The Marshall Hike

Chasing the Ghost of Bob Marshall in the Adirondacks

Thus I have carried a little farther the fantastic pastime of record climbing, adding three to Malcolm’s total of eleven. Perhaps within a few weeks, surely as soon as a few more mountains in the vicinity of Mount Marcy have trails cut on them, someone will readily enough overtop my record. Certainly it is a mark which any reasonably vigorous person in good physical condition can equal if he tries it when there are long daylight hours. In fact, it would fit perfectly in a class with flagpole sitting and marathon dancing as an entirely useless type of record, made only to be broken, were it not that I had such a thoroughly glorious time out of the entire day.

Robert Marshall, 1932

After hours of unsuccessfully trying to get some rest, getting up at 3:00AM was more of a relief than an imposition. My excitement, and the anticipation of the hike, made my sleep little more than lying in my tent wondering if it was time to get up. The arrival of other campers throughout the night didn’t help either, and I was reminded once again that a night in a tent is an eternity when you’re tired and unable to sleep. Five minutes before my alarm went off I gave up, crawled out of my tent, and went to wake Dan. The day of our big hike had begun. 

Our goal was to repeat Bob Marshall’s hike of 1932 in which he linked fourteen Adirondack summits in a single day. When I’d heard rumors of this historic outing from a friend, I was immediately intrigued. Having very few details, I contacted the Adirondack Club and, luckily, found someone with the lead I needed. An out-of-print book, The Adirondack Reader, contains Marshall’s personal account of his big hike and I was fortunate enough to find a used copy on the Internet. After reading Marshall’s notes, I was convinced that this hike was clearly the brainchild of a kindred spirit; someone with aspirations to find the best in the mountains and in himself. I was inspired. 

Marshall recorded meticulous details about his hike. Included in his report was a log of the times he arrived on each summit. Seeing this, my hiking partner Dan and I thought it made sense to use these times as a benchmark- a reality check to see whether we were lagging too far behind to consider tackling the final peaks. Keeping with tradition, if such a tradition exists, we set out 3:30AM. Doing the same, Bob Marshall had completed his hike at 10:30PM. We were hoping we wouldn’t be out much later.

We left our campsite in Keene Valley just after 3:00AM, ready to make our big-hike bid. I did my best to eat what I could on the drive to the trailhead. I had middle-of-the-night belly and wasn’t even remotely hungry. Zombies in an unslept daze, we grabbed our packs, signed the register, and started up the Brothers trail by headlamp. Despite my lack of rest, the physical activity soon cleared my foggy head. As I hiked, I was overwhelmed by how silent and void the forest was in the middle of the night. Just beyond the light of our headlamps lay a vast wilderness, yet I could hear nothing but our footsteps and breathing. It wasn’t cold, but I could see my breath in the moist, stuffy air held heavy under the blanket of trees. It felt like we were in a huge forested cave, spelunking our way towards the summit.

 

The register at 3:30AM

The darkness gradually subsided and the first sights and sounds of day crept in. The early light gradually revealed familiar forest shapes; grainy and colorless like an old photograph. Then, little-by-little, weak suggestions of color took hold on the rocks and trees. I switched off my headlamp as my eyes adjusted to the early dawn. We reached the summit of Big Slide just before sunrise at 5:30AM. From here we could see the full extent of the Great Range across John’s Brook valley. It was a fantastic view of nearly all of the peaks we planned to hike that day. From this place, almost exactly 74 years ago, Bob Marshall recalled:

 

From Big Slide I was chiefly impressed by the rising sun playing on the summits of the great range across from Johns Brook, and then by the joy of running down hill at 5:00 in the morning through the dewy raspberry bushes, and feeling how good it was to be young and to be able to feel sure you could climb fourteen mountains in a day.

After a hearty breakfast of three hardboiled eggs, we ran down Big Slide to John's Brook. It had been quite a few years since I’d done any hiking in the Adirondacks, but as the sun came up, the alien landscape I’d experienced in the darkness became familiar. It was a beautiful morning and I enjoyed being outside in a way that only someone who works in a cube under fluorescent lights can fully appreciate.

 

Breakfast on Big Slide

After reaching John’s Brook we found the sustained climb to Lower Wolf Jaw. It was then that I felt it time to share my extensive backcountry knowledge with my hiking partner Dan. I told him that the reason that these next two peaks were named Wolf Jaw was a testament to the region’s reputation for being infested with rabid wolves. “This place is crawlin’ with ‘em,” I told Dan, “but this hike will be worth the risk…that is, if we survive.” Dan wasn’t buying this horseshit for a second, of course. But you can’t blame me for trying. 

At 7:55AM we enjoyed terrific views from the summit of Lower Wolf Jaw. The sun was up now and we had been moving well and enjoying the hike immensely. Dropping back down to the saddle, we pumped some water from a little trickle that made pretty pools in thick moss. Then came Upper Wolf Jaw, and Armstrong; we were working hard to keep a solid pace and stopping only briefly on the summits. But even with this effort, it soon became clear that we were falling behind Marshall’s schedule. We’d never thought of this as a race, but we realized that losing 10 minutes to each peak would mean a 1:00AM finish- if we were lucky.

 

Dan on Wolfjaw

We topped out on Gothics, our fifth peak, at 9:57AM. Arriving a few paces ahead of Dan, I enjoyed having the fantastic summit to myself. Twelve years ago this had been my first Adirondack peak. On that day, fierce winds whipped clouds up the steep flanks of the mountain, bursting vertically as they crested its sharp spine. I’d never seen wind blow straight-up before that day and I’m not sure I have since. But today the weather was perfect, and a light breeze offset the morning’s sunny warmth as I took in amazing views of the endless mountains and lakes in every direction. Dan soon met me on the summit and he told me that he didn’t think he’d be able to keep up the pace. I suggested that we slow down and hike as far as we could, but he decided he’d head back if he didn’t feel better when we hit the next saddle. Hoping that he’d bounce-back, I got him to eat some food before we flew down the steep rock slabs of the west ridge. As we slid down the steepest sections using the fixed cables, I wondered if Bob Marshall had this modern “luxury” 74 years ago. He probably didn’t. The shame is ours.

 

Gothics from Armstrong

On the shoulder of Gothics, Dan was done. He’d decided to escape the ridge by dropping down the Ore Bed trail to the Meadows trailhead. Evidently, I still looked like I had something left in me, so he encouraged me to try to finish. Breaking up a team in the mountains never feels like the right decision. But Dan assured me that he was quite happy with his hike and was rather emphatic that I keep going. After some deliberation, I decided to go. After all, I did still feel like I had something in me, and I wasn’t ready to go home yet. Maybe I understood how Bob Marshall felt on his day so long ago:

…feeling how good it was to be young and to be able to feel sure you could climb fourteen mountains in a day.

Yeah, that’s how I felt, too. I convinced myself there was still plenty of time to complete the hike. I was 39 minutes off schedule, but I was feeling feisty and pretty sure I could close the gap. Dan headed down to John's Brook and I set off to catch up with my new hiking companion: Bob Marshall.

 

Onward...

Saddleback at 10:46AM then Basin at 11:15AM. Beautiful pinnacle mountains- like Camels Hump back home. Fantastic views of bigger mountains coming up on the range. The hiking more rugged, and more beautiful than ever. My rhythm and mind merged into the trail and my thoughts slipped away. I rolled on, one peak after another; the distance passing, not effortlessly, but with my mind fully engaged in each moment. I felt perfect. Not perfect with unlimited strength and endurance, but perfect as the clean water crossing the trail; perfect as the uncompromising rock underfoot; perfect as the tireless trees standing fast against the worst conditions imaginable to earn their view of millions of acres of wilderness. Hiking here alone, I felt part of the perfection of the mountains. It was wonderful. 

Haystack at 12:23PM. Other hikers were reaching their objectives now and I shared a busy summit. Checking the timetable I could see that Bob wasn’t far ahead now. He’d left the summit only just before I arrived. Eating the full lunch I’d long been promising myself, I took in awe inspiring views of Mount Marcy across the huge abyss that drops thousands of feet into Panther Gorge. I was now only 16 minutes behind Bob. I’d been reeling him little-by-little with each peak and, considering my pace over the last few mountains, I estimated I would completely close the gap by the time I reached Mount Marcy. The competitive demons in my soul pushed a wicked grin onto my face: I was certain now that I could take the lead. The extended lunch Bob took on Marcy would be his undoing. 

Then suddenly it dawned on me: I’d been hiking full-throttle for nearly nine hours. According to Bob’s records, I had ten hours left to go! A veteran of a few marathons, I’m somewhat accustomed to long periods of exertion, but my mind wasn’t ready for this. I set off for Marcy, figuring that I’d at least complete the Great Range. But my confidence was slipping away… Marcy at 1:36PM. The summit was crowded so I tagged it and dropped down a hundred yards to the south. From a comfortable rock, I enjoyed the wonderful views of Skylight and points beyond. Bob was here with me now; we were finally together on the summit of the highest point in the state. Catching up with his schedule after so many hours, I almost expected to actually see him. I was kind of disappointed that I didn’t. I imagined him having lunch: supping in only the most civilized way- a leather wine skin filled with port, fine imported cheese, and a leg of mutton or some such. But, of course, for all I knew he was eating lichen scraped off the rocks and washing it down with water wrung out of clumps of moss. Since I didn’t have any wine, or moss for that matter, I toasted Bob with a Clif Bar and was on my way. Yes, I’d taken the lead, but the friendly spirit of competition that had driven me hard to this point had evaporated on Haystack. It was only my mounting respect for the magnitude of this hike that pressed me to conserve every minute. There was no doubt in my mind- Bob was fast and strong and nothing will ever take that away from him. 

Reaching Skylight at 2:18PM, I enjoyed a comfortable 22 minute lead over Marshall’s benchmark and my confidence was returning. There were only four peaks left. I passed the boggy Lake Tear of the Clouds, the headwaters of the mighty Hudson, and continued the endless decent down Feldspar Brook. It was here on Feldspar that I suffered greatly, here where Bob schooled me for being cocky, and here that I passed some of the most beautiful gorges and waterfalls imaginable. After hours of ridge-running, Feldspar led me down off of the great range. I was losing every inch of elevation I’d gained and my legs were taking a serious beating. The trail became a hideous waist-deep eroded trench filled with exposed roots and loose rocks. With difficulty, I worked my way down. 2:30PM: No Lake Colden yet. Down, down, down. 3:30PM: Still no Lake Colden, just more relentless decent. 4:00PM: Nothing. No lake. Where was I? Half-dead from the descent, I took off my shoes and flopped into a cold brook to soak some life back into my legs. 

Looking at the time, I was in such disbelief that I wondered if I was even on the right trail. I’d been moving pretty fast and I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t reached Lake Colden an hour ago. As I lay there, broken and demoralized, Bob Marshall glided silently past and disappeared down the trail. In the endless descent of Feldspar I’d felt his shadow pressing closer and closer. Now he was gone again all I could do was acknowledge my defeat. I flopped back on a rock and rested. Despite my efforts I had, once again, been left behind.

 

Left behind at the brook

Fully humbled, I finally found myself on the shores of Lake Colden at 4:28PM. I’d worked my ass off on the descent and not only given up my 22 minute lead, but fallen an additional 25 minutes behind the unstoppable phantom hiker. I decided to stop competing- an easy thing to do when one is clearly outmatched. The most important thing now was that I still had four hours of sunlight to climb the remaining mountains. It seemed possible, and that was all I truly cared about. I took my time walking around Lake Colden, enjoying the late afternoon sun. The air here was so different than on the tops of the mountains; warm and filled with pleasant humidity from the lake. I passed some backpackers preparing their evening meal in a lean-to near the lake and thought, if only they were expecting me; ready with a warm food and a big comfy sleeping bag. How nice it would be to lie down in the warm, soft grass and go to sleep by the lake.

I maintained the best pace I could mange up to Iroquois and Algonquin following a pleasant brook that spills down long smooth rock slabs. Even after all I’d seen that day it was a truly unique part of the hike and the novelty of its beauty kept my mind off how tired I was. Minutes up the trail, I bumped into hikers coming down the mountain and had the following conversation: “You goin’ to the top?” “Yeah,” I said, not feeling very chatty, “I’m planning to.” “Well, it’s pretty late, ya know. That mountain’s a looong way up there. And it’s gonna get dark.” They were right, of course. It was getting pretty late and the sun had ducked behind the ridge. It didn’t help me to hear the phrase “looong way up there” either. I told them I had a headlamp, shrugged, and kept going. Shortly thereafter I proceeded to have same conversation with at least four more parties descending the trail. The whole ritual became quite comical and it lifted my spirits making the hike go somewhat more easily. 

Iroquois: 6:10PM. I trudged through shin-deep mud and bushwhacked through tough, brushy krummholz to gain this glorious summit. In the warm light of early evening I could see the huge cliff of Wallface to my west casting an ominous dark shadow across Indian pass. The air was still and warm and I felt totally comfortable as I rested and ate. Bob Marshall’s reflections on this spot were as my own:

  

Then came Iroquois, from which the magnificently wild country north of Wallface seemed even darker and less explored than usual when backed by the late afternoon sun. In these black mountains the waters of Scott Pond and the Upper Wallface were sparkling in the sunlight.

I rested on the summit for quite a long time. I’d been hiking nonstop for 15 hours and I wasn’t racing the clock anymore. I’d made it this far and I knew I’d finish as long as I could hold myself together. At this point, the shortest way out was over the last peaks. I reached Algonquin easily and shared the summit with a young couple who’d met over the summer working as canoe guides. They were very polite, but I could tell they were hoping to have the romantic sunset to themselves. Sorry about that.

Menacing storm clouds, which were in fact the first clouds I’d seen all day, formed to the south and I questioned whether to take the spur to Wright peak. I felt like I was moving pretty fast again so I decided to go up. I spent only a few moments on the summit before coming back down. Even if the weather held, it was dusk and I needed to take advantage of what little light remained. I pushed on towards the trailhead and the final peak. 

 I reached the trailhead at last light: 8:59PM. After wandering around for a few minutes I was relieved to find my little car hiding between two big pickups. I rooted around in the trunk found a warm Gatorade which I inhaled in three gulps. I’d reached what most would consider the logical end of the hike. Yet according to Bob, Mount Jo still needed attention; a final obstacle nestled on the far side of Heart Lake. Adding this last peak showed me that Bob had both amazing stamina and a dark, twisted sense of humor. I can’t say that I felt particularly lively, but I’d come this far, and I wasn’t going to quit now. All signs of impending bad weather had vanished. I dropped all but a few essentials and took off for the final trail with my headlamp. Forty five minutes later I was blessed with the perfect conclusion to my big hike. I found a great natural stone bench on the large flat slab of the summit and my tired body melted onto the rock. The big, yellow full moon rose over Heart Lake, framed perfectly in the endless wilderness. As I rested, Bob unshouldered his pack and sat down beside me.

… Southward and westward towered the pitch black mass of Marcy, Colden, MacIntyre, Wallface and Street, while right at our feet the almost full moon was reflected in the waters of Heart Lake. All around a heavy mist was rising from streams and meadows, giving everything an appearance as unreal as this entire perfect day had been…

It had been a perfect day. One I’d had the pleasure to share with a kindred spirit.