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The Formative Wilderness Experience                                             Part 1 - Winter Camping - 1968

8/29/2022

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PictureIn the crotch deep snow. Dressed like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape.
     Upon arriving at the University of Wyoming in the fall of ‘67 I started to do some camping with friends. It was what I'd experienced with my family… but with more beer. Later I was introduced to backpacking, a unique idea to me at the time. I remember thinking, “You mean you carry everything you need on your back?” My first backpacking trip was more than just a little adventurous.
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      On the Ides of March of 1968, Al Hendricks, of Valhalla, New York; Dennis Alf, of Berlin, Wisconsin; and I started a 30-mile overnight trip over the 11,671 ft Rollins Pass in Colorado. In some parts of the world March 15th is considered spring, but in the Rocky Mountains it’s still winter.

     In those days winter camping was only for relatives of explorers like Roald Amundsen, Sir Robert Scott, Ernest Shackleton, and a few masochistic weirdos. Cross-country skiing had yet to become popular in the U.S., and snowshoeing was an activity only for hunters and trappers. So, no surprise, we were woefully unprepared. We had one backpack between the three of us, no snowshoes, and were wearing jeans. Fleece hadn’t been invented and although we wore some wool, we weren't familiar with its virtues. I looked more like Steve McQueen in 1963’s The Great Escape than an outdoorsman. Even worse, the sum of our outdoor experience was my summer family motorboat-and-car-camping experiences, and Al’s weekend hikes on the Appalachian Trail. However, we had no shortage of youthful exuberance as we took off from Laramie, Wyoming for Tolland, Colorado. We planned to hike the Moffit Road, a gently winding abandoned railroad bed, over the pass to Winter Park. Then we’d take the train through the seven-mile-long Moffat railroad tunnel back to our VW Beetle on the east side of the Continental Divide.

      By late morning we hit the trail with the sun shining brightly on the snow-covered peaks of Colorado’s Front Range. There was no wind, and the temperature was just below freezing. We were confident that we’d have no trouble hiking the sixteen miles through the three-inch-deep snow up to the “Needle’s Eye” tunnel where we planned to set up Al’s two-person, nylon pup tent. Not being math majors, we figured we would make 1+1+1=2, and could all fit in.

Hiking for only a half-hour, we came around to the north side of a ridge, and to our surprise, while the weather hadn’t changed, the snow depth had. It was crotch deep. Our enthusiasm carried us through a 100-yard stretch of this until once again the going was easy through ankle-deep snow. The pace was good and finally, just before dark, we looked up and saw the tunnel along the side of the mountain above us. Scrambling a direct route up the talus slope to the tunnel, saved about a mile of hiking but broke an, unknown-to-us, cardinal rule of hiking: “Never cut across switchbacks.” (It causes erosion and the trampling of plant life)
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A Night In the Tunnel
     We set up the two-man tent in the tunnel, in the dark, threw in our sleeping bags, grabbed a bite to eat and crawled in. Imagine three husky college boys squeezing into a tent designed for two skinny guys, and with a ceiling so low that only the person in the middle could sit up. Al had a high-tech down sleeping bag. Dennis and I didn’t have warm down sleeping bags, but classy kapok-filled bags with pheasant-hunting scenes decorating the cotton liners. All night we tossed and turned on top of each other while the wind howled, and the snow blew outside the cocoon of the tunnel. Hearing the blustery winds, we wondered what awaited us the next day.

     The morning brought single digit temperatures but gratefully, no wind. After a frigid night we eagerly crawled from our frosty tomb to a gorgeous sunrise illuminating the snowscape. We were cold and tired but were exhilarated by the views. Woodland Mountain stood over us, with 12,236-foot-high Devil’s Thumb in the distance. There were windblown cornices hanging over the ridges along the Continental Divide. The panoramic view kept our ice-cold fingers snapping photos with our Kodak Instamatic cameras and gave us confidence that we’d have no problem finishing our trip.

     Without pausing for breakfast, we packed up and headed up the long-abandoned railroad bed. Soon we encountered serious snow – mile after mile of deep snow. Whoever carried the pack sank in the snow, up to his waist, and sometimes to his armpits while the others sank to their thighs. The two not carrying the pack would help the other take the next step. We trudged on all day like that, pausing to gnaw on Slim Jims, and to get an occasional sip of water from our bota bags. (Remember those cool-looking but nearly worthless leather wine flasks popular in the sixties?). Nutrition, like clothing selection, and overall winter camping awareness was not one of our strong points.

     We had nearly 18 miles to hike that day to get to Winter Park, but with deep snow, cold feet, wet jeans, and the lethargy caused by the altitude, we managed a paltry seven. It was drudgery and there wasn’t much conversation until around 3:00 PM.
     
     Al was the first to voice his thoughts, “I don’t think we’re gonna be able to get out this afternoon.” His slow pace, labored speech, and rapid breathing told us that the altitude was bothering him more than it was Dennis and me.

     “You mean we’re going to miss the 4:30 p.m. train?” I said.

     “No, he means we’re not going to make it out at all today.” Dennis said.

     “I don’t want to get back into that tent again,” I said.

     “Me neither,” said Dennis.

     “I wasn’t that bad,” Al said.

     “YES IT WAS,” we responded in unison.

     “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could find a wilderness cabin?” I said.

     “Yeah,” said Dennis, “One well-stocked with food and a big fireplace, soft beds and thick down quilts.”

     “You guys are dreaming,” said Al. 

     Yet fifteen minutes later we thought our wishes had come true.

     “Do you see what I see up ahead?” I said.

     “I don’t believe it,” said Dennis, “It can’t be.”

     “It is,” I said, “It's a roof!”

     And it was. A green-shingled roof was sticking up through the six-foot-deep snow.

     Short of breath but with hopes higher than a hippie commune, we floundered as fast as the deep snow allowed us towards the building.

     We waded through the snow toward the building, giddy with joy. We slapped each other's backs and congratulated each other on our good fortune. But once we got there, our celebration turned, first to confusion, then disappointment, and finally to resignation.

     What we’d thought was a warm snug wilderness cabin, wasn’t that at all. Weirdly enough it was an outhouse. And weirdest of all, it would become our lodging for the next two nights.

(Stay tuned for part 2 in two weeks)

Click on these to see photos from my scrap book
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​Newfoundland 1959

8/16/2022

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     My mother loved Newfoundland dogs, almost as much as she loved her kids. She got her first Newfie when she was twelve, which started a sixty-year love affair with the breed. It began as an avocation and ended up paying for the college education for us kids and, when my father died at the age of 50, it provided her with a career as a dog judge.

     She couldn’t seriously love Newfoundland dogs without making a pilgrimage to Newfoundland. My parents made two. One to the rocky, wind-blown island in 1954 and a second in 1959. Three of the five Drury children got to go on the second trip, including ten-year old me.

     The trip was a month-long was epic. My mother drove our brand-new pea-green Ford station wagon, towing one of the first pop-up campers. My two older sisters and I were joined by my mom’s sister and two of our three cousins in their brand-new beige Ford station wagon. We traveled as a caravan heading for Halifax, Nova Scotia and eventually to Sydney, where we took the ferry to Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. Our fathers joined us in Halifax for two-weeks until they had to head back to work.

     We pulled into Halifax excited to see our dads, but even more excited to see a parade featuring 33-year-old Queen Elizabeth and her husband Prince Phillip. There was pomp and circumstance befitting a queen with marching bagpipe players, local dignitaries, and high school bands. I marveled at it all, particularly when the Queen, standing in a convertible Cadillac, came passing by.

​     Two days later we got on the ferry for the overnight trip to Newfoundland. I bunked with my cousin Howard, called Howdy by family and friends. How are you going to call him Howard when the most popular TV show of the era was the Howdy Doody Show?

      We awoke early and went out on the deck, where I learned something that has plagued me all my life. I have my father’s ocean travel genes, not my mother’s. My mother grew up racing her small sailboat off the shores of Cape Cod, while my father grew up exploring the zinc and silver mines of Mexico. She got her sea legs, and he didn’t. As we approached the Newfoundland coast there I was, cold sweats, head spinning, the world revolving around me, and doing all I could not to throw up what little breakfast I’d had.

     My symptoms disappeared as we drove off the ferry onto Trans-Canada Highway 1, a beautiful newly paved highway, at least for the first two miles. After that it was gravel for the next three weeks. We worked our way up the coast through small fishing communities until we decided to spend a night at Cox’s Cove, population 700.

     When we pulled into Cox’s Cove, I felt like Stanley finding Livingstone in Africa.  Newfoundland, in 1959 was primitive. Indoor plumbing, television and even electricity were a luxury throughout much of the province. For example, our Polaroid camera was a big hit. Instant photos seemed like magic. The locals welcomed us warmly, encouraged us to camp near the school and even offered us the keys to the school's bathroom facilities – a three-hole outhouse.

     The next morning, we went down to the docks and my dad convinced a local cod fisherman to take us for a ride out into the Bay of Islands, an extensive fjord-like series of inlets offshore of the village. The bay was twelve miles across at its mouth with a series of sixteen-mile-deep arms.
The boat was a typical cod-fishing boat of the era. Dory like, it was twenty feet long with a two-cycle engine called a “make-and-break” (because of how it started) or a “one-lunger” (because of its’ single cylinder) and was recognized by its putt…putt…bang’ sound as it chugged through the water. We putt-putted out into the middle of the bay and suddenly the engine went bang and died. Dead, kaput, nada! With no oars, no means of communication, and no life preservers, my father and uncle saved the day because of a small tarp they brought. They set sail with it, and we boated back safely.

​     My parents knew the Lieutenant (pronounced leftenant) Governor of Newfoundland because he and his wife raised you guessed it, Newfoundland dogs, so we were invited to have refreshments with them. It was such a very formal affair, we had to rush out and buy sport coats and ties for the boys and white gloves for the girls.

     We were told a story by the Lieutenant Governor, illustrating Prince Philip’s quirky humor, that became part of Drury storytelling for years.

     The Queen and Prince Phillip had recently visited the Lieutenant Governor and his wife and when the time came for an official photo, the Lieutenant Governor said to the Queen and Prince, “In Canada, when we have our photo taken, we say cheese.” To which the prince responded, “Well, I always just say bitch.” The queen indignantly said, “Oh Phillip, don’t!”

     You can guess what Drurys say when their photo is taken.

     The fathers soon flew home but not before they arranged for the rest of us to travel back via a Norwegian sealing boat. Friends of my parents living outside of St. Johns, who just happened to raise Newfies, (do you see a pattern here?) owned a fish-packing plant. So, we and boatload of Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks would travel by sealing boat to Gloucester, Massachusetts. Our cars and camper were hoisted onto the well deck and securely strapped down. At least we hoped they were secure, but just for extra precaution our dads increased the insurance.

     There were only two problems. One, we had never lived on a Norwegian diet (think fish, fish, and more fish). And two, we didn’t speak Norwegian but even worse, none of the crew spoke English.
It was a four-day journey and, not surprisingly, I was seasick the entire time. But compared to my cousin Howdy, I had it good. We slept in the forward part of the ship and used the head (bathroom) there. We were allowed to cross the open deck only while being escorted since they didn’t want to take any chances with us sliding overboard and becoming shark bait.

     We spent our days on the bridge under the watchful eye of the Captain and First Mate. We watched the open ocean, played cards, and read. The captain and his sidekick were friendly but, because of the language barrier, the conversation was limited, to say the least.

     On the afternoon of day three Howdy needed to use the head. Through suggestive hand gestures and faux Norwegian, that my aunt was just sure the first mate would understand, my aunt explained my cousin’s need to be escorted to the head. The first mate said, “Ja, Ja, I understand.” and off they went through the narrow hatchway.

     Thirty minutes later they hadn’t returned. I didn’t see them walk across the well deck and I couldn’t figure out why. How long does it take to go to the bathroom? Finally, after forty minutes Howdy came back through the hatchway, eyes wide open, tears streaming down his face, walking with a curious knock-kneed two step.

     He walked over to his mother and looked at her with a grimace.

     His mom said, “What took you so long?”

     Howdy said, “I got a tour of the ship.”

     “A tour of the ship?” she said. “What’d you see?”

     “The engine room, the kitchen, the hole where they keep the frozen fish – everything but the head!”

      “How’d you like it?”

     “How’d I like it? How do you think I liked it?” He said. “I hated it.”

      “Why?” she said.
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     “Because,” he said, “I still have to pee!”
Jack & Howdy at Cox's Cove
Jack's dad sailing up back to shore
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Ampersand Mountain Revisited

8/2/2022

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PictureMy Uncle Rad, sisters Carol and Esther, and me on Ampersand Mtn 1960
     I have a long history with Ampersand Mountain. In 1960, at the age of eleven, I hiked it with my uncle and sisters. It was the start of a lifelong love affair with mountains, but if it weren’t for the photo I wouldn’t have much memory of it at all.      
     I jogged it in 1966 in preparation for my senior year of high school football. 

     In 1969 I took my college roommate and his buddies up the mountain. They thought they had climbed Everest. 
     In 1972 I had one of the worst no-see-um experiences of my life, on a bushwhack trip up the east slope from Flag Brook. (Before I became one with the bugs) 
     In 1975 I was shocked when, on the summit, I encountered 300 people from one summer camp. It looked more like a rock concert than a Wilderness. It turns out the entire camp hiked the mountain once a week for years, giving the mountain an awful beating.
     I hiked it a few weeks ago for around the fiftieth or sixtieth time. It was July 4th so I anticipated that it might be crowded. I wasn’t disappointed. I’m not a fan of crowds in Wilderness Areas but I’m willing to cut the mountain some slack on the 4th. I saw over a hundred people most of whom appeared to be enjoying themselves but were woefully unprepared. 
     My recent experience on Ampersand got me thinking. I spent thirty years training outdoor leaders, focusing on three fundamentals: How to stay safe, How to protect the environment (now commonly called Leave No Trace) and How to research the area you are traveling in. 
     All of which make me wonder – are we really in the information age?  Hikers’ lack of basic outdoor knowledge and skills would say otherwise. Perhaps part of the problem is that people are getting their information from social media and online mapping programs like AllTrails, GaiaGPS, or Strava. People are searching “Where to go” rather than “What do I need to do to have a safe hike?” Once you’ve learned the basics of HOW to be prepared, then search for WHERE to go given your skill and experience. 
     As I said, most of the hikers I encountered appeared to be having fun. And not only were they having fun, they were taking good care of the environment. Litter was hard to come by. I found two broken potato chips and a bandaid on the 5.4 mile hike. However, the vast majority of hikers were clearly unprepared, with little apparent knowledge of the outdoors.
     How could I tell? Maybe the gentleman in flip flops gave it away. Or the guy who was studying the map on his phone to the point of stumbling down the trail. Perhaps it was the couple who took the wrong trail and mistakenly went to Middle Saranac Lake instead of up the mountain. Or the two women only a quarter mile from the trailhead at 4:30 PM, studying their phone clearly confused, about whether to continue on up in the dwindling daylight. The lack of preparation and knowledge certainly was evident in that fewer than half the people had day packs. 
     I did enjoy the two teenagers carrying a watermelon. They drew a smiley face on it and named it Paul. Perhaps they were taking Paul up all six peaks of the Saranac Lake Six. I hope they didn’t leave Paul’s rinds in the mountains. The rinds may be natural but they take way too long to decompose.
     I asked a handful of people if they had flashlights. They told me that they’d be back well before dark. I said, “Do you know that every person rescued after dark tells the Ranger the same thing?” 
     How does a novice best prepare for a modest hike like Ampersand Mtn and not look like a novice? I’m of the school that, “It’s better to have it and not need it” and, “You should be prepared to survive the night.” (not necessarily comfortably.)
      Here are three things you can do to transform from a greenhorn to British adventurer Bear Grylls.
     Pack the ten essentials. I’m not going to list them here. You can Google them.  There’s a reason they’re called ESSENTIALS. They’re ALL essential. You never know when you’ll need one or more of them, but when you do, they’ll save your life. Know that when you carry them you will make me and every Forest Ranger in the Adirondack Park proud.
     Emergency Plan. Let friends or family members know three things: Where you’re going, when they should contact authorities if you don’t return, and who to contact. The emergency Forest Ranger dispatch in the Adirondacks is 518-891-0235. And don’t forget to use the trail register. In an emergency it will help authorities know if you hiked through. 
     Two extremes prove this point. There was my friend Peter who joined me on an overnight trip. I told him we’d be back by early afternoon the next day. He told his wife we’d be out by 1:00 PM. When we arrived at the parking lot at 1:30 a Forest Ranger was waiting for us. Peter failed to provide a realistic time for his wife to call for help. I typically tell loved ones to call the next morning. I have the right equipment to survive the night. You should too. 
     Worst of all are the stories going back decades of gentlemen who tell their wives they are going hiking “In the Adirondacks” and never say when they'd be back. In one case, the man was found months later in a LasVegas strip club, but more frequently their bones are found in the spring on the slope of a remote mountain.
     First Aid – Take a basic first aid course. You can take one online through the American Red Cross or others. While not as good as a hands on course it’s a good place to start. You don’t want to be a victim but instead, want to be proactive, like the folks on the Rocky Peak Ridge a while back. A woman fell and injured her shoulder. Her hiking companions administered basic first aid and continued walking. The Forest Rangers came in to help but their job was made much easier because the hikers had already applied first aid.
    Navigation –Take a basic map and compass course. Many folks can read topographic maps but few know how to use a compass. You should be able to do both. Your local outfitter, outdoor club, or scouting group will know who offers instruction. “Why should I?” you say, “I always stick to the trails.” A man this June thought the same thing but somehow got off the trail and spent three days lost. According to DEC Rangers, when he was found in a ginormous swamp, “The man’s pants were in tatters, his boots were falling apart, and his face was covered in bug bites.” He was also extremely lucky. 
     What wine and mead connoisseur Ken Schramm said about mead-making applies to wilderness travelers too. “A smart person learns from his mistakes, but a truly wise person learns from the mistakes of others.” 
     But if you’re determined to learn from your own mistakes, just keep in mind that ignorance can be fatal.
     Here’s a fine “Ten Essentials” list: https://www.dec.ny.gov/outdoor/28708.html 

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    I contribute a biweekly column for our local newspaper, the Adirondack Daily Enterprise. It is called Bushwhack Jack's Tracts. I post them here for your reading pleasure.
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