Day 2: High Peaks

In the morning, our apartment is cozy and warm, the fireplace having burnt into a smouldering glow overnight. We get dressed and have our breakfast of chocolate croissants, juice, and yogurt. It is just past 6 AM, and first light is showing over the treetops in the backyard. The photographer’s heart within me flutters, for there are shapely, medium-altitude clouds in the sky, which are just beginning to catch color. Perfect conditions for a stunning sunrise. In the car, we drive the short distance northeast out of Lake Placid to the turnoff for Connery Pond Road. A single dirt track takes us about half a mile into the woods, to a parking spot just short of the water. Unfortunately, we fail to notice the small wooden signpost pointing toward Connery Pond, and instead set off up the trail toward Whiteface Landing. We realize our mistake after a few minutes, when the path begins to wind uphill, but valuable time is wasted. Back beside the car, we locate the portage trail, which leads us to the marshy southern shore of the pond. Boots sucking in the mud, Jane and I make our way to the water’s edge, where I set up compositions of the breathtaking view across Connery Pond.

Though we missed the best of the sunrise colors, there is still plenty of drama in the sky. Clouds streak past us toward the northeast, shrouding the upper body of Whiteface Mountain, which only emerges in momentary glimpses. Sunrise builds behind the peaks of the Sentinel Range to the east. And all along the water is that classic sight of fall in the Adirondacks: a prism of autumn colors atop beech, maple, and oak trees, set apart by the fine, slender-white trunks of silver birch. I move back and forth along the shoreline, using the reach of my new camera’s lens to take close compositions of the distant trees while the second camera captures a timelapse. A carload of noisome Chinese photographers, their yelling audible from half a mile away, come and go after taking a number of selfies and flying a drone around for a few perfunctory minutes. Jane, myself, and one other photographer continue our work in silence.

Daylight is advancing in the east as we leave the shore of Connery Pond, walking the portage path out to our car. Back on the highway, we proceed a few miles down the road to High Falls Gorge, where we are the park’s first visitors of the morning. Paying our entrance fee, we walk out onto the boardwalk, which forms a short loop that clings to the edge of the canyon. Through the canyon, the e Western Branch of thAusable River cascades downward to the Wilmington Plain in a series of picturesque falls. At the bottom, where a suspension bridge crosses the chasm, I stop to take photos of this magnificent scene: jade-green moss clinging to weathered granite; ferns and hemlocks perched upon rocky holds; and oak leaves, like golden crystals, shimmering in the chasm’s reflected light. We have the place all to ourselves - at least, until a few minutes later, when a busload of touring elders begins to make its way down the canyon. From the bridge, I take a series of one-second exposures with Jane standing beside the waterfall, using the median technique to remove other humans from the shot. On the other side of the chasm, I use my zoom lens at an overlook to capture the vibrant autumn canopy covering the eastern slope of Whiteface Mountain. We wind our way back along the canyon, stopping to photograph a lovely curve in the river upstream from the gorge.

Back in the car, Jane takes a brief nap while I drive us back toward Lake Placid along River Road. On the banks of the river, we pass an alpine ski team training on roller-blades. Past the town’s Olympic ski jumping complex, we turn south on Adirondack Loj Road, which meets the highway at a large open field with expansive views into the heart of the Adirondack massif. I stop here to take some photos of the clouds rolling in over the mountains; a rainstorm is due later in the evening. Heading south now, we enter the busiest region of the park - the High Peaks, beloved by hikers, climbers, and campers alike. We leave our car in a turnout a few hundred yards down the road toward South Meadows, and reach our first trailhead of the trip: a five-mile out-and-back to the summit of Mount Van Hoevenberg.

After typical vacation car lunch (bread, chocolate milk, oranges, and Pringles), we sign our names at the trailhead register and set off. The western approach to the mountain begins as a flat, leisurely jaunt through mixed hardwood forest, which seems to go on forever (in fact, just a mile and a half). Jane and I take our time, stopping frequently to take in the intimate woodland scene around us, and to take pictures of the foliage. The wind out of the southwest is beginning to pick up, but down in the understory, the air is calm, and the sound of the breeze rippling through the treetops is quite evocative when paired with the crackle of the fallen leaves underfoot. These are the sights and sounds that remind one of autumn - and of the inevitable, slow, but beautiful passage of time. At length, the trail emerges into a clearing at the edge of a sunken forest, with the broad top of Mt. Van Ho looming in the distance. We skirt our way around the pond, making a muddy crossing over a series of boulders, before rejoining a dirt path that becomes increasingly steep and rocky as it ascends the flank of the mountain.

This last portion of the trail, also merely a mile or so in horizontal distance, feels equally interminable. Jane and I are in reasonable shape from our running routine, but the climb up the mountain quickly becomes a slog, at times requiring traverses along rock ledges, and in one place or two, some basic scrambling. As is common throughout the Adirondacks, the trail feels devilishly organic in design, shooting uphill along stream beds and rock falls, only to drop carelessly into a sheltered dell or a forest glade. This is in stark contrast to the modern, efficient switchback climbs that tend to inhabit such popular outdoors locations, which Jane and I are frankly more used to. We shed layers as we go, pausing to pretend to enjoy the forest scenery while we catch our breaths. Near the top, the whir of the wind rises into a howl, then a roar, as the trail funnels us out of the woods and onto open granite. We quickly replace our heavy outer layers as we reach the wind-blasted summit, where we are greeted with panoramic views of the mountainous plateau to the south: South Meadows with its picturesque, winding brook far below us to our left, the rounded knob of Mount Jo straight ahead (with the highest of the High Peaks shrouded by storm clouds beyond), and the outlying farms of North Elba to our right. I try in vain to take long shots of South Meadows Brook and the distant peaks from this vantage point, but the strong wind precludes any tripod use (or any prolonged fumbling with the camera in general), the light is flat and dreary, and the foliage in this skybound plateau is well-advanced, peak color having come and gone at least a week or two earlier than in the lower regions of the park. We settle for a quick panorama and an exchange of selfies with another photographer and his family at the summit, before turning around and making the long journey down the mountain and back to the car.

We retreat to the cabin for snacks and a brief afternoon nap before returning to the Loj Road, this time following it all the way south to the campgrounds beside the Adirondack Loj. Here we park and pay for a day-use permit before setting off toward Heart Lake and the trail up Mount Jo, where we intend to photograph the golden hour and the incoming storm clouds. The trail follows the north shore of Heart Lake for a few hundred yards, passing an old cabin and a number of interpretive exhibits before turning uphill to the north. While Mt. Jo has two approaches that can be hiked as a lariat, Jane and I decide to go up and down on the shorter, steeper (approximately one mile) route in order to maximize our time at the summit. Like on Mt. Van Ho, the path quickly devolves into a jumbled rock fall. Ignoring our labored breaths and burning calves, we scramble upwards quickly, not wanting to be caught in the dark on this descent. Above this long series of boulders, the trail levels into a series of boardwalks over mud pits before making a final push up to the summit, assisted by metal ladder rungs and wooden steps hammered into the granite.

At the top (note the false summit; the path to the true summit is just around a corner, obscured by a pine tree), we are treated to a breathtaking view of Heart Lake below, and the mighty Algonquin beyond. The wind is whipping furiously around us now, as a billowing mass of storm clouds surges over New York’s second highest mountain peak, which is drowned like a islet within a frothing ocean wave. As the sun drops toward the mountains to the west, the golden light is ever-changing, playing across the granite and the treetops and fading in and out with the passage of mist and cloud. After Jane and I take some photos together, I set up my tripod, which Jane dutifully helps me stabilize. As we sit and admire the drama unfolding before us, I find myself thinking that this evening encapsulates what I love so much about landscape photography - that it is all about being at the right place, at the right time, with the equipment to make the shot work. The rest of it is just bearing witness.

After a relatively quick timelapse, we descend the mountain the same way we came, in the growing dark. Back at the trailhead, we pay a short visit to the shore of Heart Lake before returning to the Loj. At the campground café, we order and share a hot dog with chips, a fruit punch soda, and strawberry ice cream cone before hopping in the car and making the short drive back to Placid. And not a moment too late - the pitter-patter of rain alights on our windshield as we enter town, and by the time we pull into our little parking spot and retire to our apartment for the night, the rainstorm has arrived.

Day 3: Cascade

A steady rain is falling when we awaken the next morning. It is Monday, October 7, and the original plan was to rent a canoe at the St. Regis Canoe Outfitters’ Floodwood base to complete a pond-hopping circuit in the park’s northwest region. But with rain having been in the forecast for well over a week, I’ve shifted our itinerary around. We’ll have a light day of sightseeing instead, with minimal hiking until the weather clears in the late afternoon. After the usual breakfast, we hop in the car with our boots and rain gear on, and drive east out of town, this time continuing past the Cascade Lakes and the town of Keene, following Highway 73 south along the Eastern Branch of the Ausable River. The topography here is just as precipitous as at High Gorge Falls, with the river threading a narrow valley between the High Peaks and the Giant Mountain Wilderness. Across the valley, we catch a glimpse of Roaring Brook Falls in its dress of autumn colors, and resolve to stop at the roadside overlook on the way back. Many drivers miss this beautiful waterfall from the other direction, as it is directly behind after pulling over.

Further south, we reach our first stop of the day at Chapel Pond, a serene little lake tucked against the towering granite cathedral of Rocky Peak Ridge. We make our way down to the shore, where I test, for the first time, the weatherproofing on the Sony RX-10 (overall impressive, though after a morning of wiping the front elements with increasingly wet sleeves and Kimwipes, I resolve to buy a lens hood like an actual photographer). I manage to fire off a portrait of Jane, and a few shots of the lakeside scenery - terrifically atmospheric in the drizzle and the drifting mist - before returning to the warmth and safety of the car. Jane helps me dry the equipment as we drive further east to the intersection with Highway 9, which parallels the course of the Boquet River.

A few miles up the road, we come to the turnoff for Split Rock Falls, a series of cascades just off the roadside, beyond where the Boquet River passes beneath a road bridge. We carefully pick our way down to a pine-covered ledge, where I take long exposures of the main body of the falls, amplified by falling rain, as well as a selfie with Jane. Back in the car, we continue north, turning east from the village of New Russia to join Lincoln Pond Road where it crosses over the Adirondack Northway. We reach the turnaround point of our driving route for the morning, a small turnoff before the bridge over Lincoln Pond.

Taking my tripod, I creep into the wild grass beyond the bridge railing and take photos of the lovely little island in the center of the lake, along with the magnificently colored maple, birch, and oak trees by the water’s edge. The camera is fully soaked now, and even with Jane using her arms as an impromptu umbrella, the lens wiping is a constant struggle between exposures. We beat a hasty retreat to the car and make our way back towards Placid. Along the way, we stop at Roaring Brook Falls, where I take one of my favorite shots of the trip - a vertical composition of the distant falls surrounded by autumn garb. We also stop at the campground between Upper and Lower Cascade Lakes, where the rain has developed a lovely hanging waterfall over the canyon. We photograph the sea of golden foliage lining the canyon walls, before returning to the town of Lake Placid.

Back in Lake Placid, a shopping day - because of the rain, and for Jane. We drive to the most commercial part of town, a stretch of Main Street just off the shore of Mirror Lake, which is lined with pubs, souvenir shops, clothing stores, and restaurants. I get lost in a bookstore while Jane browses half-heartedly at winter clothing. We come away with little else beside a cheap “ADK” magnet to add to our fridge collection. Hungry now after several days of cup noodles, canned foods, and basic breakfast items, we wander listlessly into a few delis and restaurants, but are generally appalled at the prospect of $15 sandwiches or soups. We wind up sharing a double scoop of ice cream instead, before returning to the apartment to feast on… cup noodles and canned food. Utterly delicious. Jane spends the mid-afternoon resting and napping, while I make use of our television’s Prime video subscription to get caught up on programming - namely, watching Jim from The Office and Bunk from The Wire attempt to act like a pair of hardened CIA counterterrorism experts.

In the late afternoon, the rain has cleared enough that we feel comfortable wandering out for a short hike. We take the car east again past the Cascade Lakes, to Owl’s Head, a small knob overlooking the Keene Valley, nestled in between four mountainous ranges (clockwise from northwest: the Sentinel Range, the Jay Mountain Wilderness, the Giant Mountain Wilderness, and the High Peaks). This little mountain, which sits on private property and whose summit trail is privately and lovingly maintained, boasts wonderful panoramic views of the surrounding mountains for relatively little effort. (Note: only accessible to the public on weekdays; check before visiting; also should not be confused with Owls Head Mountain, a peak in the Long Lake region with a much more involved hike). After less than a mile of steady climbing and a light scramble toward the end, Jane and I reach the summit and are greeted by a wondrous view: autumn foliage as far as the eye can see, stretching onto the flanks of distant blue peaks; dissipating wisps of rain cloud; soft,moody light; and lovely leading lines formed by the sinuous highway to the south. Jane and I spend a good hour on the summit as sunset approaches, taking a range of close and far compositions, portraits, and panoramas. I have Jane descend first, to a rocky outcrop just below the summit, so that I can use her figure for scale against the distant landscape. We descend the mountain and drive home as darkness falls, enjoying yet another noodle dinner that night, accompanied by mugs of hot cocoa with marshmallows.

Day 4: Northern Flow

The next morning, we drive west out of Lake Placid, passing through the sleepy Main Street of Saranac Lake before turning north. To the east, beyond green pastures and miles of rolling forests, the sun is cresting the summits of the McKenzie Mountain Wilderness. We mark a turnoff along the highway for tomorrow’s sunrise, before continuing to Church Pond, a quiet lake just outside the hamlet of Paul Smiths. We leave our car on a narrow dirt road, beside the little church house for which the pond is named. The morning air is calm but cold - the dense sort of cold that settles around you and chills you to your bone. Jane and I wander to the water’s edge, where I set my camera up to photograph first light on the opposite shore. Here, working with a palette of rainbow foliage and mist-cloaked water, I am in my comfort zone. I fire off a short timelapse series with the RX-100 while using my longer lens to highlight the birches and maples, which in the morning light stand out nicely from the soft background of firs and black spruce.

After half an hour at Church Pond, we drive a few miles west of the village, to the trailhead of our main walk for the day - a 7-mile round trip to the summit of St. Regis Mountain. The walk begins as a pleasant, undulating stroll through the woodlands surrounding the St. Regis Canoe Area. The forest, all aglow with golden aspen leaves, is quite lovely in the morning light, and we pass our time on the trail mostly in peaceful silence (it is a Tuesday morning in October, and we see only one hiker with his golden retriever on our way up the mountain). Past the two-mile mark, after treading through the forest, across boardwalks and footbridges, and up and down leaf-littered slopes, we reach the main ascent, a series of rockfalls turned into waterfalls by the previous day’s rain. Feeling grateful for my new boots, I lead carefully up the stone steps, avoiding puddles and deeper portions of the rivulet. The going is hard, but we’re drawn upward by the thinning canopy - the beckon and call of the soaring, beautiful blue sky. At the top of the climb, a short scramble over boulders breaks us free of the treeline, and we find ourselves standing on the rocky summit of St. Regis Mountain, with a breathtaking panorama before us.

Climbing over the granite, Jane and I ascend the steel steps of the fire tower. From the top, we have unobstructed views for miles in every direction. To the east, across a sea of foliage, are the St. Regis Lakes and the McKenzie Mountain Wilderness. To the south and southeast, the ponds of the Floodwood and Saranac are shining under the midday sun, like a string of pearls on an emerald necklace. Behind them rise the High Peaks, a towering mass of earth in the far blue distance. To the west and north, clear past the Canadian border, lie ponds and woodlands as far as the eye can see, the fiery colors of deciduous autumn transitioning gradually into a dark and endless boreal forest. Alone at the summit, Jane and I take in these marvelous vistas before descending from the tower. I shoot a mix of panoramas and far landscapes while Jane relaxes below. After awhile, we are joined by another hiker and her dog, who seems completely unfazed by the 3-mile climb and runs circles around us, lapping up our attention. We leave them at the summit and begin our long descent and walk back toward the trailhead.

After a seemingly interminable walk back through the forest, we reach our car and backtrack past Paul Smith’s College and Church Pond. In Saranac, we trudge into the McDonald’s with our sweat-laced brows, disheveled gear, and muddy boots. I order a mango smoothie and a 20-piece box of chicken nuggets, and Jane gets a double quarter-pounder with fries. We eat like pair of vengeful ghosts. A short drive and half an hour later, we are back at our basement apartment in Lake Placid, showered and relaxed. Jane takes a long afternoon nap, while I recharge my batteries and flip through television channels by the fireplace.

In the late afternoon, we re-lace our boots and set off to capture the golden hour just a few miles outside of town, at the Cascade Lakes. Pulling into the small dirt lot between the lakes, I can tell that we are in for truly special conditions. To our southwest across Upper Cascade Lake, the light of the setting sun is beginning to fall, obliquely, on the shoulder of Cascade Mountain, bathing the treetops in a warm, golden glow. The air is tranquil, and the lake surface forms a perfect mirror, transformed into an amphitheatre of light and color. After capturing a quick panorama and setting up a half-hour timelapse of the fading light, I use the reach on my new camera to isolate the most compelling portions of the landscape: an exposed rock face on the nearby ridge, half-caught in shadow; intriguing sections of shoreline, reflected in the water; and individual or stands of trees, perfectly catching the sunset’s dream light. In the next minute, I take my favorite photograph of the entire trip - a simple portrait composition of birch trees standing at the water’s edge.

As the light wanes, we pack up our gear and head back toward Placid. Along the way, we stop on the corner of Adirondack Loj Road, beside the so-called Plains of Abraham, a rolling expanse of fields originally settled by hardscrabble New England farmers in the early 19th century. Beyond the fields, twilight is falling on the High Peaks, and the sky moves through shades of vermilion and burgundy. I fire off another timelapse while we admire this scene - the silence broken only by the rush of the passing cars, their headlights fading down a country road.