Best view into crevasse

For the second time in many years, I woke on the day after the Birdathon at Cropsey Pond.  It is still early, the sun has yet to appear.  Spring peepers, being industrious, are still calling, their cacophony almost deafening.  Piercing the din of these small frogs are at least three barred owls calling back and forth to each other.

Despite all the noise around Cropsey Pond, I fall back to sleep for another hour or so, before waking again to a lot of noise.  Unlike before, it is the birds’ turn to make some noise as the sun begins to make its first appearance of the day.  White-throated sparrow, common yellowthroat, Magnolia warbler, yellow-rumped warbler, winter wren, ovenbird, and Blackburnian warbler are doing their best to greet the day.  Luckily, for me anyway, none of the species were missing in action yesterday.

After 30 minutes of delay, I finally dash out from under my tarp to take a quick morning pee.  While doing my business, a few raindrops hit me, but at least I hear Swainson’s thrush and golden-crowned kinglet adding their voices to the morning chorus.  It starts raining harder by the time I return to the tarp.   

Unfortunately, I cannot immediately take refuge under the tarp, as the Nest insect netting shelter underneath the tarp has worked its way out from under the tarp, mostly due to me setting the entire shelter on a bit of a slope.  This could lead to a soggy disaster as rain runs off the tarp and right through the insect netting to fill up in the Nest as it did on the side of Jay Mountain a couple of years ago.

I pull the shelter back under the tarp, but to my dismay, it has worked its way back to being very close to the edge of the tarp after I reenter to wait out the rain.  Hopefully, the rain’s intensity does not increase or otherwise, I will be in for a wet hike.  On the bright side, if I have to hike out in the rain, it won’t really matter much.

After about an hour of light rain, it tapers off and eventually ends.  I wait a little longer to make sure it isn’t just pulling an Adirondack tease and luring me out only to hit me with a heavy downpour once I become complacent.  No more rain falls, so I start packing my sleeping stuff for my eventual hike back to my car.  By the time I am done packing, my head is aching and my enthusiasm about the day’s trek has completely evaporated.

My chores are the next priority, so I make and eat breakfast, clean up, and pack up my remaining gear until I am completely ready to depart Cropsey Pond.  It only took me four hours from the time I got up to pee until I was ready to start hiking. It is not a speedy start to the day.

Leaving Cropsey Pond

The beginning of my hike follows the same path as when I first arrived last evening.  I head south through the forest making my way for a short distance before reaching the old Cropsey inlet that is mostly now dry, with only a trickle of water flowing through it.  I arrive downstream from the large dam, where the stream corridor expands into a larger shrubby area before finally emptying into Cropsey Pond proper.

Before crossing the once significant stream, based on the deep eroded gorge left over from a day of more water flow from an age long gone, I take a bearing of 110 degrees.  This bearing should take me to Raven Lake Road in the shortest distance possible, as it heads almost directly east.  From there I will have a longer dirt road walk, but at least the much slower (and potentially more wet) bushwhack will be over.  Since I need to report my Birdathon results before noon, time is of the essence.

Instead of crossing on the dam, I hop across the scar left over from the flowing water and head uphill into the blowdown-damaged forest on the southern side of the old stream.  The 1995 microburst storm (which I experienced at Sand Lake) is the same storm responsible for this damaged forest before me.  Unfortunately, a good deal of my bushwhack out will be within this impacted forest, which means much slower going as downed logs will be a frequent obstacle.

My bearing takes me along the shrubby opening where the stream enters Cropsey Pond for a short distance, giving me a few last glances of the attractive pond.  I take in the sights as much as possible, as this is most likely to be my last look until next year’s Birdathon. That is unless I get the itch to return here sometime later this year.

Unfortunately, before reaching the forest, my video camera’s battery gives up the ghost, requiring me to stop and quickly change it.  This requires taking off my pack to obtain a new battery and securing the old one away to be recharged upon returning home.  Luckily, this doesn’t take me too long, so before long, I am back to my bushwhack away from Cropsey Pond.

Ascending Through Damaged Forest

With a new battery, I enter the surrounding forest.  The forest is mostly young hardwoods as the descendants of the mature trees killed by the storm are growing quickly to replace their parents. Soon after entering the forest, I cross a small steadily flowing stream, with the dense young trees continuing after the crossing.

The young hardwoods are so dense in places, that I am practically squeezing myself through them, as they bounce me around like a ball in a pinball machine.  The plentiful branches frequently slap me and my video camera, which is secured on a chest mount, probably making quite a ruckus on the video recordings.  Fighting the young trees is not the only obstacle, as I’m ascending along a slope also, making the bushwhacking even slower than I imagined.  The frequent downed logs and branches are always underfoot, which does not help matters much either.

After a short distance from the pond, the climbing levels out, with periods of slight climbs interspersed with level areas.  As I continue southeastward, the trees’ nascent leaves seem to get bigger and more dense, especially compared to what I saw the previous day north of here.  Spring is coming to the western Adirondacks, but apparently at a different pace depending on where you are.

Cropsey Pond inlet

Finally, at the end of an extended level area, there is a rocky cliff in my path.  Luckily, my bearing takes me along the base of the cliff and then up through a rocky drainage.  Most likely, this drainage was once part of the rocky cliff until it crumbled apart for some reason in the distant past.  There are many more young spruces in this area compared to before, making it a little more difficult to follow my bearing.

At the top of the drainage, is a small wetland, with a little open area providing a break in the almost unbroken forest encountered thus far.  Trying to avoid wet feet, I attempt to keep to the south of the wetland, where drier ground dominates.  Unfortunately, wet areas abound, as do the dense conifers, so keeping dry is more of a challenge than it would first appear.

A steady climb begins anew after getting past the wetland.  Here the leaves appear smaller and the conifers are more frequent, at least for a little while.  When I finally reach a possible height of land and only descending remains before me, I decide to stop for a break and enjoy the scenery.  Plus, I had to take care of nature’s call, and where better to do so than on top of a high ridge, far away from any open water?

Descending Toward Raven Lake Road

With my rest behind me, the descent to Raven Lake Road starts immediately.  After a short but steep section requiring a switchback, I descend into a moist trench with scattered grass, a corresponding climb out of it visible on the other side.  The climb out requires navigating around numerous large rock formations emerging from the surrounding leaf litter.

A more undulating terrain follows my climb out of the trench, leaving me feeling a little disappointed as I anticipated the descent to the road would begin anew almost immediately.  After going through an area impacted by the storm, with downed logs, tip-up mounds, and frequent new growth, I finally find myself looking down a rather short and steep descent again.

After carefully picking a route through the descent, I follow a rather wide-open drainage even though it is not going along my bearing.  I verify with my compass that it is not the correct direction, but I still cannot stop myself from taking the easier path rather than the undulating terrain on my original bearing.

Microburst damaged forest

Eventually, even the drainage plummets in elevation, so once again I find myself climbing down a steep slope.  If I need to descend, I might as well do it in the correct direction, so I adjust my bearing toward my original destination, so I can get back on track.  This requires a climb along a ridgetop, which probably just means I am putting off a shorter descent for an even longer one in the future.

When I reach the very top of the ridge, my bearing takes me straight down another relatively short but steep descent, just as I suspected.  I climb down near the edge of an area of open rock, staying under the young forest cover, just so I can get better footing to prevent me from sliding down all the way to the bottom.

After clearing the open rock, the downward slope dissipates somewhat.  Through the trees, I can see what is probably a fantastic view of the northern part of Stillwater Reservoir, which has me looking around for a nearby viewpoint, but I come up empty.  Although less steep, the descent continues with many downed logs, protruding rocks, and remains of tip-up mounds providing frequent obstacles to navigate around, over, or through.  When rock cliffs get added to the mix, the descent requires even more careful going.

Near height of land

Crevasse Impeding Progress

When I finally reach the bottom of a steep slope, the forest takes on a more coniferous habit as young conifers take over as the most abundant obstacle to forward progress.  When the young conifers dissipate a little, I find myself at the edge of a cliff with a crevasse down below, complete with some ice/snow at the bottom, apparently left over from the winter past.

There is no way I am going to try and get down there.

My bearing originally oriented me to avoid the crevasse to the north, but I must have veered off of it enough since leaving Cropsey Pond to lead me right to it.  The only option is to try to get around it, so I head north as best as I can, as it appears to be the shortest distance to get around it.   Hopefully, this will not take me too far out of my way to get around it, or I will quickly regret not heading south instead.

The young conifers are pretty dense along the western edge of the crevasse, so I get continuously struck about the head as I move north around this major obstacle.  Not too far to the east of the crevasse lies nirvana in the form of Raven Lake Road, my easy exit route back to my waiting vehicle.

Descent to Raven Lake Rd

When the terrain seems more level to the east, yet no less coniferous, unfortunately, I decide to try to head directly to the road.  After a short distance, I begin to climb again, which is a good sign, as it verifies that I finally made it around the crevasse.  Slowly, the forest starts becoming less coniferous and more hardwoods, which is a good sign too.

Reaching Raven Lake Road

When I see what looks like an embankment along the climb, I get a little excited and pick up my pace a tad.  Finally, climbing over the embankment, I see what I had hoped, Raven Lake Road, ready and willing to take me the rest of the way home, free of blowdowns, logs, dense new growth, rock cliffs, and crevasses.

It is only 10:53 AM when I step out onto the road.

The rest of the hike is down Raven Lake Road along the same path where I entered the area a couple of days before.  It is all downhill from here.  I pass the dam access road, pick up a Mylar balloon, and go by the sand pit side road on my way out.  Finally, I cross the Beaver River on the bridge that leads me right into the parking lot at the end of Necessary Dam Road, where my car awaits.

It is another successful end to the Birdathon.  Although I did not quite meet my usual goal, it was still a delightful trip.  I plan on doing a similar route next year.  See you then.

Raven Lake Road

The post Birdathon 2016: A Crevasse on Way Out of Cropsey Pond appeared first on Bushwhacking Fool.

During the most productive period of the Birdathon, my time was spent searching for birds at Big, Bad Leroy Bog, Sunshine Pond and Deer Pond, which yielded a fairly anemic species list.  Now while moving into the less active afternoon hours, my efforts turn to some neglected bare essentials, like filtering water and fueling my body before making the last sprint south to my final destination of the day, Cropsey Pond. 

After some preliminary birding of Hunters’ Vly, I return to the nearby campsite in the surrounding forest with three liters of dirty water for filtering while I consume an overdue lunch.  Luckily, I find my gear unmolested, so I set up my filter and eat my lunch, enjoying the forest, although it is a little too quiet for my taste during the early afternoon hours.  As I cannot hurry my filter any, once lunch is finished, I compare the birds seen and heard during lunch to my checklist for the day thus far, as I attempt to wring every possible species out of my day in the remote Pepperbox Wilderness.

Section Statistics:
Date: May 21, 2016
Length: 4.7 miles (9.1 day, 14.7 trip)
Difficulty: Moderate (bushwhack)

Pileated woodpecker calling nearby, check (this might be new!).  Black-capped chickadee and male yellow-rumped warbler observed during lunch, check.  White-throated sparrow and swamp sparrow singing down in the meadow, check.  Red-breasted nuthatch calling near the campsite, got it.  Blackburnian and Canada warblers singing nearby, yeah, got those too. 

By two in the afternoon, my backpack is repacked and I am ready to continue, as birding, water filtering and lunch are all now complete.  I hike down to the meadow to a last scan of the area for more birds (and finding no new ones), before heading south through the meadow, keeping east of the meandering stream with full knowledge that a crossing will be necessary near where the stream enters the meadow, hopefully where it is much narrower and easier to cross.

Hiking through the shrubby meadow is much easier than traversing the forest, but when the stream meanders right up to the forest edge, there is no alternative than to reenter the forest and cut across to where the Deer Pond outlet stream first enters the meadow.  This proves more difficult that it sounds, as the forest is coniferous, often with frequent downed trees and aggressively rolling terrain.

When I finally emerge from the forest, I find several large erratics positioned along the outlet in the narrow open corridor where the stream enters the Hunters’ Vly by cascading through a bundle of rocks.  The stream is too wide to jump it, so I am left with little choice but to ford it.  After removing my hiking boots and crossing without incident, I quickly dry my feet and replace my boots.

Leaving Hunters’ Vly

It is a steep climb up and away from the stream to the south, initially being very coniferous, but quickly shifting into more of a mixed forest of softwoods and hardwoods.  After the initial climb, the terrain becomes more rolling with each climb being higher than the last.  The forest transitions eventually back to coniferous to the west, though I continue bushwhacking along the border of the coniferous and hardwood forests, hoping to possibly pick up bird species present in both habitat types.

When I descend into a low area, with swampy area up ahead, I consult my GPS and decide to turn southwest to avoid getting bogged down in a serious of wet areas surrounded by dense conifers. The direction change yields an ascent almost immediately, steep enough to get my heart racing.  

While still within the conifers, a brown creeper repeatedly calls out nearby.  I stop to search for it, watching the surrounding forest, until I observe its characteristic behavior of flying to a tree’s base and climbing up its stem, just to repeat the path at the base of another tree.  This new species makes it 45 species so far.

As I reach the height of land, I turn southward where the forest turns more hardwood until it once again transitions back to coniferous when a steep descent begins.  The descent quickly ends in a wet area, which I follow by remain back in the forest where it is much drier, so open water remains hidden from view.  Regardless of the lack of views, I listen intently for new bird species, but hear none.

Further progress south is now impossible without crossing this wetland.  Instead of attempting such a feat, I turn westward, bushwacking through coniferous forest with the wetland off to my south, almost entirely out of sight.  This takes me up and over a hillside, until the steep descent leaves me in an open drainage just downstream from a beaver dam.

Unnamed Drainage

The beaver dam is a gift from the large rodent, as it is just what I need to continue onto Cropsey Pond to the south.  But instead of heading directly south over a ridge, which remains the last geologic feature separating me from my final destination, I cross the dam with the intention of following the drainage north.   The low dam holds back an inky pond, with many snags emerging from the water to the southeast and behind me an open stream corridor to the northwest. 

While crossing the dam, I hear a black-capped chickadee foraging in the tree canopy.  In addition, a great crested flycatcher calls out across the open water, while an ovenbird sings within the surrounding forest.  Unfortunately, none of these birds increase my species list for the day. Neither does scanning the snags within the pond with my binoculars.

After a short pause, I head north along the open drainage corridor, staying in the forest initially, but I drift to the edge of the open stream corridor for a while, hoping to see a soaring hawk or any other bird species. My instincts appear prescience as I hear a scarlet tanager singing in the surrounding forest.  It is not a raptor, but it is a new species, which brings my species count to 46.

I can taste my goal of 50 species now!

As open water abutted the forest, I retreat back from the water for a while before returning to the next pond’s shoreline.  Seeing nothing new, I continue northwest until a large pond comes into view, that last open water body along the drainage.  Since there is some emerging vegetation present here, I decide to extract my spotting scope and tripod from my backpack to scan for another new species on the large unnamed pond.

From my vantage point where the stream entering the large, unnamed pond, I spot some waterfowl worth noting.  Three male wood ducks are swimming along the shoreline, making the dead female question from Hunters’ Vly irrelevant.  Along with the ducks, a pair of common goldeneye are swimming through the vegetation as well.  While fiddling with the scope, a male hairy woodpecker is spotted within the forest too.  The goldeneye gives me my 48^th species, I can taste AND smell 50 species now.

Moving on, I head to a wide peninsula on the pond to see if I can squeeze out just three more damn species.  Is that too much to ask?  While scanning the pond, another male wood duck attempts to land on the lake.  As it nears the water, it must spot me, as it takes off immediately after landing on the water, finally disappearing over the trees never to be seen again.

In addition to the spring peepers calling continuously, a Nashville warbler, common yellowthroat and swamp sparrow sing while I am scanning the large pond.   None are new species, so their presence does not help me reach my goal.

When more species looks unlikely and with five o’clock having come and gone, it is time to head to the Cropsey Pond outlet stream.  I start heading west around the pond, staying back in the forest where the going is both drier and easier than struggling through the shrub covered area surrounding this portion of the pond.

Once I clear most of the pond, and incidentally, the highest part of the ridge separating me from the Cropsey Pond outlet, my bearing switches to due west.  Although this maneuver means hiking a little more, it allows me to skip some of the steepest climb, as it sets me up to go through the lowest col between the little peaks on the ridge.

My trek continues slightly south of west for a while until I thread the needle of the col and then I shift to a more southwest direction to hit the Cropsey Pond outlet as soon as possible.  The entire climb is through a mature mixed forest, as is the descent down to the outlet stream.  On the descent, I find a thrush nest with a bark roof when a brown streak comes flying out of it.  I fail to get a good look at the bird, but based on the eggs, I figure it is probably a hermit thrush.

Cropsey Pond Outlet

My meeting with the Cropsey Pond outlet is in the forest, west of the open drainage, which I can see through the trees.  The remainder of my day’s hike is now following upstream to its source, and after a short distance doing so, I enter the first open area along the stream, with this one being a beaver pond as are most of them, or at least they were last year when I was last here.

My bushwhack upstream continues, with it being the easiest hike of the day as the open stream corridor is rather stable and easy going compared to the surrounding forest.  There is no reason to move to the opposite shore, so I stay to the north of the stream, while the beaver ponds pass quickly as I go forward.  There appears to be much less water than in the past, with much fresh mud exposed where once water was present.

At one point a duck flies down the corridor, but I am unable to get my binoculars on the bird, so its species remains unknown. One pond is mostly dry, with a large area now covered in mud, where I spot a solitary sandpiper, giving me my forty-ninth bird species of the day.  At another pond, I spot a female hooded merganser swimming through the open water, leaving me to wonder whether this was the duck I saw earlier.  A barred owl hoots loudly upstream.  None are new species,

The last pond before reaching Cropsey Pond, which is also the largest along the stream corridor, is mostly unchanged from last year.  Its long, winding dam that zig-zags through the entire open area remains entirely intact.  Unfortunately, no new species are found here, in fact, the birds are pretty absent at this pond before I reenter the forest, getting me closer to Cropsey Pond. 

Cropsey Pond

The short climb into the forest soon results in my arrival at the Cropsey Pond beaver dam.  The resident beaver is lurking nearby, swimming about in the open water, watching me with skepticism.  When I turn away, the beaver slaps his tail on the water, startling me.  Having contented itself with that, it submerges, and never returns.

The Cropsey Pond dam is located in a bay in the southwest corner of the odd-shaped pond.  From here, the rest of the pond is a largely out of sight, so I need to keep going for a little while farther before I find my usual campsite, and hopefully, a beautiful view of the pond I remember.

Although I continue following the Cropsey’s southern shore, I remain back in the forest where the trees are larger and sparser, despite all the ups and downs over the rolling terrain.  The pond can be seen through the trees but it is limited to glimpses here and there through the trees.  After a single last short climb, I find myself at my usual camping area at the top of a slope with a pretty good view of the pond only somewhat obscured by trees.

My arrival at the Cropsey Pond campsite is greeted with a pair of wood ducks taking off from the pond’s surface.  Too bad it was not a species that I actually need.  Other than the ducks, the area is pretty quiet birdwise.  Some gray treefrogs are calling though, which seems unusual as I thought they typically call later in the summer.  I’m sure the spring peepers don’t appreciate the competition.

Since I am so close to 50 bird species, I hurriedly set up my tarp and hang my food, so that I can explore the area before making dinner, doing chores and climbing into my sleeping bag.  The day has been a long one, but I have just enough energy to check out an old inlet to the south of the old campsite.  The sky has turned even darker than before, so I figure I better hurry before the rain starts falling.

In only takes me a few minutes hiking through the forest before reaching the mostly dry inlet.  The stream corridor is very narrow, with little area not under a forest canopy.  On the opposite shore, the ground rises steeply through forest damaged by the 1995 microburst storm.  A few old beave dams remain standing within the stream corridor, each with a small pool of water upstream, but little flow between them.

The bird activity is mostly nonexistent, with just a woodpecker pecking in the forest nearby.  After a while, I hear a hairy woodpecker calling, most likely the culprit pecking just moments earlier.  With the lack of activity, I turn around and return to my campsite for a quick dinner.

When I return to the campsite, I start the water filtering process, something I should have done when I first arrived.  While the water filters, I make a quick dinner.  During dinner preparation, light rain begins falling on and off, which I fail to notice except for the pond’s surface being broken by the drops.  Luckily, the rain is so light that only a couple drops hit me, so there is no need to panic and move the entire effort to my tarp.

Before nine o’clock, I’m in my sleeping bag under my tarp ready for an early night.  Although my list never made it to 50 species, I was spent and the prospect of picking up more species now is not great enough to overcome my exhaustion.  A beaver slaps its tail on the pond water, ducks quack nearby and the spring peepers are absolutely deafening.  None of these sounds are loud or disturbing enough to keep me awake, and swiftly I fall asleep.

Another Birdathon is over. Unfortunately, my bird list is still one species shy of 50 species.  Well, there is always next year.

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The post Birdathon 2016: Adding Species on Way to Cropsey Pond appeared first on Bushwhacking Fool.

Half of the Birdathon day has passed, the good half, and my bird species list is still a bit anemic.  Even with Big, Bad Leroy Bog and Sunshine Pond already under my bushwhacking belt, the long sojourn to Cropsey Pond still needs to go through Deer Pond, Hunters’ Vly, miles of forest, and a couple of stream systems before I can rest for the night.

In other words, a long day of birding and bushwhacking is still ahead of me.

Fortunately, theory matches reality in this case, and after a short jaunt through a mixed forest, I stumble upon the trail without as much as a hitch. The trail remains fairly easy to follow, mostly due to its contrast with the dense surrounding coniferous forest, although previous trail experience proves advantageous occasionally when traveling through the several wet areas where evidence of a trail is lacking. 

Reaching Deer Pond

An American crow caws to the south as I approach Deer Pond, a rather common species that is an unusual find for this area.  This new species gets my list one species closer to my goal of 50 for the day.  With only 38 species so far, the goal is looking like a bit of a pipe dream now.

As I approach the pond, the herd path takes a sharp left, down toward a crossing at Deer Pond’s outlet.  Instead, I turn right and head off into the thick forest, returning to some proper bushwhacking, albeit temporarily.  Thankfully, the forest is not completely impenetrable, and although requiring some care, the going is not too problematic, with the only obstacles of note being a tiny wet spot and a few downed trees.

After a short distance, the southern end of Deer Pond comes into view.  This pond is fairly odd-shaped, with a large round northern portion and a thinner, channel-like stem at its southern end, where the outlet flows southward.  It somewhat resembles a balloon more than it does a deer, though I doubt its shape had anything to do with its current moniker.  A rock formation, with a corresponding flume, creates a natural dam at its outlet, which combined with some beaver-accumulated debris, guarantees a significant water level for the pond, especially in the spring.

This pond would be more aptly named Duck Pond, given its penchant for providing me with many waterfowl species in past Birdathons.  Unfortunately, Duck Pond is already taken within the Pepperbox Wilderness, by a water body located off to the northwest.  Although I have visited that pond a few times in the past, it does not appear quite as attractive to waterfowl as this one currently before me. 

My exit from the forest occurs at a series of flat rocks along the shore, not too far from the pond’s outlet, just as I planned when I left the old path moments ago.  Unfortunately, the open area around the rocks puts me in full view of my intended quarry.  As I force my way through the surrounding shrubbery, there is a flurry of feathers as two male hooded mergansers fly off northward, while a female mallard flies south toward another pond just a short distance downstream. Good thing they were close by and slow to take off, as I would have never been able to get my binoculars on them if they were farther away.

Only the mallard gives me another species for my day’s list. One is better than nothing though, so I will take it.

After clearing out the shy waterfowl around the outlet, I concentrate my effort on the less gregarious ones to the north.  The flat rocks make a perfect staging area for my birding here, as they provide an ideal open area to view the surrounding shoreline and a place to drop my backpack as I go species hunting farther north.  However, spending too much time here is no longer an option, as it is already midday and despite the weather report of clear skies, the clouds overhead have other plans, with some being dark and especially angry looking.

Both white-throated sparrows and common yellowthroats sing here, but despite that, no other species show up to the party.   Other than what appears to be Canada goose droppings on the flat rocks, the pond is uncharacteristically absent of any more waterfowl other than those that took off when I arrived. This calls for more direct measures, so with spotting scope as my only companion, I head north along the shore, hoping to catch sight of another species or two in the main part of the pond before eventually moving on to parts west.

Fortunately, the pond’s water levels are low enough this year for me to walk along the shoreline, alternating between checking out the many rocks on the opposite shore and looking down at my feet to avoid the many carnivorous sundews congregating along shore.  Occasionally, the pond encroaches on the shoreline, forcing me to step off into the surrounding bushes, or risk wet boots, or worse, soaked feet.

When I arrive at a decent view of the pond’s northern portion, I stop and set up the spotting scope to see what waterfowl I can find.  Unfortunately, all my effort is for naught, as only mallards and hooded mergansers are visible, no matter how many times I scan the open water and the surrounding shoreline.  Unfortunately, Deer Pond is not going to provide a multitude of waterfowl this year.

Bummer!

Following Deer Pond Outlet

Instead of spending more time with little return here, I double back to my backpack at the flat rocks, where I pick my stuff up and head back to the herd path.  A hairy woodpecker calls nearby as I leave the pond behind, giving me a welcome additional species.  Upon reaching the old trail, I follow it down toward the pond’s outlet stream.  After a short distance, the path begins to peter out as it turns southward, so I say my good-byes for this year and enter the open Deer Pond outlet corridor, following the vociferous sound of rushing water.

Stepping out onto bare rock, I immediately find the outlet stream, which is merely a small flume flowing within a crack in the rocks.  The raucous sound and intensity of the flowing water make the crossing seem more formidable than it really is, as a short hop gets me to the other side.  This crossing is probably more arduous during wetter springs, or when the beavers are less active, and what little damming they do here has fallen into disrepair.

Standing on the rocks, the view south allows for a pretty decent scan of the unnamed pond to the south.   Since it lacks a formal name on the map, I refer to it as Fawn Pond, as it follows its larger relative to the north.  A Canada warbler sings off into the forest, but other than that I come up empty with any additional bird species at the smaller pond.

It is not looking like a fruitful afternoon, species-wise.

Unfortunately, the stream crossing is not over, as a few wayward streamlets, apparently escapees from the main outlet, lie between the other shoreline and me.  Apparently, these little steams prefer making an attempt around the surrounding boulders, rather than through the main flume flow.  On the western shore, dense, young conifers await me, reminding me that nothing about bushwhacking is easy.

The crossing is not completely unproductive for birding however.  Although, the smaller pond fails to provide more waterfowl, it does give me two song sparrows singing along its shore.  Whether rival males or a mated pair, there is no way for me to tell.  A white-throated sparrow contributes its two cents too, just before I depart the small pond for another year.

Hunters’ Vly

With the few new species obtained, I head toward Hunters’ Vly, directly to the west.  There is no time to waste now, as it is drawing close to one o’clock in the afternoon and my appetite for lunch is gnawing away at my poor, deprived tummy.  This vly is an old pond that is mostly dry now, with Deer Pond’s outlet meandering through it on its way to Moshier Creek farther off to the west.  Nearby in the forest is a campsite often used by hunters, usually complete with a fire ring, a stack of cut woods and hidden off in the surrounding forest, young trees cut into tent poles.

It is a nice spot, which I reserved for my lunch stop, regardless of the time it takes me to reach it.

After traveling through a coniferous forest for a short distance, I locate one of the many old trails in the area, just as the trail traverses a narrow clearing.  Before following the trail westward, I mark a waypoint on my GPS, figuring that it may come in handy for some future trip.  The old trail allows me to bypass much of the arduous bushwhacking through the dense coniferous forest, not to mention the few small wet areas scattered about.  Within twenty minutes of following the old trail, I am pulling into the hunters’ campsite, with the feeling as if I were arriving home after a long trip.

Everything is as it was the last time I visited the campsite.  A stack of cut wood still stands in the middle of the camping area, perhaps a little bigger since last year.  Many of the small trees cut into poles are propped up against larger trees nearby, evidently so as to retard their decomposition.  A small makeshift fire ring is still present, but lacks any sign of much use.  The site appears as if no person has been there since last fall.

Before satisfying my gnawing hunger, I make a short trip down to the vly and its vestigial pond, as it might be one of my last opportunities to capture some new bird species.  A fairly well-worn trail winds down slope to the edge of the open meadow, giving me a chance to sneak up on my quarry before they have time to flee elsewhere.

The meadow is rather slim, oriented north to south, with a small, rocky pond to the north.  The pond is fed by the meandering Deer Pond outlet stream, and is somewhat impeded westward by an ancient, and currently ruptured, beaver dam.  The boulders in the pond are rough-edged and have a subtle pink hue, appearing quite different than most of the glacial erratics typically found in the western Adirondacks.  It is difficult to imagine a more attractive Adirondack vly.

The southern portion of the meadow is mostly shrub-covered, dominated by the meandering stream, as it flows snake-like into the old pond.  Before the dam rupture, this entire meadow was apparently covered in water, at least as indicated by the old USGS topographic map of the area.  If beavers return to this area, it will most-likely return to this condition, with the current open meadow becoming a distant memory.

A female hooded merganser takes flight from the small pond as I emerge into the open, another previously observed species that provides nothing for my day’s species list.  However, my species dry spell comes to an end as I make my way around the pond’s eastern shoreline, where I spot a dead female wood duck lying in the vegetation.  The body appears quite fresh, with not a single mark on it.  Rolling it over with my foot, no bugs lurk underneath; apparently, it has not been there long. 

Wood duck is still missing from my species list for the day.  Do the Birdathon rules specify only living birds?

As I approach the old dam, I hear a strange peeping sound to the west.  At first, I consider it just a poorly-tuned spring peeper, but as I reach the top of the dam, I discover the source is a small duck.  It is a green-winged teal, not only a new species for the day, but one I have never seen during a Birdathon before, let alone in the Pepperbox Wilderness. 

It’s the bird of the day, indeed!

With dark clouds threatening overhead, I gather up some water from the stream and retreat back to the campsite for lunch and some water filtering.  When lunch is done, there will be some more time to explore the meadow before heading off on a mad dash to Cropsey Pond.

Unfortunately, I anticipate a long and birdless trek to the south for the rest of the day, if past years are any indication.

Though there is always a chance for a surprise, as the green-winged teal showed me.

The post Birdathon 2106: Birding to Hunters’ Vly via Deer Pond appeared first on Bushwhacking Fool.

Now that Bow-tie Beaver Meadow, the Four Ponds, and Big Bad Leroy Bog (and their respective bird species) are in the Birdathon record book for this year, it is time to move on to Sunshine and Deer Ponds, before finally stopping for my lunch break at Hunters’ Vly. The route to these waterbodies can be arduous at times, but this portion of my bushwhacking birding trip is the last ditch effort to pick up some major species before the afternoon doldrums sets in.

Situated between Sunshine Pond, the largest water body along my Birdathon route, and myself lies a forest with both deciduous and coniferous components, not to mention a murky beaver pond. This beaver pond, which has an adjacent bog attached, contains a three-tiered dam, representing years of work by the resident beavers. Getting around this water body is my next physical ordeal, as well as a great birding opportunity.

Three-Tiered Dam Beaver Pond

After leaving Big Bad Leroy Bog behind, it takes little time before emerging from a mixed forest to find myself standing on the edge of a much smaller bog, with open water off to the south. Common grackles fly about the open wetland, making themselves obvious by their vigorous calls, while a pair of black-and-white warblers crawls along the limbs of a large tree nearby. Scanning the open water with my binoculars yields little except a single male hooded merganser swimming about on the pond’s surface.

The small bog is way too wet and deep for crossing, so instead I allow the bog’s southern perimeter to guide me, knowing that a beaver dam at the pond’s outlet provides a perfect crossing point. Unfortunately, the forest quickly becomes thick and near-impenetrable with young softwoods growing in the understory. Since both of my eyes and all my limbs remain precious to me, I move back into the forest, away from my initial destination. Retreat is the better part of valor here, so when conditions improve, I can make further progress in the proper direction toward the pond’s beaver dam.

Conditions quickly improve, allowing me once again to turn westward for a short time before finally arriving at the beaver pond’s outlet stream. The pond is larger than I remember it from previous years, full of an assortment of differently-sized snags, their wood bleached gray from standing in the sun for many years. A 3-tiered dam keeps the pond’s dark inky water at bay, with two typical Adirondack beaver dams bookending an odder-looking one. This oddball dam is nearly level with the water, giving the stream the appearance as if it is flowing off the face of a cliff.

My route takes me across the lower dam, as it seems the least likely to throw me off into the surrounding muck. The crossing proves much less involved than previously thought, however; it even allows for some photography along the way. Once on the opposite shore, a short but steep climb provides an escape from the stream bed, but thankfully, a more gradual route exists back down to the beaver pond’s shore, where an extensive view of the pond awaits.

Although sightings of the resident beaver remain nonexistent, signs of them are common along the pond’s shore. When I first arrived at the adjacent bog, a large yellow birch stood with about a third of its diameter chewed through, while on my current side of the dam, a downed American beech lies on the ground, its branches sheared off by the large rodent’s sharp teeth.

It would be wise for anyone with a wooden leg not to take a nap near this pond, or they just might wake up with a pirate’s peg-leg.

Getting Around Sunshine Pond

With no new bird species presenting themselves after a long pause, it is time to move on, as Sunshine Pond waits. Rather than heading directly west and continuing in a low, wet area, I climb to the south with the hope of finding conditions easier to navigate. With the more upland surroundings, the forest changes from its mixed nature of coniferous and deciduous trees to almost exclusively hardwoods. While the trees remain primarily American beech and yellow birch, there is a scattering of a few young conifers within the understory too. The birds here largely consist of black-capped chickadees, ovenbirds, black-throated blue warblers, black-throated green warblers, hermit thrushes, and blue-head vireos, with a single northern parula as a bonus.

The black flies dial up their assault a few notches along this stretch. One would think that gaining elevation and moving away from bodies of water would provide some respite from the black demons, but this is not the case here. I keep telling myself they are not that bad and to continue walking. I pretend that helps.

The slight elevation gain gives me an ideal vantage point for seeing the inevitable eastern inlet bay of Sunshine Pond. As I approach, I head downslope to meet the edge of the bay, with the hope that better birding occurs there. The bay begins as just a forested depression, before it transforms abruptly into a meadow, complete with a small stream meandering through it. With each subsequent beaver dam, the stream becomes larger and murkier, and the surrounding meadow transitions to a shrubby wetland. Sunshine Pond remains in the west, where I catch only fleeting glimpses of as a large island blocks the majority of the pond from my view.

Sunshine Pond’s eastern bay provides me several bird species, one for the first time today. White-throated sparrows and common yellowthroat sing within the open shrubby areas surrounding the open water, while blue-headed vireos sing from the bordering conifer forest. It is the far-off ugly croak of the common raven that turns out to be the gem of the area though.

In addition to the avian life, I spot something near the forested edge that is somewhat surprising. It is a large pile of what appears to resemble moose poop. However, instead of the dry little footballs, as it usually appears, these seem a little less distinct and darker; more like giant deer dropping than moose. If moose, this would be quite exciting, as evidence of these large ungulates is rare in this area, at least in my experience.

With Sunshine Pond getting closer, I turn south and enter the forest again, climbing away from the bay and toward the southern end of the large water body. As ponds go, this one is more of a lake, size-wise anyways. The pond runs generally north/south, and luckily the eastern bay lies closer to the southern end, meaning my journey around it is not as long as it might have been otherwise.

The climb out from the bay is fairly steep and quite tiring. After a short distance, the terrain levels off, but the sight of open water through the trees and far below me indicates the magnitude of the elevation gain. Staying up on this ridge would be an option if I was to continue going south, but after clearing the pond my route takes me westward toward Deer Pond. When there is no longer any view of Sunshine Pond through the trees to my right, I carefully search for a way down off the ridge, attempting to follow game paths, where possible.

While bushwhacking along the ridge, the bird life remains pretty typical of woodland birds within the Adirondack hardwood forests, primarily black-throated blue warblers, black-throated green warblers, and ovenbirds. A pair of ovenbirds appears rather agitated, but I find no other evidence of their early nesting. The piece de resistance of this section is a red-eyed vireo, perhaps the most common bird in all the northeastern forests, but often uncommon here in mid-May.

The eye-strained little bird brings my list to a mere 37 species, with only a little more than an hour to go before noon. Not a banner year so far, unfortunately, but I continue to hope for the usual influx of waterfowl species typically provided by Deep Pond in years past.

Finding a way off the ridge requires moving farther south than I originally anticipated, with Sunshine Pond far off to the northwest now. During the descent, I alternate between following herd paths and picking my own way through boulders and smaller rocks, whichever is easiest. While descending, the forest slowly transitions from a hardwood forest to one with an equal mix of conifers and hardwoods, making bushwhacking a little more difficult.

As I draw closer to the southern end of Sunshine Pond and the terrain levels out, I discover a small ancient beaver pond. Despite coming through this area many times in the past, this little pond has always eluded me until this trip. Its water is murky and still, as the pond lacks any significant inflow, and apparently has for some time. An ancient dam to the north appears as the only reason for the pond’s continued existence.

At Sunshine Pond

After bushwhacking farther west, I cross a small stream, where the surroundings begin becoming more familiar. Sunshine Pond is now visible through the trees once again, this time to the north. I keep the shore at a distance, remaining within the open forest until reaching the pond’s southwestern shore. A large boulder acts as another recognized landmark, and shortly, I reach a familiar level area, which has acted as a resting spot, and occasionally, an emergency campsite in the past.

The bird activity is generally robust here, but unfortunately, no new species are present. A yellow-rumped warbler, ovenbird, Magnolia warbler, common yellowthroat, and black-and-white warbler sing while I am in the area. During one of my few trips down to the shoreline, I spot a common loon swimming in the pond, most likely the same one I heard during the early morning hours. For a pond rumored as devoid of fish due to acid rain, seeing the fish-eating loon on these waters is a good sign of recovery.

With a modest break from the bushwhacking well overdue, I stop here for a snack and some relaxing birding before pushing onto Deer Pond and beyond. As noon approaches, it does not look good for my poor anemic bird list on this year’s Birdathon.

With lunch at least an hour away, there is hope yet for my list with Deer Pond and Hunters’ Vly still on the itinerary.

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BZZZZZZZZZZZZK!!!

The metallic staccato buzz startles me awake at midnight, just about four hours after setting my head down for sleep.  My sleep-induced stupor temporarily robs me of all sense of orientation, including recognizing my radio’s alarm, which I set only hours ago.  It takes a few moments before my wits return to me and I recall my location at First of Four Ponds, just south of Big, Bad Leroy Bog.  The initial panic of dislocation quickly subsides until it dawns on me that I am once again in my happy place within the eastern portion of the Pepperbox Wilderness Area, nestled within the northwestern Adirondack Park. 

More importantly, I realize the Birdathon has begun!

However, before any nighttime birding commences, a more immediate concern requires addressing, so I pull on my boots and head out to pee.  Luckily, the sky is clear and the moon is bright, providing ample light, allowing me to avoid poking my eyes out as I venture through the maze of coniferous trees, in search of the ideal place to urinate.  More importantly, the high visibility makes it immensely easier to avoid peeing on my feet, or even worse, on my leg. 

As I set out to do my business, a barred owl hoots off in the distance, becoming the first species record for the big day.  One species down, but unfortunately, there are so many more to go before the day is done.

My second species calls off to the west before I even make it back to the tarp.  The yodel of the common loon is no stranger to the evening hours, as they often call during the nighttime.  Given the direction, it must be on Sunshine Pond, which seems likely, as it is the largest body of water in that direction.  With any luck, I will see the large water bird in person later today.

I return to my still warm sleeping bag with an empty bladder and two species already in the record book; not bad for the first fifteen minutes of the Birdathon.  The diminishing return of species before dawn convinces me to return to the world of slumber for at least four more hours.  I drift off while the American toads and spring peepers serenade me to sleep, just as they did earlier in the evening.

Morning Chorus at First of Four Ponds

The alarm reawakens me around four in the morning, which sends me through the same itinerary of events as before; off to pee and then back to my sleeping bag, but unfortunately, this time without any new species.  Just as before, I return to the warmth of my sleeping bag, but this time I pull in my clothes after me to pre-warm them before finally slipping them on for the first time today. 

The moon is low on the southern horizon now, and the temperature has plummeted at least ten degrees since midnight, with it currently hovering around 40 degrees Fahrenheit.  A barred owl continues to call off to the west, which makes me wonder whether it has been at it since my first trip outside earlier.

After a half-hour of clothes warming, an ovenbird sings its “Teacher, teacher, teacher” song nearby, then goes silent.  Fifteen minutes later, a Swainson’s thrush, a yellow-rumped warbler, and a white-throated sparrow join in the singing, and this is even before the sun has shown itself.  A duck flies over, its wings whistling as it goes by overhead, most likely a common goldeneye. 

The Birdathon morning is in full throttle now, which makes lying around enjoying the warmth of my sleeping bag no longer an option.   With that revelation, I jumpstart the process of dismantling my campsite, making small, yet vital steps toward beginning my long bushwhack to Cropsey Pond, located way off to the southwest.

Breaking camp proceeds quickly, beginning with my sleeping stuff, which gets packed away immediately after putting my hiking clothes on.  This is the most difficult step of packing, not because the sleeping bag and pads are especially onerous to pack, but because the stench of my hiking clothes is overpowering. When my nausea clears, half of my stuff goes directly into the backpack, including my sleeping gear, while the other half goes outside the shelter, where it awaits its turn for packing later in the middle of my backpack. 

After everything is finally out of my shelter, the insect netting comes down, where it and the ground cloth follow one another into my backpack. It is now finally time for breakfast, after which the remaining gear goes into my backpack, along with what is left of my food.  Last, I take down the tarp, which I left up just in case it rains, not to mention that the dew on the outside of the tarp needs evaporating too.  Once I take care of some more personal business, it is finally time to start the day’s birding.

At this point, it is nearly half-past six, which translates to getting a move on.  Fortunately, packing and breakfast yield a good number of bird species, including, golden-crowned kinglet, red-breasted nuthatch, black-throated green warbler, purple finch, Swainson’s thrush, blue-headed vireo, yellow-bellied sapsucker, ovenbird, common loon (again off to the east, perhaps at Raven Lake), winter wren, and yellow-rumped warbler.

There is nothing like spring to produce a robust morning bird chorus.

The Baddest Bog in the Whole Damn Wilderness Area

Feeling pretty good about my species count thus far, I strut down to the beaver dam on First Pond, where I plan to officially start my day’s birding/bushwhacking trip. After accumulating a few more species there, I head north along the edge of the open area that quickly transitions from the pond’s outlet stream to the extensive bog I christened Big Bad Leroy Bog years ago.

It takes mere moments to get to the bog, where the vast open area soon becomes way too wet for my liking.  This requires a hasty retreat back into the forest (the alternative being an entire day of wet feet); despite that, the going will be much harder there.  Although balsam fir and red spruce dominate the forest, many hardwoods – mostly red maple & American beech are present as well – with many places having actual leaf litter on the ground.

The forest not only requires more bushwhacking effort but is increasingly more hazardous too.  Conifers dominate, with many old trees downed and rotting on the forest floor, while others remain hung up in the canopy, just waiting to crush an unsuspecting adventurer stooping underneath.  Occasionally, a hardwood tree breaks up the monotony, providing some relief, albeit short-lived, from the dangerous evergreen limbs waiting to poke out an eye, puncture some skin, or both.

In many places, there are significant areas where something scraped through the leaf litter recently, presumably eating either roots or grubs within the soil; a white-tailed deer perhaps.  As I walk through observing the disturbances, I notice a snowshoe hare scamper off into a small spruce sapling, obviously hiding from an invader to their territory – namely, me!  After spotting this critter, I reconsider the identity of the ground scraper.

As I continue along the perimeter of the bog, I venture out for a look to see if there is any bird activity whenever any openings in the forest occur.  In addition to the birds, I keep an eye out for drier conditions too, as walking out on the bog would provide some relief from bushwhacking through the forest.  Unfortunately, this is rarely the case, and after scanning for birds with my binoculars, I return to the forest for some more beatings.

Although the southern portion of the bog is drier and more meadow-like, including a meandering stream and a small open pond, the middle section is flat, uniform, and almost prairie appearing.  However, appearances are often deceiving, especially here.  The lime green hue on the ground from the new sheathes of grasses and sedges is inviting, but unfortunately, the extensive flat area is anything but dry.

Despite the gray sky, the area is abuzz with bird activity, mostly of the audible variety.  Lincoln’s sparrow, blue jay, red-winged blackbird, red-breasted nuthatch, Nashville warbler, common yellowthroat,  white-throated sparrow, and yellow-bellied sapsucker are vocalizing out on the bog, or along the tamarack covered outskirts.  A yellow-rumped warbler and ovenbird sing within the forest to the west, while a hermit thrush is faintly heard singing its flute-like song somewhere to the east, presumably in the forest beyond the bog.

My time out on the bog remains limited, as the soggy vegetation forces me back into the forest once again.  My route continues north, as the bog slowly transforms from a grassy wet prairie to a wet bog with many small open pools of water.  Along the way, I spot a male common yellowthroat along the bog’s edge, and a male black-and-white warbler climbing on a red maple tree in the forest.  A great crested flycatcher vocalizes nearby, while I think I hear a scarlet tanager singing, although it sings but once and then never again.

Unfortunately, the enjoyable birding ceases at around 7:30 AM, when the black flies first emerge from their slumber and ruin everyone’s fun, especially, my own. 

When the bog’s northern terminus approaches, it is time for me to plan the rest of my day off to the west, at Sunshine Pond and beyond.   I stand at the edge of the bog and look across to its eastern end, before turning north to observe its northern border and finally turning south to look down toward where I began my day’s trek just an hour or so ago near First of Four Ponds.

After taking it all in, and checking for any last-minute bird species, I take one last look, knowing full well that this is probably my last view of Big, Bad Leroy Bog until next year.   With that thought in my mind, I turn away from the bog and head uphill into the dense forest in search of more bird species, or at the very least, the next beaver pond.

The interior of the Pepperbox Wilderness is waiting, as are its birds.

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On the day before the Birdathon, I have a single goal; get into camp in the Pepperbox Wilderness backcountry in a timely manner.  When doing so, the ample daylight remaining allows for accomplishing all the necessary chores, packing up for the next day and making it to bed early enough so I get plenty of rest before the big day.  Unfortunately, it rarely works out this way, and this year appears to be no different. 

With mid-afternoon approaching, the long hike up Raven Lake Road and the bushwhack to a viewpoint overlooking the area around Shallow Pond are already under my belt.  As a clearing begins to appear apparent before me in the forest, marking the first in a series of four ponds, I realize I still have another couple mile hike north along a series of four ponds before reaching the northernmost pond, where I plan making camp for the night.  All plans of getting to camp early now appear to rely on the remainder of my hike being an easy jaunt in the park.

The chance of this is not bloody likely, but I can always hope.

Exploring Fourth of Four Ponds

When I finally breach the thick young trees surrounding the southern end of the southernmost pond, which I christened Fourth of Four Ponds, I see something I did not quite expect.  Instead of a slim pond as indicated by my topo map, I find a meadow instead, with no open water in sight.  Where there should be open water, the meadow’s interior is lush with grasses and/or sedges, with some forbs mixed in as well as a few young trees, both hardwood and coniferous.  Beautiful and scenic, there is no question, but totally unexpected.

From my location, the southern end appears drier and more grass covered, while it gets wetter farther north, where sedges appear to dominate.  Young hardwoods (mostly red maples) dominate the edges, although much of the hillside making up the western shoreline appears rather devoid of trees altogether, apparently evidence of past beaver activity.  Conifers remain scattered about, obvious within the naked hardwoods, still mostly devoid of their leaves.

With the western side containing a lower density of young trees, I decide that is where my destined route lies, especially since I cannot afford to waste any time.  As I attempt to cross the meadow, it gets too soggy for my liking, so I retreat upslope a little way to avoid getting my boots wet.  Continuing along the meadow’s western edge, it clearly gets progressively wetter the farther north, until the clearing finally ends at a dam where the hills on both sides naturally come together.  Clearly, it was once an opportunity that some wise old beaver could not let pass up.

The dam has been long breached now, with tree branches sticking out in all directions within a gaping wound in its center.  Back to the south, in the direction I just came, is where the pond was once located, as evidenced from its placement on the topo map.  This pond is now long drained of most of its precious water, while to the north lies its descendent, as the open water reflecting the plentiful sunshine attests.

By the time I reach the dam, the sky is clear, with a steady breeze blowing, making the dam a perfect place to provide a reprieve from the constant onslaught of the black fly horde pursuing me.  A glance behind my head reveals something truly horrifying, as the black flies are just hiding on the leeward side of my head, ready to reengage with my exposed skin as soon as the breeze allows.

From the dam, I head further north to the edge of the newer pond.  It is still somewhat grassy for the short distance between the dam and the murky pond, with a narrow channel of water meandering through the vegetation.  Along the pond’s western shore are rocky cliffs with no shoreline to speak of, so to continue following the western shoreline is no longer an option for me.  Some conifers stand guard along the eastern shore however, but hardwoods still dominate the surrounding forest.

The pond has sedges peaking above the water at its southern end, while to the north there appears to be a thick submerged forest of some type of aquatic vegetation of which I am unfamiliar – seaweed comes to mind though.  The aquatic vegetation appears to form a significant mass underwater, giving fodder to my imagination of a large ancient evil entity living beneath the surface, which could emerge at any moment and pull me down into the dark depths.  Luckily for me, the only movement in the water is a lone beaver, navigating through the vegetation mass as if it were not even there.

With more ground to cover and the afternoon slowly slipping away, I continue northward toward my destination for the night; only three more ponds to get around now.   Unable to follow the pond’s western shore much longer, and unwilling to backtrack to cross the ruptured dam, I turn west into the forest to get around the rock cliff shoreline.  After going a short distance within the forest, I return to a northeast heading, paralleling the stream that connects these four ponds.

Moving on to Third of Four Ponds

It only takes a short time before the second pond is visible through the trees.  Third of Four Ponds is smaller than its cousin to the south, although the open water might amount to about the same.  It is a round little pond, apparently deeper and darker than its southern neighbor, with less vegetation growing from the shallow water along its shore.  A beaver lodge rises from the Stygian depths, while several snags emerge scattered throughout the water.  Hopefully, this pond has no aquatic vegetation creature in it either.

Although an interesting little water body, I do not linger long.  The afternoon is winding down and there is still much to do once I make camp.  Before departing, I observe a solitary sandpiper lurking along shore, probing the bare mud along the pond’s shore.  Hopefully, it will make an appearance tomorrow when I really need it, though I doubt the Birdathon is on its agenda for tomorrow however.

The stream provides my guide to the next pond, although I do my best to stay upslope to avoid any more pointless ups and downs that might occur from staying too close.  While continuing through the mixed forest, I suddenly cross a trail, complete with homemade orange-colored plastic markers.  My guess is that this is the same illegal trail I used last year to get to Big Bad Leroy Bog. 

I start thinking about just camping near the trail instead of continuing.  Since the trail is not an official New York State trail, there are no regulations about camping within 100 feet of it, so I could just plop down right in the middle of it and the worst thing I would have to worry about is some animal wandering into my tarp in the middle of the night.  But if this creature thinks I am sharing my sleeping bag though, it has another thing coming to it.

Fortunately, common sense prevails over my innate laziness, and I continue toward my original destination at First of Four Ponds.  My people in the frontcountry believe my camp is going to be at the first pond for the night, so come Hell or high water; I am going to make it there, regardless of how tired I am.

The unofficial trail goes to Raven Lake to the east and parts unknown to the west, neither of which are of any interest to me at this very moment.  Instead, I continue along the stream, eager to see what the second pond in the beaver pond series looks like.  Unfortunately, this new pond turns out to be quite a bit less attractive than the previous two; in fact, it is not much of a pond at all anymore.

Second of Four Ponds is Not a Pond at All

When I finally exit the forest, the second pond is just a sliver of a meadow with a stream meandering through it.  Grasses and sedges line the stream, along with an occasional bleached log and some exposed mud.  At the far end, a low beaver dam snakes its way across the clearing, connecting a few small treed islands.  The dam is breached to the west where the stream exists, apparently making its way toward the first pond.

The meadow is wet, so I stay to the west in the forest, keeping the meadow in view through the trees as I make my way to the northeast where I hope to find the final pond in the series of four.  There is no time to waste checking out this empty meadow, as it is nearly half past three now, and there are many chores waiting for me once arriving at my inevitable campsite for the night.

The forest becomes noticeably more coniferous as the terrain levels out.  The stream seems to flow in every direction now, and my desire to maintain my dry boots pushes me northward.  Unfortunately, unbeknownst to me, the actual stream to the First Pond turns directly east before reaching its inevitable destination. 

In my hurry, I fail to consult the GPS, and instead continue off to the north despite the conditions becoming increasingly more difficult to navigate through, due to the thicker coniferous nature of the forest.  When I reach a flowing stream, I finally decide it might be time to check a map or GPS, and doing so reveals that I am way off to the north of my destination, with Big Bad Leroy Bog just a short distance to my east.

Once again, I contemplate setting up camp nearby instead of continuing on.  After taking a moment to mull the idea over again, I decide to push onto First of Four Ponds, and keep to my original itinerary.  Plus, the GPS indicates it is only two tenths of a mile away, so it should not take long to get there.

With very little energy in reserve, I bushwhack south for a while following the GPS’s direction, until it changes everything up and indicates the pond is to the southeast instead.  Instead of following the fickle gadget, I head directly to the edge of the bog, which I can now see through the trees.   From there, the edge of the bog guides me south as I move out into the relatively easier walking out in the open.  Unfortunately, the bog turns too soggy for my liking, forcing me back into the forest, until I start making out a beaver dam, with a small pond behind it.

Finally! I made it!

Finally Arriving at First of Four Ponds

The pond is rather small, but at least it is open water and devoid of the submerged vegetation like its two cousins to the south.  The beaver dam is low and meandering, with wet vegetated areas downstream toward the bog rather than a really well defined outlet.  The dam appears somewhat ill-constructed, as if it can barely hold back the water on the other side.

I spend little time admiring the beaver’s handiwork (or lack thereof), as I get about looking to set up my campsite for the night.  Unfortunately, I am hungry, tired and more than a little irritable about the biting flies, so there is little time to play tourist right now.  The western shore is the most convenient place for me to start tomorrow morning, so I begin searching there for an adequate campsite, but find little in the somewhat dense surrounding coniferous forest.  When I finally arrive at the inlet stream at the southern end, a flat enough place to set-up my camp presents itself.

The noise from the rocky stream gives me pause however.  How am I to hear birds over the noise of the stream tomorrow morning?  The sound is not excessively loud, but probably enough to drown out far off birds though.  But I cannot afford to lose even a few opportunities to pick up bird species either.

After some thought, I decide to move back toward the dam and inland farther.  The trees look scattered more uphill and away from the pond, which might mean I am less likely to poke out an eye during a late night pee run or a good birding opportunity in the early morning.  Much to my relief, it only takes a few minutes before I find someplace that works.

As I attempt to put my tarp up, the guide lines get all tangled in the surrounding softwood twigs, irritating me to no end.  While attempting to untangle them, the local black fly population takes a bead on me and savagely engages in an onslaught, with me being ground zero.  It becomes so agonizing that even my legendary tolerance is no match for it, so I throw the tarp over myself as I work to untangle the lines.  Ah, the peace of not being bled out.

When the tarp is finally up and populated with my sleeping gear, I perform my other necessary chores before calling it an early night.  Dinner is the first priority, but while it heats up, I go about filtering water from the nearby inlet stream.  I skip the nearer murky water of the pond, as its appeal is less than, well, appealing.

By half past eight, I am comfortably under my tarp and ready for sleep.  Today was a long rough day, and tomorrow is likely to be even longer, so I need all the sleep I can get.  Plus, I expect to be up at midnight to try and get an owl as my first bird of the Birdathon too.  Tomorrow is all about the birds, after all.

For tonight it is all about the amphibians, as numerous spring peepers serenade me into sleep, with just a few American toads adding to the chorus nearby.  Drifting off, I remain hopeful all this will be worth it and the reward for my efforts will be a plentiful count of bird species.

One can always hope!

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When the daylight hours begin to overtake those of darkness and spring enters its middle-age, it is once again time for my annual birding/bushwhacking ritual, the Birdathon.  This contest requires searching for as many bird species as possible within a 24-hour period on the third Saturday in May.  This year, as it has for the last five of six years, my plan requires exploring a rarely-visited portion of the Adirondack Park known as the Pepperbox Wilderness Area.  The area is a rather odd destination, as it is a virtual bird diversity desert, at least compared to other parts of the state, so my choice is more of an excuse to do some bushwhacking rather than accumulating any large number of bird species.

This year I am changing things up a little, as unlike last year where I started in the western Five Ponds Wilderness and worked my way west and south into the Pepperbox Wilderness, my entire route would remain within the eastern Pepperbox instead.  Keeping with my new tradition of starting north and heading south to Cropsey Pond, which I started last year, requires deciding where to begin my morning, and thus the location of my campsite the night before.  Since the large boggy wetland near the Pepperbox’s eastern border, which I christened Big Bad Leroy Bog years ago, was the highlight of last year’s trip, the small pond to its south felt like a decent place to start my avian quest this year.

The small pond is nameless on the official topographic map of the area, so coming up with a name for it, rather than just referring to it as “small pond”, seems necessary.  Since it is the first in a series of four small ponds feeding Big Bad Leroy Bog, I came up with the creative name of First of Four Ponds, with the next one to the south being Second of Four Ponds and so on.  My knack for snappy names continues.

Now I just need to get there before the big day.

I leave the Syracuse area just shy of ten in the morning, arriving at the parking area trailhead at the end of Necessary Dam Road, a short distance from the hamlet of Stillwater Reservoir, around twelve-thirty in the afternoon.  A pileated woodpecker flies through the parking lot as I drive in, perhaps acting as a harbinger of good things to come tomorrow.  After a little reorganization of my backpack, I leave my car at around one, dodging the few black flies lingering about.

Hiking up Raven Lake Road

It is partly cloudy, with a slight breeze as I start out.  Crossing the bridge over the Beaver River helps to scatter the black flies, though they regroup once I obtain the opposite shore.  The hike up Raven Lake Road, a dirt road open for private access to an inholding camp on Raven Lake, makes the going easy enough, despite the occasional steep hill to climb.  As I go, the skies get clearer, with it becoming sunny and hot, leading to profuse sweating, and consequently, more biting insects.

By about one-thirty, I pass an old hunters’ path just before the dirt road comes along the eastern end of a large beaver meadow.  This path has either given me access, or provided me an exit for places north many times in the past, but not on this trip.  It must wait until a future adventure to provide that service to me again.

In another twenty minutes of walking alternating within mixed and hardwood forests, Kettlehole Canoe Carry trail appears on my right.  It leads downhill through mature forest to Kettlehole Bay on Stillwater Reservoir, passing a few small waterfalls on the way.  After a mile jaunt up the road, the canoe carry continues at the Shallow Pond Canoe Carry, which is also where I plan to start the bushwhacking portion of my trip. 

Unfortunately, it is nearly uphill the entire way, but at least I am not carrying a canoe.

When finally arriving at the Shallow Pond Canoe Carry, I enjoy a brief rest and snack before starting the bushwhacking portion of my day’s travels.  While drinking down some water, I notice the Shallow Pond outlet stream appears at moderate levels for mid-spring.  Although this might irritate the resident beavers of the area, it bodes well for my stream crossings tomorrow.  Unfortunately, the black fly situation is not as advantageous for the big day tomorrow, as they are not already out, but biting ferociously too.

Not willing to give up too much blood, I pack up quickly so that I can be on my way again. Once everything is put away, I turn on my trusty Garmin GPS and fire up my video camera, now securely attached to my chest via a harness that I put on during my break.  With all my gadgets on and ready to go, it is time to enter the trailless backcountry for the remainder of my first day of hiking. 

Bushwhacking, here I come, ready or not.

Bushwhacking to a view

The climbing starts almost immediately the instant I step off the road.  It is not a gradual climb either; the slope itself appears intent on stymying my progress, or at least punishing me for it.  At least the open hardwood forest provides easy enough going, despite the steep climb.  In an attempt to avoid the steepest part of the climb, I head due west for a short while, before turning north toward an open view overlooking Shallow Pond.  At least, that is what I read in a book in my personal library.

Within fifteen minutes of climbing, an open area appears within the dense forest and I immediately head towards it like a moth to a flame.  It proves to be the right move, as instead of being burnt, I am subjected to a rather stunning, if somewhat tree-obscured view of the surrounding area to the east.

A slice of Stillwater Reservoir’s Kettlehole Bay is visible to the southeast; a tiny island stands out with a few conifer trees growing on it, the trees sticking out like hairs on a pimple.  The northeast provides a slight glimpse of Raven Lake, the surrounding forest obscuring the inholding’s camp in the lake’s southeastern corner.  Jackson Pond (or perhaps it is Shallow Pond) is partially visible, while most of it remains hidden behind the trees below.

Trees and water are not the only visible features, however.  On the forested hillside to the east, a fissure in the tree cover winds its way straight up the steep slope.  This is the continuation of Raven Lake Road, originally used to log the area but now closed to all automobile traffic and permanently protected as part of the Five Ponds Wilderness Area.  This old road leads all the way northeast to Bear and Diana Ponds, but is little used except by hunters, forest denizens, and intrepid explorers like myself.

The forest floor at the lookout is nearly non-existent, the ground composed mostly of moss, ancient lichen and a few small flowering plants, with patches of bare rock exposed throughout.  I carefully tiptoe my way across the bare rock trying to gain a better view, making sure not to crush any of the fragile lichen.  From the looks of the lichen in some places, it does not appear everyone was quite so considerate in the past.

The sounds of the falls along the outlet of Shallow Pond remain audible above the din of the black flies buzzing around my ears, although just barely.  Deterring the little buggers is not easy, especially if you are a person that prefers to avoid DEET like myself, but luckily I come prepared with some new repellents courtesy of my current girlfriend.

Unfortunately, the repellent goes on thickly, giving the sensation as if bathed in petroleum jelly.  This uncomfortable feeling gives little relief however, as the flies return in a short time – angrier than ever.  The flies easily stick to the goo on my neck and face, as do my own hands when I attempt to brush them off, leaving me to wonder whether the repellant is more or less annoying than the biting flies themselves.

Heading to Fourth of Four Ponds

Leaving the viewpoint behind, I head northwest toward Fourth of Four Ponds, the southernmost pond in the series of small beaver ponds.  Immediately, the going is downhill through mixed forest, which gets me cursing on losing the elevation that I worked so hard to get just a short time ago.

In a short distance, the terrain levels off as I reach a small wet area.  Rather than cross it, I hug the perimeter until I clear enough to restart heading northwest again.  Now much to my chagrin, the climbing starts anew, leaving me more than a little annoyed that I once again have to climb up what I had just lost.

When the height of land is finally obtained, I declare it time for another rest.  A short rest is all I can afford, as the black flies are relentless, attacking from all direction with a ferocity seldom seen except for in springtime in the Adirondacks.  Oh wait, I guess this is just normal after all.  How easily I forget their attacks since last year, it is almost as if I never learn, for which I imagine they are quite thankful.

With the new bug repellent acting more as a me repellent rather than affecting the flies, I renew my bushwhack toward Fourth of Four Ponds.  After remaining fairly level for a while, the terrain suddenly plummets down to the pond below.  The trees are mostly hardwood now and young, probably indicating the activity of beavers in the recent past.  The slope is so steep that I imagine the most svelte beavers in all the Adirondacks must thrive here.

Finally, I see bright light streaming through the dense young forest.  I am about to discover Fourth of Four Ponds for the first time and from there it should be an easy stream follow down to First of Four Ponds.

Or so I am hoping.

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Old Logging Road

It all comes down to old logging roads in the Wilderness Lakes Tract of the southern Five Ponds Wilderness within the northwestern Adirondack Park. After a nine-day bushwhacking trip exploring water bodies east of the Red Horse Trail, the end has come down to some old roads slowly being recaptured by nature.

With the most interesting parts behind me, I stand at the intersection with a small side trail to an unnamed pond, trying to make a crucial decision. Do I run back to the trailhead like I can smell the barn, or take a little detour over toward Ginger Pond and enjoy the beautiful day a little longer in the backcountry?

After enduring six out of nine days with rain, is it really much of a decision at all?

At the intersection, I finally decide to head east, despite west being the way out and back toward my (hopefully) waiting car. Instead of rushing out on such a nice day, it is off to a short detour first to see an old campsite near Ginger Pond. As a bonus, there are plenty of opportunities to see the surrounding ponds and waterways that make up the more comprehensive wetland complex as well.

A sparrow flushes off the trail near the intersection, but unfortunately, it evades my feeble attempt to identify it. I do not linger long, but instead move on, thinking I might get a second attempt at it on the way back. From the intersection, it takes only a short hike over to the old campsite where I once found all the stored gear the first time I explored the area many years ago.

Section Stats:
Date: July 3, 2015
Length: 5.0 miles (5.9 total daily miles; 44.6 total trip miles)
Difficulty: Easy

Although the old road retains much of its original nature from the intersection, it quickly narrows becoming more trail-like as I near the old campsite. After a short distance, the trail rounds a corner and arrives in a clearing, where it once again looks like what it is, an old logging road.

The clearing is mostly devoid of woody vegetation, though hedgerows of woody shrubs frame it on both sides. The wide clearing continues to the northeast, disappearing over a small hill. The ground is mostly old gravel, raised above the wetlands on both sides, now slowly being taken over by moss and low-lying herbaceous vegetation, such as grasses, sedges and their allies. The area appears as if it could support a nice campsite, as I stayed here once in the past, but the hard ground, hot sun overhead and heavy dew in the mornings made it less than completely hospitable.

Beyond the hedgerow to the north, the ground drops off giving way to a large open meadow, dominated by high sedges or grasses. The breeze whips over the grass, making it appear as if a green wave is sweeping through it. Within the grass, a dark stream weaves its way, disappearing into Ginger Pond to the north, unseen through a narrow strip of trees.

On the south side, a smaller clearing looks over another smaller sea of grass where a stream empties into a dark pond. Exposed rock is common here, with some areas covered in a layer of low vegetation. This area is not drained as well, so tip-toeing through some muck is sometimes necessary.

Back at the main clearing, the road stretches out to the northeast, with pine trees slowly filling it in over the years. Beyond the hill, the road crosses the stream connecting the two murky wetlands on an old bridge, slightly eschew from one too many spring melts.

Unfortunately, I do not have time to explore beyond the hill, as I still have many miles to go before exiting the Wilderness Lakes Tract, as this area of relatively recent logging is called. Instead of dawdling, I turn around and head back to the intersection with the skulking sparrow. As the small bird is not present this time, I continue straight ahead, passing the side trail from which I emerged a short time ago, eager to see Slim Pond on my way back to Raven Lake Road.

The trail is wide and open here, maintaining its road-like character. The trees grow on both sides forming an arching canopy that clearly betrays its original purpose. Within twenty minutes from leaving the old campsite south of Ginger Pond, Slim Pond appears to the north, just a short distance down a slight forested slope.

Slim Pond remains my guide for some time now, occasionally disappearing temporarily as the road moves farther into the forest to the south, only to reappear soon after as the road meanders near its shore once again. It is such a beautiful pond, but unfortunately, I need to wait until I cross the outlet to get a clear view of it.

Old Campsite

Meadow at Original Campsite

The old road remains obvious until it emerges into a large clearing, where young trees are slowly taking over. The sun is overhead now, hot and bright, the sky cloudless and bright blue. An old fireplace lies in the middle of the clearing, a half-burned bundle of wood nearby. The condition of the wood makes me rethink the age of the fire ring; it might not be as old as it looks after all.

Searching the clearing to the north yields an extension of the old road network, as would a search to the south if I was so inclined to do so. Although the southern route eventually circumvents Evergreen Lake, a large and beautiful water body, I head north toward the Slim Pond outlet and the way back to Raven Lake Road.

Evergreen Lake Intersection

The old road undulates through conifers, passing a couple of murky ponds before descending to Slim Pond’s beaver dam, with an extensive view of the pond off to the east. The trail heads over the dam, which is a wide grassy mound, apparently built up over years of dam building. The old road has mostly vanished here, visible only on the opposite side, where it climbs an incline.

I work my way across the dam, which starts as hard-packed and grassy but becomes sketchy near the far side. Stopping once, I look out to the east, down the rather narrow and elongated pond. This could be the last time I see this view in a while, so I decide to stop and drink it in. Unfortunately, lingering for long is not an option, as there are still miles to cover, especially after making one detour already today. After crossing the small outlet stream on a makeshift wooden corduroy bridge I quickly find myself on the other side.

After crossing the dam, I climb up the old road, which has now reclaimed much of its road-like nature. As the climbing soon comes to an end, the trail turns westward and heads right for the old Raven Lake Road extension I came in on nine days before. When I arrive at the intersection, marked with a contorted Scots pine, it seems like I passed this way an eternity ago, rather than just a little over a week.

Slim Pond Dam

From the intersection, I take a left, heading southwest down what now appears more like a footpath than the logging road it once used to be. The path forward alternates between a well-worn footpath with young trees encroaching and an obvious old road with moss and other herbaceous vegetation forming a carpet, hiding the likely hard-packed gravel underneath.

The surrounding forest flies by now, with little notice as my sense of urgency increases with every step toward the trailhead. With the majority of my trip well-behind me and the bushwhacking complete, my focus is now getting back to my vehicle. The backcountry is about to become my past, with the frontcountry now my future. In more metaphorical language, the barn door is open and its stench has become unbearable now.

My pace is brisk, barely skipping a beat as I climb off the ridge, pass the old tree-obscured barrier and arrive at the end of Raven Lake Road, my feet hitting the hard-packed gravel and sand for the first time since my hike into the area nine days ago. On such a surface, my pace is bound to pick up even more.

I take full advantage of the road too, hiking at a quick pace. I race down the road, having to slow down only during the steep downhill after passing the Shallow Pond canoe carry. When the next canoe carry to Stillwater Reservoir comes within sight, it is already a little past two in the afternoon. I barely glance at the sign as I fly by.

Old Logging Road

Soon I am passing the beaver vly to the west; the hunter’s path north into the heart of the Pepperbox Wilderness follows immediately afterward. After a few curves, the road crosses a stream and climbs for a long stretch, with a decent soon to follow.

As I descent toward the Beaver River, a dark shape appears in the road, causing me to come to a screeching halt. A wild turkey stands proudly in the road, before noticing me (or hearing my feet hit the hard-packed ground) and bolting into the surrounding forest, never to be seen again. Although I saw some around the Stillwater Reservoir hamlet before, this is the first I have seen this far out; I imagine it will not be long before I see one way in the remote backcountry.

After descending down to the Beaver River, I cross on the bridge that marks the beginning of the Raven Lake Road and the end of Necessary Dam Road. Luckily, my car is still there where I left it nine days before, waiting to drive me back home after another successful trip into the remote Five Ponds Wilderness.

Raven Lake Road

I take one look back up Raven Lake Road, dwelling for a few moments on the wooded hillsides surrounding it. I will be back to explore these hillsides, wetlands, and forests again, perhaps soon, but probably not this year. Regardless, I will most likely find them much as I left them, full of life and adventure.

Let us hope it is always thus.

Slim Pond from dam

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Dense Saplings at Height of Land

My last day in the southern Five Ponds Wilderness of the Adirondack Park starts out cold, super cold. After six wet days, a couple of nice days, a couple of stretches on the Red Horse Trail, a multitude of water bodies, umpteenth stream crossings, a smattering of old campsites and many miles of bushwhacking through thick forest, it all comes down to a single very chilly morning at Hidden Lake.

And at 43 degrees Fahrenheit, I am left wondering, is this July? Or September?

It is not easy getting out of a sleeping bag at these temperatures. Apparently, the birds feel the same. Consequentially, the morning chorus is fairly brief, starting around 4:30, ending for the most part at 5:30. And it is only early July too!!

My lack of get-up-and-go has me slipping back into safety of slumbertown, where the chilly air cannot hurt me, or at least, make me uncomfortable. Maybe I will wake up again when summer returns. Or, next year, whichever comes first.

These low temperatures are no surprise, as it was bone-chilling late last night when I got up for a pee break. Despite the cold, it was a beautiful night, with the full moon so bright the surrounding forest was fully illuminated.  The moonshine caste a ghostly glow over the area. All I could think about was how lovely the scene would have been if I had camped on Hidden Lake, with the moon hanging over the open water.

As I finally arose from my morning slumber, a brilliant idea dawns on me. Instead of sitting at my campsite, slowly eating my breakfast in the cold, I should pack up my gear and head down to Hidden Lake’s shore to enjoy the early morning view. At the very least, this burst of activity should warm me up some more.

Section Stats:
Date: July 3, 2015
Length: 0.9 miles (0.9 total daily miles; 39.6 total trip miles)
Difficulty: Moderate

When my body warms up enough to emerge from my sleeping bag, I start disassembling my campsite as efficiently as possible with my still frigid fingers. I get down the food bag from its hanging tree, take down the tarp and pack up my backpack for the short trek down to the lake. Before leaving, I top the whole process off with a breadcrumb right on the ground where I slept the night before.

The delay in my sleeping bag cost me valuable morning time. It is almost ten in the morning before I begin breakfast near the lake’s shoreline. Trying to make the most of my time, I alternate between eating and some photography. Unfortunately, some of my breakfast occasionally lands on my camera, but luckily does not impact the images any; at least, not as far as I can tell.

While consuming my first meal of the day some of the local fauna make themselves known. Two hooded mergansers swim out from near the outlet and move around to the mid-south shore, carefully keeping their distance for me. A common raven croaks repeatedly before flying over the water heading west, perhaps notifying the forest denizens of my presence. Mink frogs call out, their woody “cut-cut-cut” sounding like a wooden mallet pounding on one of the many logs at the shoreline.

With breakfast eaten, I pack up the last few things and prepare myself for the last day of my bushwhacking adventure. However, bushwhacking is just a minor component, as after going over a low mountain (or is it a large hill) to the north, a series of old logging roads guides me back to Raven Lake Road.

As I begin my bushwhack along Hidden Lake’s shoreline, weaving in and out of the surrounding coniferous forest, heading toward the northernmost point of the lake. It is a beautiful sunny day, unlike the majority of the time on this trip. A perfect day to enjoy time out in the outdoors, unfortunately, it will not last long; either by me making back to my car or the weather changing unpredictably.

Out of nowhere, a slice of the frontcountry slaps me in the face, breaking my wilderness illusion.

Hidden Lake fire remains

Wood pile at campsite

The charred remains of a fire lies just a few feet within the forest from the lake’s shore. A small stack of wood is nearby, apparently unused by this makeshift campsite’s last occupant. The campsite appears hastily chosen, as there is no sizeable clearing to provide a resting place for a weary traveller, with conifer branches coming from almost every direction. Perhaps it was only used for cooking fish.

When I reach the northernmost point on the lake, I set my compass bearing to 295 degrees and head for an unnamed pond south of Ginger Pond. The climbing out of Hidden Lake’s basin starts immediately as I move away from the lake. It quickly levels off for a while, before the climbing begins again in earnest.

Cliffs cause several minor detours as I climb over the shoulder of a low mountain (large hill?) separating Ginger Pond from Hidden Lake. After getting through the first set of cliffs, the terrain levels off, revealing an unanticipated wetland. I pick my way carefully across the wet area, leaping from one tiny island to another as if I were a dry frog (as opposed to a frog that enjoys moisture).

Rocky cliffs northwest of Hidden Lake

After clearing the wetland, the rock cliffs return, requiring more detours. Please, make this the last one, as this is getting way too repetitive. An occasional cut within the hillside resembles an old skidder road; whether man-made, or just my imagination, it is difficult to say. Unfortunately, each is perpendicular to my bearing, so provide no useful assistance or guidance for me.

As I near the height of land (or what I am praying will be so), the forest transforms from older trees into a stand of dense young hardwoods. Young striped maple, yellow birch, American beech, even an occasional red spruce (just to mix things up), form a nearly impenetrable barrier.

I did hope that there would not be another wetland to cross, did I not?

After a few more short climbs (totally destroying my previous height of land proclamation), a descent begins, slight as it is, but consistent. Soon the descent plummets through dense softwoods, with glimpses of open water appearing between the trees. Rather than descend through these thick conifers, I take a hard turn west on the remnants of an old skidder road that keeps to the high ground, paralleling the pond’s shoreline instead.

Old skidder road

This is not my first time here, so now my bearing, and the compass used to follow it, are no longer of much use to me. Instead, the old logging road acts as my guide westward, with the steep drop-off and the pond keeping me from straying too far when the road becomes increasingly sketchy and hard to follow.

Once clearing the pond, the forest along the steep slope becomes devoid of understory vegetation, giving me a clear view of the bottom below. Despite its steepness, I start switch-backing down it, taking my time and putting my hiking poles to full-use. I am certain another old road should be down there somewhere, which should allow me to get over to the well-worn logging road near Ginger Pond.

The steep descent abruptly stops, yielding level ground, spongy from all the moisture it absorbed over the last few days of rain. It soon gets even wetter, when I cross a small stream and find myself surrounded by some illegal campsite storage. A metal stovepipe hangs along the trunk of a tree, while in an adjacent tree hangs a large tan stuff sack, appearing to hold tent poles. Nearby, behind a large glacial erratic, a brown tarp covers a stash of other goodies, almost certainly left behind by the same group of individuals, most likely a hunting group.

Gear hanging in tree

The gear has moved from its previous location from when I came through the area in 2014, which was just a short distance to the east, near the shore of the pond I just navigated around. This is the third location where I found their loot over the last few years. Most likely they move it around to escape detection, as it is illegal to store personal property on state land. They just need to put a little more effort into hiding it though.

A short trail leads from the storage area to an old logging road. This road leads east back to an old log landing where a wood stack still stands, as it did several years ago when I came through the area. The wood is neatly stacked, and cut in such a way that suggests a chainsaw, also illegal in a wilderness area. Nearby is the old storage site, now empty of all its gear.

From one corner of the log landing, a trail climbs through a dense sapling stand up to the remains of an old logging road. Pausing here, I wonder, should I just continue out, following the old road west, or go check on original old hunters’ campsite where I first found all the stored equipment many years ago.

It is a nice sunny day, and there is plenty of time. Which would you choose?

Unnamed pond south of Ginger Pond

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Hidden Lake

Now with the great Red Horse Creek fording and the Serpentine Ponds under my bushwhacking belt, it is time to start the long trek to Hidden Lake. This camouflaged lake shall host my eighth, and last night, of this trip in the southern Five Ponds Wilderness backcountry, and I want to make it a relaxing one. Since there are still many miles to go before arriving there, it is in my best interest to get my butt moving.

It is difficult leaving the westernmost Serpentine Pond behind and re-entering the unbroken forest, as the setting is as beautiful as any in the Adirondack Park. It might lack the majesty and awe of views from the High Peaks, but it has a simple peaceful beauty that is hard to beat. Fortunately, the black fly horde buzzing around my head provides an incentive to be anywhere other than here.

Before leaving, I set my compass bearing northward, knowing full well that I need to eventually turn west to reach Hidden Lake. Unfortunately, a series of wetlands currently lie between me and the lake, which requires a slight detour to the north first. That means climbing over a steep ridge if I want to avoid the probability of getting wet.

And I do so, as staying dry is my preference whenever possible.

The climbing starts soon after leaving the westernmost Serpentine Pond. Luckily, a drainage coming down from the ridge acts as my guide, as it is cut in the same general direction as my bearing. The exertion soon leads to profuse sweating, necessitating a quick change of wardrobe, as in off with the raingear that has adorned me since leaving the Red Horse Creek this morning.

Section Stats:
Date: July 2, 2015
Length: 2.7 miles (4.6 total daily miles; 38.7 total trip miles)
Difficulty: Moderate (length)

This break gives me a chance to evaluate the drainage I am following. The climbing has petered out, with an open, wet area replacing it, a high stone cliff forcing the stream to come from the west. The cliffs give me pause, as they are cutting off my further progress northward. After consulting the map, it appears I am on the wrong drainage, taken mistakenly as the proper one is likely smaller, with appreciatively less water flow.

Instead of continuing along the drainage prematurely westward, I strike out on my own, heading northwest through an ancient rock slide in the cliffs, climbing once again. My compass bearing setting is now 312 degrees, which I am hoping gets me to a location where I can avoid cliffs on the other side of the ridge.

And cliffs are almost as bad as getting wet, as far as I am concerned.

The climbing continues for about an hour since leaving the small pond. Rock cliffs frequently force detours upon me, making my climb a zig-zag affair. The first requires me to move along its base until finding a cut to climb through. I am not so lucky with the next one, forcing me to make an even farther detour before getting up and over it. This pattern continues as I ascend the ridge – rinse and repeat style.

At some point, while approaching the height of land, my last video battery gives up the ghost and the camera shuts off for the remainder of the trip. Unfortunately, this happens before reaching the top of the ridge, so there is no evidence of my elation upon ending my climb. Take my word for it, if I had a surfeit of energy, a celebratory dance would be a certainty.

The celebration appears a tad bit premature however, as steep rock cliffs seem to be in my future as I descend too. This time, finding a descent is key. From the height of land, it is impossible to see the bottom, but it is obvious it is a steep way down, requiring some careful footwork.

While resting briefly, basking in my accomplishment before taking on a new perhaps more arduous task, I notice that the side of my backpack is quite wet. At first, I wonder if it is sweat, but there is just too much of it, otherwise, dehydration would have conquered me long ago. Perhaps a wet tree? Nah, the wet from yesterday’s rain has all but evaporated by now.

Rock cliff on ridge climb

It finally dawns on me, the source has to be my Platypus collapsible water bag. I carry it in a water bottle holder on the side of my pack, where a tree could easily puncture it. Taking it out, I tip it upside down and apply pressure. Much to my chagrin, water drips out. It appears that the seam on top has broken, so no puncture. This leak is harder to fix and may force this container into early retirement, perhaps in the future, I will just carry two Gatorade bottles.

After this brief stop, I start my descent, as daylight is burning and Hidden Lake is still way too far away. Steep rock ledges are quite abundant on the descent, making picking my route carefully critical. A large cliff separates the descent into two phases, both of which contain challenges of their own. It takes me about twenty minutes to work my way down the side of the ridge, my relief almost palpable as it draws to an end.

A small stream signals that the worst of the descent is over. According to the map, its twin is nearby, so I modify my compass bearing to 310 degrees and head right for it. Upon reaching the second stream, I change my bearing once again, now heading more westward toward my ultimate destination. Although Hidden Lake is still a good distance away, most of the climbing for today is over.

Post ridge stream crossing

Bushwhacking a short distance through dense forest yields an extensive open wetland to the south, the destination of the twin streams crossed earlier. I continue well inland, staying away from the steeper slope and within the mixed forest where it is easier to hike. Unfortunately, the slope finds me occasionally, but I continue along the contours as best I can. When I cannot fight the urge to check out the wetland any longer, I capitulate and head down for a peek.

The open area is extensive, surrounded by usual coniferous forest. Shrubs, sedges and other herbaceous vegetation dominate here, with young trees and some snags scattered about the edges. Unseen is the stream meandering through its center, with only a common yellowthroat and a swamp sparrow suggesting its presence. This large stream is the main reason for my detour northward over the ridge, as crossing it further south may prove too difficult.

After checking out the boggy wetland, I return to my previous location farther up the slope and away from the denser forest. The large stream appears through the trees, but soon my bearing pulls me away from the open area, and it slowly disappears from view. The forest starts taking on a more second-growth appearance now, with smaller trees appearing more frequently, while larger ones becoming increasingly sparser.

Extensive wetland

As the forest becomes increasingly more open, ferns begin to dominate the ground cover, at times completely obscuring the forest floor. When I stop to marvel at the fern cover, I notice that I am standing in the middle of the densest fern cover and that it creates a strip through the forest, like a road perhaps; an old road.

Underneath the ferns in the road there are remnants of a herd path, still in use, but not so much that it is entirely obvious. Although it is not going precisely in the direction I wish, I decide to follow it nonetheless, as it is close enough. This makes the going a little faster than while bushwhacking, and I can always leave it if it swerves away from Hidden Lake later on.

As I continue west, I begin to hear a roaring noise in the distance. At first, it is difficult to tell whether it is in my head or not, but it quickly builds in intensity as I continue heading west, becoming more distinct and obvious. There is no doubt about it; it is the sound of rushing water. My anxiety level begins to rise, picturing another fording like the Red Horse Creek earlier this morning, or something much worse.

Fern-covered old road

After hiking down the road for about thirty minutes, I arrive at the source of the noise, the road ending at the stream. The stream is wide, deep enough to require fording, with a good current, and obviously, quite wet. The noise is nearly deafening now, much louder than would seem appropriate for the water rushing through the scattered rocks in the stream.

The mystery surrounding the noise has to wait however, as my more immediate issue is crossing the stream. I remove my boots, tying them around my neck and pulling up my hiking pants to the knees. The stream is not as deep as Red Horse Creek, much to my relief. When ready, I head across the stream for the second fording of the day.

The crossing is much easier than that at Red Horse Creek. The water is shallower, with many rocks, giving me more peace of mind while crossing, despite the constant roar distracting me. It takes little time to make it across, so I find myself on the other side before I know it. Like the previous fording this morning, the water is quite cold, so I dry my feet off and get them into my boots as fast as possible.

Loud stream along old road

While working my way back to the remains of the road, I notice a mostly dry creek bed leading upstream, likely due to flooding overflow during the spring melt or intense rain events. Looking up the dry creek bed reveals the likely source of the constant roar, a glimpse of a waterfall, or more accurately, a cascade. Wanting to get a better look, I rock-hop up the dry creek, with the roar of the water becoming increasingly louder with each new rock.

The cascade is in full display as I get closer. The water cascades over a series of rocks, falling approximately twenty feet or so. The constant flow of the water is almost mesmerizing, as I stand there and stare for a while before finally realizing the scene deserves a photograph or two. The noise is deafening, blocking out all others, leaving me a little paranoid, as it would be quite easy to sneak up on me.

I retrieve my camera and start capturing some images. Unfortunately, my camera takes only still photos and not video, thus I cannot capture the cascade in its full glory. My video camera’s batteries are all spent, leaving that out as an option. Often short videos are possible even with low charge batteries but unfortunately, the thought of that option eludes me.

Although difficult, I force myself away from the cascade and back to the old road. On this side of the creek, the road appears to get more use, at least judging from the more obvious evidence of a herd path. Young trees at the edge of the road appear cut, although something might have bitten them off instead. Plus, soft mud in the road contains old prints that appear human-like, although they might just as well be a bear. If a bear, hopefully it does not mind me using its path for a little while longer.

Loud cascade along stream

After following the old road for a short way from the creek, it becomes increasingly indistinct. It seems odd that it would get harder to follow as I draw closer to Hidden Lake, but maybe there was a turn farther back that I missed.

As Hidden Lake draws closer, I set a new bearing on my compass and leave the old road behind, heading straight for the lake. It does not take too long before the lake begins to appear through the young conifer trees. Getting to the shore takes a lot of effort, but thankfully once I pop out of the forest along the lake’s eastern end there are enough rocks/logs to navigate along the lake’s shoreline.

Hidden Lake is a relatively small lake, more pond than anything else. What it lacks in size, it more than makes up with in beauty. From my location in the eastern bay, I walk along the shore heading for the north side of the lake. Setting up my campsite in that direction puts me closer to the old logging roads at Ginger Pond, which I will use to exit the area tomorrow morning.

When I get out of the bay, I get a beautiful view of the entire lake. Conifer trees line the shoreline, with frequent rocks and some downed trees along the shore. Another twin narrow bay exists on the far side of the lake, mirroring the one I just left, giving the lake the shape of a snail, with the majority of the open water representing the shell.

Upon taking numerous photos, I turn back to business: locating and setting up a campsite for my last night on this trip. My search starts just inside the forest near the lake’s shoreline, but nothing stands out as ideal, with too much slope along the shore. Then the thought of disregarding the rules of camping 150 feet away from water sources churns up some guilt. Much hemming and hawing continue as I search about, as I slowly move farther and farther from the shoreline. Finally, I find a nice level area within a grove of young hardwoods and scattered stumps, well beyond the 150-foot limit, for once.

Hidden Lake shoreline

The sound of the falls remains audible as I hurriedly set up my tarp and impose some organization on the surrounding chaos of nature. The hum of the cascading water is constantly in the background, sounding like the wind blowing through the trees in the distance than like water flowing over rocks. Hopefully, the sound does not initiate the urge to pee throughout the entire night.

Finding a limb to hang my food rope is a challenge. Locating a large enough tree limb to hold my remaining food, greatly depleted since I started, is exceedingly difficult. When I finally find something that might work, I almost immediately get the rope caught up in the tree when it repeatedly wraps around a small limb.

F@$&!!

It immediately gets ugly. The long day, combining with my exhaustion makes a nasty brew of frustration and swearing. The yelling ruins everyone’s wilderness experience in the immediate area, that is, if there were anyone else around, other than the nonhuman denizens of the forest. They probably start complaining about the new neighbor immediately though.

After calming down, I pull the limb down as far as I can. Luckily, it is thin and pliable, as I can finally reach out and grab it, holding it in one hand while I untangle the rope with the other. When it is finally free, I start looking for a better tree to hang the food bag in. My patience nears exhaustion just as I find a better limb farther away, and the rope goes up with no more issues.

I make dinner quickly, just wanting to get it over with and hang my food before something else goes wrong. After eating, cleaning and hanging the food, I pick up some gear and head down to the lake’s shoreline to filter water and take in the scenery for one last evening on this trip.

Hidden Lake

After finding a nice spot with a comprehensive view of the lake, I start my gravity filter, for what is most likely that last time for this trip. While the filter does its own thing, drip by tedious drop, I set about setting up my camera and getting out my binoculars.

Wildlife, come and get it! And they do.

A duck flies over, evading my binoculars, though by its silhouette it is most likely a hooded merganser. A common raven, its raucous caw sounding continuously from the north for a while, finally flies over the northern portion of the lake. Several fish jump from beneath the water, leaving large ripples on the lake’s surface; at least I hope they are fish. A white-tailed deer emerges from the forest on the opposite side of the lake, lingering a while before turning back in the direction in which it came.

By half-past eight, I pick up my stuff and head back to my campsite before it gets too dark to find it. Fog already starts developing on the lake as the temperatures cool, allowing mosquitoes to emerge from their afternoon nap. I retreat into my shelter almost immediately upon reaching it, not feeling up to tolerating the insect onslaught soon to come.

Once into my sleeping bag, I set about catching up with my note-taking, but that does not last long before I start feeling drowsy. I surrender my pencil and secure it with my notebook, taking one last look at the map before calling it a night. It is only a short bushwhack over a hill to Ginger Pond, where the old logging roads will take me back to Raven Lake Road, and eventually my vehicle.

So when the morning comes, it will be time to head back to the frontcountry. It probably will not take long after leaving that I will be wishing I was back here at Hidden Lake. Despite the food hanging limbs being in short supply.

Hidden Lake shoreline

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