I’d sat by my campfire the night before thinking about what I’d be doing the next day. My heel was hurting some, which meant I could wake up unable to walk. The opposite happened, thankfully.
“Coffee,” I said in answer to the question ‘what’ll it be?’
I pulled out my trail book and map and decided on a peak seldom visited call Mt. Hopkins. It was a longer hike, three miles from the trailhead to the peak, but the elevation change of 2,000 feet would be more spread out and easier to handle. I ate my blueberry pancakes smothered in butter and real New York state maple syrup before heading for the trailhead.
I was the only car parked at the trailhead as I entered the forest and figured I’d be the only person on that trail. It was a beautiful hike through miles of large conifers, some old growth. The sun filtered through them to the forest floor, providing and golden glow to my gradual, uphill trek. I was alone with my thoughts and the only sounds were those of my shoes and a thrush of some variety.
The trail was perfect for out of shape hikers, climbing gradually over the first two miles. My heel reminded me it was still not healed, but was completely manageable. The final ascent offered some challenging pitches, but nothing that left me as breathless as I had been 24 hours earlier. I reached the peak after two hours of hiking and found it to offer open views in every direction and deserted, the perfect combination.
I wasn’t as sweaty as I had been the day before and the since the winds were not as fierce, I was able to stay on the peak longer to enjoy the solitude and the views. I had brought my rain jacket, both for warmth if needed and to wrap my camera should it start to rain at any point (I’d just get wet), but didn’t need it, either. I made several calls and sent pictures of the views to interested parties…including my facebook page…before noticing a storm developing and heading back to the tree line and the descent. John called just as I was hitting the trees.
“Hey man…how’s the heel?”
“I just left the peak and it’s the climb for us if you’re not feeling in shape when we come back here in two weeks. Great views and a steady, but doable elevation change. Heel’s a little sore,” I replied.
“I’m a fat slob. I’m riding tonight, but yeah, easy is better. You just did that one though. You want to hit it again?”
Ten minutes into the descent, I heard the rain hitting the canopy high above my head. I stopped, pulled my rain jacket from my pack, wrapped the camera in it and stuffed it into my pack. I’d take the pictures I’d wanted on the way up and I wanted the camera dry.
I was back to the car five hours after leaving, sweaty and dirty. I was driving north to Donnie’s and needed to clean up first so I grabbed my towel and a change of clothes and made my way down to the river running just below the parking lot. The water was cool and the rocks sharp on my bare feet, but the plunge felt refreshing and the dirt was soon washed away. I arrived in Massena by way of Potsdam and an hour visit with my aunt and uncle, who needed to hear about my climb and my love life. At least the story of the climb was interesting.
I ate leftovers at Donnie’s and heard all about the failure of the motorcycle and the ensuing crash and recovery, still ongoing. I made a batch of chocolate milkshakes followed my maple syrup milkshakes to be sure that I consumed more calories than I’d burned in the previous two days of hiking. I spent some time answering messages on their laptop before rolling out my sleeping gear on the family room floor and crashing.
Hike Duration: Four hours.
Training Heart Rate: 90-150 bpm.
Calories burned: 2,800
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