Cold River and Moose Pond: Traverse of the High Peaks Wilderness
November, 1992: I’d just copied this from The Prophet, by the Lebanese poet
Kahlil Gibran: “And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet
and the winds long to play with your hair.”
The correct way to test that hypothesis, obviously, was via a grueling, 50 mile
hike through the Adirondacks’ High Peaks region. And as the autumn entered its
wan, second half, that’s what we did.
The moon was full the evening before we entered the Adirondack park, after - as
usual - a long drive northward and eastward from Ithaca, and a night stuffing
as much of Dave’s mom’s fantastic cooking in our bellies as we could. Autumn
was becoming early winter, but what we wanted wasn’t green canopy over our
heads, but the perfect isolation of wilderness, and a chance to soak in the
scents and sounds of the world. With boots laced up and bags strapped on our
backs, we set off walking through birches that looked yellow and tired, and set
our sights on the far side of the empty woods. Leaves were still falling, but
there was more color pooled around our feet than over our heads. Above us, the
empty boughs conspired to let in the light of the late autumn moon.
From Shattuck Clearing, Duck Hole lie a full 12 miles uphill and 500 feet
higher in elevation. We walked it mostly in the valley of - and alongside - the
Cold River. It was the largest river I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting, and
I got to know it in the tradition of the Adirondacks: by dipping a steel
camper’s cup into it and taking a long drink. Every hiker knows that’s risky,
but the map showed clearly there was nothing upstream but mountainous
wilderness, and the water was clean, clear, and delicious. And of course: cold!
By mid-day, aching legs required a rest, and we paused to snack next to the
tumultuous waters of a small waterfall, where sharp rocks had been cut smooth
by years of running water, now channeled into a boisterous fury by the shape of
the land. Already, we felt exposed to a sense of harmony you don’t sense in the
places most shaped by humans. Above us, framed on both sides by the stiletto
tops of the pines, was a canvas of grey, cool, autumn sky. There was a still
beauty to it, but it looked unforgiving.
We tramped wearily to Duck Hole, where our trail guide had described the little
lean-to as dirty and worse for the wear. No hiker I know would see fit to
complain about such a welcoming sight at the end of a long hike! Duck Hole lie
at 2180 feet, a dark patch of silver wedged between sharp peaked mountains and
a cold sky. At one end, a small water fall gurgled as Duck - and the other two
Preston Ponds - drained southward into the Cold River through a fast-flowing
stream. Out towards the center, a little islet stood forested with pines and
inhabited by nothing but rabbits and raccoons.[1] The kindness of strangers:
some previous hiker had left us a store of some dry food.
Our third day of hiking led us through a narrow gorge past water channels with
names like “Roaring Brook.” Moose Pond was truly remote, with the rugged,
Sawtooth Mountains on one side, at over 3500 feet, and Street and Nye Mountains
behind its back, towering at over 4000 feet. On all sides, it was forest. We
arrived just as storm clouds broke over the Sawteeth, and with nothing to do
but relax before rustling up some dinner, we kicked up our boots and watched
nature take its course.
It’s hard to underestimate the wilderness of this part of the Adirondacks. I
don’t recall seeing a single other hiker the entire week. The lateness of the
season clearly had something to do with it, but this stretch of the Adirondacks
is truly remote. We cooked a meal to be proud of that evening: beef stew, clam
chowder, tomato rice with fried, sweet red peppers and onions, homemade mashed
potatoes with butter and au gratin potatoes, followed by apple sauce. Packs
lightened, we relaxed around the fire, reading Patrick McManus stories from a
paperback while the wood burned down to embers. But Moose Pond had some
surprises for us: as we finished setting up sleeping bags, I let out a little
wolf call. Immediately it was answered: coyotes, on all sides of us, and not
too far away. We had been watched: for how long? As the forest returned to
silence, the fire guttered, and night was upon us.
A storm passed through that night, leaving us a bit weather-beaten but glad for
the shelter that had kept us dry. As we packed our bags and prepared for the
final march northwards towards Lake Placid, we surveyed the peaks around Moose
Pond. On the other side, the Sawtooth Mountains gleamed with newly-fallen snow.
Time to walk. Our track began to descend. Having traversed the watershed, the
water was flowing northward now, into the Chubb River and toward Lake Ontario.
We passed the lovely but somewhat over-visited Wannika Falls. The valley
flattened, the trail turned muddy and soft, and as we descended we reached
Averyville Road, where my jeep was still waiting for us. Home then, down the
long, concrete highway back to Ithaca and the real world of obligations and
schoolwork and society, our taste of the wilderness still fresh on our souls.
--
[1] Turns out, the landscape around Duck Hole has been altered permanently by
Hurricane Irene, which destroyed the dam and drained the pond.
