining of the weather,
just remember you could be skiing
Floating down the mountain light as a feather.

May You Find the Spirit of the Mountains Within You,

Friday, December 4, 2015

Dust on Crust and I'm Grinning Ear to Ear

To wake up this morning and watch the flakes floating through the sky instead of watching heavy non-solid precipitation make puddles in the dirt.
My heart heaved a sigh of relief as I stepped outside into the flurries.
My feet were cold against the squishy ground, but there was an off chance of greatness today and I wanted to thank the earth first.
Would there be enough?
Because holy crap it has rained for like 3 days.
   Would the mountain recover?
    Could it recover?
To be firm, oh crap would it be firm.
A text from a friend confirmed the solid truth of the matter.

But the guns were on.
It had dropped 12 degrees since 7am.
And there were freshies.
Untouched Snow!
Like from the Sky and everything!

An east coast skiers dream.
The first real snowfall of the season and it's dust on crust.
That little bit of untouched snow that falls onto the eerily yellow groomer tracks magically exposed.
Finding that little pocket of built up snow as you fall off the trail, inching ever closer to the snow line in a desperate attempt to gobble up every bit of fresh snow within sight.
There are deeper spots than others, and there are firmer spots.
But I'm down.
And I'm grinning ear to ear.

And then an entire trail of yellow guns.
A pile of snowmaking awesomeness, the boys throwing down the heavy stuff because we are not going to lose this again ... damn it.
But as long as you kept the same speed as the stickiness,
skiing in slow motion, through old yellow smelly looking cream cheese.
But I'm down.
And I'm grinning ear to ear.

Dust on Crust.
Trails of Sticky Snow.
But I'm down.
And I'm grinning ear to ear.

I wouldn't miss this for anything.
It's gonna be a good season.

May You Find the Spirit of the Mountains Within You,

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Thoughts from the Walkway

Ahhh, the dreaded walkway.  Killington has a video meme with someone walking a stair machine in full gear with their skis thrown over their shoulder.  It has been called the Stairway to Heaven, a combination never ending song used when disc jockeys need to use the restroom and the trail which lost its existence for the Walkway's creation.  Backpacks litter the top of the North Ridge as people bring sneakers with which to walk out.  There is talk of sponges to cushion the shoulders and packs for ski carrying.  And then there are those who convince others to carry their skis for them ...

To me, the walkway is something different.

It is a place.
A time.
A moment.

The Walkway is where I give thanks.

After the first quick ascent where everyone can see you, I take a deep breathe let my legs get lost in the rhythm.  I keep my eye on the walkway, making sure not to lose a toe stuck underneath the grate and rip my pants.  Or how no matter what I do, I always seem to be stepping up with the same damn leg ...

After a while, my eyes begin to look upward and outward, out across the greenish-brownish mountains of post-foliage Vermont.  So beautiful, are these rolling mountains, a luscious valley of just pure awesomeness, but kinda sad and depressing looking during twig season with all their beautiful colors fallen off.

Then I look the left, toward the North Ridge of Killington and see nothing depressing at all.  In fact, I see the only real amount of snow until I look way out at Mt Washington across the way in New Hampshire.  And I laugh.  Almost every time.  I laugh because I got to ski today, even amidst the depressing brown of twig season.

And then I thank the Walkway.  And I thank Heavenly Traverse.  I shake my head at how awesome this walkway, for which was sacrificed one of my favorite adventure trails, has become a most prized possession.  Without the Walkway, where would we ski?  With the K-Chair far far gone away, the North Ridge has become a playground.  Our small little mountain, where we are all stuck together until the Walkway is retired for the season.

I thank the guys who made the walkway, the poor kid who has to shovel the walkway, the park crew who has to walk against the flow every morning as they leave the trails for breakfast.  I thank the ski patrol, who has to figure out a way to get us around the walkway within the golden hour.  I thank the lifties and electricians and mechanics and groomers and snowmakers for making a dream world in for us to play.  I thank my dad, for introducing me to Killington and instilling within me an unboundless love of skiing as much as possible.  I thank the boyfriend for letting me drag him out skiing everyday.

And I thank Killington, for putting up with all of us crazy east coast skiers who will ski anything if you let us.

It's a land of magic, a place full of a uniqueness all its own.  A place like no where else on the East Coast, where life if about one thing and one thing only.  A time where we all come together, under one chair, to celebrate a sport and a way of life in which we all believe.  A moment where nothing else matters except the feel of the snow under your feet and the wind in your face as you once again are blessed enough to ski.

Oh, and your game better be on it because its K-Town and everyone is watching.

We are skiing in October and November.
And for that, I use the hike out to thank the Walkway.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

Killington Opening Day 2015 with Tucker

My big brother and 200+ day skier, Tucker, was definitely feeling the stoke of Opening Day in North America this season ... so here is his version of opening day madness:

Killington Opening Day 2015

                   this season opener in vermont was not to be missed. With all the talk of some mountain in Maine possibly opening before the Beast!?!?! Let the poker game opening day bluff match begin!! That mountain in Maine came out last week and claimed they were going to open on Monday 10/19 and the game was on, all their chips were on the table as the whole world could see. As a retort Killington raised the bet and went in with 10/18, high noon. Then the bluff game got serious... There were whispers that the competition may have a full house and be able to backdoor The Beast, the hype suggested they may open at 9 am... The Beast waited till gameday and went all in on 9am as well. The Beast called that mountain in Maine's bluff and walked away the champion of not only the east coast but the first in all of North America to open first! A hefty merit of awesomeness for the whole ski industry.

                    9am Sunday was eeriely calm at Killington for not only a weekend but for opening day, apparently everyone partied too hard at Jax the night before thinking they could sleep in to catch the Noontime gondi. It ended up being a few people who were somehow up in the wee hours to find out the real deal...9am. No pushing, no shoving, no bad attitudes and a total of only 6 people on the first gondi of 2015.  Lots of smiles and fun ensued.

                   We got off the gondi and did the hike down the stairs, got to the top of the North Ridge Triple and just started high fiving and thanking everyone down there, everyone who worked their asses off to get it done. Corporate dudes, snomakers, liftys, parks homies and ambassadors alike all got high fjves and big smiles. When it came time to ski it was a pleasant surprise, lots of wet guns but great coverage and although a little sloppy, truly great snow.  The parks guys (soaking wet from being in the guns all morning) got a few rails set up and a smooth little park open  by Noon on Reason which was much appreciated by the jib contigent.

                Rallied out at about noon  high fiving and welcoming everyone , many who we haven't seen all summer while  hiking back up and out on the stairs, everyone was ecstatic and super stoked to be back on the hill. Headed in to the peak lodge for a couple "Pammy's" a taller more Grand Marnierey version of the mimomsa (hey, it was a Sunday after all).  The Beast also bought every seasons pass holder lunch, had beer specials and a raffle at the end of the day. All in all an awesome opening day at The Beast! It truly amazes me what they can do up here in such very little time. At 7pm Saturday night there were no guns on lower Rime, by 9am that whole section of trail was not only skiable but really well covered, side to side. A lot of hard work on  short notice went into this showing of east coast capability and snow power, Killington went all in, called that other mountains bluff.... We are all so very happy that they did!


Tucker Adirondack Lange

Saturday, October 17, 2015

The Night Before

I'm here, in a chair next to the window wall, watching big fluffy flakes fall in the lamplights.  So many flakes float downward, settling themselves on the untamed and leaf covered lawn.  They are building up and I watch as the autumn ground is slowly covered in a blanket of white.  A sort of peace covers the earth as the night turns dark ...
And yet, my heart is racing.  For tomorrow, at noon, my world will change from one of waiting to one where each day revolves around one thing.  A life where my every thought, my every breath, is consumed by a force of nature greater than myself.  It pulls, it draws, it will not let me go.  I feel like my blood has spilled on the ground as simultaneously as new blood has seeped through my veins from above.  My soul is replenished. I am part of this experience of nature that is happening outside my window, yet separated for the greatness by this pane of glass.  
I had to go, to break from life and what is supposed to be; I had to go into the world.  I felt the flakes as they floated down into my eyelashes and landed quietly on my tongue.  I drank in its glory and a tear fell off my eye, and I felt it's warmth on my cheek.  A promise, a hope, that winter will once again cleanse my soul and everything that was wrong shall be right again.  
And it shall.  
Sunday.  At Noon.
The bell will ring, the rope will drop, and all that we have been waiting for will once again.  
Winter is here.  
And tomorrow we ski.

Monday, June 22, 2015

Ten Days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness: Nina Moose, Lac La Croix and Ramshead

Everyone must believe in something.
I believe I'll go canoeing.

- Henry David Thoreau

We had planned to go this fall, but a sudden change in schedules meant we had two full weeks off simultaneously.  It took us less than a week to dehydrate everything, order a second 115 liter dry bag backpack and throw it all in the car. And drive. And drive some more.  We slept at rest stops and Wal-Mart store parking lots along the way. And then drove some more. We took our Volvo across New York and Pennsylvannia and then headed north through the historical Upper Peninsula of Michigan (where we dined on the same meals as loggers of the 1800s - whitefish paté and pastys) and over to the Land of 10,000 Lakes: Minnesota.  We arrived at the BWCAW with no plan, no maps and no real idea of what we were doing except for all our canoe camping experience in the Adirondacks of New York. So after a unbelievably quick trip to register our canoe in Minnesota, we headed over to Piragis Outfitters (for no other reason except that we met some random canoeists at a restaurant in the U.P. and they recommended it) and simply said: "where do we go?"and basically took whatever launch permit that was still available on a Friday afternoon: Site 16 onto the Moose River. Quickly, we bought the necessary maps and a few necessities: a Nemo inflatable camping pillow for Aaron and a tyvek cover for our canoe before heading out for our final hour of driving before finally launching.

  Our first impressions of the BWCAW was the size ... of everything.  Including the number of cars in the parking lot!  SO many cars made us extremely nervous - would there be a campsite available and worse, would there be people everywhere??  While things on the water initially appeared to be similar to what we had experienced in the Adirondacks, our first beaver sighting immediately changed that opinion.  They were huge!  Within 30 minutes on the water, we had seen almost 15 beavers, all larger than the anything we had seen before on the east coast.  We made quick work of several 20-25 rod portages around some mild rapids and found ourselves looking at Nina Moose Lake - and an absolutely gorgeous rocky campsite directly across from us on a small peninsula.

Nothing makes us feel more at home, especially after spending 25 hours driving and sleeping in a car, setting up our MSR original Hubba Hubba tent and building a fire on the shore of a quiet water lake.  The other campsites around the lake were quickly filled by other canoeists, yet the peaceful nature of the wilderness was not disrupted.

Our newly established plan was to chill out all day Saturday, taking a Zero Day, to get our bodies and minds ready for the adventure.  Aaron fished, I did yoga and we managed to just enjoy the idea of being in an area of the world which we had dreamed about for years.  An area where people from all walks of life throw everything they need into a canoe and head off into the wilderness for days at a time.  And it would have been relaxing, if the sky hadn't opened up on our second night with rain that turned our beautiful campsite into a flood plain.  Gear test of out tent - it withstood sitting overnight in over 6 inches of water and even though I kinda freaked out a bit neither our gear nor us got wet at all!  Beautifully, the rain stopped right before we had to pack everything up because we were not here to sit all week at a campsite, but explore everything the Boundary Waters could show us during our ten day adventure.

a room at the Turtle Club Med
Our third day in the wilderness marked a stark contrast to the peace and quiet we had expected as we passed almost 30 canoes - all headed back to the launch site to drive back to their homes throughout the midwest.  And we finally saw our first girl!  She and her dad had been paddling across Lake Agnes during the storm the night before and had flipped their boat and all their gear was soaked!  They looked so miserable and had given up on the rest of their trip.  We, however, were going in the opposite direction.  Awake at 5am to get the flat water, we paddled and portaged past Lake Agnes and into the Boulder River where we opted to forego a short portage and attempt the rapids.  We were richly rewarded for after the quick water we paddled up to the Turtle Club Med, an area of rocks where we counted over 50 Painted Turtles all enjoying the rocks.  Groups of 5-8 turtles were gathered on each boulder for some quality turtle time.

Our journey brought us to an island campsite just past Boulder Bay and away from the popular Tiger Bay.  But I could have lived at this rocky elevated campsite for the rest of my life and been completely happy.  There was plenty of space to dry out all our gear in the hot June sun and we spent the afternoon settling into our campsite: filtering water, fishing, yoga-ing and enjoying the freedom that comes with having no people in our view.  We could see was Warrior Hill, rumored to be a historical cardiovascular testing site (a spartan challenge if you will) for the native warriors of the neighboring country of Canada.  Lac La Croix is a ginormous lake that runs the border of the United States and Canada which could have been a stressful, wind disaster of a paddle.  Instead, it ended up being sheer glass and some of the easiest paddling we've ever experienced.  Our joke became that paddling the west is like skiing the west: where it is always sunny and easy.  However, the one radio station we could pick up on our crank radio contributed the calm waters to the smoke from Canadian forest fires started via lightening from Saturday night's storm.  In fact, when we paddled all along the Canadian border of Lac La Croix the next day, checking out the ancient Indian paintings, the haze from the smoke was so strong it seemed like we were gliding through an eery fog.    

Paddling through the Smoke toward Canada
It was also the first night we discovered our new backcountry staple: Coconut Dream (a combination of quinoa, coconut flakes, curry, bouillon and dehydrated canned chicken & pineapple). I think we ended up eating this meal just about every other day.  All of our food, in fact, allowed for creativity and variation, as we packed "Pantry Style" with big bags of staples like quinoa, couscous, oatmeal and instant mashed potatoes.  These were able to be mixed with dehydrated meats and veggies depending on how we were feeling.  I had also repurposed a holiday sprinkle container into a spice jar (sorry, Mom), enabling us to make curry, chili, Tony's or throw in a ton of garlic to suit our moods.  It made eating much more interesting over 10 days, feeling like we had more variety on the water than we usually do during ski season in our own home!

Our fourth day, the 5 am wake up call was finally rewarded with perfect glass as we continued to head north following the Canadian border.  After the almost 50 canoes we had seen thus far, we were surprised to find not a single paddler on our travels on Lac La Croix.  Between the smoky haze and the solitude, it felt like our own Goonies adventure - would there be a pirate ship sitting in the water when we rounded the bend?  Our perhaps some buried treasure near where the Indian paintings sites were located?  We paddled the Canadian side of the lake just to make sure.

Sunrise on Lac La Croix 
Once our long morning of paddling was finished, we set up camp on an island in the Twenty-Four Island Bay looking northwest across Lac La Croix at the Nequaguom Lake Indian Reserve in Canada.  It was neat to see the markers simply stating "Canada" all along the border as we paddled.    Once camp was set up, I took advantage of the breeze and snuck in a much needed nap in the flyless tent overlooking the water.  Could life truly get any better?

the Daily Task of Filtering Water
  Of course not.  The final day on Lac La Croix started with pain in Aaron's right shoulder, my lower right rib and a dead camera battery because we had spent the night filming a huge momma painted turtle digging her nest in the mud near the shore of our campsite.  But this would be our last day of 10+ mile paddling for a while.  We had reached the furthest away from the car we would travel (approximately twenty-five miles) and would now cross back into the smaller lakes of the Boundary Waters to return home, starting with a short portage into Takucmich Lake with the intention of making camp at the only campsite on the small Trillium Lake.  After a look at the site, we bailed on that plan and ended up paddling an extra couple of miles back to a much nicer site on Tukucmich.

From here on in, we would be carrying the canoe and our gear a minimum of 150 rods a day, with varying quality of trail from shin deep mud to shoulder high grasses.  But all these portages required massive amounts of bug spray and patience as we unloaded and reloaded our 115 liter dry bag backpacks from the canoe each and every time.  One of us would carry the canoe with life jackets attached around the seats and fishing poles tied in while the other grabbed the paddles and loose water bottles.  Eventually, the portaging became like clockwork; we were even able to quickly transfer the canoe between ourselves on the longer portages without missing a beat.  We were becoming proficient "Loopers." Instead of setting up a base camp and making day trips with an empty canoe, we gathered up all our gear every morning and paddled with a full boat from site to site.  It was a lot of work, but made for a much better adventure!

Ticks, No-see-ums & Mosquitoes.  Just as challenging, if not more so than the portages, the smaller lakes of the BWCAW had overnight become a bug heaven.  Discussions for the purchase of a Nemo BugOut Shelter took center stage as evening fell - and would continue for the rest of the trip.  I could barely stand the bugs long enough to cook our food before diving back into the tent to eat it.  It was a test of patience, endurance...and acceptance as we still had five more nights of mosquitos to contend with.  Grateful for my summers in southern New York, our nightly tick checks felt like a little piece of home as we picked at least one wood tick from an armpit or hip daily.  The leech between my toes one day seemed like nothing after watching a wood tick climb up the screen of the tent one evening.

Sunset on Bear Track Lake

With every intention of being up with the sun to avoid paddling in the heat of the day, our bodies finally demanded some much needed rest on Takucmich Lake.  I think the only reason we even got out of the tent that morning was because it was too hot to just lay around.  The previous night was supposed to thunderstorm to relieve the humidity, but we ended up with only a three minute hail storm that melted into the waters.  Eventually, we were once again on the trail, through the insanely muddy portages into Gun, Eugene and then past Little Bear Track Lake to our final destination for the 5th site of the trip: Bear Track Lake.  These were the portages from hell.  There were sections of mud so deep that you worried your shoe would get sucked in forever.  At one point, I slipped in the mud while carrying the canoe, dropping to one knee before I realized what had happened.  Amazingly, the canoe never touched the ground and I was able to recover ... slowly.  Although originally chosen because the lake shared its name with a trail at Killington, Bear Track Lake's long rocky waterfront ended up feeling more like Acadia National Park than Vermont.  Plus it had the added bonus of being completely ours.  

The sun had come out in full force and felt like it was
Fallen Logs make great Portage Breaks
purposefully trying to kill us, an unfamiliar feeling to a couple who has actually never canoe camped in the summer.  We are winter people and it was wicked hot!  I thought that the heat would chase all the fish to the bottom of the lakes, but Aaron had no difficulty with either his fly or traditional rods.  We traveled across Thumb Lake and into Finger Lake (get it?), which immediately struck me as a sister lake to my own dear Kanauwake in New York.  While it was much larger, the feeling of the islands and shores just somehow made me feel at home.  Aaron was able to get in some great fishing while we floated around the middle of Finger while I desperately pounded water to keep up with the boiling hot sun.  Our next portage to Finger Creek was my favorite of all time, as we carried our gear alongside the rapids.  I felt like a whitewater kayaker on a grand expedition but could imagine the Native Americans and trappers traveling this way centuries ago.  I wonder how they dealt with the mosquitos.

Finger Creek itself made me feel like an Indian princess.  It was the first time we had ever come across a river intersection in all our canoe travels and something about choosing which windy pass to travel connected me with the past.  A time when canoeing was the best way to travel sounds just so wonderful to me.  Coming into Ge-be-on-e-quet Lake, we rounded the shore to our left only to find yet another beautiful rocky beach campsite.  Life in the BWCAW was getting to be monotonous.  However, this time, we were able to take warm showers after leaving our Pocket Shower in the sun for a few hours.  Oh, to be clean is so taken for granted in the modern world!

From Ge-be-on-e-quet, we set off through the glassy waters of Green and Rocky Lake and onto Oyster Lake, bumping into a young military trained duo on one of the rockier portages.  For some reason, we were hauling ass and feeling good (and the campsite wasn't nearly as awesome as the ones we'd had the previous nights) so Oyster became merely a lunch and swim spot rather than our stop for the night.  Our one radio station was finally playing more music because someone finally guessed the $5000 secret sound: cutting a pizza with a pizza cutter.  For days now, we had been listening to people calling in from all over the country with the most outrageous suggestions.  I'll admit, the contest did pass the time while we were hiding from the bugs in our tent in the evenings!  As we turned the corner after lunch, we realized that we were finally getting back into the more civilized area of the wilderness: a boy scout troop was all over one section of the lake.  This reaffirmed our desire to leave this lake and keep on moving down the river toward an even more populated Lake Agnes.  On the way, we realized it was Friday night and the crowds were definitely upon us as we met an extremely friendly group of two brothers taking their sons on a loop they had done 25 years earlier.  It was weird seeing and talking with people again, but at least we would have a few days to get back into the swing of civilization - especially when you meet skiers who had family living in Vermont!  

After a cautious trip through the bog of the winding Oyster River and past the much anticipated floating dead moose carcass, we made it to the home of the weekend warriors: Lake Agnes.  There were several groups of bachelors as well as multi- generational families camped out on the shorelines.  Had we really paddled all this way to be here?  We found a nestled campsite on what we would lovingly name Dirtbag Cove.  If we stayed up high on the site, we couldn't see the other groups.  However, the wind had been pushing all the pollen in our direction and it was slowly rotting (with the smell to prove it!).  Between the moose and the pollen, I would definitely call this the smelliest day of the trip!  The next morning, we had our first visit from a park ranger!  I couldn't even remember where we had packed our BWCAW permit 8 days ago (Aaron had it in his life jacket).  We had debated taking a Zero Day at Agnes before heading home, but the ranger said the familiar magic words: "No body goes to Ramshead."  Welcome because that's where we had wanted to head and familiar because no one ever wants to ski Ramshead at Killington!  It was perfect!!

We had one more night to reclaim the peacefulness that had defined the majority of our trip to the Boundary Waters, so we followed the ranger's advice and headed back toward the intersection of the Moose and Oyster Rivers, making our way to the 160 rod portage to Ramshead River.  Although we did run into one group of Minnesotans on the portage (literally.  It is difficult to see if anything is coming at you when both people have a canoe on their shoulders!), Ramshead turned out to be just like our Ramshead at home: quiet and peaceful.  We set up camp on what we named Breezeway Island, because of the openings on either side which created just the most wonderful breeze after the past few days of stagnant air.  It felt like home.  With the much appreciated cool air, we were were able to do some laundry and sit outside the tent all evening long listening to the familiar call of the loons amidst the cacophony of native birds.  It was a perfect way to spend our last night in the Boundary Waters.  Especially when we had a 594 rod portage day ahead of us - the reason why most people don't bother venturing over to the beautiful Ramshead Lake.

In the end, we ended up paddling sixty-five miles during our ten day, nine night adventure.  We experienced twenty-eight different bodies of water with over 2000 rods of portages in between.  A random trip that we never thought would happen ended up becoming one of the best non-ski adventures we have had to date.  Making the choice to hop in the car with a week's notice made all the different in the world.  It was such an awesome that we decided to stop in Chicago, Illinois to grab a Cubs game on our way home.  Unfortunately, it was torrential down pouring rain.   Tornado sirens went off in the city for the first time that anyone could remember, and our trip to the famous Wrigley consisted of walking around the concourse trying in vain to figure out a way to sneak up to the field to at least see the ivy covered brick wall.  Instead, we ended up pounding on the counter of the Salt and Pepper Diner in Wrigleyville, cheering on the Chicago Blackhawks as they won the Stanley Cup at home for the first time since 1938.  We went from the wilderness of the Boundary Waters to partying in the streets of Wrigleyville with more than a few thousand of our closest friends, at least four law enforcement helicopters overhead and police barricades in all directions. Top it all off by meeting Roberto Clemente's Puerto Rican neighbor over hand cut filet mignon at a small independent restaurant called Diso's Bistro just outside of Cleveland, Ohio and you have one of the most epic trips I could never have imagined.

May You Find the Spirit of the Mountains Within You,
Merisa & Aaron

Over 3600 Miles Driven
28 Bodies of Water

65 Miles of Paddling and 2000+ Rod Portaged

Saturday, May 30, 2015

The Last Chair Already Turned: A Poem of Healing

its weird.
this feeling that the last day has already happened.
that the last chair has already turned.

but it wasn't supposed to.

we were supposed to have another day.
a final day
a June day

I guess we're not supposed to

it was the closest we've come in years
the closest to having that final day of joy
a final day to say goodbye
a final day to come to grips with the fact
that that which life revolves around is no more

it's weird.
this feeling that the lat chair has already happened.
I was there.
I had champagne
I toasted the season

but why does it feel like I missed it?
like something isn't complete?

Is it because I don't want it to end.  
even knowing that it can't
I want it to stay forever
a piece of me is missing
it just vanished in the night
and I awoke to find it gone
taken from me

I know, I know,
seasons change and there is more to life than skiing
I get it.

but in my heart,
I don't.

A piece of me is missing,
the piece that makes me whole
but it is still there
this is not permanent.
it will come again

the mountain stands strong 
silent, sleeping, and quiet now
her spirit buried beneath a cover of green
she will wait for us

we tried,
we really, really tried
to make it last forever
but you cannot hold on to something tight
without squeezing the life out of it

I don't want it to go
I need the snow
I can't live without it

my soul is adrift,
my heart is heavy
unsure in the wake of this new season
i struggle to bring all the pieces together

we didn't think we were really saying goodbye
that it was really going to leave us
we were going to have one more day together

a day to cherish, not just to play
time to reconcile my soul with the truth,
not just to ski
but to stand aside, to take a quiet moment
to come to grips with the truth

and so I hike
because I am not ready to say goodbye
i just want.  I just need.
   one more day
   one more run
   one more turn
anything to deny the truth

its weird.
this feeling that the last day has already happened.
that the last chair has already turned.

Farewell, my friend.

May You Find the Spirit of the Mountains Within You,

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Canoeing The Bog River and Low's Lake: a Five Day Backcountry Paddling Adventure

There is magic in the feel of a paddle and the movement of a canoe, a magic compounded of distance, adventure, solitude and peace  the way of a canoe is the way of the wilderness and a freedom almost forgotten, the open door to waterways of ages past and a way of ice with profound and abiding satisfaction.      -Sigurd Olsen

When we arrived at the Low's Lower Dam parking area on the Sunday afternoon before Memorial Day Weekend, we were disappointed to see lot so full people were parking up the road!  Quickly though, we noticed that everyone was leaving to go back to work on Monday.  Moving everything to the launch area was a slow process as we waited for several larger groups of canoes and kayaks to disembark from the lake.  We didn't mind though - we will always choose less people on the water over more any day!

The Boyfriend carrying our Minnesota II through the Ruins at Low's Upper Dam
The first day of our travels was a familiar one.  Our first trip to the Bog River was almost four years ago (see blog here).  Camp One for this trip would be the last site we were able to make it to in 2011 - our paddling and gear have improved greatly!  The Bog River is a winding path through the wilderness, underneath an abandoned rail bridge and out toward Hitchens Pond.  Here the skies were littered with bald eagles and red winged blackbirds, as well as black flies and mosquitos whenever the winds died down.  About halfway down the river, we come to what I deem the most memorable portage due to the stone foundation ruins left at the Low's Upper Dam.
The Firepit at Campsite 12

Holy Crap was it hot out!  In fact, our first reaction upon arriving on the backside of Campsite 12 was to rip all our clothes off and jump in the lake -- and then very quickly run right back out because even though the sun is hot, the water in New York is still really cold in May!!  We clean and dry clothes on, we quicky went to work making up camp.  I immediately headed to the firepit while Aaron set up our MSR Hubba Hubba sans fly.  Potential storms meant that this would probably be our own opportunity to sit outside in the evenings or sleep directly under the stars and we were going to enjoy the night!  We stayed up late and generally took the time to match our lives with the calming pace of the wilderness.

The Infamous Breakfast Sandwich
Passing through the bogs of the Bog River
 With the addition of the cooler, we would live like kings the first few days (and as hunched over porters at every carry) -- which meant that the Boyfriend could make his famous bacon and egg sandwiches on the cast iron skillet over our MSR Whisperlite camp stove.  Nothing like starting your day off with freshly cooked bacon :)

Our Second Day on the water had us traveling even further into the backcountry under another gorgeous sky, crossing over what had been our first ever bog passing years ago.  Even thought the river is fairly wide, this bog stretches for about a quarter mile with one canoe wide strip of water on the south side.   Whereas the first time we had wondered if one carried their canoe over the bog or dragged it or what, now we simply kicked off our shoes and walked along the logs lining the narrow passage through which we led our beloved canoe.

View of the Low's Lake Bog from Site 39
This bog way led us into a gathering of islands and peninsulas, filled with lots of nooks and crannies perfect for paddle exploration.  We meandered along the south shore of Gooseneck Island, sheltering ourselves from the winds come out of the northeast.  We knew that a storm was brewing sometime early to late afternoon, so our plan was to make camp somewhere after Boone's Landing around 3pm.  We had originally planned on Site 39, but upon arrival we realized the proximately to the huge bog in the middle of the lake was going to make for an itchy campsite.    The clouds were just starting to form for the afternoon storm and time was running out to find a home.  We paddled around the bog and across to Moose Landing to check out Site 35, but ended up crossing over to the north side of Low's Lake to make Site 28 our Camp Two for the next few nights.

The Storm Clouds Rolling in From the Northeast

The Kanauwake style Culvert
The next day promised to take us further into the backcountry than we had ever been before - but the threat of winds increasing in the afternoon were going to make this a day to remember.  After our boring breakfast of oatmeal & quinoa, we started by paddling back across an already fairly windy Low's Lake toward Moose Bay Landing and into the river toward Bog Lake.  Even this far into the wilderness, it was nice to see a culvert connecting the bodies of water, just like at home on Lake Kanauwake.  We kept paddling through shallow waters until we finally came to the opening of an extremely windy Bog Lake.
The Portage Dock at Clear Pond from Bog Lake
 Feeling brazen and strong for our first venture in the canoe for the season, we dove right into paddling the strong headwind up the north shore of the lake.  Strong gusts of wind pushed us backwards and it sometimes was a struggle to merely bring the paddle forward to the catch of the stroke.  Basing the wind temps off of our experience from the motorcycle, we agreed on 15mph with 30-45mph gusts.  An extremely exhausting experience, and we were almost overjoyed when we got to the short portage to our lunchtime destination: Clear Pond.

A total of twelve miles away from our original launch site, Clear Pond is reachable only by human powered boats.  We felt good and strong as we settled into the campsite for lunch, but acknowledged that this was not going to be a leisurely break - we had taken a lot longer to get to the site than we had anticipated and we were going to have to hustle if we were gonna get back to Site 28 by dark.  So we pounded down our instant mashed potatoes, drank tons of water and headed back out for one of the most nerve wracking experiences of our lives, never mind our paddling careers.

Entering the Forest Preserve Wilderness Area
While Clear Pond was a wonderful respite from the winds, what we saw when we reached Bog Lake were a little more intimidating.  We took a breathe and pointed the bow North - and into the strongest tail wind I have ever experienced thus far.  Teamwork was essential, with me in the bow just working to keep the boat going into the direction of our choice while it was all the boyfriend could do to steer the boat where we wanted it.  A few times the boat almost got completely twisted around, but the boyfriend seriously did an amazing job of keeping us true.  While I struggle to accept that my role as bowman, I seriously did not envy him steering us home this time.

Even though we thought the tail wind on Bog Lake was nasty, it wasn't until we got back to Low's Lake that we began to seriously doubt our chances of making it back to camp without getting wet.  We stopped briefly at our originally intended campsite, Camp 39, to rest our bodies.  I'm not sure about the BF, but I was seriously regretting our decision to not camp here as I looked across the water.  Sure it was only about 200 yards, but it looked more like a raging river than a calm flat water experience that they show you in the pamphlets.

Looking out into the wind
This was the headwind from hell.  Three foot whitecaps littered the water.  And so we paddled.  And paddled.  And paddled.  My shoulders were screaming, tears were streaming down my face from the wind and all I could think was that I had to keep going, that I had to paddle harder, that there was no way to give up without flipping the canoe into the water and endangering both of our lives in the cold spring waters of the adirondack wilderness.  Every once in a while, the BF would yell switch and it was all I could do to hold on to the paddle.  The bow was getting knocked up and down, like a tanker on the ocean.  The bow would drop and I would lean back and find myself holding my breathe in a desperate hope that our teamwork would pay off and the water wouldn't spill over the bow and sink our canoe.  The BF was yelling encouragement and I was paddling as hard as I could.  Sometimes we moved forward, sometimes sideways and several times backwards, but we stayed dry and were eventually able to cross the lake.

A calm moment at Site 39 before crossing Low's Lake
It took us one hour to paddle 200 yards. 

When we got to our now beloved campsite, the first thing we did was grab each other and embrace.  We had made it.  I let the tears that I had been holding back flow down my cheeks and we just stood there for a few minutes to let our heart beats calm down and our bodies rest from the stress.  I have never been so happy to get out of a canoe in my whole life!  We barely had enough energy to eat our dinners and passed our pretty quicky after making one decision: we were not going to test Poseidon again tomorrow.  Instead of exploring the remaining north west side of Low's Lake, we would take the long way back to Camp One.  We had had enough wind for one trip.

Our MSR Hubba Hubba at Site 28
The next morning, as I filtered our water at the shoreline of our campsite, we realized our decision from the previous night was a good one.  While the photo shows some quiet water, the truth could to have been further away.  Even though the whitecaps seemed less than the previous day, we were not going to make the same mistake twice.  After taking down the tent, we chose to hug the northern shore of Low's Lake
and check out all the nooks and crannies of the islands.  There was a short up and over portage to get us around the backside of Site 22 and we ended up coming up the north side of Frying Pan Island.   Somehow, we ended up one island short of our turn, and eventually decided to take a long break in the warming sun of Site 17.  I was shivering because the tail wind was just strong enough that paddling wasn't required.  I need some tea and some good old-fashioned vitamin D if I was going to get the dexterity back into my fingers to hold onto the paddle.

This day seemed to be our eating day.  We only paddled a few miles, but ate a double meal at our lunch break.  I think that we were just so trashed from the previous day's mental and physical requirements that we just needed to regather ourselves.  So we ate the extra meal, pounded the emergency coconut water that we always bring and laid in the sun until we could no longer handle the black flies.  Then it was a relaxing paddle back down the Bog River toward our Site 12 - only the discover someone in a Kelty tent had already moved in!  After not seeing any people what so ever for three days, it was a complete shock to realize that we were about to spend our final night in the wilderness and had paddled back in to civilization.  It was a rude awakening.  We kept paddling east along the Bog River and ended up at an interesting style campsite.  Site 11 required us to lift the canoe out of the water and directly up a short hill.  A very awkward undertaking, but wilderness life is supposed to be an adventure, right?
Our Gear :)

Looking Back at Site 11
We found a great little niche for our tent and settled down to our final night in the woods.  We talked about ways to improve what we had brought with us this time, including one dry bag to keep all the trash away from absolutely everything else.  Sometimes, it seems like the trash just takes over everything!  But as we finished the rest of our Jack and Jerry, emptying out the last of our ginger beer, we both agreed that we would have no problems just buying more food when we got to shore and just turning around to head back out.  There is something about being constantly busy with the duty of living, of making sure the shelter is ready and that the food is cooked, that makes our lives seem so much fuller.  It is hard to give that up to go back to a life where you can just run to the store for anything and your home is a permanent structure.  We sat in the tent, both vestibules tied back and let the wind blow through the tent like a breezeway, looking out onto the river and just relished the feeing of being at peace in the woods.
Heading East on the Bog River toward Low's Upper Dam
Morning, as always, came too soon.  This day we were in no rush to get moving and instead each found ourselves taking advantage of the warm morning sun to intersperse stretching in with our morning routine and the packing up of the tent.  By now, our packing consisted of just shoving everything into dry bags and not really caring where because it was all gonna end up getting washed when we get home anyways.  Dirty dishes, dirty clothes - not to mention the pine needles that were everywhere!  Finally leaving camp around noon thirty, with no goal except getting to Sushi Yoshi in Lake George before six, we traveled back down what was quickly becoming a well known waterway to us: the Bog River.

Past the stone ruins at Low's Upper Dam and toward Hitchens Pond, we came upon the opening toward Low's Lower Dam - or so we thought.  Distracted by an intense duo of paddlers, we turned into the first bog on the right.  Trying one waterway and then another, I had this feeling that our exhaustion was beginning to impair of brain cells.  I couldn't recognize any of the bogs and was starting to feel like we were just getting lost in the massive bog.  So many different routes, but thankfully we were able to backtrack out of each one instead of getting further lost.  Eventually, we took a mental time out and then reread the map - we were one peninsula shy!  Round the point, we could see how blatantly obvious the entrance was.  Man, did we feel stupid.  But we got our shit together, put the paddles to the water and glided our way home back to the launch site.

It is amazing how only three hours away from our home base, it an amazing piece of wilderness that can bring peace and a sense of accomplishment to our lives.  Already, we were planning our next great adventure :)

May You Find the Spirit of the Mountains Within You,
Merisa & Aaron