No Perfection In Natural Selection

I hope you have enjoyed previous accounts of adventures in the Adirondacks.  Read on to take a look into another foray slightly outside the bounds of connected society.  

Jim is the organizer.  This time, he pointed us to St. Regis Pond during a week late in September. Though the hot and dry weather mistimed the fall colors, we were not deterred.

There are several campsites on the pond, which is well beyond the minimum size I'd use to denote a "lake."  But only one of them has a lean-to.  So Jim decided that we must arise very early on Thursday morning to have a good chance of securing that lodging.  Reservations are notoriously unreliable in the woods.

Did I say "morning?"  Better to call it the middle of the night.  The boys arrived at my house at 3AM. The Beast had been previously loaded with canoes, so all that was left was to throw the gear in the Ford Explorer that Dad never should have purchased and head to the hills.  I acquired the Beast after the family fully assimilated the knowledge that Dad should not be driving anymore, which was only 2 years after the fact.  Regardless of the circumstances, or the gas mileage, it's a great vehicle to have around...particularly for camping.  Thanks, Dad!

The Beast, shortly before sporting my wooden 2x4 canoe racks
and the canoes they support.
I priced racks...my DIY ones do the same job just as well
for about $500 less.
I had planned to scrawl "Yakima" on the wood, but never got to it.

An easy put-in.
I drove the beast right down to the water's edge,
and we unloaded all the gear.
Mike, Matt and Jim posed nicely for this shot, don't you think?

Yep, this just might be worth getting up early for.

Jim steers our canoe.
Sometimes he even paddles.

This is the far end of the 1/2 mile carry we had to endure
to get from Little Clear Pond to St. Regis.
The dock juts out into marshy water,
so it's best to load closer in and drag the canoe in afterward.

We paddled our little hearts out to get the the lean-to before any unseen usurpers arrived.  Unfortunately, it turned out the the usurpers were us, and we had to find other lodging.  Jim and Mike were deeply disappointed, because they had been at the site on a previous trip, and it was apparent from their chatter en route that it was the best lean-to and nicest campsite anywhere in the known universe.  And maybe beyond.  Too bad that a pair of chubby men had claimed it for their own.

I was also less than pleased that we did not acquire the preferred site, not because of the inability to attain the finest of locations, but because I had not enjoyed my usual quota of beauty sleep.  Dearly needed, yes.

So we poked around the lake, checking out the other sites.  Not finding the first few to our liking (Jim did not like the decor at one, and another was not in a good neighborhood), and worried that an unexpected glut of canoeist on the lake would shut us out, he sent Matt and Mike off to check out the large island nearby.  "Don't come back if there's a good site.  We'll go ashore here to make sure this site where we are now does not suit my sensibilities."

Shortly after, we followed them to the island.  "I'm not sure," Mike said.  "It's not bad, but there may not be enough good flat spots to pitch tents.  But I did see this."

This is the picture Mike showed us
when he spun his phone around in our direction.

I took one look at the assemblage of Bud Light cans and realized it was an omen.  "This is the place!" I blurted, in my best Brigham Young accent.  Additional scouting revealed that it was, in fact, the place, and we selected the island as our campsite.

I'm not a Bud Light aficionado, nor a NY Giants fan, but none of us wanted to offend our benefactors after such a generous act.  So we provided cheers to them and their team as we appropriately appreciated their kind offering.  

I was pleased that Matt wanted to try out the hammock I brought along.
I neglected to tell him not to jump into it.

An interesting feature of our island campsite.
Can you tell what's unusual about the central tree?

Pretty close to being shut out of sunset colors on Thursday night.
The rainstorm looms nigh.

I was pleased to report that my new tent kept me nicely dry
through the night and into the drippy morning.

The drippy morning transformed into the misty morning.

I was impressed with Matt's perseverance.
He may have gotten a moist toe or two,
but he remained in the hammock even though there was room in Jim and Mike's tent.

If you are observant, you may have noticed the critter hanging around waiting for Matt to awaken.  He accompanied us through a good portion of the campout.  If you know about the full saga, click HERE. 

The smoke of a distant fire is apparent on the right of the small island.
Those campers were trying to burn wet wood.

Just love seeing the mists caught in the trees.

And the mists flow as you watch.

Jim decided to stay dry under his fly.

The path leading to the other end of our island.
The campsite there was closed so that it could recover from over use.
Our sheltered site was much preferred
the next day when the cold winds started blowing.

We had planned to bushwhack to the top of St. Regis Mountain, but with the rain, we would have been totally soaked by the time we got there.  And there was no reason to go, as you can see from the images of cloud-shrouded shores.  The mountain, with its fire tower, had completely disappeared into the clouds, so there would be no view.

So we paddled to 3 neighboring ponds instead.

Matt and Mike portage to the next pond.

Jim tempts fate.

Though not nearly at peak, the trees provided some color.

Mama and her gray juvenile follower.
At one point he tried to climb up on her back,
but she was having none of that since he was too big.
Jim voiced concern that the young one
 had hatched too late in the season to survive the long trek south.

When the air is cooler than the water, the mist provides entertainment.

And the gray sky often has more character when reflected.

The guys head back to camp.

Though long after mating season,
this pair appeared to be doing some kind of dance.
Or maybe it was synchronized swimming practice.

Back at tarp city, Jim got dinner going.

While gathering firewood, a way down to the primo western viewing spot on the shore was created to ensure sunsets would be visible unfettered.  This walkway was dubbed "The One True Path To Illumination."

The clouds broke as evening fell...

...providing a fine sunset.

Which transformed several times as I watched.
How often do you have nothing more pressing than to enjoy an entire sunset?

The longer you watch, the better it gets.
This is my favorite.

No, this one!

The next morning promised a nicer day, even if much cooler.

Campfire smoke is best in the morning sunlight.

Our goal for the day now visible at the top of the mountain on the right,
we prepared for the bushwhack.

The term "bushwhack" is used to denote traveling through wild country without the aid of a trail.  I was surprised Jim suggested this activity, but was more than happy to join the trek.  With the benefit of map, compass and GPS, such activities require less sense of direction than they once did, but walking trough the unmarked forest is always an adventure, even with the bright sun visible to help you determine your bearing.

But we did not leave before a little mist and color appreciation.

We paddled through the whitecaps on the windy water and put in at an empty campsite as close to St. Regis Mountain as navigable water would allow.  Beaching the canoes, we headed up and over the ridge between us and the mountain.

After squeezing into a narrow crack between boulders,
Mike forced them apart
so that rest of us could pass more easily.

Boulder separation complete,
Mike leads Jim through the rocks.

The pine saplings, growing close together, impede Mike's progress.
If you like getting a stick in the eye, there is ample opportunity here.

These plants are trying to swallow Mike.
I don't have a name for these broadleaf plants,
but they do not garner my affection.
Their twisted undergrowth grabs your feet, tripping you,
which is particularly wonderful during downhill movement.

Breaking out of the forest, we came upon a pond at the half-way point.

However, this was not the halfway point to the top of the mountain.  Well, actually, it was, but that was no longer where we were going.  We knew from the start that we'd be hard pressed to get all the way to the top.  The time it took us to get this far strongly suggested that the wise course would be to turn around and head back, lest we end up bushwhacking in the dark.  So we saved the remaining 1000 feet of rise through the forest for another day and headed off on a more level course to return to the canoes.

All of you who have hiked with me before, note the onset of wisdom and maturity.  Do you think there is an antidote?  Will I be able to find a cure?

The root of all evil.
Or maybe a bass clef.
Or perhaps a portion of a giant's hearing aid.
You never know what you'll find on a bushwhack.

We followed the gentle slope to the west from the pond through marshy grasslands.  This was a treat after the slog through the dense undergrowth going up and down the ridge.  Before long, we had progressed to the end of the little valley where the rock walls on either side came together to form a notch just wide enough for one person at a time.

Matt passes through the notch.

Further on, we scrambled through a jumble of rocks.

The jumbled rocks got bigger and bigger.
There was a cave under some of the biggest ones.

Mike played Goldilocks,
but found no porridge.

I could not figure out how to capture the place in a photo.
The trees you see obscure a massive rock face that was at least 80 feet high.

The rock face was very impressive. The topographical map did not seem to indicate such a feature, so it's appearance was all the more spectacular for the surprise.  As we trod along near its base, Jim said, "I wonder how many humans have ever seen this place?"

"Not many," I replied.  And that sums up the sentiment that is a big part of wanting to endure the discomfort that is inevitable on a deep-woods bushwhack.  We were all on an adventure to discover places that very few would ever see, and to revel in just being there.

Matt poses at the base.

Mike and the Beanstalk.
We were all getting tired by this time, so he left the climb for another day.

We followed a small stream back to the pond.
This route allowed us to alternate between
slow going in the mash,
and slow going in the dense foliage higher above the marshy water level.

A great burl on a dead tree.
It would make a fine set of bowls
or other exotic woodworks
if you don't mind lugging hundreds of pounds through the forest.

We returned to our campsite, tired and scratched, and scurried about getting dinner ready and then cleaning up after.  Jim always wants to have cleanup done before it gets dark, and I don't blame him one bit.  In particular, if the chores are out of the way, there is time to fully appreciate the sunset.

Surely a sight for sore eyes,
but after the hike, it was not my eyes that were sore.

Almost there!

The sun disappears behind the mountain long before it really sets,
providing an extended and changing viewing opportunity.
I watched for most of an hour.

If you want more views of the beautiful sunsets we were privileged to observe, just let me know.  I have at least 50 more shots of them.

A final campfire set the stage
for additional inspired conversation.
Surely, you, too, felt how all was well with the world.

It was a fine blaze for confirming the Heisenberg Campfire Principle.  What?  Not familiar with the principle?  It states, "Wherever you sit by the campfire, smoke from the fire will shift to hit you in the face."

Up and out the next morning.  It's a long ride home, so rather than spend time cooking, we packed everything up and paddled out.  Coffee could wait.

No, that's not a two-toned spruce.
That's frost on the boughs.
Surrounded by warmer water, it didn't feel all that cold on our island,
but here at the portage back to Little Clear Pond, the cold night was evident.

Little Clear Pond didn't want us to leave.
This just-fully-submerged stump grabbed our canoe
and held us motionless for some time.
No amount of paddling alone was going to free us,
but my bouncing while Jim backpaddled did the trick.
Resonance is a wonderful thing.

And they loaded up the Beast
 and headed west out of the trees.