There are mountains you hike because they are beautiful.
There are mountains you hike because they are convenient.
There are mountains you hike because they have sweeping views, dramatic ridgelines, charming little summit signs, or some romantic pull that makes your heart feel all soft and woodland creature-ish.
And then there is Allen….
Allen is the mountain you hike because at some point, after staring at your 46er list long enough, you realize there is no way around it. You cannot negotiate with it. You cannot ignore it.
You cannot pretend it is not sitting there, deep in the Adirondack backcountry, waiting like a feral goblin with red slime and a bad attitude.
Allen does not care about your feelings.
Allen does not care that you packed snacks with optimism.
Allen simply waits….And eventually, you go.
For years, Allen lived in my head as one of those Adirondack “Bad Boy” mountains. The longest. The hardest. The big, wet, muddy, slippery, soul-questioning beast of a climb thateveryone talks about with that special kind of haunted look in their eyes.
“You haven’t done Allen yet?”
“No…No, I have not. Please stop looking at me like that.”
Allen was one of those peaks I researched, feared, avoided, respected, side-eyed, and mentally placed in the “future Jess problem” category. Unfortunately, future Jess eventually became current Jess, and current Jess had to put on her boots and go deal with her life choices.
But here’s the thing.
I did not go out to Allen alone.
I got to hike Allen with Nancy LaBaff.
Yes… THE Nancy LaBaff.
A complete Adirondack legend. An all-star. A magical woodland mountain creature. The kind of person who says things like, “We’ll just take it slow,” and then proceeds to move through the woods with the casual confidence of someone who has been personally adopted by the forest.
When Nancy invites you to hike Allen, you do not say, “Let me check my schedule.”
You say yes.
You rearrange your life.
You pack snacks.
And you go.
We started early, because of course we did. Allen is not a casual little after-breakfast stroll. Allen is not a “let’s see how we feel” kind of day. Allen is a full commitment. It is the mountain version of signing paperwork you maybe should have read more carefully.
The approach begins innocently enough. That is how Allen gets you. It lures you in with miles of relatively gentle walking, just enough to make you think, “Hey, maybe this won’t be so bad.”
This is a lie.
A beautiful, muddy, Adirondack lie.
The miles stretch on…And on… And on. The trail rolls through forest, over bridges, through wet sections, around blowdown, across mud, beside water, and through that classic Adirondack terrain that makes you say, “Oh, this is pretty,” while also wondering if your feet have already accepted their fate.
Mine had.
I do not delicately rock hop my way through the Adirondacks. I am not that person. I have watched people perform tiny Cirque du Soleil routines over puddles, balancing on one slick root and a prayer, trying to preserve dry socks.
Not me.
At some point, I simply become one with the mud.
Wet feet? Fine.
Muddy legs? Sure.
Dignity? Questionable from the start.
Nancy, meanwhile, moved along like this was all completely normal. Because for her, it was, though at a much slower pace than her normal. She has the kind of trail presence that makes you realize the experience is not loud. It does not need to announce itself. It just moves steadily, calmly, knowingly.
I, on the other hand, was internally doing math.
How many miles in?
How many miles are left?
How much climbing?
How much red slime?
How attached am I to my ankles?
Allen is infamous for many things, but the red slime gets its own special category. If you have not yet had the pleasure, imagine a slippery red algae coating steep rock slabs in a way that feels personally disrespectful. It is the kind of stuff that makes every foot placement feel like a trust exercise with a very unreliable partner.
For years, I had heard about it.
The red slime…
The terrifying red slime.
The “it will send you to meet your ancestors” red slime.
So naturally, by the time we reached the climb, I had built it up in my head as some kind of demonic slip-and-slide sponsored by bad decisions. But trail conditions are funny. Sometimes the thing you fear most is manageable, and the thing that actually gets you is something completely different. On our day, the water helped. The slabs were wet, yes, but the slime was not as horrendous as the horror stories in my brain had made it out to be.
Was it still slippery?
Absolutely.
Was I still dramatic about it?
Obviously.
But with steady movement, careful feet, and Nancy’s calm presence ahead of me, we climbed.
And climbed.
And climbed.
Allen’s ascent has a way of making you feel like you are both very close and absolutely nowhere near the summit. Every time you think, “Surely we must be almost there,” the mountain laughs softly and adds more uphill. There are mountains that give you little rewards as you climb. A view here. A breeze there. A nice open ledge. A moment where you can look out and feel like a majestic wilderness goddess. Allen gives you mud, steep rock, wet roots, and an opportunity for personal growth you did not ask for.
And yet.
Here is where the love letter part begins.
Because somewhere in the middle of the suffering, Allen starts to work on you. Not gently, of course. Allen is not gentle. Allen does not whisper wisdom in your ear. Allen grabs you by the backpack straps and says, “So, how badly do you want this?” And that is the thing about these long Adirondack days. They strip everything down. There is no pretending. No performing. No aesthetic version of yourself. You are sweaty, muddy, tired, hungry, possibly questioning your life choices, and very aware of every muscle in your body.
But you are also there. Fully there. One foot in front of the other. Moving through a wild place that does not care about your timeline, your ego, your fears, or your excuses.
Allen asks for patience.
It asks for endurance.
It asks for humility.
It asks for snacks.
So many snacks!
And on this day, it gave me something I will carry forever. It gave me the chance to share a trail with Nancy. There is something deeply special about hiking with someone who knows the mountains the way she does. Not just the routes, but the rhythm. The history. The feel of the land. The small things you would miss if you were only focused on mileage and summit counts.
Nancy cheered me on. She shared knowledge. She reminded me to get out of my head. She moved with confidence, humor, and that wonderful Adirondack grit that makes you want to be better, not because you feel inadequate, but because you feel inspired. She also shared her profound love of, “What does the fox say?”
Hiking with someone like that reminds you that becoming stronger in the mountains is not just about speed or mileage or how many peaks you can string together in one unhinged day.
It is about learning.
Listening.
Paying attention.
Respecting the land.
Knowing when to push and when to pause.
Knowing that “slow” from an Adirondack legend may still mean you are quietly fighting for your life behind her.
As we approached the summit sign, Nancy pulled to the side and let me do the honors. I was now summiting this beast I feared for so long. Here we were. Looking eye to eye. I lost my breath as you would a lover being captivated by their essence. We celebrated! I earned a “High of Life” patch for hiking with Nancy, which was one of the most incredible days of my aspiring 46er journey. She led me out to the view of the Great Range.JUST WOW. Hello?! Why do people not talk about these views?! The view of the Great Range is spectacular. I was in awe staring off and realizing, “I have hiked those!”
Well… you know the drill. You got yourself all the way in, all the way up, and now you have to get yourself all the way back out because Adirondack mountains love to remind you that summits are only halfway.
Rude…but fair.
The hike out was long, because of course it was. Allen does not suddenly become short because you are tired. The miles are still there. The mud is still there. The trail is still wet, wild, and unforgiving. But something shifts on the way out.
Once the summit is behind you, the fear disappears. The thing you had built up in your mind becomes something real. Something hard, yes. Something exhausting, absolutely. But also something you did.
Allen became less of a monster that day.
Still a beast. Still a long, muddy, slippery little gremlin.
But no longer untouchable.
And maybe that is why I loved it.
Not because it was easy….It was not.
Not because it was beautiful in the obvious way…. It was not.
Not because I gracefully floated through the forest like some kind of trail angel. I assure you, I did not. My ankle can confirm that!
I loved Allen because it made me show up.
I loved Allen because it asked more of me.
I loved Allen because it let me share miles with a woman who has lived so much Adirondack story, strength, and wisdom.
I loved Allen because sometimes the mountains that scare us the most are the ones that teach us the biggest lessons.
And I loved Allen because, after years of hearing the warnings, dreading the red slime, and mentally placing it in the “absolutely not” category, I finally went.
I got muddy. I got tired. I got humbled. I got stronger. And I got to walk out knowing that one of the Adirondacks’ longest, hardest climbs was no longer waiting for me.
So yes, this is a love letter to Allen.
A slightly unhinged, mud-covered, snack-fueled love letter.
To the long approach, the wet feet, the red slime that lived rent-free in my head for years.
To the climb that made me work for it.
To Nancy LaBaff, Adirondack legend, woodland mountain creature, and absolute all-star.
To the mountains that do not make it easy, but make it meaningful.
And to Allen itself.
You were hard.
You were long.
You were muddy.
You were rude.
But I loved you anyway.
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