Credit: Mary Jenkins
This adventure, or should I call it “misadventure,” started after I went to the Friends of Stissing Landmarks (FOSL) meeting last November. I learned there that a new trail was being built up the Eastern side of the mountain. I’m always looking for a new trail—hiking or rail. So I got directions to the trailhead, and started out one morning at 7:30, figuring I would have plenty of time to climb the mountain and return in time for my volunteer shift at the library at noon.
I took an initial trail, which had recently been created by the Nature Conservancy, to the southwest corner of the Thompson Pond property. I didn’t see a trailhead or any markings for this new trail but I knew I had to go up. I actually did this successfully once before maybe 30 years ago—just bushwhacked up the mountain until I reached the ridge and then headed north toward the tower. I was younger then—I’m 71 now.
So I headed up the unmarked trail. It was a mistake. The footing was the worst I’ve ever seen, short of ice, with extremely slippery dry leaves. My progress was torturous—one step forward then slide down, two steps forward then slide down. The most consecutive steps I took without sliding was five. I had already watched the walking stick that my wife had given me in 2001 slide down the mountain. It had sentimental value but it wasn’t worth risking my life to retrieve.
I was scrambling on my hands and knees. There were many small boulders but the leaves had to be swept aside to determine if they could be used for handholds. I didn’t have my walking stick, but that’s OK—what I really needed was a whisk broom.
But I was committed to reaching the top, and the only way was up. In these conditions, I realized it was more dangerous to try and go down. After ascending a couple of hundred feet, I no longer even wanted to look down. I was clinging to downed trees to pull myself up and, eventually, just to have something to hold onto. I got to a point where there really was nothing I could trust to grab. A 4-foot high cedar sapling was holding me up, and there was nowhere for me to safely go up, down—or any other direction.
I realized that I had no business being up the mountain. My cellphone turned out to be a blessing. My rescuers were the only two presidents FOSL has ever had, Vivian Burlinghoff (who brought her dog with her) and Scott Chase. I couldn’t believe how quickly they got there. They were in such a rush they even forgot to put on their hiking shoes. But they knew exactly what to do.
Credit: Mary Jenkins
From above, they tied a long rope from tree to tree until it reached me, and then I climbed up the rope until I was safe. I was rescued. Together, we ascended diagonally up the mountain. The topography started to level off. Joe Schmidt, who is on the board of directors of FOSL, caught up to us. You may have seen Joe on the trail before. He’s the guy running the trail with a large log on his shoulder. I have no doubt that had I had any broken bones, Joe would have carried me out.
I finally got off the mountain and down to the library at 3:15. I shelved a few books but was so beat that I just went home, grateful for the good neighbors and friends at FOSL. Believe me, I am still grateful!
As it turned out, until I was rescued I had not been on the new trail. I was bushwhacking. When bushwhacking, you are on your own. Uncharted territory. Even if you’re not intending to “wing it,” be prepared as if you are: water, phone and two flashlights. (I’ve learned.)
Of course, I wanted to try again—more carefully this time. And so the following month: success! I found where the Thompson Pond trail starts and it all just fell into place. I have to hand it to the two Brians (Straniti and Sikora)—they really know how to build a trail. The trick is building the switchbacks—you never feel in danger. As for me, I learned to make a few concessions to my age for future adventures. And now, I have the satisfaction of knowing I climbed to the tower.
Mike Manning is a 32-year resident of Pine Plains (in other words, a newcomer).
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