The following story is recited completely by memory from events that occurred 44 years ago. No trip notes were taken and some details are foggy, but no intentional dramatic license is taken.
BACK ON THE TRAIL
After thawing from the glacial bath, it was time for our first “sit down” meal in the mountains. I use the word meal in the loosest possible terms. A Richmoor dehydrated meal in the late 1970s made MREs that I later consumed in the military seem like fine-dining events.
I will be honest here. I don’t recall the first one I ate. “Three-cheese lasagna” comes to mind. Rubber noodles with cheese-like parts and meat-like substances added to boiling water.
That first night, after a long hike with just some beef jerky and GORP (Good Old Raisins and Peanuts) along the way, it went down easy. Ten minutes after I finished it, my bubbling gut made me hope it wasn’t coming up the same way.
The name Retchmore was born.
Once it became painfully clear no upchuck was going to relieve my internal sufferings, I returned from the woods and rejoined the group around the fire.
It was a clear evening and I recall jokes, easy laughter and the banter one would expect from a group enjoying a day/incoming night in nature. Stars twinkled. A light breeze stirred the trees. Aching legs stopped complaining.
We spent a good night in the lean-to, blissfully unaware of the challenges that lay ahead.
One of those came in the next morning when Brad complained there was no place to plug in his blow-dryer. As I stood off to the side of the campsite and brushed my teeth, I snorted at his joke. I think he was joking. Maybe not.
Brad was particular about his hair.
The second day on our journey was a lot like the first. I learned to enjoy the occasional flat stretches. Uphill was becoming less fun. Downhill could be worse. I was learning football shape is not mountain shape.
The third and fourth days were similar. Wake. Walk. Climb. Descend. Camp. Eat bad food. Sleep. I was beginning to get used to the rhythm of it all.
I was finding my mountain legs.
But the fun was just about to really begin.
“I HATE BONED CHICKEN”
The fifth day we were going to climb to the top of Mount Marcy with its cone-shaped summit — the last few hundred feet above tree line.
We set out early in the day with a goal of reaching a place called Lake Tear of The Clouds, about 1,000 feet below the summit, by lunch.
We were slowed by a half-mile stretch where had to we cover scads of smooth, uphill rock on the increasingly narrow trail.
Without a backpack, it would have been no big deal. With a full pack, it was a bit treacherous, even for a budding mountaineer like myself.
But we reached the lake shortly after noon and it was a a majestic setting. The lake is the highest headwaters of the mighty Hudson River. You could step over the stream coming off the lake and tell people you stepped over the Hudson River.
That’s what we told ourselves, anyway.
We settled in for a quick lunch as the summit loomed up and over us. I don’t recall what I ate that day. I will never forget what Jim ate.
A pouch of boned chicken.
After we ate, we rested a bit by the lake. We could see people on the summit. It’s a popular climb for day-packers. It wasn’t long before trouble began in the form of gastric distress.
I saw Jim stand up from the group and walk off by himself. I heard him return his boned chicken to the earth with a splash.
I wasn’t worried. A simple moment of sickness. He had rid himself of the problem. When I heard a second and a third, it began to dawn on me this could be more serious.
We waited for the stomach flu to subside. Jim returned to the group and took a seat on the ground, looking pale and distressed. I looked at him and then glanced at the climb we still had to get to the summit — and down the other side far enough to get to a lean-to.
Marcy, we have a problem.
Around 2 or 2:30 p.m., Bruce gave us a new game plan. He and Alexi would go on ahead, cross the summit and head down the trail to locate a lean-to on the other side.
“When Jim feels better, you guys come on up and meet us at the lean-to,” he told me.
Honestly, I wasn’t that worried about losing Alexi. A couple nights earlier, I watched him burn through several matches (and his fingers) trying to start a camp fire by lighting a small log.
But Bruce was our leader. And he had the maps.
The two of them set off, leaving me with a sick Eagle Scout and a city boy who had even less experience in the outdoors than me. (I could tell you about the time when I first met Brad and took him on a snipe hunt. But that’s another story.)
As we sat there, time passed and it became apparent Jim was not improving. He uttered phrases like, “I hate boned chicken,” “Just hit me in a head with a rock and leave me” and “Is there a Mountain Dew machine up here?”
He was simply trying to lighten the mood, but as the late-afternoon sun continued on its journey, it was clear to me we had us a situation.
THE ASCENT
Around 4 p.m., I asked Jim if he was able to go. He shook his head. He could walk and make it to the top. But there was no way he could strap on his backpack and climb to the summit.
My addled brain searched for a solution. It found only one.
Double-packing.
I told Jim I would carry my pack a ways up the trail. I would then set it down and return to get his. Brad could carry his own. If Jim could just walk, we could make it.
Jim was too weak to argue and I didn’t have a rock or any Mountain Dew. Brad just wanted to get on with it.
So we set off. I walked 50 yards or so up the trail and set my pack down. I returned and got Jim’s. Both of them made their way up as I went.
We just kept repeating the cycle. My pack. Climb. Return down. Jim’s pack. Climb.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
It didn’t take long for my legs and back to show me the fallacy of this plan. But there really was no choice at that point. There was only one way to go.
Up.
BREAKING TREE LINE
A few hundred feet from the summit, we reached the tree line — the area on a mountain where there really isn’t sufficient air, heat or water to keep trees alive.
I stopped for a moment. Brad was right behind me. Jim was making his way behind him. I asked Brad to grab my water bottle from my pack. He declined. I turned and looked at him. The look on face was startling and it dawned on me that my friend was not fond of heights.
This was not a good time to come to that realization.
We continued our climb, finally reaching the summit. None of the people we had seen a few hours earlier from our lunch site were anywhere to be found.
The three of us were alone on top of Mount Marcy.
After a few minutes of enjoying the amazing scenery, and the Cessna that flew by at eye level, I realized I was exhausted. I sagged and sat down, wondering what we were gonna do next.
It was getting dark. I wasn’t sure how to get down the other side. And there was simply no way I could keep double-packing. We sat together for a few minutes.
Out of seemingly nowhere, an older man appeared in our midst with a daypack. He asked who we were and what we were doing.
Hopeful he could help, or at least point us in the right direction, I wearily explained our situation. He glanced down the trail and glared. Turning back to me, the welcomed stranger told us he was an instructor in a program called Outward Bound.
Ironically, it’s a program aimed at introducing young people experiences in the wilderness. Talk about silent prayers being answered.
“Follow me,” he said, “and we will find the rest of your group.”
Before I could explain Jim’s situation, my friend scooped up his backpack and slung it on. Thankfully, he was feeling better and quickly followed the man down the trail. Brad was right behind him.
After the ascent, my legs of rubber struggled to keep pace, but managed to at least keep them in sight.
As the darkness deepened, we finally reached a group of lean-tos, one of which was occupied by Bruce and Alexi.
As the three of us sat down, exhausted and relieved, the Outward Bound instructor led Bruce a few yards away for a private chat.
I couldn’t hear every word, but it was clear the man who had led us off the summit was lecturing Bruce about the inherent dangers of the mountains and the cardinal rule Bruce had broken by dividing our party.
After the discussion ended, Bruce returned to our group, chagrined, but relieved, we were together again.
That night, even Retchmore food tasted good.
Jim avoided the boned chicken.
EPITAPH
We spent a few more days on the various trails, though scaled no more mountains.
Eventually, we made our way back to the place it all started. The trusty 412 was waiting for us, eager to hear the stories we had gained.
It was the middle of the afternoon when we left the parking lot, so we didn’t travel far. We stopped at a hotel and luxuriated in the first real showers in a week. I even shaved.
Donning clean clothes, we headed out to find real food. We stopped at a place called The Burger Pit.
The server came to our table to get our orders. I spoke first. “I would like four cheeseburgers, two large orders of fries, two large Cokes and a chocolate milkshake.”
She nodded and started to turn away.
“Wait, ma’m,” I said. “That’s just for me. You need their orders, too.”
I don’t recall what everyone ate that night. I just know the bill was massive.
As we left, the cooks came out and applauded our efforts.
The next day, on the drive home, Bruce mentioned something about returning to the Adirondacks the following summer on a canoe trip.
I liked the way that sounded. Paddling, instead of hiking.
Let’s do it, I said.
It wasn’t until we returned to the mountain lakes, rivers and streams that I learned of something called portaging.
Lots of portaging. I am told it’s French for “carry.” I have other words for it, most of them four letters. Look it up here if you’re not familiar.
But that’s another story.
