Excerpts from Notes From Above Treeline
by Brian Hoody

From: "The Perfect Mountain Range" (on back cover of book)

We eventually reached the canister that marked the summit and looked back at the ridge we had just descended, amazed by the sheer size of Dix. In front of us Elk Lake sparkled in the sunlight, seemingly trying to hold onto a few more days of summer. Bright yellows and oranges splashed the landscape. High clouds hung in the bright blue sky. It was the type of day that you never wanted to end. It was the type of day that you remember forever.

From: "An Ode to Turning Back; Trouble in the Dix Range"

A few times I fell in up to my neck, and I swear that my legs were still dangling in the treetops. There was something humbling about being up to my neck in snow; and thoughts of darkness, frostbite, and worse filled my mind as I struggled out. We had both become lost in our own thoughts and emotions. My brother directed his anger at the snow pack, as he bulled his way through. I struggled to keep up, while also trying to keep my wits. We could hear a stream running below us now, and although this proved that we were on the right track, it also meant breaking through would mean falling into ice cold melt water. Somehow we steered clear of any major falls into the stream, but a few times our already drenched boots slipped beneath the snow pack, and into the icy water. Eventually the stream began to open up so that we could avoid it altogether, but the snow was relentless; the snowline now seemed a laughable dream of a fool. When Jason asked how long it usually took to get down the basin, I told him on a good day it might take about an hour. And this was certainly not turning out to be a good day.

Spirits continued to flag as we headed into hour three of our descent of the Lillian Brook basin. To make matters worse, we were also out of water. At times we could only hear it below the snow pack and at times we could see it, but there was never an opportunity to stop and filter some water - stopping meant breaking through. The surrounding forest had turned into a sea of scrub pine, which, coupled with the deep snows, slowed us to a crawl. We had the feeling that somehow we had gotten off course, but backtracking seemed absurd in conditions like these. Out came the compass and a general tack of west was decided on. Jason eventually picked up traces of an old snowshoe trail and the forest began to open up considerably. What had started as a challenging spring climb was turning into a forced march. Ultimately we returned to the brook and came to a gravel bar that was free of snow. We stood on semi-solid ground for the first time since we left South Dix.

From: "The Longest Day"

The trail along the river went on forever. When we finally got beyond that, the shadows began to grow very long. We passed along the old lumber roads, past Lake Sally and through the abandoned clear-cuts, and then darkness finally caught up with us. We had given it a good run, but once we reached the wet areas before the Mount Adams turn off, the headlamps came out. Our headlamps cast dull pools of light about, but it was enough to navigate. We found ourselves at the Adams junction rather suddenly. We plodded on towards the trailhead nearing our final major obstacle, the floating bridge over Lake Jimmy. Inky black water lapped at its edges as we made our way out and over. As we neared the middle of the bridge, we noticed an almost full moon, shining its silver rays upon the water. It hung there, seemingly suspended by the void, which was space, and the void, which was the lake. It was a sight I will never forget. But then again, there are a lot of sights in the Adirondacks that I will never forget. We stopped at the far end of the bridge for a quick rest, and I could see Ben's breath being turned to steam in the glow of his headlamp and I had to smile. It had been the longest day...

From: "What Happened that Morning on Big Slide Mountain"

In the morning we had trouble firing up the stove, but finally managed to achieve a flame of some sort and had a hurried, but hot breakfast. Along with the wind, the stormy weather from the previous day had disappeared. Since it was so nearby, we decided to head back to the summit to see if we could catch the sun rising over the peaks. As we approached the summit proper, we were treated to one of the most incredible sights that I have ever had the privilege of witnessing in the mountains. The sun had just crested the horizon and in fact, had just risen between Giant Mountain and Lower Wolfjaw Mountain. Below us clouds filled in all of the valleys and lowlands, leaving the bigger peaks thrusting up into the early morning sky.

From: "The Snowy Staircase"

At some point I lost the trail, but the snow was packed so hard from the wind that we were, for the most part, able to stay on top of the crusty layer. We periodically lost and found the trail the rest of the way to the summit. A beautiful parade of mountains began over our shoulders and if it were not for the cold wind that bit into us, there would have been a lot more time spent drinking in such wonderful vistas. The ridge seemed to undulate forever, but it was on the final push to the summit that we found a sheltered hollow where the wind could not find us. Tony plunged ahead and Barb and Sally were right behind me, making their way up the ridge.

After a brief rest I turned and began following Tony’s tracks, which were quickly being erased by the blowing snow. Upon leaving the hollow and clambering up onto the summit ridge, the view of the Beckhorn and the icy, corniced knife’s edge that led towards it opened up in front of me. Tony was not too far ahead and we were shortly at the true summit of Dix. Our group gathered around and discussed our next move. There was no trail broken out from this point. Our original plan was to climb over the summit of Dix and then down along the ridge to the summit of Hough, but one look at the route that dropped from the precarious slopes of the Beckhorn, and our hopes began to fade. For if we were to go down that ridge and then up Hough, we would have to go back the way we had come, essentially reclimbing Dix in order to get out. We decided to head back towards Round Pond.

© Brian Hoody, 2006. All rights reserved.

For ordering information, please contact Brian Hoody:
Brian Hoody
1891 Fairport Nine Mile Point Rd.
Penfield, NY 14526
bhoody@rochester.rr.com