to, and if “forever” seems somewhat shorter.
T HE GOOD THING about philosophical speculation is that it can carry you right up a mountain, even a steep-sided, mossy-rocked one like this. We spilled out on the summit before I’d expected it, and now for the first time could see way south and west across the expanse of the High Peaks and the spread of the lower Adirondacks far beyond. Mount Marcy and the Algonquin ridge and theGreat Range beckoned across the valley of the Au Sable River; looking east, it was easy to trace the route I’d come right from the Breadloaf ridge of the Green Moun tains. And I could see the rest of my track laid out before me, too—Hunters Pass beneath the Dixes, and the Hoffman Notch wilderness beyond, and past that the deep and remote Adirondack forests of the Hudson head waters. I pulled last night’s storm-drenched tent from the pack and laid it across the rocks to dry, and ate my lunch, and congratulated myself on reaching the literal high point of the journey, 4,627 feet. It’s all downhill from here, I thought, which as it turned out was one of those brags you’re better off not making.
W E SET OFF on our descent, against a steady stream of hikers climbing up on the more usual route. Many were would-be 46ers, checking off another of the peaks on the list first compiled by Bob Marshall when he was a young man spending his summers in Saranac Lake. A staunch hiker, he and his friends tried to climb every high mountain in the park. Forty-six, he said, topped 4,000 feet, and these became the grail. (Better measurements showed he included four that didn’t belong, and missed one that did—but myth proved more rugged than mere measurement, and his list still holds.) Many of the peaks on the list, Giant included, are glorious; others are grim marches to flat-topped mountains with no viewsthat would never be climbed, were they not on the official itinerary. It’s simple to make a little sport of the 46ers, especially since some people, upon finishing the list the first time, set in trying to climb them all in the winter, or to stand on every peak at midnight, or to visit each in the rain. But the quest serves two purposes: by providing that American necessity, a goal, it gives people a good excuse to get out into wild country; and it makes sure that the other thousand or so mountains are almost totally ignored simply because they’re too low. If you know an Adirondack summit is 3,950 feet high, then you know you’ll have it all to yourself.
In fact, as is often the case, describing something turns it into a magnet. Marshall was a born salesman—on top of one Adirondack peak he came up with the idea for The Wilderness Society, which in turn led the drive for the 1964 federal statute, relying all the time on the inherent appeal of the word. The 3 million acres of “forever wild” land in the Adirondacks are divided into two main designations, “wild forest” and “wilderness.” The differences are very minor, having to do with grandfathered jeep trails and the like—but because wilderness sounds sexier, those areas almost invariably draw more hikers. Some conservationists worry that the High Peaks Wilderness in particular gets too much use, and there are periodic attempts to limit the number of hikers going up mountains like this one—require permits, some say, orbuild more parking lots and facilities elsewhere in the park to disperse use. But in fact one of the glories of the Adirondacks is that the high granite vacuums up most of the visitors, leaving the rest of the park to the creatures.
There were more than enough visitors wandering up Giant today, including at least one group communicating very loudly over walkie-talkies with other members of their party who were roughly, oh, forty feet away. I fear I must have been thinking of some cutting remark to make to John, because bad karma grabbed me by the ankle and sent me down hard on a steep rock shelf. Actually, the first part
T HE GOOD THING about philosophical speculation is that it can carry you right up a mountain, even a steep-sided, mossy-rocked one like this. We spilled out on the summit before I’d expected it, and now for the first time could see way south and west across the expanse of the High Peaks and the spread of the lower Adirondacks far beyond. Mount Marcy and the Algonquin ridge and theGreat Range beckoned across the valley of the Au Sable River; looking east, it was easy to trace the route I’d come right from the Breadloaf ridge of the Green Moun tains. And I could see the rest of my track laid out before me, too—Hunters Pass beneath the Dixes, and the Hoffman Notch wilderness beyond, and past that the deep and remote Adirondack forests of the Hudson head waters. I pulled last night’s storm-drenched tent from the pack and laid it across the rocks to dry, and ate my lunch, and congratulated myself on reaching the literal high point of the journey, 4,627 feet. It’s all downhill from here, I thought, which as it turned out was one of those brags you’re better off not making.
W E SET OFF on our descent, against a steady stream of hikers climbing up on the more usual route. Many were would-be 46ers, checking off another of the peaks on the list first compiled by Bob Marshall when he was a young man spending his summers in Saranac Lake. A staunch hiker, he and his friends tried to climb every high mountain in the park. Forty-six, he said, topped 4,000 feet, and these became the grail. (Better measurements showed he included four that didn’t belong, and missed one that did—but myth proved more rugged than mere measurement, and his list still holds.) Many of the peaks on the list, Giant included, are glorious; others are grim marches to flat-topped mountains with no viewsthat would never be climbed, were they not on the official itinerary. It’s simple to make a little sport of the 46ers, especially since some people, upon finishing the list the first time, set in trying to climb them all in the winter, or to stand on every peak at midnight, or to visit each in the rain. But the quest serves two purposes: by providing that American necessity, a goal, it gives people a good excuse to get out into wild country; and it makes sure that the other thousand or so mountains are almost totally ignored simply because they’re too low. If you know an Adirondack summit is 3,950 feet high, then you know you’ll have it all to yourself.
In fact, as is often the case, describing something turns it into a magnet. Marshall was a born salesman—on top of one Adirondack peak he came up with the idea for The Wilderness Society, which in turn led the drive for the 1964 federal statute, relying all the time on the inherent appeal of the word. The 3 million acres of “forever wild” land in the Adirondacks are divided into two main designations, “wild forest” and “wilderness.” The differences are very minor, having to do with grandfathered jeep trails and the like—but because wilderness sounds sexier, those areas almost invariably draw more hikers. Some conservationists worry that the High Peaks Wilderness in particular gets too much use, and there are periodic attempts to limit the number of hikers going up mountains like this one—require permits, some say, orbuild more parking lots and facilities elsewhere in the park to disperse use. But in fact one of the glories of the Adirondacks is that the high granite vacuums up most of the visitors, leaving the rest of the park to the creatures.
There were more than enough visitors wandering up Giant today, including at least one group communicating very loudly over walkie-talkies with other members of their party who were roughly, oh, forty feet away. I fear I must have been thinking of some cutting remark to make to John, because bad karma grabbed me by the ankle and sent me down hard on a steep rock shelf. Actually, the first part
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