LOCALadk Magazine

LOCALadk 32 treacherous mixture of ice, rock, and snow. Spring thaw had arrived too early, with trailheads rapidly melting out. We weren't certain conditions would hold another 48 hours for our final attempt. March 3rd dawned foggy with a chance of rain and afternoon temperatures forecast to reach the low 50s. The Adirondack Loj parking lot was already a mess. I'd started plenty of ski tours under thin winter con- ditions, but this was particularly bad—not the story- book snowy finish we'd worked toward for ten years. We began our march with skis on our backs, mud and water splashing our pants. We clopped along in ski boots to Marcy Dam, crossed the high water bridge, and then we saw it: the beginning of a frozen boot- packed trail of ice, barely surviving among the runoff, rocks, and emerging vegetation. A pulse. With ele- vation gain comes more snow — there was still hope we'd find enough to ski up and down. At the Marcy Dam trail register, we met the winter caretaker, coffee in hand. He glanced at our skis and asked our destination. When we mentioned Colden, his expression grew serious. "There are multiple all-hands-on-deck rescues taking place out near Johns Brook right now. Every available ranger is out there. If anything happens to you guys, you're at least a day or two from getting help." We promised to turn back if conditions became too dangerous and, to ease his concern, mentioned this was not our first High Peak on skis. He smiled through his long beard and wished us luck. As we passed the trail signs for Avalanche Pass, sunlight began piercing the gray haze. Water drop- lets clung to pine needles like tiny ornaments. The snow-covered trail was speckled with an emerging for- est floor, like nature's confetti. We navigated around a few ice bulges straddling the trail as we gained eleva- tion. As our skis slid along, the snow deepened, form- ing walls on either side. Conditions were improving. Doug and I were mostly silent as we worked our way to Colden. There was a mutual reverence that what we had been doing for so long was about to come to an end. There was much to process and reflect on. A few months before Tracy passed away, I had anxiously tried to coax her out of bed for a hospital appointment in New York City. Despite knowing we'd likely wait at least 45 minutes once we arrived, that day I regrettably urged her to move faster. Her body was so frail she could barely stand. She turned to me and asked simply, "What's the rush?" For the final push up Colden, I let Doug ski ahead. I deliberately slowed my pace and paused just shy of the summit. Over my shoulder, a rainbow materialized, arcing up from the valley below where clouds now settled, piercing into the blue skies above. My chest tightened. I drew several deep breaths. A tear traced down my right cheek. We had pursued this goal relentlessly for a decade. Countless hours spent laboring in these mountains un- der harsh conditions. An endless cycle of discomfort, cold, wet, and exhaustion. Throughout those ten years, I had frequently ques- tioned our motives, asking myself, "Why are we doing this?" only to silence those doubts with an obsessive counter-voice: "Because you can. Because you can do this. So go get it done." And as I stood there, fifty feet below the summit and one ski descent away from com- pleting the 46ers, I finally understood — there was no rush. t Doug Kennard Jamie Kennard

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