Grace Camp Gauntlet

Mother Nature’s treated us well this season — cold temperatures and plentiful storms — but as of late she’s been in a foul mood. In a repeat of last year’s March, the beginning of the month came with a brutal warmfront, this time with a stretch of highs in the 60s as well as a week of rain that totaled multiple inches.

Most of the state suffered tremendously, with most of the natural snow (besides parking lot piles) disappearing overnight. Even the snowpack in the High Peaks of the Adirondack Park, which stacked consistently for 3 months, became practically nonexistent at the trailhead.

Unfortunately this was the week we had reserved a backcountry camp. Months ago when we decided to book it, we had imagined the beginning of March to be full of storms, soft skintracks, and bottomless powder skiing. Now, we were starting at the Garden Trailhead in t-shirts under a warm, sunny sky.

It was 10:30 in the morning and the temperatures were 45 degrees but forecasted to rise well into the 60s later in the day. From the sign-in register, it was apparent that our tour would be anything but easy. Not only did we have to pull pulk sleds full of gear behind us, but it seemed from the look of the lot that there would be more dirt and rocks than snow.

I was accompanied by my brother Bailey and ADK locals Jack, Andrew, and Willy. With sleeping bags, clothing, ski gear, and enough food to feed a family, we headed down the trail towards the camp. There were 4 miles between us and the cabin, so with haste we made our way. Within minutes, we were already shirtless and sweating. Some parts of the trail were thinly covered in a monorail of hard-packed snow, others were void of anything but dirt and rocks.

We came across our first stream crossing, which was flowing generously with runoff from higher elevations. To keep things dry, I had to take off my skis, walk them across the stream, drop them, and go back to retrieve my pulk by carrying it over the water. This was frustrating but necessary if I wanted to sleep with a dry sleeping bag.

Little did I know, but one crossing would turn into over a dozen more, each more aggravating than the last. Thankfully, the snow on the trail started to build as we gained elevation, making the going a bit easier.

Eventually, we came across the ranger cabin to retrieve our key just before Johns Brook Lodge, a popular summer destination that accompanies reservations for hikers looking for a place to have a home-cooked meal, hangout on the large patio, and sleep in its many beds.

There’s a water spigot to fill up on hot days but isn’t available in the winter. Nearby, there are two smaller camps that are able to be reserved in the winter months: Camp Peggy-O-Brien and Camp Grace. “Peggy-O” as it’s affectionately called houses up to 12 people and is supplied with beds, a kitchen stocked with cooking supplies, a propane heater, lights, and a vault privy among many more amenities.

Camp Grace, which is the cabin our group reserved back in the fall, is a miniature version of Peggy-O. It features only 6 beds and a much smaller living space. Built in 1968 and renovated in 1993, it sits at an elevation of 2,316’ and roughly 4 miles from the lot, making long trips in the Great Range much easier on the body. Just minutes after crossing the bridge over Johns Brook, we arrived on the camp’s small lawn, a fatiguing 5 hours since we began at the trailhead. I was relieved to be at a place I’d call home for the next couple days.

I realized that myself and the others hadn’t stopped on our way here, so once we unpacked all of our food and gear we sat down for around an hour to relax and replenish our energy. Fortunately nothing in my pulk was wet from the water crossings, but Bailey couldn’t say the same, for his pulk had tipped over a couple times and soaked his sleeping bag, which was now dripping wet on the porch.

As far as the interior goes, the beds were stacked bunkbeds, 3 in one corner and 3 in another. The small kitchen sat just feet away next to a picnic-like dining table. One lonely Adirondack wooden chair sat against the wall near a small cabinet of games and tools. Underneath the cook-top stove were 2 large drums used to fill water, which we’d have to fill throughout our stay.

The time was now 4:45 in the afternoon and sunset was in about 2 hours, so we knew we couldn’t travel far without getting out in the dark. Jack decided to stay back and fill the water jugs at the brook nearby while Andrew, Bailey, Willy, and I set off towards the Wolfjaws. There are a couple slides in the area only a few miles away that we hoped would still hold enough snow to ski. Once we sketchily crossed Ore Bed Brook by rock hopping over the flowing water, we continued towards our objective on the Woodsman Trail.

Soon we were following the drainage of the slide only 1.5 miles from camp. Water was flowing down its slope as we ascended to the base of the slide. This must’ve formed decades ago as small evergreens were scattered throughout our route up. Did I mention there was just barely enough snow to ski?

A majority of the slide included ice bulges and running water, with a thin strip of rotten snow on both sides. We were desperate to ski something, so we ascended as the sun lowered in the warm sky.

Turn around time was sunset lest we ski a less-than-ideal slide in the dark. Once we reached the bottom of the top slab 10 minutes before sunset I booked it up the steep slope to the top followed by the others. We transitioned quickly and watched the sun’s golden glow begin to fade across the valley. I could see Lower Wolf Jaw and its Canine slide, a landslide my brother and I had found two summers ago after a brutal rainfall.

In spite of the time, I descended first and set up for a shot of the others. They all skied down the top slab making decent turns on the soft corn surface. Since the sun had gone down and soon we would have to don our headlamps, I put my camera away and we picked the rest of the way down back to the trail, which involved more skiing on ice and rock than I’d like, but you can’t be picky in the Adirondacks.

Back at the trail, we put on our headlamps since the light had faded and our journey wasn’t over yet. A ski back through the dark forest found us back at the camp at 8. Jack had filled both jugs with water so now they just had to be boiled to make sure it was safe to drink, a slow process since the stove burners weren’t very strong.

In the meantime, Andrew cooked some chicken on another burner and made some tacos for dinner. We chatted about tomorrow’s plans as we ate and got ready for bed. The temperatures were supposed to dip into the low 40s during the night so I turned the thermostat up to 70 and set my alarm for 7. A good sleep was much needed after a long day in the woods.

The next morning, breakfast consisted of a bagel with peanut butter and a cup of water from the brook. Our itinerary for the day was to summit Haystack and ski a line I’ve been scouting for a few years dubbed “The Needle.” The mountain’s peak lies 10 miles from the Garden, a long way in even during the summer. For us, it would only take around 5.5 miles to the top from camp. Once we filled our packs with food and water, we headed southwest down the Phelps Trail. It was covered with snow that became increasingly deep as we increased in elevation.

Near Bushnell Falls, the trail crossed Johns Brook and unexpectedly, there was no bridge. The water was raging and loud, nearly impossible to cross without getting soaked or worse. We headed upstream a couple hundred feet in search of a safer way to cross. Thankfully, we found a spot that had a large ice shelf thick enough to walk on for maybe half the way. We threw our skis across as we made our way over the rushing cold water.

The rest of the crossing consisted of meticulous rock-hopping in ski boots, being careful to avoid having a wet boots the rest of the day. Once across, we continued up the winding trail at a good pace.

By noon, we had made it to Slant Rock and took a break to eat. These last 2 miles would become increasingly steep so we took our time. The hardest section was just past the col between Haystack and Marcy, where it was so steep we had to kickturn multiple times.

Five and a half hours after we left camp that morning, we made it to the top of Little Haystack, a rocky bump just a couple hundred feet from the true peak. The line we planned to ski was just ahead of us, and the snow coverage looked reasonable. We sat and took a break to admire the views Haystack awards the weary traveler for coming so far.

Marcy’s snow cone summit lay directly to the west, with Skylight to its left and Santanoni way off in the distance between the two. The sky was very dark and hazy over to the west, which wouldn’t bode well for us if headed our way.

And of course, within what seemed like reaching distance was Haystack’s true summit to the south, its rock-riddled peak greatly resembling the mountains from New Hampshire. Although its western aspect seemed mostly devoid of snow, its eastern aspect called Johanssen Face was still covered with ice bulges scattered throughout.

The snow that we approached was somewhat mushy due to not freezing overnight and the rising temperatures throughout the day, so it wouldn’t be the best conditions for a descent but it would be skiing something I’ve been waiting for all season.

Around 3:00 the winds suddenly picked up from almost nothing to very strong gusts. I felt the temperature suddenly drop, so put on my coat for the first time on the trip. Within minutes, the skies behind Marcy became very dark and cloudy. Being east of the oncoming storm, we knew it could be headed our way.

My phone couldn’t get service but Bailey’s could, and once he opened his radar, it looked like the system was heading straight towards us. From looking at the forecast the morning prior before we left the trailhead, it said that there might be scattered showers later that night, not during the day. Of course, mountain weather is very unpredictable, and unfortunately this wasn’t my first time getting caught in bad weather out in the backcountry.

Given how late in the day it already was, we didn’t want to risk getting caught in the rain miles out from our camp as the temperatures dropped. I’ve only bailed on a hike once before, but that was in the summer. To put in so much work and be so close to finally skiing something you’ve waited a long time for just to have to unexpectedly turn around was a very hard thing to do, but we all agreed that we’d rather have been safe than sorry and not risk a miserable night or even a rescue.

Just as we finished transitioning and headed back down the mountain, it began to lightly rain. We decided to go a different route compared to the one we toured in since it would be quicker. Once at the col between Haystack and Basin, we took a trail named “Shorey Shortcut” that would steeply rise over a hump and then zig-zag back down right to Slant Rock.

It was at this point on our way up when my touring skins began to fail. They were so wet from the melting snow that they lost their adhesive stick and kept falling off my skis, not allowing me to go uphill. An old trick that somewhat solves this problem (and should be known by anyone that tours) is to use evergreen branches and secure them on the base of your skis, acting like skins. It wasn’t perfect and definitely didn’t allow me to glide on the snow, but it got me to the top of the hump, otherwise I would’ve had to indulge in a suffering bootpack.

For the rest of the ski back to the brook crossing, the others kept their skins on while I attempted to ski. Although there were some ups, the majority of the day back was a flat downhill. We arrived back at Johns Brook at 6:30, 20 minutes until sunset. Once we went back to the spot where we crossed, my heart sank.

The icy ledge that was there earlier that morning had melted away and probably swept down with the raging water. We definitely weren’t able to cross in that spot now as it seemed the water level rose throughout the day. I looked for a different route along the shore until spotting a location that seemed doable but required a leap over whitewater onto a large rock. Others also looked for a crossable spot but with no luck, and time wasn’t on our side since attempting to cross the raging brook would be a nightmare in the dark.

Reluctantly, we chose to cross in the route I advised as it seemed sketchy but doable. Jack, being the lightest out of all of us, went first. The jump was probably no more than 3-4 feet onto a large boulder, but in ski boots over cold dark water made it seem a lot more tense.

He made it look easy, so after I handed him his skis and poles I went next. On the count of three, I threw myself onto the boulder, boots smashing into the rock as I did. After we assembly-lined everyone’s gear, the rest gave their shot at it. Everybody was successful, and after a quick couple shorter jumps from rock to rock, we all made it across safely as the sun began to set.

From here, it was a rush to get back to the camp before dark. We all had headlamps, but being within 2 miles I think we all were up for the challenge. It was pretty straightforward all the way back besides some ice sheets that had been pushed up onto the trail from the brook, which I carefully stepped over with my skis.

Nobody said a word all the way back to camp; I think we all just wanted an end to a humiliating day. Within an hour of the crossing we made it back to the cabin. Tired and hungry, we all hung up our wet gear and headed in to start the night’s dinner: steak and potatoes.

It was a well-earned meal that hit the spot after the long day, but our water was running low, so Jack and I headed to the brook in the dark with headlamps and filled the two jugs full. Once back, we capped off our hunger with a dessert of cinnamon crumb cake and whiskey, a much needed reprieve for our aching bodies. We discussed tomorrow’s plans and how they might be thwarted by another rain storm, this time much bigger.

On the mountain, Andrew had cellular service and saw a large storm was supposed to move in early the following morning, dropping up to an inch or more of rain. After some back-and-forth, we came to an agreement that due to the snowpack as well as all the water crossings, it was best to leave first thing in the morning.

Throughout the night, I awoke to on-and-off rain showers tapping on the metal roof. I could also hear the brook a couple hundred feet away, raging and becoming stronger with the new rainfall. At 4:00, somebody’s alarm went off, which awoke everybody. We all rushed to get ourselves packed up and ready to go as time was not on our side. Without grabbing any breakfast, we made sure nothing was left, returned the key to the caretaker, and headed out in the darkness.

Every water crossing that we went over coming in was now twice as fast and full. Also, the trails that had snow were now barren, so we were pulling our pulks on dirt, rocks, and ice the entire way back. The only good thing was that it wasn’t too warm out, so we were able to move at a steady pace without breaking a sweat.

I didn’t have to worry about anything getting wet as we were heading home, so I charged right through every crossing. The only time we stopped was to put our skis on our packs since there wasn’t even any ice left, just mud.

As daylight grew, the dark clouds in the sky warned of rain. I continued to pull the pulk all the way to the trailhead over any obstacle in my way. It was more than frustrating, especially when it tipped or got caught on a branch, but it got me out in just over 2 hours, which took more than double that on the way in. The others soon followed, rejoicing to finally see our cars again.

At this point, we were all starving, so we threw our muddied things into our cars and grabbed breakfast at the local Stewart’s. We probably looked (and smelled) like we just crawled out of Hell, but we were glad to finally be out of the woods. Although it wasn’t the most ideal conditions during the trip and almost nothing went as planned, you always just have to laugh it off and enjoy the time spent with friends in my favorite place.