LOCALadk Magazine

LOCALadk 26 Building blocks Doug and I grew up ski racing in western New York. Tiny hills like Brantling, Ski Valley, Swain, and Bristol were our proving grounds. Slalom was our discipline of choice, where we learned to embrace the gate smashing and bruising impacts. Little did we know how crucial that training would become in our future adventures. I'm fairly certain it's documented somewhere (though don't fact-check me) that the best ski racers and big mountain riders first honed their skills in the east. After all, until you've shredded through leather gloves on a 250 -foot elevation, rope tow-only ski hill, or survived a high-speed dance with bulletproof ice, have you truly experienced everything skiing has to offer? The winter before we set out to ski the 46 High Peaks in the Adirondacks, my brother Doug and I had quietly accomplished being the first two individu- als to ski all of New York's "other" High Peaks in the Catskills. Known as the 3500s, these well worn moun- tains stand just west of the Hudson River, each rising above 3,500 feet. While they couldn't compete with Colorado's towering 14,000 -foot giants, what the Catskills lacked in elevation, they made up for with subsurface hazards, sharp rocks, dense forests, and a snowpack as temperamental as mountain weather itself. A handful of the 3500s saw occasional visits from hardy backcountry skiers, but most had likely re- mained virgin territory, their ragged slopes untouched by ski edges. It took us the better part of two grueling years to ski all of the 3500s, 35 mountains in total. From the 3500s to the 46: Chasing Legends in the Ad- irondacks With our goal to ski the 3500s being crossed off our "list," Doug and I naturally wondered what was next. The thing about lists and the outdoors is that once you've finished one list, your eyes inevitably drift to- ward the next challenge waiting on the horizon. During our time skiing the Catskills, I had begun scouring the Internet for accounts of backcountry skiers in the Adirondacks. While concrete information was scarce, one name emerged repeatedly over and over: Ron Konowitz. Konowitz, or "RonKon" as locals knew him, was a true local legend. He belonged to the early pioneers of Adirondack backcountry skiers known as the Ski to Die Club, claiming numerous first descents in the Adirondacks. More importantly, he stood alone in the record books as the only person to have skied all 46 Adiron- dack High Peaks, completing this monumental feat in 1996 — nearly twenty years prior! WIth Lake Placid and the surrounding North Country towns chock full of former and future winter Olympians, seasoned alpinists, and big mountain skiers, this gave me a real pause. It didn't add up. But it also stoked a tiny fire inside. The early peaks of the 46ers challenge If the conditions on Lower Wolfjaw were an omen of things to come, our beginner's luck would only dete- riorate further that winter. Doug would take a devas- tating fall during a ski race in mid-February of 2015, tearing his ACL . Our 46er ski quest screeched to a halt with just one peak under our belts. The following year passed without skiing for either of us. Doug faced a long road of rehabilitation and recovery. Meanwhile, I found myself navigating a dra- matic career shift, having closed my design studio in New York City to open a wine bar with my wife, Tracy, in Kingston, NY. The Adirondacks were placed on the back burner, but they were always at the forefront of my mind. In 2017, Doug and I cautiously dipped our toes back into the Adirondacks, targeting three of the most classic backcountry ski-friendly peaks: Wright Peak, Whiteface, and Mount Marcy. Marcy, the crown jewel of New York at 5,344 feet, stands among a select few peaks that pierce the treeline. We made our ascent in early April, stumbling upon what I can only describe as Adirondack gold: 32 degrees, bluebird skies, and an almost supernat- ural absence of wind. We found ourselves alone on the summit, basking in our fortunes. The conditions proved so perfect that I made three consecutive laps on the Marcy bowl before we finally committed to the seven-mile ski descent back to the Adirondack Loj. A close call, a lesson learned By 2018, with several summits under our belt, I decided to embark on a solo ski tour of Algonquin and Iroquois, the second and eighth tallest peaks in New York. I had skied Algonquin once before, so the ascent felt familiar. But today's conditions were brutally differ- ent. The cold bit through layers of clothing. Winds howled across the ridgeline, hurling snow hundreds of feet skyward in chaotic spirals. As the second-high- est peak, Algonquin offers no real shelter above the treeline. I huddled behind a massive boulder, fumbling to secure my goggles, helmet, and an extra layer. Vis- ibility deteriorated to nearly nothing as the swirling snow created a disorienting white chamber. At that moment, I understood how someone could easily lose their bearings in whiteout conditions. While the summits of Algonquin and Iroquois rise above treeline leaving them exposed, the stretch between them presents a labyrinthine maze of coni- fers. On a typical day, you might follow the snowshoe tracks of previous trekkers like breadcrumbs. Today, however, the relentless winds had erased all signs of human passage. My own ski tracks vanished behind me, swept away by nature's broom.

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