Blitzpeak Bop: Part II, Baxter

Sometimes in life a thing stops you dead in your tracks.  It can be a bear in the trail.  It can be an overdraft notice.  It can be a job offer or someone being mad at you.  Sometimes it’s something deeper, more rooted in your soul, and hard to articulate what it is you’re feeling and why.

I wrote that out, and now I’m not even sure what else to say.  It feels like maybe I should just post the video of me speechless and overwhelmed by emotion.  But the writer in me feels challenged to convey the experience.  To give it a different life in words.

I tried to go to Acadia National Park on Sunday.  I actually did go, but after one orbit I left Acadia absolutely pissed off.  My mood was gravelly.  One key thing I had not anticipated about my quick-planned trip was I would be venturing north into peak fall foliage; particularly in Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Upstate New York.  The only adverse impact that had on me was my visit to Acadia.  And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

I had enough foresight to look into access to Baxter State Park on Saturday when I stopped for the night in the Palmyra, Maine Walmart parking lot.  Early Sunday I was able to call the state park and reserve a parking space for Katadhin Stream Trailhead for Tuesday.  I had wanted Roaring Brook for Monday.  I really wanted to do the Knife Edge.  The problem with Monday was a 90% chance of rain, wind, and cooler temps.  Tuesday’s forecast was marginally better.  So I acquiesced and allowed the Tao of Pooh to direct my steps.  I didn’t know it yet, but I would be entering the “hundred acre woods” soon enough.

When I got to the visitor center in Millinocket to pick up the pass the nice lady I’d spoken to on the phone had kindly printed for me I asked if there were any campsites available for that night and the next.  The very helpful ranger booked me for two nights at Nesowadnehunk Fields (I still cannot pronounce that word).  He informed me the campground was an hour and forty five minutes from the entrance gate, and it would be forty five minutes back to the trailhead from camp on Tuesday morning and he encouraged an early start.  I bought a map and thanked them before heading out into the drizzly late afternoon in search of some place to fill my grumbly tumbly.

There’s a great pizza place across from the Millinocket Post Office called Angelo’s Pizza and More.  I had a great and great big salad and an amazing pizza.  The gentleman working (I presume Angelo or his commercial heir) was friendly.  I left with half a pizza to keep me company in the great dark northern woods and the sad knowledge Angelo’s wouldn’t be open again until Friday but I would be much farther down the road by then hopefully.

I made my way into Baxter State Park.  I was beginning to fully realize that Baxter is special in that they do limit the number of visitors.  I think I was fortunate to have arrived at the end of a weekend, because my travels seemed to be sped along by a friendly universe.  The ranger at the entry gate sat with his legs crossed as he casually filled out my camping pass and chatted with myself and someone on the radio in turns.

I asked about distances and he also encouraged an early start on Tuesday.  He suggested I should leave Katadhin Stream Trailhead at 6:00am for the summit because at 6:30 they start letting day users in at the gate and I wanted to get on the trail ahead of “all of them.”  Being the solo adventuring introvert I am I made sure to set an alarm for 5:00am on Monday night before I laid down.

But Sunday I eased into the park around 5:00pm and drove deep back into the Maine woods as dusk came gentle over the world.  There was still just enough light when I got back to the Fields—as I’ll call them to preserve my own fingers from overtyping the actual name—with enough light to find the parking for campers and scope everything out.  I backed the Jeep up to some thick underbrush and settled in for the night.

Once I rearranged everything for sleeping I ate some cold pizza and got out to go pee.  The first thing I noticed was the quiet.  Oh, I could hear the stream (which the fields were named after) and the wind swaying the trees around.  But it felt quiet.  There had been one car in the day use parking when I arrived but two hikers got in and left almost as soon as I arrived.  As far as I could tell there was no one else around for miles. 

The second thing I noticed was how dark it was.  And again, it felt dark.  Not in a scary or threatening way.  I was peaceful, the absence of artificial light, and only the natural light of the world illuminating the night.  The moon was still a sliver, and it was overcast, but there was a dim glow from the long set sun until the stars briefly came out.  But it was so dark then, that I couldn’t even see the tall evergreens silhouetted against the ambient starlight.  It’s like the only things that existed in that moment were the stars in my eyes.  I didn’t think to get my camera and take a photo.  It was too soul stunning to allow that kind of thought.  Baxter had stolen my heart in that moment.

I eventually crawled back into the Jeep and slipped into my sleeping bag.  It was cool but not cold.  The wind swayed occasionally, but it was mostly still and peaceful.  The comforting quiet and darkness must have lulled me, because I awoke later with a full bladder.  I’d tried to drink plenty of water to stay hydrated for the big hike coming in a couple days.  Not even!  As I lay there trying to motivate myself to put on my shoes I saw lights playing on the ceiling of the car, and then I heard the low mumble of voices.  The lights and voices passed the front of the Jeep and then I heard a car door open.  I peeked over my window covers and saw two guys getting into a car two spaces away from me.  I hadn’t heard them pull in which was startling to realize.

The rest of the night passed without incident.  I lingered in my warm bag in the morning; in no rush because I had all day to figure out what I would do.  I looked at the map and decided I’d check out the AT south of the Daicey Pond area.  There were two waterfalls labeled on the map and it looked like there was little elevation gain on the trails in that area.

I had to take care of two chores first.  The primary concern was food.  I was really hungry.  But almost as pressing was the need to find a hole of cold water to sink myself in.  I hadn’t had a shower since Friday morning and I’d been folded over in the car or walking hard for most of the previous three days.  I needed clean and to soak sore joints and muscles.

I’d seen covered picnic tables at the Foster Fields Group Area on the drive in, so I left the campground and made my way south.  I only saw a couple other cars at a different area of the campground and once I was moving down the road it felt like I had the whole place to myself.

It was cool, maybe 40°, and I kept an eye on the rushing stream along the road.  Eventually I saw an area where the creek made a bend away from the road far enough I couldn’t see it, so I stopped and grabbed a towel and got out.  After a nice cold soak including my head I was moving on to find a place to make breakfast with maybe a little heat coming out of the dash.  As I turned into Foster Fields the rain picked up.  But I took it in stride.  I was in no hurry, so I sat in the car reorganized things a bit until there was a lull.  Then I grabbed my food and cooking gear and made for the tables.

I brewed a big thermos of coffee first, then I toasted a couple of bagels in my backpacking pot.  I munched on one with cream cheese while I mixed up Ova Easy egg crystals for the first time, and cooked up some eggs and bacon bits to eat on the second bagel.  I highly recommend the Ova Easy eggs.  They were just eggs!

It was nice to just hang out, sip coffee, enjoy the quiet, the lack of cell service, and think about the deeper things going on in my soul.  I’d walked out of my old job straight into this trip.  It was somewhat surreal.  But then Baxter felt like this alternate dimension I had teleported to.  Time slowed down.  Colors had become brighter.  The air was nourishing and crisp.

I moved over to Daicey Pond with the intent of hiking to Sentinel Mountain.  It looked casual which was good because I intended to keep it easy the day before tackling Katadhin.  I wanted my full energy and attention for the big peak.  I had no idea what kind of effort (maximum!) or weather I’d face.  When I got to the start of the trail to Sentinel it was apparent I would not be going there that day.  There was a deep stream crossing right off the bat.  So I switched back to the AT and Little and Big Niagaras.  I paused at the AT sign pointing toward Baxter Peak (Katadhin): 7.5 miles from that spot.  I stood in silence looking at that sign, feeling the weight of thousands of hearts seeing that sign and knowing they had the long trail mostly behind them, but one last trial still ahead.  For the rest of my time in Baxter that weighty presence stayed with me.  I turned south and followed the AT into the woods toward Springer Mountain.

It was a beautiful hike along Nesowadnehunk Stream.  The sound of the water rushing over granite, the fall colors contrasted against the otherworldly greens of the spruce, and fern and moss…the cool damp of the autumn air…all spoke to the tiniest wrinkles of my soul.

Both falls were impressive.  I took a lot of photos.  But then eventually people started to show up, so I made my way back to the trail and strolled through the magical forest back toward the trailhead.  

As I walked along, the persistent noise in my head roaring as usual, I was stopped dead in my tracks.  It wasn’t a bear in the trail.  There was no overdraft notice.  I didn’t have a new job offer.  No one was mad at me.  Something had happened: I was hiking and doing my typical fantasizing about a future for myself, telling myself a big story about some fictional future I’d like for myself, and I realized I wasn’t listening to the forest around me.  I wasn’t seeing the vibrant landscape I was passing through.  I was just walking and moving on autopilot.  And I stopped my mind.  I silenced my thoughts.  I don’t know if I have ever done that in my life before.  Suddenly I could see everything.  I could hear everything.  Colors became more saturated.  Everything jumped out in stark relief, three dimensional and high definition.  I could hear every drop of water falling from the trees and the stream off in the distance.  Squirrels chittering and complaining and one even ran almost over my foot.  It’s like I was hearing the soundtrack of life for the first time.  How had I never done that before?

My heart and soul were weightless as I travelled back through Baxter and made my way to the lean-to I’d reserved for Monday night.  It rained some, and the wind picked up.  I felt at peace and content.  Baxter was just an autumn dreamscape that I didn’t want to wake up from.  In a few hours I’d step deeper into the wilderness to seek another summit.  I fell asleep listening to the quiet and embraced by the comforting darkness.

Blitzpeak Bop: Part I, the New England Tropics

Traffic sounds coaxed me from sleep.  It took a few blinks and scrubbing the sleep from my face to remember I was in the back of my Jeep in a rest area along eastbound I-84 in Pennsylvania.  It was 6:30 am, and I was about an hour from my first destination: High Point, New Jersey.  The gate supposedly opened at 8:00 am.  

I did my morning car camping routine, ran in to use the rest area’s main attraction, and got moving toward the sunrise right on schedule.  I had a packed itinerary for the coming week and wanted to stay on schedule as much as I could early on to ensure maximum success.  

My goal?  Eight New England state high points in the week between leaving my job as Zoning Administrator for my hometown and starting my new position as a Senior Planner for the LFUCG Division of Planning.  That’s the city of Lexington.  It’s a big step up.  And it’s another life adventure I’m getting ready to set out on.

I have to admit it’s a tad overwhelming as well.  So I wanted a send off/consolation prize for this huge life change.  Originally I had planned to hike the Pine Mountain Trail, but Helene convinced me to consider other options.  After twenty minutes of plotting out a route through New England with Google Maps and calculating some hiking distances and times I was positively buzzing with excitement.

Most of the New England high points had always been relegated to the “maybe someday” shelf of my life.  Particularly Katadhin and Marcy seemed far enough and remote enough from home to be low priorities.  

Once I mapped it out I realized I could possibly visit all eight remaining high points I needed in the northeast well within the week I had.  It only took a little while to craft an acceptable itinerary which I refined over the next couple of days, but with about three days to plan I had come up with a stellar trip.

Thursday evening I began packing in earnest, and despite some shuffling of vehicles and the uncertainty of which car I would drive and of either of mine would handle the roughly 2,800 miles of driving I had planned I set out Friday about two hours behind schedule.

I reached said rest area and crawled into the back of the Jeep.  I’d streamlined my gear for this trip after the Cloud Peak endeavor and had more room and less junk to deal with.  That made for a much more efficient and comfortable trip.

I started my first full day with an early morning visit to the generically named High Point, New Jersey.  I wasn’t expecting much; despite having been conceived in New Jersey myself, I’ve never felt a strong attraction to the state.  I was pleasantly surprised by the beauty of High Point State Park.  I had the place to myself, as the entry gate was open, but no one was manning the gate.  I wound up the narrow road catching a good view of the summit obelisk from a little ways away.  I pulled into an empty parking lot.  It was cool as I walked quickly up the paved drive to the flat area around the monument.  Apparently some rich, white guy with a teenie peenie is buried nearby.  

The views were amazing, and I lingered only a few minutes.  I had three more high points to visit before dark.  As I walked back to the car I passed a young hipster guy in a sarape and smoking a cigarillo seemingly on his way to the summit.  But as I pulled away he turned to return to his own vehicle seeming perturbed the restrooms were closed. 

I drove on toward my next destination quickly exiting New Jersey not to return.  I crossed back into New York and then eventually Massachusetts and south toward the parking area for Mount Frissell.  The road in reminded me of Kentucky if the houses were better kept and the Breathitt County Road Department had built the road.  It’s funny how all throughout Appalachia there are common geologic and ecological threads.  It’s the human flavors that change.

Somewhere deep in Massachusetts I passed a fruit stand with a sign:

FrUit 

I wasn’t sure if they meant: “F-U, we have fruit!”  Or “Do you want fruit? F-U!”  Not sure who their target market is.  Must be a New England thing.

I continued on the war-torn road for a few miles and could see a long ridge off to my right.  I was pretty sure that was Free Cell.

I parked next to an ancient concrete boundary marker delineating between Connecticut and Massachusetts.  There were lots of cars lined along the road, and I was fortunate to slide into a spot before even more people showed up.  I quickly topped off a water bottle and slipped into my old trail running vest.  It was cool but I went in only shorts and a t-shirt knowing the ascent would warm me up under brightening blue skies. 

Frissell is an excellent hike, and I enjoyed a much more colorful fall landscape than it was at home.  The approach involves summiting and crossing Round Mountain and then passing close to the actual summit of Mount Frissell.  The high point is a little ways away to the south where the state line crosses the shoulder of the mountain.  I went there first, signing the summit register, and then backtracked to the true summit.  From there it was a quick and enjoyable hike down.  Mount Frissell was my 25th state high point.  Halfway there!

Frissell from Round Mountain to the east

Summit marker

I’d realized the night before that my route from Frissell to the Massachusetts high point passed close to Stockbridge, Mass.  Well, you know what that means!  That’s right, I had to stop by and see the town and the Guthrie Center in Great Barrington.  It was a righteous detour and I’m really glad I thought of it.  There’s no restaurant anymore, but I passed through the town where Officer Obie arrested Arlo and friend for throwing their garbage down with the other pile.  

It was a great non-high point experience along the way, but then I was moving on to Mount Greylock.

What I hadn’t considered is that as I drove north I would be passing deeper into fall and crossing over into peak foliage.  The park Greylock is within was overrun with leaf gawkers.  I couldn’t get to the summit parking lot, so I had to wing it and find a roadside pull off near a trail crossing.  I ended up with a three-quarter of a mile hike to the busy summit area where I found a giant chess piece tower which you can actually go up in!  

I squeezed my way up and instantly began to panic with all the people in the small room.  I got my photos and made my way back down and then down the trail to the car where I ate a quick, late lunch and then headed on toward my fourth and final high point for the day: Jerimoth Hill.  

Rhode Island was also a new state visited for me, so it was a double tick.  Traffic was heavier crossing Massachusetts into Rhode Island and it definitely seemed more urban.  I got to the roadside parking spot right at dusk and almost ran to the spot in the woods marked by an ammo can chained to a tree next to a water buffalo sized hump of rock.  I signed my second register for the day (Mt Frissell had one too) and made a note of my fourth high point for the day and my 27th total.  Four in a day is a record for me.  

As I pushed north on toward Maine I was pleasantly satisfied with part one of my New England high point blitz.  The big stuff was yet to come. I had executed a pretty neat little one day tour of some great high points.  Even Jerimoth Hill had some character.  I was surprised and pleased by each new place visited.

I was excited for bigger mountains, but I didn’t realize just how big and how exciting they would be. 

Dragonslayer

There is a theme building in my 2024; this, my fifty-first year of life.  The theme is overcoming.  I have been overcoming negative thinking, fear, and doubt.  It would be wrong to portray myself as having slain these particular dragons, but I definitely have them on the ropes.  How's that for mixed metaphors?

It started on the Pine Mountain Trail back in July.  I barely made it to the trailhead.  It was hot as hades.  I was alone venturing into bear country, with a history of weak ankles, overweight, and wallowing in my neuroses.  The trail was hard.  Time was short, and I was not going to be able to make it to my intended destination at a trail shelter.  I fought doubt and fear every step of the way as I traversed the crest of Pine Mountain.  At one point I realized I had walked far enough that even if I wanted to backtrack to the truck there would be no way to do so and arrive before dark.  And I didn't even know if the truck was going to run when I got back.

There was an incredible freedom in that moment.  I had walked past the point of having a viable choice.  I had to keep moving forward, and giving up ceased to be an option.  In that moment, I found the steel inside me.  That was something I used to be able to do with much less effort.  I'd lost it under years of stress-related weight gain.

I faced the same dragons at my camp below Cloud Peak a few weeks ago.  I would give up, return to the car, and drive on with the "easier" part of my trip, without having tried for the summit I truly wanted.  Yeah, the Grand Teton has been the top item on my bucket list for a long time, but the experience my heart has yearned for in each conscious and unconscious second of my life was that Cloud Peak trip.  Writing that took the breath out of my chest.  It's perhaps the truest statement I've made in a long time...and it surprises me.  Those dragons lurking between my camp and that Bighorn summit were faced down by summoning strength from the memory of my trials on Pine Mountain.  My victory at thirteen thousand feet was a result of the progressive strengthening of my confidence.  I came down from there to the news of a new career path and the promise of better financial security in the coming months.  The icing on my cake was a few more days of the best trip of my life.

I've been riding that wave since.  I've had a day or two where my moods have dipped, but it's maybe just that I'm still sliding from this last page in this most recent chapter of my life, and when I am fully on the new page perhaps those dark days will fade and be relegated to memories and photographs in my mind. 

I have a free week between my old job and my new one.  I didn't fully consider the possibilities until the beginning of this week.  I'd originally thought I would thru-hike the Pine Mountain Trail.  That would be a great jumping off point into a new life adventure.  Then that bitch Helene wrought her fury all over the southeast.  Not only did she throw doubt into my Pine Mountain scheme, but she knocked out every and all of my second-tier adventure plans.  No Linville Gorge climbing.  No Looking Glass.  No Black Mountain Crest hike.  While I would love to go West again, I felt like I needed to keep myself closer to home for this jaunt.  I put a lot of miles on the Jeep.  It's been a tough little mule, doing far more than it was ever designed to do.  Am I pushing it beyond its limits?  Hard to say.  I took the last trip with those same thoughts.  And I ended up having to buy a set of tires in Michigan.  While I waited in the Walmart tire center I talked to my dad on the phone and shared with him my idea for salvaging a trip in the face of automobile catastrophe.  Instead of hiring a tow truck to shuttle a deceased vehicle hundreds of miles home, I would simply rent a U-Haul with a tow dolly or flat trailer and drive home with the steel carcass in tow.  I realized I have the resourcefulness to solve problems like that.  My lack of self-confidence and overriding sense of fear has blinded me to my own strengths.  

So what to do with this week? At first, I briefly considered going to New England, but the distances in volved in going where I wanted to go approach the same mileage as heading West.  Then I looked at cleaning up the southern Midwest of state highpoints and the southeastern outlier in Georgia.  I figured in a couple days I could bag Georgia, Louisiana, Arkansas and Missouri.  Maybe I'd take my crashpad and mountain bike.  Maybe I'd just meander and take my time.  That trip didn't excite me, so I reconsidered New England.  I quickly realized despite the distance that venturing Northeast would give me considerable bang for my limited bucks.  And while I had left both Katadhin and New York's Mount Marcy on the backburners of my highpointing consciousness, I suddenly realized that not only could I fill in my New England map with two new states visited (Rhode Island and Vermont) but I could also potentially bag all eight remaining highpoints in that part of the country.   That would bring my overall total to 46 US states visited and 31 US state highpoints visited as well as fully coloring in the entire eastern US save the highpoints in Georgia and Louisiana which I could easily get over a weekend. 

Late last week my newer vehicle was acting up, and it had also made some funny transmission-ish noises, so on Thursday I called the mechanic, and he said he could take a look, and he could probably have it back to me in a day.  I dropped it off Thursday night.  Once I decided on the New England trip, I decided I would take a gamble and drive the Nissan.  Said mechanic had put a new motor in the vehicle for me (I'd just bought the car with a blown motor), and it seemed to be doing great except a little transmission noise and the aforementioned electrical problem.  

Friday Helene began to knock.  Saturday Helene kicked in the door, and even on Monday my mechanic still didn't have power and had a lot of trees down on his property.  I got the car back a week after I dropped it off and it seems to be running a lot better.  And it smells strongly of burnt oil.  It also doesn't have new tires like the Jeep does.  The motor install is very recent, with barely a few hundred miles on it, so I'm leery about taking it.  Which leaves me with the old standard with lots and lots of miles on it and is currently in need of another oil change.  It's enough to make me not want to risk the trip at all.  If either car were to break down on me, not only would the trip be a bust, but I'd be out a lot of money and be in need of a replacement vehicle.  This has been a woe of mine my entire life.  

It's fear and doubt layered over the life experience of never owning a reliable vehicle and always being uncertain of the vehicular capabilities of what I have.  That fear has kept me from a lot of potential adventures in my life.  It's also not unsimilar to the other fear responses I deal with in all areas of my life which I am trying to overcome.  So in the face of a decision which could be perceived as irresponsible and a tad reckless, I think I'm going to strike out on this trip here in a little while.  I'm going to try to go fast and light, frugally, and quietly (after this HUGE blog post) and maybe have a second great adventure in 2024 to really solidify it as the greatest year of my life and the turning point I have been grinding toward for a long time.  And even if I fail...I will have succeeded. 

Light Risk: A Study in Personal Responsibility

The Crash Test Librarian shared this article with me recently.  We discussed related issues, and I felt like it made sense to express the gist of that conversation here.  It’s relevant and timely coming on the heels of my big solo Grand Trip 

The article from earlier this month reports that the Grand County, Colorado search and rescue teams made the hard decision to leave the body of mountain runner Vincent Pane on Arikaree Peak where he had fallen to his death.  The author goes on to delve into the phenomenon of what he calls “light-and-quick” athletes trying to claim FKT on the L.A. Freeway traverse of Indian Peaks in Colorado as well as looking into the broader interest in such activities.

Pane had fallen—not on the L.A. Freeway route, but still traversing to the summit of Arikaree—and ended up in steep and unstable terrain, making recovery extremely dangerous for even the (presumably) highly trained search and rescue teams in the area.    

Storms rolling over Indian Peaks from Shoshoni

As I read the article I couldn’t help relate it to my own recent experience on Cloud Peak.  I was alone and in a remote area.  I was hyper-cognizant to my precarious situation.  One point the author made was that many of the light-and-quick folks go with little more than a water bottle and are not prepared for worst case scenarios. 

I went very light on Cloud Peak considering the situation.  I took a water filter and extra bladder, snacks for the day, a puffy jacket in addition to layers, and a headlamp.  My strategy was not to improve my speed as a primary effect, but simply to ensure my chances of success by preserving my precious fifty-year-old energy.  I knew any unnecessary and excess weight would sap my strength quicker, but I was also distinctly aware I was trading lighter weight for lighter security. 

My choices on that climb were complex, and some more intuitive than explicit.  If something and had happened on the mountain I hoped I would at least be able to return to camp where I had enough food, a good water source, and ample shelter.  It was close to a relatively well-travelled trail where aid would be slow but accessible.  That wasn’t my full emergency plan, but it was a factor in my planning.  Obviously, things can happen which would prevent me returning to camp, but for less serious incidents that was a distinct option.

To me, what is more important than what I carry in my backpack is what I carry in my head.  It’s experience and judgement that truly protect you.  The only thing I lack in that arena is confidence at times, but I know I know what to do in an emergency, or that I’ll figure it out.  As far as what would happen if I were to fall hundreds of feet down a cliff and die…I don’t worry about that.  I had left a detailed itinerary with my parents, with my daughter, and in my car which included expected times in and out of places where I had no cell service.  I researched the appropriate points of contact for each jurisdiction I was in and included a detailed description of my vehicle, my camping gear, and myself.  I made sure to carry my ID when I left camp.  There’s not much else you can do in case of a fatal mistake.  But like I said, I wasn’t concerned with fatal mistakes other than to do my best to avoid them.

My recent solo scramble to the top of Haystack Rock

Looking down the exposed and rounded
4th class section I had to downclimb

More than once, I considered the old adage: if you carry bivy gear you’ll end up bivying.  I was very cautious, not trying to break any records (or bones) and even still I knew my situation was precarious.  In the end my decision to go light was a strategy to balance the known with the unknown.

While on the climb I did consider the consequences of my decisions and any potential mistakes or incidents.  I typically make a point not to use the word “accident.”  I believe that word represents an unreal concept.  Most people consider accidents as something unavoidable and out of their control, but I believe that our choices lead us to every outcome.  I could have decided not to go to Cloud Peak and avoided any risk in that realm. 

I considered what a rescue or recovery of my person would entail.  I considered the impact to local SAR.  To my family.  To myself.  Despite exploring the graphical nature of those images in my head I pushed on through walls of doubt and fear to overcome the obstacle in front of me.

This article awakened many of those thoughts.  They weren’t new thoughts to me even on Cloud Peak.  These are things I’ve pondered my whole life.  Cloud Peak was really my biggest adventure.  I’d put myself farther from comfort and safety than I had at any other point in my life.

Falling from the summit of Cloud Peak was not an option

In considering the article, there was a strong sense of search and rescue members feeling as if the phenomenon of mountain runners was putting a strain on their resources.  I see that in the Red River Gorge as well.  Here it’s less glamourous and more often just day hikers who have gotten themselves into supposed trouble, but the impacts are similar.

My theory on this is that technology, and specifically internet capable smart phones, have lowered the barriers to entry for all outdoor activities.  Knowledge that would have taken years to develop prior to the internet is now available instantaneously to anyone minus the experience that goes with natural attainment.  People who would have never had the courage to venture into the woods are now tromping all around letting whatever outdoor app they downloaded direct them to overlooks, waterfalls, and alpine rock climbs without the critical problem-solving skills they need to keep themselves out of unreasonable danger.

Social media compounds this problem by luring people with the promise of dopamine hits to places that historically would have remained obscure and relatively unknown.  Geotagging and instantaneous feedback on logistical queries further accelerates the mutually assured destruction of the amateur recreationalist as well as the landscape they flock to.  

And then we consider the public perception of the Pane case.  Our movies and TV shows romanticize never leaving anyone behind.  The cold hard truth of human existence is that for thousands of years individuals have disappeared and decomposed without a trace.  It’s only in modern times that we exert absurd volumes of resources to rescue the hopeless and recover the unsavable.  I love the meme that mentions how much money the US has spent to save Matt Damon’s characters in three different movies (Saving Private Ryan, The Martian, and Interstellar).  It’s an interesting point to consider: if a lone human were stranded on Mars, what would be the justification for expending billions of dollars to save them?

Should Vincent Pane’s body rest in peace on the mountain he fell from?  Mount Everest is a giant icy tomb for many mountaineers.  Recovery of fallen climbers in the death zone is beyond difficult.  I agree with the principle that search and rescue operations should not endanger the rescuers.  There is always an element of risk, but when the likelihood of harm becomes overwhelming it’s time to make the hard decisions.

What worries me is that these kinds of things will end up causing more restrictions in the outdoors.  Public perception will be that these people (any outdoor enthusiasts) need to be saved from themselves.  It’s possible as a culture we’ll end up moving to a point where waivers are required everywhere, and you might have the option to waive the right to rescue if you choose to go beyond certain boundaries.

These stories can become high profile new items in our perpetual craving for excitement in the palms of our hands.  People get worked up when they hear a dead body can’t be recovered.  Some will rail against the adventurer for daring to impose on others while the flip side is people will complain government and land managers aren’t doing enough to prevent/promote such endeavors.

The best path to adventure truly is the old way: learning from a mentor or at least through a slow progression of trial and error, and not leaping fully formed from the trailhead into the unknown wilderness abyss.  I know the idea of the Boy Scouts is controversial these days, but the underlying purpose of such organizations was to educate young people in life and the outdoors, and it provided a structured and rich point of entry into many activities including rock climbing, paddling, hiking and even mountaineering. 

Not to be a blatant Luddite, but as a society we need to foster more hands-on learning overseen by those experienced in the outdoors.  We need to prepare people to thrive in the outdoors and be self-reliant, to not depend on technology for their confidence or their safety.  I’m not proposing an aesthetic choice, but truly a choice which will prevent a lot of the problems that are growing in the outdoor recreation realm every day.

My opinion is that this instantaneous access we have to information is crippling us.  As the Crash Test Librarian succinctly stated: “We totally lost the plot with the internet.”  There is a vast digital library of knowledge on the out there, but you have to plow through layers and layers of every stupid thing scratched on the digital bathroom stalls of the web since the dawn of our collective consciousness when Al Gore flipped the switch and turned it all on.

My attitude toward risk in the mountains (or elsewhere) is that I would rather live the life I want and face the potential of dying in harsh environments over laying on the couch pining for that life.  The world is big and terrible and amazing, and I want to see as much of it as I can while I’m here.  If I were to die in the mountains, I don’t see that as a tragedy.  It’s better to die happy, doing what you love, than wasting away unfulfilled or being killed by the machinery of society for less reason. 

Life is dangerous.  We aren’t immortal.  I could die on my way home from work.  I could die in my bed at night.  Life is short and fragile and precious—even more reason to live fully and accept the outcome of your own decisions.

As an addendum to the original post, I do want to clarify that I believe strongly in personal responsibility.  People need to take on outdoor adventures with full knowledge of their own capabilities and be willing to make hard choices themselves.  Do I sit out overnight and wait until daylight to find my way out, or do I call for SAR because I don't want to sit scared? 

I'm not saying I would never call Search and Rescue on my own behalf.  What I am saying is that I make every effort to not need SAR in the first place.  And I would do my best to self-rescue if I got into trouble.  Once I sprained my ankle hiking.  I was a mile from my car, and while not the worst sprain I've had, it was painful, and I had difficulty walking on it.  As I lurched and stumbled through the woods, I pondered who I could call to come lend a shoulder to help me get out.  In the end, I decided by the time someone could get to me I could also get myself out however uncomfortable and painful that might have been.  If I had broken my ankle or leg, I'm certain I would have made a different choice.  

That's not the only or first time I sprained an ankle while alone in the woods.  The first time was more dire in a sense.  I was trailrunning a few years ago on a steep and loose downhill and violently rolled my ankle.  I was about half a mile from my car with no cell service, no one knew where I was, and it was just before dusk in February.  I had to hobble out and drive my stick shift car home.  

Both instances have given me more awareness of the importance of letting someone know where I am and to be more careful with my own body when out alone.  They have also helped me delve more into my own beliefs on personal responsibility and consequence, and I stand by the things I've said.