LOCALadk Magazine

Spring 2018 LOCALadk Magazine 61 LOCALadk closest and steeper route to alley- oop over the top to the Cooper Kill Pond trail. But I had promised Cassandra a minimally grueling adventure, so we crossed the ravine and began a gentle upward tra- verse toward the less daunting pitch over the south-western shoul- der of Winch Mountain. The up-slope cur ved into a treed bowl (which asks to be skied in the winter). As bowl traverses usually do, this one draped across to another drainage from the notch we were hoping to negotiate. On the southeast-facing slope we found a small plateau, just right for holding two tents on flat ground, with a creek at a hygienic distance from the campsite. But there was still light, and a game trail led across the creek and up Winch Mountain. " We can come back here, if this route doesn't pan out," I said to Cassandra. A bit further on the game trail we came to an old, water-filled mine shaft, or sink hole. Beyond that the trail seemed more worn – a combined game trail and hunter's path. This led to a punch-through on a false summit. But the more we walked this, the more I realized it was heading towards the east-facing down- slope of the Cooper Kill Pond Trail. And we didn't want to link with the trail there and then hike up to Cooper Kill Pond; we wanted to forge a route through a notch to the western side of Winch Mountain and the western leg of the Cooper Kill Pond Trail. So we backtracked, and then pushed up a ridge, thinking to skirt the edge of the dense spruce on Winch Mountain. High altitude spruce forest is a route finder's nemesis, along with the cliffs and drops that can hide in the spruce. As the ridge steepened, the spruce got increasingly dense and the east-face increasingly shear. This was exactly the kind of grueling I'd promised Cassandra we would avoid. We pushed west, daunt- ed by tangled spruce, with a few false clearings in between. We scattered a few grouse, and found shed winter feathers on the ground. Grouse like to hide in spruce thickets, which are good at keeping out snow, wind, and most ever ything else. Except us, apparently. And the kid had taken up the lead, using a pole to beat back the dead spruce twigs. "Maybe over this way," I heard her say, some- where up ahead. Now the daughter to whom I'd promised a palat- able exploration, was turning into me. "Over this way," she called back again. " You need to head more uphill," I yelled out. Twigs snapping up ahead, I followed my progeny into the hateful spruce, branches scratching my exposed arms, spruce detritus sprinkling my shirt and hair. Decades ago, while XC-skiing in a snowstorm on a small plot of open land I was familiar with in Wilmington, I found myself cross- ing a set of ski tracks. "Look! Someone else is skiing out here!" I ex- claimed to my companion. " Who would be doing that? " And then it hit me. No one; we were crossing our own tracks, having completed a circle in a white out. And it was cold, and getting dark. It only takes getting lost once to remember the panic of disorientation for life. And now, my good-intentioned daughter was pushing through the spruce without direction. "It's starting to get dark. Wait a min- ute," I called out. We consulted the map. " We're out on the ridge too far, and in that spruce glade I saw from the valley and swore to stay out of. Let's go back down to that site by the creek, camp overnight, and figure out where we went off course." We beat our way out of the spruce, relocated the game trail, and backtracked to the scouted campsite. While Cassandra set up our tent, I gathered some of the ample dead hardwood from the for- est floor and fired up the stove to heat water for dinner. Then I set about building a stone fireplace – a must, since the leaves and duff were so dr y. The rocks I collected were crumbly quartzite. I used the softer crumble like quarr y dust, to create a fireproof pit-bottom. Fireplace done, I lit a fire, got Cassandra to help me drag in a big log to sit on, and pre- pared dinner by the fireside. When temperatures sink in the eve- ning, the warmth and glow of a campfire are luxuries of hiking outside the High Peaks – cheer y psychological boosters that tap our primordial genetic needs. Dinner done and cleaned up with wa- ter from the nearby creek, we night owls lounged in the orange glow. Had we been in the High Peaks, the icy-blue light of a head lamp and cold sleeping bags would have been our only com- forts. We examined the map and topogra- phy again. " We veered off to the east too much here. That game trail was a se - ductive distraction, but it was leading us in the wrong direction. Tomorrow we'll go up this ravine, staying to the south side of the creek to keep us in line with the pass," I proposed. " Yeah, I think that looks better," Cassandra concurred. We chatted amiably, with only the sound of the crackling fire and wind in the trees as accompani- ment. Here, off the marked trails, the Wilmington Wild Forest af- forded us the peace and solitude of our own Forever Wild. The night became cold, dropping into the twenties. We used our light quilted jackets as core- coverlets inside our down sleeping bags. Despite cold noses, we got some sleep. In the morning, Cas- sandra reported a nighttime visitor around the tent. "The snuffling was high enough in pitch that I thought it a fox, coyote, or raccoon," she said. The sun warmed the tent on the eastern slope in the morn- ing, as we dosed. After a leisurely breakfast and morning wash-up, we packed our gear and began our climb up the ravine. Soon we found the vague rut of a vehicle track running uphill through the first growth forest, along a ridge on the left of the ra- vine. The forest often opened a bit, though at times downed trees or new growth blocked the apparent path. But I kept picking up the

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