Two free spirits proceed afoot into the wild hills and straddle the precarious no-man's land between folly and legitimate enterprise: an account of a Catskill 3500 Club aspirant's successful blitz of the summits.
"You just climbed more than a quarter of your summer peaks today. What if you could finish the other 26 in four more hiking days? Think about it. No aspirant has ever come within months of doing that."
It was the summer of '95. I was talking to my friend and 3500 Club hopeful, Chris Adams. Chris a classically-trained musician and leader of a blues band, house builder, furniture maker, sailor, lover of wild places, and the most upbeat guy I ever knew, considered the idea for less than a second before jumping at it like a hungry trout.
For fun that day we had strolled over nine 3500 footers: Slide, Cornell, The Wittenberg Friday, Balsam Cap, Rocky, Lone, Peekamoose, and Table. The hike, with another 3500 footer added each year, is an annual ritual. This unusual behavior has spawned critics who consider us unresponsive to mountain beauty -- two irreverent boors intent only in "scoring" peaks. We concede "irreverent" but emphasize that our advanced ages, totaling 116 years, ranging to 72, enforce a slow enough pace to ensure adequate time to enjoy the scenery.
We returned to our beloved hills the next week with enthusiasm, uncertain if we were equal to our ambition. Balsam Lake Mountain, Graham, Double Top, Big Indian, Fir, Eagle, and Balsam Mountain were the day's daunting objectives. Our misgivings proved baseless. Except for my cracking a rib coming down Graham's east side, we enjoyed a strenuous but agreeable day in the woods.
Descending Eagle, we heard voices ahead. Chris took a deep breath and in his powerful operatic tenor belted out, "THE HILLS ARE ALIVE, WITH THE SOUND OF HIKE-ERS!" To our delight the other party replied in song, presenting the illusion we were performing in an operetta.
The third outing was a noble solo by Chris. Flushed with our previous successes he saw Halcott, Sherrill, North Dome, Westkill and Panther fall by the wayside during a day requiring two moves by car and one by bicycle. (He biked from Diamond Notch trailhead downhill to a car parked at Sherrill's approach.)
A week later, with confidence approaching arrogance, we set our sights on Bearpen, Vly, Thomas Cole, Black Dome, Black Head, Windham, and Kaaterskill High Peaks. High-spirited cries echoed for miles as we occasionally whooped with joy. (And for the sheer YAHOO! of it.) It was another day of car and bike moves. "Piece of cake," we agreed at day's end, shamelessly distorting reality.
Regardless of our earlier brashness, the final leg would be a stretch. The altitude gain alone was intimidating. To finish the game in style we would have to climb Rusk, Hunter, Southwest Hunter, Plateau, Sugarloaf, Twin, and Indian Head. And as feared, it WAS tough. We plodded up the switchbacks east of Stoney Clove Notch with an unspoken perception: we might not pull this off. Thunder and lighting spurred us along the heights. Finally and mercifully, Jimmy Dolan Notch. Only Indian Head to go.
"Why are we doing this, Chris?" I asked, as we limped up the side of the last mountain. His smiling answer: "Bob, look at me in the eye and tell me you don't love it."
Disclaimer: Chris and Bob caution against
trying this project without a doctor's permission if you're over 85.