Giant and Rocky Peak Ridge Hike

We’ve had some cool evenings and overnight frosts in Saratoga Springs, but the full effect of winter is still to come. In pursuit of an early taste of the season, my hiking partners, Dave, April, and I ventured into the High Peaks to visit winter.

The Adirondacks often see a frost up high, in November. It’d rained the previous day, followed by overnight temps in the 20s; we were confident we would find ice. We decided on a through hike, up from the trailhead on Route 73 to the summits of Giant and Rocky Peak Ridge, and then on to Route 9 in New Russia. It’s a 12-mile traverse, with 4,000 feet of elevation, and to some, it’s one of the most beautiful hikes in New York. We met at 5:30am to drive up in two cars, spotting one in New Russia.

I rarely hike in the summer, as I want to escape insects and crowds. During stick season the crowds disperse, the air is crisp and the trails hush until snow blankets them. It’s a period of transition and anticipation. I was hopeful to see a herald of winter, a first smack of snow and ice.

Giant begins with a steep grade, gaining some 3,000 feet of elevation in only two and a half miles. It can feel less like hiking and more like scaling a jungle gym of roots and rocks. Among the 46, it is particularly well-known by hikers for its grueling climb.

We started early in the greens and browns of Keene Valley, but maybe not early enough, as we would discover later. Soon hoarfrost began to appear in the tree limbs with the sunlight and it increased with elevation. Dirt and vegetation underfoot gradually dwindled into open rock, with blown snow etched into seams. Ice emerged in shadier spots. Like little kids, we sought out ruffles of frost we could crunch with our boots, though we did tread carefully, on the lookout for slippery solid ice.

At some point it got harder to find safe footing, so out came our micro-spikes. Pulling the spikes over our boots offered a sense of security, some metallic courage against the ice and all its ruthless uncertainty. It felt like we had entered winter.

The views opened as we rose into the whiteness. To the west, the peaks of the Dix Range were frosted, while the valleys below remained green. Cresting one false peak revealed a stunning view of Marcy and the Great Range basking in the sun and cloud. As we approached the summit of Giant, the wind gusted through the krummholz, dusting us with snow as we pressed through. Ice and rime adorned all. At the top, we stood alone, breathing cold, fresh winter air and gazing about. It is said one can see thirty-nine high peaks from this spot.

After Giant Mountain, we still had some ten formidable miles to go. It started with a precipitous descent to the col between the two peaks, followed by just as sharp a rise to the summit of Rocky Peak Ridge. Our spikes went from helpful to essential, as certain sections became impassable without them. My spikes, a virgin pair of Hillsounds, bit into the ice like shark teeth into meat; I felt I could stand sideways on a pitch and not lose traction. Unfortunately, April’s were none too sharp, and Dave’s sported duct tape and points so flat, they looked like their tops were filed off. They had more of a challenge with their worn-down gear, eying mine with envy all the while.

In the sketchiest parts we called out what we thought were the safest lines and puzzled our way down holding onto limbs and roots, backwards at times and at other times on our backsides. It was technical and dangerous, and exhilarating. Every drop off was a problem looking for a solution, and we had to plan before each descent.

At one point we got stuck at the lip of an icy overhang. Only by shimmying down a nearby tree could we proceed. And then at the bottom of all this, we negotiated our way right back up to the next summit. It took us a punishing hour to make it to the top of Rocky Peak Ridge without breaking anything.

Though the summit of Rocky Peak Ridge is lower than Giant, the 360º panorama it offers is stellar. We reflected on our route to the wintry top of Giant for a last moment, then turned east to survey the hike before us: an apron of white frosting above stands of evergreen, brown swales and hillocks, and the blue of Lake Champlain and the Green Mountains beyond. The shadows were lengthening as we climbed up and down the ridge, alternating between chilly forests and blustery escarpments. On our way down, we eased by barely frozen Marie Louise Pond, at 3,921 above sea-level, the third highest body of water in New York.

On Bald Peak, a lower highpoint to the east of Rocky Peak Ridge, we heard raven caws in the distance. A pair suddenly rose over the bluff, right at eye level, maybe were as startled as we were. They croaked to each other, and we called out, hoping for some acknowledgement. The closer one abruptly barrel-rolled, three distinct times, before heading out of sight. The hair went up on the back of my neck. Was that for us? We looked at each other, wide-eyed.

Our spikes began to scrape on the rock underneath our feet. Entering an earthy cedar stand sealed the deal, and we took them off. I thumbed the blunter points of my spikes, a little less self-satisfied, pondering how many hikes it took for Dave, a much more experienced hiker, to flatten his. For the next couple of hours, they sat clipped to the outside of my pack, like winter chimes.

As we descended, autumn reasserted itself. The trail became a carpet of beech leaves, making every step hazardous. Oak leaves sent us skidding. We groped into and out of dimming light and murkier dark. Finally the headlamps went on. The trail got wider and muddier, and a few times we had to makes sure we were still on it. For the last ninety minutes, we paid the price for that late start, trudging over unseen terrain in the dark until we finally made it to our car.