“Like a viscous white smoke, the clouds we watched dancing above as we climbed completely engulfed us. It was a sea of cold and white. And it was dead quiet. We were thrust into an otherworldly realm.”

The following account details my trek up Mount Marcy, the highest peak in the Adirondack Mountains, with Michael D’Onofrio (www.donofriomedia.com) and Jordan Daggar (www.jdaggar.squarespace.com). Click the button below to hear to the playlist that was our soundtrack driving to and from the mountain. Hit shuffle and listen as you read.

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March 14, 2019 - 11:31PM

Barreling down a darkened Adirondack road, Mike riding shotgun, Jordan taking up the rear. The roads were clear but snow began to pile up on the peripheries as the elevation rose. Blew by a sign that read “Rough road ahead;” didn’t think much of it. We had places to be, and we didn’t expect the car, loaded with 3 adventurers, full gear packs, and booze to go airborne from a seemingly minute bump in the road. BANG! Mike’s head hits the roof of my car. Jordan is jolted awake from a road nap. The front wheels of my car swerve as we make contact with land again. Nothing serious, just a stark awakening and a message to slow down.

Just like clockwork, still shook from going airborne, a deer darts out into the road narrowly missing being exploded by the hood of my car. Not entirely sure how we didn’t hit the bambi, but if anything, it foreshadowed the rough road we had coming for us.

It was nearly midnight when we arrived at a whacky Airbnb in Saranac Lake, NY; about 30 minutes away from our trailhead. The walls were covered with a pastel green wallpaper adorned with a bizarre bird pattern. There was one main room occupied almost entirely by a bed and a hallway with 3 doors: one a bathroom, one with a sign that read “DO NOT TOUCH DOORKNOB DOG WILL BARK” and one that lead to a mystery area we were skeptical was even part of our rental. But eventually we opened the door and found another bedroom, complete with only a mattress on the floor.

The plan was to wake up at 5AM and hit the trail at first light, but that didn’t stop us from imbibing a little before bed. A questionable decision at best, and it wouldn’t be the last. I’m pretty sure that place was haunted. That night I fell asleep to creaks and moans and dreams of ghosts.

March 15, 2019 - 5:37 AM

The alarm, growing ever more ticked off at our constant snoozing finally gave out as the day began to come to life. It was barely perceivable at first, just a faint and deep shade of navy blue on the horizon. A shade so dark you’re not sure if it’s blue or black. Like a distant voice breaking through radio static.

It was nearly 6:30AM by the time we made it out the door. When we reached the trailhead it was nearly 7, the night had all but fully turned into day, and a thick cloud covering shrouded the sky, giving the world a surreal purple glow. The mountain was beckoning, the daylight was limited and we were eager to begin our trek. It would be foolish, however, to embark without first grabbing a map and speaking to the rangers about the conditions near the peak. To our dismay, the lodge didn’t open until 8 so our trip would be further delayed. That would prove to be for the best.

Our time was spent searching for a bathroom and boiling water for some freeze-dried breakfast and hot tea. We filled two 1-liter thermoses full of tea to bring with us up the mountain. When the lodge finally opened, a decent crowd of other explorers had gathered. All of them had snowshoes and hiking poles, both pieces of gear we lacked, but we didn’t think much of it.

We were perusing the general store within the lodge when one of the rangers asked us where we were going.

“Mount Marcy,” we replied.

They then asked if we had snowshoes, to which we all looked at each other and muttered, “Uhhhh, no.”

“It’s required by law to wear snowshoes right now.”

Dead silence on our end.

“You can rent a pair for $20.”

And so we obliged, each getting a pair and immediately strapping them to our packs, not thinking we would need them until we got near the peak. We couldn’t have been more wrong.

8:13AM

The adventure begins. Two hours later than planned. Step one was to sign our life away in a logbook at the trail head. Jordan filled out our names, planned hike, and the time we expected to be back. All left in a wooden box at the bottom of the mountain as to hopefully give the rescue team clues as to where to look if we don’t come back.

It started off easy; just a gentle stroll through the woods. A good amount of the beginning was actually downhill. But at the first sign of any sort of incline, our unprotected boots began punching holes in the snow cover. Not even a quarter mile into the 15-mile hike, we were deinstalling our snowshoes from our packs and strapping them onto our feet. It was quite hilarious and idiotic to see us walk walk with snowshoes for the first time. (Yes, I said first time. This is the first time we were using snowshoes.) But despite an awkward penguin waddle and some hip pain, our venture became significantly easier. Very quickly we realized how screwed we would have been if we hadn’t waited to speak to the rangers.

The weather started off quite pleasant actually; high 40s, mid-50s. But then the rains came. Jordan and I wrapped ourselves and our packs in ponchos which were really just glorified garbage bags and Mike threw on a raincoat he had from childhood. One of those jackets that was far too big when you were young, is a little snug now, but gets the job done. The rain was nothing too detrimental to our progress, it just made everything a little soggy.

We reached our first milestone around 10AM. Marcy Dam. We stopped to catch our breath and take some photographs. Just as we pressed on, the rain let up, albeit just for a moment. That would be the story for most of the trip up, but we were in good spirits. High moral and we were making great time. Soon enough, the sun began to peak out from behind the clouds between rain showers. But that was when the main ascent up Marcy proper began. Climbing these inclines would have been no problem in the warm months, but 3 feet of snow cover and inexperience with snowshoes made it extraordinarily painful. We did eventually discover little levers you could flip up on out shoes that made inclines significantly easier which we deemed “blasters.” Whenever the man who was leading the pack deemed in necessary, he would yell “engage blasters” and we’d all stop and flip up what I would later learn was called a heel lift.

Every so often we would see a deep boot-sized hole punched into the trail. Clearly someone was trying to do this without snowshoes and wasn’t having a good time.

Nearing the halfway mark we came upon a frozen river. Marcy Brook. We walked right across it without problem. It was idle. Flowing waters halted by the cold. Just the sound of a slight trickle emanated from a patch in the snow that had thawed. We followed the river to the crest of Indian Falls, which offered an immaculate view of the MacIntyre Range. The choice was made to stop here for lunch. What a perfect spot! Even with the cold winds blowing over the exposed ridge. This was also the only time that I broke out my large-format camera and tripod I was lugging up the mountain.

Shot on Ilford FP4 on a Graflex Crown Graphic 4x5 Field Camera

As soon as we began again is when the tide of the trek shifted. The sun had disappeared again and the incline grew more severe. Thankfully the rain clouds had moved away, but we were still soaked; both from precipitation and perspiration. After what seemed like ages of trudging up the mountain, engaging and disengaging blasters, Mount Marcy’s icy head peered over the ever-thinning pine trees. It was only about a mile and a half away but it seemed like it was across the universe. I believe there was a collective “we should turn back” notion that passed over all three of us in that instance. But that was quickly replaced with a collective “hell no” and we pressed on.

There was a moment, or a feeling rather, that I remember vividly around this time. I’m not sure if it was the elevation or the lack of hydration, but I suddenly felt a wave of a feeling similar to anxiety come over me with each passing breeze. A mountain air contact high of sorts. I looked over at Jordan and Mike and they looked as if they were feeling the same thing. But there was a peak to be reached, and at that point nothing was getting in our way.

The trees grew shorter and shorter; a combination of snow drift and the limits life is given at this kind of elevation. The view from along the ridge we were hiking was remarkable, but that was taken from us in what felt like an instant. Like a viscous white smoke, the clouds we watched dancing above as we climbed completely engulfed us. It was a sea of cold and white. And it was dead quiet. We were thrust into an otherworldly realm. Nothing existed beyond what you could see 10 feet in front of you. Every once in a while we would get a glimpse of a lone pine or a mammoth boulder pointing us in the right direction.

Miraculously we traversed this dreamlike wasteland and made it to what we thought or assumed was the summit. Alas, it was just a fool’s peak. The winds howled and pushed some of the clouds away revealing what was the true peak another hundred feet or so up a steep incline. We could feel the fear coming on with each passing gust of wind, but we came this far. It would be a shame to just say “close enough.” So we dumped our packs and quite literally crawled on our hands and knees to reach the summit of Mount Marcy.

4:14PM

I stood up tall. 5,344 feet above the sea; shrouded in frigid mystery. Ecstasy flooded my veins as the realization of completion took me over. That feeling was short lived, however, as the 80+ MPH winds ripping over the crest of the mountain nearly toppled me over. That’s when the fear and extreme awareness of the situation set in. We were out there all alone on a frozen mountain peak, surrounded by a stark nothingness. Our supplies were dwindled down to a dribble of water in each of our bottles, and one thermos of hot tea. We had completed the mission but had yet to make it out alive. A swig of celebratory mountain whiskey was all we had time for on the peak.

We summited later than expected and knew we had to push it to get back before sundown, but man, was moral low. There was no ethereal goal of reaching the top, we were exhausted, out of food and nearly out of water, and our legs were on the verge of giving out. So it was slow going at first as we began our decent. Following nothing but intuition and what remained of our snowshoe tracks, we made it back to the tree line where we were greeted with at least some semblance of reality.

We were hurting, but at least it was all downhill from there. Unfortunately, I mean that both literally and figuratively. The worst was yet to come, and it came out of nowhere at the worst time.

Two hours later, about 45 minutes until sunset, we made it back to the halfway point: Indian Falls and Marcy Brook. However, this time around it was a completely difference scene. The once frozen stream was now a raging river, bisecting the one and only trail leading down the mountain. The warmer weather of the afternoon must have caused it to thaw out and now melting ice, snow, and rain was barreling down the mountain and over the falls just a few meters downstream.

That sight sent a shockwave through all three of us. The situation became very real. A combination of panic and survival mode kicked in. We thought of following the river back up the mountain in hopes of finding a way over. I came very close to trying to jump it at a slightly narrower section. It got to a point where we began ripping dead trees out of the ground as a sad attempt to make a bridge. We eventually got a pretty decent sized trunk out of the frozen earth, but when we laid it down over the water, it was immediately swept away downstream.

The sun light was rapidly disappearing, especially since we were further down the mountain. Still 4.5 miles away from the trailhead, we had to do something and do it fast or we’d be stuck out in the middle of nowhere either waiting for rescue or an icy grave. What it came down to, as per Mike’s suggestion, was to strip down to nothing but our bare feet, roll up our pants, and walk through the wintry water.

We gathered all the hand and toe warmers we had left and opened them up so they would be warm when we made it to the other side. The point of no return came when we heaved our boots and snowshoes across the river. Our hearts all skipped a beat when one of Mike’s snowshoes ricocheted off a patch of ice and nearly got sucked away by the river. Luckily all our shoes made it across and we were ready to take perhaps the most frightening steps in our lives.

I volunteered to go first. With bare feet on snow, pants pulled up as tight as I could get them into my crotch, and my pack on my back, I took the plunge. That first step was the single most horrifying moment of my life. I stepped into the river and immediately and shockingly sunk straight through the slush beneath the water and found myself nearly waist deep in the tumultuous waters. I was in complete shock and I thank God I didn’t lose my balance or start to panic. I trudged through the snow and water to the other side where I found myself eyelevel with the snowbank. I just remember throwing myself face first onto the snow and somehow pulling myself out of the water. My vision went blurry and all sound was muffled and I found myself laying on my back in a daze across the river.

I’m not sure where my mind went but I snapped backed into reality when I heard Mike and Jordan yelling from across the river to get my feet out of the snow. In almost comical fashion, I lift my feet and legs over my head as I’m lying on my back. It’s true that when adrenaline kicks in, your fear and pain diminish, at least for a moment. But once I began to dry my feet and legs off with my extra sweater, the cold erupted through my lower extremities. It was so cold it felt like hot lava was being pumped through my veins starting from my toes and quickly taking over my entire body. That is a level of cold I have never experienced nor want to ever come close to again.

As I’m stuffing hand warmers and toe warmers into my boots and putting my socks back on, Jordan began his icy journey. He too immediately sank into the slush, but he was prepared for it so he kept his cool and quickly made it across. Mike made the mistake of stepping in right after Jordan so he was stuck standing in the river while Jordan belly flopped on the the snowbank. Mike also had on the heaviest pack so he sank even further into the river, to the point where part of his pack was submerged.

We pulled Mike out of the water and he assumed the same position I did with his feet in the air.

While doing jumping jacks to stay warm as they got their boots back on, that “holy shit” feeling really took hold of me. We had wet feet, very limited water, about 15 minutes until dark, and 4.5 miles to go. We had to get moving, and we had to move fast. Just as we were about to head out, Mike realized his thermos full of hot tea, which was on the side of his pack, was lost to the stream. That meant even less drinkable water for the group, and a loss of the moral boosting sip of a hot beverage. Nonetheless, we pressed on. Full speed ahead.

The majority of the next couple miles was a chaotic, dizzying blur of darkness and flashes of light. Mike was smart enough to bring a flashlight, while Jordan and I were stuck with the built-in flashlights on our phones which inevitably died. We were moving at what felt like Mach 5, essentially running down the mountain. Whoever took the lead would use the flashlight and yell out any obstacles or hazards in our way, whether it was a branch, rock, or one of the holes plunged by someone not wearing snowshoes. By the time we reached Marcy Dam, it was pitch black outside, and I was seriously running on empty at that point. The only thing that kept us going was a desperate conversation about what food we’re going to devour once we make it back to safety.

Towards the end Mike and Jordan were eating snow they were so thirsty. Generally not advisable, but sometimes desperation takes over. The final leg was upon us, but what was a gentle decline on the way out, was now a gentle incline which nearly did me in. It got to a point where I essentially collapsed from exhaustion. I was too dazed to remember what was said, but the other guys offered some words of encouragement that kept the train rolling. I also discovered a sip of tea that was left in the bottom of my thermos. Still hot. It’s amazing how something as simple as words and a sip of stale, bitter tea can make all the difference.

And so onward we pressed until we could quite literally see the light at the end of the tunnel. The porch lights from the lodge. Somehow, we ran those last few meters to the parking lot. We were ecstatic to see level, hard ground and my car, which held food and water just a few feet away. We checked ourselves out of the logbook, ensuring the rangers that we didn’t die, and ran to the car. It was like a stereotypical scene of someone getting off a deserted island and getting food and water for the first time in years. Jordan guzzled nearly a gallon of water, Mike and I literally ate an entire jar of peanut butter, and we all huddled around the still-cold-but-slightly-warmer air coming from my car’s vents. We all called our loved ones and Mike even cracked open and slammed a Budweiser from the trunk. (Questionable choice but an admirable one nonetheless).

9:34PM; over 13 hours since we embarked.

The pain in my feet was insufferable. They were still cold and wet, I could feel a magnum blister had formed, and they felt as if someone repeatedly smashed them with a pickaxe. It was hard to even drive my car. I believe it was the call of hot food and a bed pulled, not my foot on the gas, that brought us all the way back to Saranac.

The climb was over, but our plight continued. All of the local restaurants had closed already, so we wouldn’t be able to get any of the food we fantasized about on the way down. We did manage to find a pizzeria that was still open, albeit was closing in 5 minutes. We called and essentially begged them to make us a pizza and thankfully they obliged. That large pepperoni pie was gone in about 0.2 seconds. Our conscious minds lasted just about as long as the pizza. We all knocked out, and without even having our celebratory drink(s)!

And so we went to sleep with throbbing feet, salty hair, and dreamt of a white capped mountain; traversed and conquered.

The following two days of our trip were for the large part spent recovering, driving around during the day, and celebrating at night.

Reflecting on this journey immediately after and again over a year later, it is clear to us that we were unprepared. We would have been fine, if the river hadn’t thawed. But that is exactly what it means to be prepared. Expect that you will have to do the impossible, hope that it never comes, but when it does:

Be Brave.

The gallery below includes photographs taken the following days of our trip throughout the High Peaks Region, as well as some photos from the climb that didn’t make it into the written story.