Winter on the Northville-Placid Trail

A failure?

Lead Up

With the plan to join my Pacific Crest Trail (PCT)  friends in the Alps for the summer, the goal to hike the Appalachian Trail (AT) this year changed and with it the plan to hike the triple crown in 3 consecutive years. I didn’t really have that desire to hike the AT the way I did with the PCT, so I chose what will hopefully be more fulfilling. Now that my entire winter and spring are free, I decided on the Arizona Trail (AZT), but that still left my winter/early spring empty. Why not attempt the Northville-Placid Trail (NPT) in the winter? I had all the gear from my winter mountaineering class the previous winter. May as well put it to some use. 

I spent a few weeks planning pretty extensively. I gathered any gear I still needed such as better footwear for a flat hike. Mountaineering boots are overkill for this. I poured over the maps, created my own gpx files so I really understood my every move, made lists of the shelters and distances between them, created general plans for different speeds, upgraded my Garmin plan, and had a phone call with a local SAR member to see if my plan was actually feasible. I was ready. 

A couple days before, I did the final part of prepping my resupply boxes. I called the two hotels along the trail to confirm they’ll hold the boxes for me. This was going to be quite the adventure. I expected it to take between 14-17 days to do this 140 mile winter hike. 

On Feb 12, I loaded up my car after an hour of cat drama to make the 6.5 hr drive to the Adirondacks. The drive was easy and uneventful. I got to my family's house around 1700. I love being up there, the snow, the forests, the joy I get in such a cozy yet rugged environment. 

The following day, while everyone went to work and school, I drove out to the two resupply locations after living out my small town coffee shop dreams at Cafe Sarah in North Creek. Those blueberry muffins are delightful. The first box drop in Long Lake was easy and the people did not care in the least when I said I was there to drop my box off. They just pointed me towards a closet under the stairs and said put it in there.  Back in the car for the hour drive to the next location. I took a quick stop at Stewart’s for a bathroom break and a debate with myself on if I needed a milkshake. I did not. Piseco was a tiny town with nothing but a hotel and a post office. The woman at the hotel was amazing. She was incredibly kind and so excited for me to attempt this. I was very encouraged and I did not want to disappoint her. 

I finished my drop off with lots of time left in the afternoon, so I decided to take a Nordic ski lesson at Gore Mountain to see if I’d regret my choice of snowshoes. It was fun and I picked it up quickly enough having done a good bit of Alpine skiing, but not enough for a backcountry Nordic trip. Future goals. The Kunglseden in winter sounds fun. I spent the evening doing one last check of my gear and packing it up so I would be ready to leave quickly in the morning.

Day 1, February 14

The next morning was an earlyish start. My aunt drove me the hour to Lake Placid to drop me off at the old train station, the official start of the trail. The drive was easy and uneventful with a bathroom break at Stewart’s. We arrived at the terminus a little before 8. This was a moment of doubt for me. The temptation to get back in the car and stay in the cozy cabin environment and just ski all week was a hard urge to resist, but I set out to try. I could fail later if it wasn’t going well, but I needed to at least try. I snapped some photos at the terminus and started my watch and inreach trackers. I began the road walk and waved goodbye to my aunt. 

The road walk was easy, not unexpected since it was a road, though it was uphill. About 2/3rds of the way through the road walk, a ranger driving by pulled over to chat. His first comment to me really gave me a boost of confidence. He said, “You look like you know what you're getting into.” He asked what my plan was and I said 5ish days to Long Lake. He thought that was pretty realistic, reminded me to sign the registers, and that he did this section in winter before and “it’s a bitch”. So newly motivated, I kept on. I reached the parking lot to where the trail turns into the woods. I took off my sweater, put on my overboots and snowshoes and in I went. Fun fact, if the snowpack is 8” or more, you are required by law in the ADK park to be wearing snowshoes or skis. I kind of wished I learned to Nordic ski well enough. It was easy going at first. This bit had been well used by people on their morning walks. It quickly got more difficult about 1/2 mile later when I reached the end of the week trodden path. I was down to just a ski track which is much narrower than a snowshoe track. Only one foot could stay on the path at a time with the other postholing in the incredibly fluffy powder. I’d still take half a track over none. 

The woods were gorgeous and very closed in. The trees were covered in so much snow. At times, it was difficult to believe the trail was so narrow, but it was pretty clear to read the terrain and know that’s actually where it was. The occasional markers and GPS helped as well. 

After about 2 miles on the trail (4ish total) I finally left the ski track and was wholly on my own. No one had been through here in a long time. Every step was a struggle. The snow was between mid shin to knee deep with every step with snowshoes on. A few times I sunk in up to my hip. I need bigger loftier shoes if I’m to try again, but the snow itself packed down so easily. It was a mixed bag, if the snow was heavier, I’d have stayed afloat better, but if I sank in, it would be heavier to pull my feet out. However, the powder squished down and displaced easily and I just sank. The path continued to be relatively easy to follow. If you hike and orienteer enough, you can get a grasp on where trails are typically built and see where it’s headed. I occasionally pulled out the GPS to confirm I was on track. Only once, did I not make the turn I should have and ended up 5 feet off the track, but I was back on pretty quickly. 

Every step was becoming a struggle for me. Everything I carried (food, water, gear, worn clothes, etc) was about 45 pounds. That’s a good bit of weight when I’m dragging my double booted and snowshoe clad feet through 2-3 feet of snow. If I wasn't dragging my feet, I was trying to high step over to make the next hole. Needless to say, it was an incredible amount of work. Imagine carrying a medium size dog on your back while wading waist deep in the ocean with 5 pounds tied to each leg, and the air temp is 20 F. Now you might have a vague idea of what it felt like. I was traveling close to 0.5 MPH. I don’t think I’ve ever walked so slow before for so long. It was so disheartening. I knew in that first mile off the ski path, I wouldn’t be able to do this hike. It would take me at least 7 days to reach Long Lake. I didn’t have enough food. I don’t know if I had the mental stamina for this either. 

I spent the last hour of my hiking time, struggling to come up with a plan and stay motivated to keep trying. I was upset and dismayed. I couldn’t do it. I tried not to cry with every miserable step I took of this self inflicted torture. Watching a weasel hop effortlessly across the snow filled me with jealousy while I tried to appreciate the cute fuzzy creature. I checked the time for sunset, around 1725. I wanted to stop with at least an hour of light. There was no way I would make it to the shelter. I’d have to stomp out a camp and pitch my tent. I didn't want to add to the struggle of doing that in the dark. At 1620, I spotted a location a bit off the trail on the right that was flat and big enough to make my little camp for the night. No widow makers which are always a risk. The added weight of snow increases that risk. 

The spot would be perfect for the small tent I brought. The plan was to not need it. I knew there would likely be a night or two when I did, but I’d largely be in the shelters. It’s a summer tent, but I didn’t need it for warmth with all the clothes and -20 F sleeping bag. I just needed shelter from snow. I dropped my pack in the corner of the area and began stomping. It took a while to get the area stomped down and stable enough to pitch a tent. I could have stomped more, but it was good enough and I was exhausted. Up went my plex solo. Luckily there was a perfect stick for making dead man anchors. They work so much better than snow stakes and I wouldn’t need to worry about them being lost forever. Home for the night was up, next was loading it with my sleep set up. First went in my ⅛” foam pad, followed by my z lite, and topped with my x therm. So much insulation, so cozy. My -20F sleeping bag and silk liner went on top. I haphazardly threw the rest of my gear in after and soon followed myself. 

I needed to layer up before I got too cold. Dry leggings, alpha pants, and puffy pants did it for the legs. Dry socks and down booties for the feet. Thick wool shirt, alpha fleece, thick down puffy for the torso. A fleece lined hat went on my head. Fleece mittens lever left my hands. Legs shoved into the warm bag, I moped a bit while eating crisps and sent a message to my mapshare. “Day one complete. The pace is much slower than I anticipated. I’m post holing mid shin to knee every step even with snowshoes. There’s a real possibility I’ll have to turn back after tomorrow.” I stared off into space a good bit while I should have been making food. Eventually I got the stove going and began melting snow for water. It takes a lot of snow to get any substantial amount of water. 

I messaged with my husband while waiting for hot water bemoaning my failure. I had already basically given up. Not enough food, too difficult. I thought I was ready for this. I guess I wasn’t. I will be next time. The messages from my husband were supportive. He’d never consider me a failure for getting this far. Very few people even try so this was a pretty big step. My aunt sent a text that basically was the turning point in my decision to keep going. She said “I saw the message that you may have to turn back… Let me know! We will come get you!” Followed by “Monday we are going to morey lake in Vermont, will be gone all day. Near the New Hampshire border. It’s a skate/cross country ski place. Welcome to join us”. How could I resist the offer to be warm and cozy and day trip to skate or ski. It also meant, I wouldn’t have an easy ride back for 2 days if I really wanted to keep pushing. I wasn't fully committing to turning around the next day, but I knew I probably would. Eventually I ate my dinner, had some cocoa, and got cozy in my sleeping bag to call it a night. I made a noob mistake. My nalgene full of boiling water wasn't tightened down properly. At least a half cup of water leaked into my down bag. Another point towards turning back. I dried it as best I could, meaning there wasn't much I could do so I read for a little while, then went to sleep with the hopes my body heat will do more to fix it.

Day 2, February 15

Sleep was good. My setup was so comfortable. The new winter sleeping pad was the best thing I could have gotten. It was so wide and long that it felt like I had the space of a real bed. It was warm and thick. I might consider using this on other hikes if I can get over carrying the extra weight. I woke up warm and comfy, but sore and discouraged. I wanted this hike to work; I knew it wouldn’t. The morning was so slow. I did a lot more staring into space while boiling water and coming to terms with either being miserable on trail, or miserable that I quit. I needed to decide which was the best choice for me. I’d keep going and see what happened. After yesterday’s efforts, the path back would be very fast in comparison. I could keep going and put off the decision a bit longer. I ate the pain au chocolate I packed out from the cafe while boiling water. Eventually I had 2 liters of water boiled and ready for drinking, and a breakfast RecPak was ready to go. I slowly packed the rest of my gear and stripped off the layers until I was only in my baselayer and then added on my shells. I get hot quickly while moving. 

With my snowshoes on and my pack fully loaded, I made my way back to the trail. I was downtrodden and depressed. Not in a good mental place to be traveling in dangerous winter terrain, but I wanted to give it a real chance. I had more than enough food. I had all the winter gear. I was relatively safe. I knew what to do for exposure and frostbite and various injuries (I highly recommend anyone hiking at least take a Wilderness First Aid class). I had two SAR people on standby to help get me out if things got bad. Despite all this, I couldn’t get myself to want it enough to go through with the mental pain I’d be putting myself through. For me, it’s almost a sense of claustrophobia, cleithrophobia is a more accurate description, but I didn’t know the term before. Traveling only 0.5 MPH left me feeling trapped like in many of my nightmares where I’m trying to run away, but my legs won’t move and I’m trying to fight back, but my arms are too weak. My feet were on the edge of being too cold. I pushed on, crying with every step, partly for the failure I knew this hike was, partly because it wasn’t living up to expectations. I messaged my husband and my friend saying I don’t think I can do this. Both were encouraging and supportive of whatever I chose to do, reminding me that this should also be a fun experience. After briefly missing my turn and losing the trail, I messaged my aunt to say I was turning back. She and the girls would head up to Placid to skate and pick me up on the way. 

I cried some more as I headed back. I felt like I gave up too quickly, but there was no reason to do this if I wasn't enjoying it or getting something from it. I had no obligation to finish this hike, only pride. The hike back was still slow, but drastically faster than the hike out. I was making 1-1.5 MPH now, the speed I thought I could do before. As time passed and I really came to terms with quitting, I actually began to enjoy the trail. The sun came out which always drastically improves my mood. It warmed up a little. The snow glittered on all the trees. I could really enjoy the beauty when I wasn’t struggling with every step. After coming to terms with quitting and knowing I’d be in a warm house in a warm bed tonight, the hike became just a pleasant day hike with too big a backpack. I stopped in a sunpatch to address my too cold right foot before it became dangerous. I was losing feeling in my big toe. Boots off, I warmed my foot in my mittened hands and added the plastic bag back around it. It quickly improved and I was back to hiking. I was moving fast, I would get to Placid hours before I thought I might. It was depressing to see how little progress I actually made. I reached the notable points from the day before long before I thought I would. Eventually I hit the first register in the woods where I felt that shame of quitting again. It shouldn't matter, but I didn’t want the ranger to see it and think about how I was yet another unprepared hiker in the backcountry in winter. I know that they’re probably much happier that I turned back then let it get dangerous. I added a note saying I turned back and carried on to the road walk.

Walking down the road, a car pulls up asking if I need a ride. It was my aunt to the rescue. She asked how it was, I said miserable, and hopped in the car. We stopped at the train station register so I can sign out there too and headed into town so the girls can go ice skating. I went to the brewery for lunch and a consolation/celebratory beer and sandwich while they skated on the lake. 

That was the end of my attempted hike, barely a day and a half of trying. It was the right call for me at the time. I’m not finished with that trail in that season yet. When I got back to civilization, almost every day that week I was supposed to be out there, there was either a rescue or death in the high peaks wilderness (where I was). It helped ease the pain of quitting knowing I wasn’t going to be one of those numbers. My family and friends were all supportive of my decision, especially those that know and understand the risks with this type of hiking, especially doing it alone. After posting on my instagram of my short lived thru hike and fun week learning to ice skate and skiing on my favorite mountain, my other aunt sent a message that really helped bolster my spirits and choices. “I missed your birthday. Happy belated Birthday. Also, I wanted to say how proud I am of you for pulling out of your winter camping excursion. We have had more winter hiking fatalities this year than I can ever recall. You are loved and hopefully we can see you on your next trip north.” Those were words I needed to hear. Next time, I’ll be ready to go farther. I might not try for that winter thru hike again for a while, but I will be back out there.