I will be bliss

David and I are like old friends, who aren’t actually that old of friends. Nor are we old people that share a friendship. So, we’re actually like young friends, with a preschool friendship, who united in the enjoyment of each other’s company and a borderline fanatic obsession with the outdoors and extreme adventure.

Our friendship initially blossomed via UF Recsports and its lively subdivision, RAC. Through Recsports (and RAC), David and I worked (and partied) as Flag Football Referees during our coming-of-age college years. To give you perspective, most of our time together has been spent with a whistle on a sports field (or smushed into the dimly lit booths of Gainesville’s Grog House during their weekly “All You Can Drink” special). In addition to being able to successfully tolerate and manage testosterone-driven fraternity flag football leagues, and being able to not-so-successfully withstand more alcohol than the average college student, David and I also share the adventure bug. Our friendship has taken us to mountain peaks in the Colorado Rockies, as well as indigenous villages and milk trucks in the Andes Mountains of South America.

It had been a year since our last adventure together, and needless to say, the clock was ticking very loudly for some new travels to take place. David, being a school teacher who coordinates a hefty travel schedule during his summer months, opted to bring his gear and cheery attitude to the Northeast this July so that we could explore the Adirondack Mountains. The Adirondacks had been calling my name ever since I moved to New York City in October 2017, and David’s similar curiosity for Northeast nature was about to make this wishful dream a reality.

Moving to NYC almost two years ago has really broadened my horizons to the Northeastern United States, which previously had been nothing short of foreign to me. After two years of exposure to this part of the country, I must say that the Northeast is, well, interesting. In my simplest interpretation, it feels to me like a crossover between the melting pot of some of the greatest intellects in the world and the motherland of 5th generation schooner operators who define their life by the moon and the tides. I’m not really sure why I feel this way about the Northeast. It just feels like it’s busting with so much intelligence and new-age, scholastic achievement, yet I equally feel like traditional, simple-minded fishermen are crawling throughout these coastal New England towns. Of course, there’s much more cultural breadth and history to this territory than two distinct personas. And, whose to say that there maybe isn’t a little of both extremes residing inside each of its inhabitants. But, if the explanation of an entire region’s population were left to my imagination, the Northeast would consist solely of varying external displays of Albert Einstein and Captain Ahab.

That being said, I can’t say that I’ve absolutely fallen in love with the Northeast as a whole. But I can say that NYC exclusively is one of the most magical places I’ve been fortunate to intimately experience and call my home. NYC has a piece of my heart, and it will forever remain a symbol for ambition and opportunity in my life.

My journey in NYC so far has been a whirlwind of hope and defeat, love and loss, self-growth and self-destruction, serenity and chaos–like I said, a little bit of both. I’ve had the highest of highs here, but have also concluded that there is an ever-looming demonic monster living under the Subway tracks that will constantly try to corner me into fear and self-sabotage if I let it. But, I can’t change my experience here, nor would I ever want to. Because at the end of the day, my bloodline runs directly from Ellis Island to Mott Street, down Ocean Avenue and up to Sheepshead Bay. Whether I wanted to or not, my family heritage–beginning with the immigration facilities in the New York Harbor–pulled me straight back to this town as if I had no free will in the decision at all. I was called here by fate, like Zero was to the Big Thumb, to live out some of the most transformative years of my life.

So yeah, I love New York despite the ups and downs it has provided, and I hoped David would too, despite knowing that we were in store for some quite literal ups and downs on this journey.

—

David had an AM flight into the city the day before we would begin our adventure. This gave him a few hours to explore the Big Apple while I tied up any lose ends at my nine-to-five and then said adieu to the office for the weekend.

It was nearing 6pm that day when David and I finally locked arms at an REI in SoHo. Although we had a few sporadic phone conversations leading up to this moment, our union inside REI marked the start of our definitive trip planning. Our trip that was taking place in roughly 12 hours… yikes.

Now, to set the stage here, I should inform you that David has proudly earned the official title of Eagle Scout, aka the highest ranked wilderness survival title in Boys Scouts of America. And beyond technical training, being an Eagle Scout also comes with the soft skills of over-preparedness, thinking 20-steps ahead, and dominating the leadership role in groups of any and all sizes. Because of this, I could tell David’s mental gears were turning a lot quicker than mine in that REI as we discussed our lack of not only a tent for the trip, but also any awareness of the wooded territory that we were about to be sleeping in for next three nights.

Until this moment, I hadn’t been too concerned with our state of affairs. I am definitely not, nor will I ever be, an Eagle Scout. In fact, I’m quite the opposite. I’m more of a free spirit, everything happens how it’s supposed to, trust in the Universe, let go and let God kind of person. I like to live by the motto, “Sometimes the best adventures come from life’s unplanned moments.” But, as David and I shared stares of “WTF are we doing?”, my laissez-faire attitude was starting to feel like a hindrance in this particular situation, and I knew that I quickly needed to change my mindset.

Having had a rough week in the city, I just couldn’t be bothered to think ahead for this trip. And in that REI, I was slowly starting to remember that I also didn’t have a sleeping bag, I needed to touch-base with my uncle whose car we would be borrowing from Long Island, we needed a tangible address to put into a GPS tomorrow, and, oh yeah… bears! In the little free time that I did have that week, I read several articles confirming that bears were definitely a thing in the Adirondacks. Maybe black. Maybe grizzly. Maybe aggressive. Maybe friendly but a nuisance. I didn’t know. The extent of my research only proved that bears were living and breathing and eating (hopefully not humans) in the Adirondack Mountains that summer, which was definitely some valuable, yet troubling insight to have.

As the night progressed, instead of letting our procrastination get the best of us, we paused our worries for a moment and did a quick google search for “Adirondacks camping gear rentals.” And sure enough, after a brief phone call with a lovely man named Brian–who chuckled at my requests and showed a little more concern for our lack of planning than I–we had secured a tent, sleeping bag, and bear canister upon arrival to the state park. We also solidified an address for the GPS, and Brian assured us that he was a professional outdoor specialist who could answer any trail navigation/backpacking related questions once we arrived in his store tomorrow–how wonderful.

A few text exchanges later with my uncle and we were also now set to arrive in Hicksville at 6:58am to load his car with the camping gear that we did possess and say our final farewells to urban civilization. Things were really starting to shape up for us in the planning department, and I could sense David was regaining confidence in his decision to commit to this trip.

As the afternoon turned to night, and REI ceased to provide us with any more inspiration (or equipment for that matter), we headed to my apartment to consolidate our belongings, take a final peak at the trail map, and say our prayers for good fortune.

I love this shit.

Day 1

The early morning business traveler’s commute from my apartment to the Subway to Penn Station and finally aboard an MTA train is like second nature to me. After working in the consulting world for 11 months post college graduation, I was buying train tickets, plane tickets, and rental cars more often than I was, to keep it simple, enjoying my life. Don’t get me wrong, I love to travel, but I just couldn’t get on board with the tech-consultant lifestyle, so I quite my job a year ago and haven’t looked back since.

Today, David and I’s morning began by reenacting this treasured commute of mine, but instead of ending up at an airport, we found ourselves at the Hicksville train station and subject to the complete mercy of my uncle. My uncle is a character, to say the least. He’s your very stereotypical, old school New Yorker who loves the city and is overwhelmingly proud of everything it has to offer. Contrary to the New Yorker reputation, my uncle was very gracious in lending us his Honda CRV for the weekend, with no questions asked. He wasn’t concerned with our travel destination, our trip itinerary (thank god), or even when we would be returning. He just wanted us to be safe and come back in one piece, which we fully intended on doing.

Being deprived of a car in NYC for two years caused me to become slightly possessive of the Honda. I wanted to do all the driving to all the places. Not necessarily because I didn’t trust David’s road skills, but because I severely missed the unique freedom directly associated with sitting behind a steering wheel. Zooming down the interstate with the windows down, sunroof open, and Indigo Girls blasting through the car speakers is my happy place. A place that I was not immune to while living in the flat-lands of Florida, but that has been impossible to maintain whilst trying to create a life in the concrete jungle.

When we finally arrived in Lake Placid, David and I had probably been awake for 8 hours (it was only 1pm at that point), and we were also starving. After a few wrong turns, or right turns–whichever way you wanna look at it–we ended up at a McDonalds. I usually never discriminate against fast food chains, and I wasn’t about to start now because Micky Dee’s was the perfect mystery fuel for David and I’s still mystery adventure.

Between the crunchy snack wraps and large fries, we decided to finally get our game faces on. This was no pool chair, beachside, cocktail-under-the-cabana weekend that we were in store for, and it was time we started acting like it (hence the McDonalds). First things first was our arrival at the High Peaks Cyclery. Brian, the store owner, had promised us some affordable rental gear and a detailed explanation of a self-guided, three-night backpacking adventure. So with our new attitudes in check, we strutted into Brian’s store and asked to speak directly with the man.

In an anticlimactic turn of events, Brian had “just stepped away,” but fortunately there was a less-qualified, yet totally available associate to briefly fill his role–Jeremy. Jeremy was another radical adventure specialist, but one who very much lacked the enthusiasm and assuredness that I felt with Brian over the phone. Without hesitation, David and I expressed our wants, needs, and concerns to Jeremy, and prayed that we would find clarity in his responses. All in all, Jeremy was a great help in securing a few camping necessities, but he didn’t say much more than “for sure!” when faced with our detrimental questions and concerns, and in the end, he provided us with no affirmative direction for any part of the trip that we were now hurriedly trying to plan.

Just as I was accepting defeat and feeling foolish in my decision to trust a fleeting person like Brian with our survival, he magically emerged from the abyss.

I think Brian was amused by us, I mean, at least as much as we were with him. After scolding us for arriving so late in the afternoon, he then had us throw away the only trail map we studied because it was “awful” and “out-dated,” effortlessly handed us a brand new $500 tent for immediate rental, and started highlighting the hiking route we should follow on a new, expensive map that we would now have to purchase. Unlike Jeremy, Brian was vocal and straight to the point. Without David or I speaking a word, he apparently knew what we wanted to do, had everything that we needed, and shrugged away any of our concerning expressions. And apparently, through telepathy, he thought we wanted to follow a route that would avoid any other hikers at all costs, he thought we needed about $1,000 worth of camping gear, and he was largely unconcerned with, and hardly cracked a smile at, our fear of ending up on the Monday morning news.

No doubt Brian was helpful (mostly in securing that luxurious tent for us), but he was a little mischievous in his route planning. He kept mentioning a fabulous, “secluded” part of the High Peaks region that we should “definitely” spend all three nights at. There would be very few campers in that area, we would have access to a newly built lean-to (I’ll explain later), and we could keep our hikes at 5 miles or less per day. We listened to him with open ears, but it was clear that Brian was way more hype about this plan than we were. Like I said, it felt a bit odd, but the focal point of his pitch was the tagline, “secluded,” as if he knew that David and I were hiding a dead body in the trunk of the Honda, and that we really weren’t looking for a fun weekend of hiking at all, but were actually trying to dispose of a recently deceased being in Upstate New York. Since both of us are originally from Florida, we figured the Adirondack Mountains were a prime location to conceal a murder and bury a body, and by fate, Brian was also the perfect undercover accomplice to accept navigational advice from. It was either that, or Brian must’ve just thought we had a secret baggy of mushrooms hidden in the Honda’s glove compartment, and by guiding us towards a “secluded” camping spot, he was cryptically hinting at the security we would have to enjoy the pleasures of a hallucinogenic drug, stress free.

In reality, David and I were trying to get away with neither murder nor recreational drug use. Our honest intentions for the weekend were to tackle as many peaks as possible with hopes that one day we might become 46ers. As far as we were concerned, the craziness of our trip would consist of a fifth of Fireball. And honestly, less to use as party aide, but more so as a classic backpacking staple, or if circumstances called for it, a liquid blanket for an unbearably chilly night. Despite our initiation into RAC in college, David and I were actually pretty reasonable and level-headed with risky behavior. We never strayed too far from the beaten path in that department.

But hey, I’m not blaming Brian for profiling us. I won’t say that I wasn’t passing judgement on him either, given that he chose to wear polarized sport sunglasses for the duration of our entire conversation… that took place indoors.

Anyway, somewhere between Jeremy’s nonchalant attitude and Brian’s overbearing suggestions, David and I felt comfortable taking it from there. And after completing a lofty gear rental transaction, we departed the High Peaks Cyclery to commence all further planning within the four doors of the Honda.

We decided to take Brian’s advice for night one and camp in the “secluded” Western region. The next day we would hike Mt. Seymour, return to the trailhead, and drive back to Lake Placid to spend the consecutive two nights near Marcy Dam, which Jeremy had shockingly approved for us. This would give us a little taste of both the Western and Eastern regions of the Adirondacks, and it would provide us a middle ground between Jeremy and Brian’s advice, and a balance between our own search for stillness and yearning for adventure.

Night 1

Around 4pm we finally reached the first trailhead, and that’s when reality started to sink in. We were hundreds of miles from NYC and about to step foot into an unknown wilderness for four days and three nights with minimal belongings and minimal to no awareness of the area. But, there was no turning back now, so we smothered our bodies with bug spray, stuffed our packs with freeze-dried meals, and marched on.

I love camping dearly, but there are usually a few adjustments to make during adventures like this. Adjustments that include not investigating what species of bug just bit you, but remaining calm and itching the swelling lump on your leg anyway. Or, adopting the mindset that every rustle you hear in the woods is probably another hiker in the near distance, and not a 300lb bear that hasn’t eaten all day.

And it’s also an adjustment to isolation and solitude. After living weeks on end in a city that’s always talking and honking and whistling with chatter and dreams and tears, the stillness of nature can be a total reverse culture shock. In the city, your every move is being watched, if not by another person, then by the Subway rats. But out in the wilderness, your cries for help or bursts of laughter might go unnoticed by even a single conscious soul. It’s rewarding to enter an environment like this, but definitely an adjustment too.

Yet again, exploring nature is all bout finding the middle ground between two extremes. It’s about using the calming and still atmosphere to find fullness and enchantment among Earth’s simple pleasures. With each mushy step down the winding muddy trail I found myself doing exactly this–profoundly reconnecting with Mother Earth and releasing the demanding and incessant stimulation of the City of Dreams.

—

Six miles into our adjustment period, David and I finally arrived at our camping spot for the night–a brand new lean-to, just like Brian promised! I said I would explain, so here goes–a lean-to is basically like a log cabin that has been split in half vertically and stripped of any existing furniture and/or carpeting. It’s a wooden structure made of three walls, a lofted floor, and a slanted roof, and it’s more than the perfect contraption for backpackers in need of nightly shelter.

At this camping spot, not only were we blessed with a lean-to, but our chosen wilderness sanctuary for night one also had the perks of a picnic table, fire pit, and an out-house (which is one of the best unexpected gifts from the Universe when you head into the woods with a roll of toilet paper and a regulation sized orange shovel). 

The fire pit was a great addition too. The Western region was the only area in the Adirondacks that permitted fires due to its lack of nightly foot traffic (wink, wink Brian), so we were stoked not only to camp in a fire region, but also excited that we were provided with this useful resource to aid in fire maintenance. A camp fire is, of course, a classic camping tradition, but on this particular night, a camp fire also meant fire smoke, and fire smoke also meant mosquito repellent, and mosquito repellent also meant relief, which we were desperate for.

The mosquitos in the Western region were ungodly and unlike anything I had ever seen or felt before when hiking. They were so terrible that many hikers that David and I passed on the trail were adorned with either mosquito-net-body-suits or mosquito-net-face-masks.

Huh? 

Yeah, I’ve never seen a mosquito-net-body-suit before either, but given how suffocating the mosquitos were, I was ready to help pitch the product on Shark Tank the moment I laid eyes on it.

We needed to do something about the thickening mosquito cloud quick, so after our yummy spaghetti dinner courtesy of David’s boy scout camp’s End-of-Sumer Food Sale in 2005, we were eager to get the fire going. Until the fire didn’t feel like going. Then our excitement turned into anger, and our hard work turned into defeat. The wood was too damp, the sticks were too small, and our kindling, despite embarrassingly using TP for assistance, just would not create a steady flame. David, the Eagle Scout, made a valiant first attempt to light it up, and then I followed suit with my own blood, sweat, and tears, but both of our efforts failed. The fire only stayed depressingly ablaze when we constantly tended to it, and wanting to rest our legs after a solid first days hike, we quickly gave up and let the lingering smoke clear the air of mosquitos for only a short while longer that evening.

Regardless of the blood sucking nuisances, our first night in the Adirondacks was still absolutely serene. The sun never fully set until sometime after 9pm in the Adirondacks, so our afternoons were lengthy. And even when the sun did lower out of view, you could still see the silhouettes of trees in the foreground of a dimly lit, light grey sky. On this night, there were rain storms in the area too, which instantly humbled us, and sent us straight for the tent to stay dry. By now on the journey, we had finished adjusting, completely surrendered to nature’s power and beauty, and anticipated the next day with open arms.

Day 2

The night prior David informed me that he rises when the sun rises. Therefore, he would be awake and chipper at about at 5am, cooking, cleaning, exercising, reading the morning paper, finishing his 3rd cup of coffee, and ready to hit the trails by 5:30am. After hearing this, I then informed David that I planned to do nothing of the sorts. I really do wish I was a morning person, but my typical morning routine consists of thanking myself for having slept in my next day’s outfit, attempting to do everything with my eyes shut for my first 10 minutes of consciousness, and after shuffling around in confusion for a few moments, claiming that “I’m ready to go.” It’s not the best way to start a day, but it’ll do for now, and it’s been doing for a few years.

With his declaration, it sounded like David had me beat in the waking-up department. Until… our “backup” alarm went off at 7am, and I rolled over in my sleeping bag to see David still tucked snuggly and soundly into his. This gave me a nice little chuckle, and I proceeded to shut my eyes again, grateful that I didn’t yet have to pretend that I was ready to start the day.

We both probably didn’t unzip our sleeping bags until roughly 9am–far behind our originally scheduled time–and immediately berated ourselves for wasting the precious morning hours. But, our self-disappointment didn’t last long because we had a full day planned ahead of us, and of course, we would do better tomorrow…

On today’s agenda was our first peak! We would summit Seymour Mountain which was only a mile away according to our new map. One mile didn’t sound so terrible, except that it was also roughly 2,000 feet of elevation. And it was 2,000 feet of elevation in unmarked terrain, which is basically a kind suggestion that only advanced hikers should attempt the trail. David and I qualified as advanced, right?

Long story short, the summit stayed true to its “unmarked terrain” description. The hike was definitely a challenge, but we enjoyed climbing the muddy rocks and substituting tree roots for ropes. Also, the steep route forced us to concentrate on our surroundings, or endure an injury, and David and I appreciated this kind of life-or-death ultimatum. Unfortunately, however, despite overcoming many natural obstacles in order to reach the peak, the view from the top was less than exhilarating. The highest point on Seymour Mountain was covered with tall pine trees that blocked the horizon of any spectacular views, making our time at this first peak short and sweet. And after a light snack huddled between the tall pines, we eagerly began our descent.

On our way out of the Western region, we recrossed several creeks. In one of these creeks, David’s keen eye had spotted a few beers resting in the stream the night before when he went to refill our water bottles. When we passed the same spot again the following morning, roughly over 12 hours later, the same beers were still floating untouched in the creek water. No one had claimed even one of the bottles over night, so we both figured the six-pack was fair game for any curious souls. Hence, I waisted no time, snuck down to their cooling location, expressed my gratitude as I reached to retrieve one from the water, wiped off the accumulated algae from the Blue Moon label, and secured it in a pouch on my pack for later. I’m positive whomever left them would be pleased to know that one of their beers was going to good use and to a good person. Or so I quietly professed to myself and David in order to avoid the guilt of larceny and becoming the sleazy criminals that Brian had pegged us for.

—

When we arrived at the Marcy Dam trailhead that Sunday afternoon it was still bustling with the weekend hikers who were finishing up their backpacking trips. Unlike the previous trailhead, this one had a legitimate visitors center with a food vendor and picnic tables where people were drinking not-stolen beer and reminiscing about their bear encounters. It also had air-conditioned restrooms and a gift shop where you could purchase a congratulatory souvenir if you did survive the bears. Fingers crossed.

We marveled at this civilization for a few moments while we re-organized our packs and then set off again. David scribbled our names in the registration sheet at the start of the trail, we pretended like our bodies weren’t aching with soreness, and then we began frolicking down the next dirt path. The hike to Marcy Dam was only two miles, which sounded like nothing compared to the eight miles we had just hiked. So, what felt like a hop and a skip later, we could distinctly smell the dam approaching. This was it–one of the trademarks of the Adirondacks! We both knew that Seymour Mountain fell short of our expectations, but we had higher hopes for Marcy Dam.

But… damn. It was not much of a dam.

As David and I rounded the corner in anticipation, our eyes grew wide, expecting to be blown away by an industrial, powerful, man-made wonder out in the High Peaks. Yet, when the structure came into view, all I could think was, which two lazy beavers threw a bunch of sticks across this depressing stream last night. Despite our high hopes, Marcy Dam looked like less of a world wonder and more of a last minute patch job. I will admit, observing any natural attraction regardless of its condition is a privilege, so I won’t completely discredit Marcy Dam. It had just clearly seen some wear and tear throughout the years. The sticks and logs used to “regulate” the “river’s” water flow were faded, sun dried, and probably a few floods shy of washing away with the rising current all together. But either way, I still developed an appreciation for its rawness. Marcy Dam was not only a brief pitstop, but it was also our home for the night, so I would have to unconditionally enjoy it for the evening whether I liked it or not.

—

On night two, we got lucky again, and claimed another lean-to all to ourselves. While setting up camp at the lean-to that night, David seemed to adopt this opinion that I wasn’t pulling my weight in camping duties. He started to notice that he had cooked all of our meals, he had navigated us to the correct camping spots, and he had the senses to pack the proper survival equipment for us from the get-go. Without his presence, this trip would not have been possible, and I might’ve ended up with my own 60 Minutes special.

So in order to test my usefulness, or maybe to just be an excellent wilderness survival educator, David started assigning me various tasks, such as: hey, why don’t you read the trail map and navigate us to Lake Colden tomorrow; why don’t you pump the water filter and refill our 6 bottles of water tonight; why don’t you find a poison-ivy infested patch in the woods to hide our bear canister at in the pitch black darkness after dinner. He was directing all of these tasks at me as if up until this point I had been an invaluable freeloader, and I started to bite my nails and wish that I had paid more attention to map reading, and water filtering, and the external biological structure of poison ivy leaves.

After successfully fulfilling my dinner cooking and water pumping duties, I was exhausted and decided it was the perfect time to crack open that Blue Moon bottle, and to also release my initial disappointment with the dam by enjoying its emptiness.

However, my attempt at relishing the crisp, Belgian-style witbier was ruined when Scout David unequivocally decided to teach me an improvisational camping trick called human sumping. I don’t wan’t to get into too much detail about this camping hack because it’s borderline repulsive in my book, but essentially once you finish eating a meal, you add a little water to your food receptacle to clean it, but instead of dumping the cloudy, heterogeneous mixture of food pulp and water into the dirt, you drink it. Yes, you read that right. You slurp it down like it’s tangy OJ on a Sunday morning. A human sump supposedly serves as an acceptable alternative to cleaning your dish the normal way, and is also considered “better for the environment” due to the food waste ending up in your stomach versus the ground under your feet. I could hardly watch David do his own human sump let alone have thoughts of doing one myself, but I’m not opposed to learning something new everyday. And on that day, I learned something new (and gross) about David.

Since we were now in the Eastern region of the Adirondacks, we weren’t allowed to have a fire at the campsite. We weren’t that upset about it though because the mosquitos were almost nonexistent in the Eastern region. I couldn’t quite figure out why this might be, but I was thankful for it nonetheless. The lack of mosquitos meant I could enjoy some reading in the hammocks we draped across the lean-to without constantly swatting bugs away from my eyes, nose, and ears.

For this backpacking trip, I brought along a copy of Eckhart Tolle’s, A New Earth. I figured that nature’s divine atmosphere was the perfect setting for deciphering this book on awakening one’s “consciousness” and discovering one’s “life purpose.” A New Earth is a dense read, and it might’ve been a little ambitious to tackle while I was mostly concerned with hungry bears in the distance, but overall I highly recommend that everyone at least attempt it once in life. It’s one of those books that you’re supposed to reread every 5-years or so (or whenever your internal clock tells you to), becuase each time you read it, you awaken more and more to the truths of life. Since I’ve been on a recent spirituality kick, I’ve found this book tremendously aiding in explaining a more authentic and joyous life that’s accessible to me if I can be brave and look within at any darkness that’s subconsciously residing in my soul.

Without giving it away, and because I’m no Eckhart Tolle, basically the biggest monster that is discussed in the book is the human ego. Eckhart meticulously explains the who’s, what’s, where’s, when’s, and why’s of the ego, and further inspires us to understand that truly appreciating life’s present moment involves awareness, and furthermore the disintegration of the ego. It’s not an easy task, but if you can really interpret what he writes, find examples in your own life, and work towards changing your perceptions, you won’t be disappointed (in the long run, at least).

Day 3

Today started with some skittles–aka, the extreme sports term for Advil, or Tylenol, or Aleve, or any form of pain killer that looks exactly like what it is not–a small, chewy children’s candy. Skittles are a necessary, if not mandatory, part of excessive days of elective abuse on the body. With officially 16 miles down, David and I had only just scratched the surface of our extreme adventure. Today we were preparing for a 15 mile hike that included the ascent and descent of NY’s tallest peak; therefore, I needed my skittles. David–whom cannot swallow pills of any kind (unbeknownst as to why)–refrained, and I admired this inner-strength of his.

The first leg of our day’s journey would take us alongside Avalanche Lake in order to reach another lake–Lake Colden. At Lake Colden, we would drop off our heavy packs, re-organize with lighter daypacks, and then make the final trek to Mt Marcy and back.

Before David and I departed on our daily hikes, we usually estimated how long the total journey would take us. For this hike, we estimated that our speed was roughly 3 miles an hour, making a 6 mile hike to Lake Colden only a short 2-hour walk in the woods. Based on these calculations, if we left our previous night’s campsite before 10am, we would arrive at Lake Colden just before noon with the rest of the afternoon at our fingertips to hike Mt Marcy.

Although our estimation seemed logical, it turns out, we were off by a lot. In order to reach Lake Colden, we had to first encircle Avalanche Lake. And, Avalanche Lake ended up being no brisk “walk in the woods”. In reality, it felt like a true Ninja Warrior obstacle course disguised as a hiking trail in the Adirondack Mountains. The course had shaky ladders and submerged board walks and gigantic rocks to scale and climb and slip on. Looking back, it was probably the most magical part of the Adirondacks that we experienced, but it was a bit of a challenge to hike with our full packs on. But all in all, Avalanche Lake was exactly what I was hoping to experience within Northeast nature–an unrelenting plunge into the powerful, mystical, and serene . The entire lake was eerily still and peaceful, yet it was surrounded by giant, looming cliffs that loudly echoed even the slightest whisper. I don’t intend to be a travel guide with this post, but if you ever get the chance to explore the Adirondacks, do yourself a favor and hike Avalanche Lake–it’s a ten out of ten.

Since our original 2-hour timeline was turning into something more like 4-hours, David and I not only had a lot of physical exercise hours, but we also had a lot of mental exercise hours. What I mean by this is that we had countless, uninterrupted time to think. We had time to think to ourselves, to think out loud, to reflect, to complain, to preach, to vent, to shout, to whisper–you name it. We had time to think a lot and we had time to think about a lot of things, which lead to some interesting conversation topics.

We spoke of religion and spirituality, reminisced about college memories, tailgates, and people who are now married or engaged or expecting or under the illusion that a dog is a human child. We questioned the origins of human sexuality, chatted about past romances, and pondered the journey of life. We played games and sang songs. David even had the opportunity to go on a 2 hour rant about the public school system, in which we both questioned whether transformation was possible, or if uprooting the system and starting from scratch was a better method of improvement. David is an Algebra 1 teacher at a public school in South Florida, and overall he had a tough year teaching underprivileged high school students. Passionate, yet defeated by an out-dated and static environment, David was debating if the benefits outweighed the hardships in his teaching career. I empathized with David on the idea that it can be frustrating and unnerving to wish nothing but success for others, yet a student’s inability to perform begins and exists so far beyond the classroom that no amount of current 3rd-party support may ever provide the proper motivation for those individuals to excel. We touched on the emotional versus intellectual needs in grade schools, and shrugged our shoulders at the potential of ever meeting each and every one. When it comes down to it, David and I genuinely appreciate this world, and we want other’s to be along for the ride too, at whatever cost.

As these conversations continued, we eventually arrived at Lake Colden. We quickly setup camp before departing again so that if our return from Mt. Marcy was within the final minutes of sun-fall, we didn’t have to punish ourselves with the task after dark. Our typical camp setup by now consisted of launching our tent inside of a lean-to for extra protection, and adorning the lean-to entrance with both of our hammocks. Hanging the hammocks across the lean-to entrance sort of staked our claim over it. We didn’t do this for any particular reason, other than that the logs on opposite sides of the lean-to, connecting its roof and walls, doubled as perfect structures for hammock support. We guessed that our guarded setup had the potential to turn away other backpackers in need of nightly shelter, but it was also a Monday, so we assumed that the flow of overnighters would be pretty thin, and that no traveler would even bear witness to our exclusivity tactics.

After setting up camp, David and I ate a quick lunch, I shamelessly used the orange shovel, and then we set off to see the Wizard once more. It was roughly 3pm, and we were just leaving on this next excursion, which would include a 5 mile hike up a mountain, and then a 5 mile hike back down that same mountain. And not just any mountain, but we were climbing Mt Marcy–New York state’s tallest peak. Call us crazy, but we decided to embrace this 10 mile journey pretty late in the afternoon with not only the sunlight, but also our energy levels slowly fading on us. Due to our uncertain total trek time, we packed cooking supplies and our dinner for the unfortunate event that we irresponsibly overestimated our aptitudes. I personally couldn’t help but feel like we were in a little over our heads by leaving so late in the afternoon to complete a 10 mile hike, but, what did David care of my concerns? We had no alternative plan for the evening–apart from staring at each other and twiddling our thumbs–so eliminating the hike from our schedule was never really on the table. And also, whenever there’s a will, there’s most certainly a way.

At the start of this next mountain summit, David and I passed a few hikers who were on their descent. One of these hikers was an elderly man traveling solo who made brief mention of starting his hike at some absurd morning hour (ahem, 5am). We exchanged hiking tips, travel stories, and soft smiles with this gentle elder before we realized that we didn’t have any more time to spare. As we left our new friend, I hoped that he didn’t write us off as fools for attempting to climb Mt Marcy this late in the day. If he did have any hidden doubts, he reassured us with an, “at least you guys are prepared” statement, as he compared us to other hikers he’d spoken with on the trail. This slightly lifted my spirits.

After departing our conversation with this fellow, I couldn’t help but wonder if we had actually come into contact with a physical human-being, or if he was a figment of our imaginations and turned into vapor the moment we parted ways. Hiking for 8+ hours a day will do that to your normally rational thoughts. I revealed my belief in ghosts and non-physical spirits to David, but also claimed that regardless of reality, the old man boosted my confidence in our decision by commenting on our preparedness. David responded to my appreciation of the old man’s comment by saying, “well, we are,” and proceeded to skip across muddied logs and rocks in his socks and sandals. David chose to hike all throughout the Adirondacks in socks and sandals despite the endless mud and unmarked terrain that we encountered. For whatever reason, he deemed this the perfect footgear for four days of backpacking. I leave no further explanation.

The hike to Marcy was more peaceful than challenging. It consisted of another round of chatter and deep thought. We passed several more hikers, a loan and lost Chaco hanging from a tree limb, and absolutely no wild life (well, beyond gnats and mosquitos). The ascent to Marcy began within a dense patch of trees that eventually opened up to reveal a bald, rocky mountain top to scale for the remainder of the hike. We followed little rock pyramids up the mountain face and awed at the miles and miles of land we could see in yonder. The view was breathtaking–the skies were blue and the clouds were few.

Unlike the Andes, or the Rockies, or the Appalachians… the Adirondacks had a flavor of their own. Standing on Mt. Marcy, you not only felt like geographically you were on top of the U.S., but like metaphorically you were on top of the world. I felt a connection so strong and powerful to the grandeur and vastness of the Earth on top of that mountain–it was as if I could trust my communion with nature so indubitably, that the wind would glide me towards safety if I spontaneously leapt off the mountains ledge and tempted my fate in flying. My surroundings felt so surreal in that moment, it was as if I had been transported to the Land of Oz, and should patiently wait for the Lollipop Guild to emerge from nonexistent shrubbery and welcome my destiny with a song.

On the hike back, I had to convince David that we weren’t going to climb a second peak that afternoon. Didn’t he realize we were already playing with fire by traveling through bear country at dusk with food on our backs? To his yearning, we had heard that a nearby peak–Mt Starlight–was even better than Marcy, and if time permitted, we should climb it too. After witnessing Marcy’s beauty, I found this opinion hard to believe, but either way, it wasn’t in the cards for this trip. Underneath it all, I’m not even sure how David had the willpower to consider such a feat without once indulging in the sanctity of skittles…

Before we arrived at the lean-to for the night, David and I stopped along a river to cook our last supper in the wilderness. The sun setting on the river rocks, with tall pines glistening in the background, was another breathtaking moment. As David submerged himself in the ice-cold river water, I put on a jacket. The nights were cool in the Adirondacks. So much so that by night three, I was wearing long underwear underneath my regular camping pajamas. Although, on the third night, an extra layer of clothing was also a must because David and I were met with a little surprise upon return to our lean-to.

We, I admit, rightfully received a warning from an Adirondack park ranger in the form of a red slip left at our campsite. It turns out, our clever little trail guide–Brian–who advised us to setup our tent inside the lean-tos at night, was now almost costing us a $250 fine and a potential arrest. Apparently, tents in lean-tos are a big no-no in the Adirondacks, and obstructing the lean-to entrance with our hammocks was also absolutely out of the question. We needed to deconstruct our tent and remove our hammocks immediately, or we would face a different kind of unplanned adventure–one involving handcuffs and metal bars. A little harsh of a threat given the nature of the crime, no?

If I’ve learned one thing about myself in life over the years, it’s that I’m a rule bender. I prefer not to actively break rules, but I also don’t think it’s necessary to follow every single “rule” so literally in life. There are times we can bend and stretch and avoid the system a little, without doing any harm to others.  As Tupac once said, “Do everything you can to make it around the system, over the system, or out the system.” And, I agree. Of course, Tupac and I have faced starkly different systems in life, but maybe you get my point. The rules I tend to bend are of a mellow nature, such as, when going through airport security, I never remove my belt unless personally instructed to do so. The moment I hear TSA announce to the security line, “remove all belts,” I slyly adjust my shirt over my waistline, and hope for the best. If I get caught, I ask for forgiveness. But if I don’t, the world keeps turning. So in the case of our threatening red slip, my suggestion was that we burn it, and pretend like it never existed. If later in the evening the park ranger returned and scolded us face-to-face, then we could make a play on human empathy and ask for forgiveness. But if no one came to follow-up, we would slide on by, bending the rules and avoiding the system.

David, however, did not mess around with law enforcement. Regardless of my strong argument in defense of inaction, David removed the tent and hammocks within about one minute of processing our warning note.

I will say, the note was a bit of an adrenaline shifter. I went from weighing the pros and cons of being busted by a park ranger, to obnoxiously fearing my direct exposure to the wilderness overnight. Mind you that my argument to leave the tent in place was strictly due to my concern for David and I’s physical safety. The tent was a protective barrier between us and the unpredictable forces of nature. I was not about to risk my safety on my last night in the woods because of a heartless park ranger.

Now, I know that avid backpackers may read this and roll their eyes at my drama. A thin nylon layer between a human body and the infinite seems like a ridiculously silly idea for protection in the first place. But, although it may not be the most durable physical barrier, a tent also provides a psychological barrier. And that night, the thin nylon that I was vouching for felt more like hurricane proof glass–nothing could harm us whilst behind it.

Anyway, after getting over my dramatic viewpoint on tents, and turning my frustration into a positive thrill, I joined David in a Fireball ceremony. We both took turns swigging from the 25oz bottle and shared our Roses, Thorns, and Buds of the trip.

The Fireball has me forgetting my original answers to each,  but I’ll come up with some new reflections here:

Overall, this trip came into my life right when I needed it–right when I was overwhelmed with the chaos of the city, and feeling impending anxiety about career, living, and relationship decisions that I could no longer avoid. It came at a time when I needed to quiet my mind, quiet my surroundings, share some authentic laughs with a true friend, and begin subtle attempts at living in the present moment. It came at a time, when, if it hadn’t, I would have continued some obsessive, addicting, unhealthy, patterns in my life, and just by switching up my day-to-day, and purifying my surroundings, I was able to break the walls of routine and discomfort that I was previously constrained by. And, it came with a friend who is probably unknowing in how his presence actually lifted my spirits that weekend. It came with my pal, David, who, not to get too sappy, but in regards to a Rose, had been the whole bouquet during his trip to New York. It wasn’t just the Adirondacks that was enjoyable, but it was the remainder of the week that I was also looking forward to, which became my Bud as well.

In terms of Thorns, I really cant think of much that went painfully awry. The mosquitos were a nuisance. As much as I didn’t want to encounter a bear, our trip felt incomplete not having seen one or even heard one from a distance. My body was also aching because the skittles weren’t quite doing their job anymore. But, above the trivial matters, mostly I was sad to leave the Adirondacks the following morning.

As the night closed in on us, we took our final sips of Fireball, placed the empty container next to our bear canister 100 feet away from our lean-to, and nestled into our open, unprotected sleeping arrangement for the night. David and I chatted for quite some time before eventually dosing off. The Fireball eased my worries enough to feel relaxed and enjoy some pillow talk. We didn’t set an alarm for the AM because that would rush us to leave the woods sooner than we actually wanted to. We stayed up as late as our eyes permitted, and focused our intentions on the now, forgetting about the construction of time and dismissing thoughts of the unwanted arrival of tomorrow.

Day 4

David and I left the Adriondacks today. We had about a seven mile hike back to the trailhead. We had hiked the same trail over the previous two days, so it would be an easy departure. We flew down the dirt paths, over the rocks by Avalanche Lake, across the boardwalks, and over the muddied pathways.

During our short time in the Adirondacks, we managed to hike two peaks! We felt proud of ourselves for this accomplishment, and wondered if we would ever get around to hiking the other 44 in the region.

On our way out, we passed a group of woman, roughly in their 60s or 70s, who were hiking to Avalanche Lake that day. We assured them it was well worth the hike, and as they slowly left our eyesight and earshot, I whispered to David, “That’s gonna be me one day.” Hiking is timeless. Nature’s beauties, seen with the external eye, and felt with the internal heart, will keep me coming back for more, no matter where I am or what I’m doing with my life. It’s in my blood. In fact, whomever, wherever, whatever you are, it’s in your blood too. Nature is us, and we are it. There is no divide.

The Native Americans understood this flawlessly. In Lakota culture it was common to believe that, “Kinship goes beyond family and is the connection we feel to the world at large and everything in it.” These native civilizations understood this profound interconnectedness, and taught that oneness exists not just within nuclear families, but it thrives among all forms of life. Living by the virtues of Honor, Respect, and Love for all beings was an inherent part of their communities. And, feeling this togetherness myself, I will similarly never hesitate to support and live true to these beliefs.

___

The rest of the trip was fairly mundane. We noted our return to the trailhead in the sign-in sheet, sorted the trash from our packs one last time, headed into town to return our gear–stoked to inform Brian that we didn’t end up on the news–and then made some purchases at the local Ben & Jerry’s.

Now, I would begin the adjustment back to urban life. Just as the transition was tough into the woods, it would be equally unsettling to go back to the concrete. But, returning to NYC, I felt free-er. I felt me-er. I felt calm about life and renewed in my goals. I felt a strengthening confidence in my faith and abilities to trust and surrender. And more than ever… I felt the need to plan the next trip.

See you in Chile, David, eh?

Whatever we’re going through at the moment, whatever life presents us with–be it happy or sad, good or bad–we always need a little balance. A balance between the concrete and the trees, between relentless ambition and pure stillness, between overwhelming noise and heavy silence. We need a balance between Ahab and Einstein, between the scholarly intellect and the wise fisherman, between burning the midnight oil and carelessly floating at bay.

We need Ernest Hemingway.

XXOO,