Author: Adirondack Ascent

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.

For years, Cliff Mountain lived rent-free in my head.

Unlike many of the Adirondack High Peaks, Cliff seemed to exist mostly in stories. People talked about it. People climbed it. People casually mentioned doing Cliff and Redfield together, which always left me wondering if they possessed some sort of secret superpower or simply had much larger demons than I do.

Meanwhile, I was over here building Cliff into that one intimidating relative at family gatherings.* The one you spend years hearing stories about, avoiding eye contact when possible, and hoping someone else deals with them first. Eventually, though, you know you’re going to have to introduce yourself.

Part of that was because I could never find many photos of it. You can look up Algonquin, Marcy, Giant, or Cascade and find thousands of pictures. Cliff somehow manages to hold onto a little mystery. So, naturally, my brain filled in the blanks and created a mountain that was probably twice as terrifying as the actual one.

It didn’t help that I spent years thinking Cliff Mountain was named after a person.**

A person.

Named Cliff. 

It seemed rational enough. Plenty of Adirondack mountains are named after people, right?

Nope.

When fellow hiker Jim Pedley informed me that the mountain was, in fact, named after the actual cliffs on the south side of the mountain, I felt two things simultaneously. 

First: embarrassment. 

Second: immediate concern.

Wait.

It’s named after the cliffs? 

That seemed significantly worse.

By the time this spring rolled around, Cliff had become one of the peaks looming largest in my remaining High Peaks journey. Not because it was the tallest. Not because it was the longest. Simply because it was one of the mountains I had spent years imagining.

The original plan was Cliff and Marshall. 

Looking back, that feels adorable. 

Haha. Funny me.

As my hiking partners Rochelle, Court, and I made our way past Lake Colden and toward Uphill Lean-to, reality slowly began tapping us on the shoulder. Also, I would like to officially state that those were some of the longest true “Adirondack miles” I have ever experienced. I am 100 percent convinced someone was out there extending the trail right in front of us. And though I didn’t cry that time, in the past, I absolutely would have.

The miles were adding up. And Cliff was still waiting.

Somewhere along the trail we collectively came to the conclusion that “just Cliff” was more than enough adventure for one day. I laugh at that phrase now because there is absolutely nothing “just” about Cliff Mountain.

One thing I’ve learned through hiking is that social media is a terrible way to judge what mountains actually feel like. Online, you see summit photos. You see people smiling. You see accomplishment.

What you don’t always see are the moments where people are working through doubt. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes through a fit of Tourette’s-level colorful language. You don’t see the fatigue, the uncertainty, the occasional tears, or the realization that maybe you should have packed one more sad burrito.***

Those moments are where the real story lives.

As we climbed higher, I found myself thinking less about the summit and more about the people around me. 

Rochelle and Court are both strong hikers. What impresses me most is their willingness to not tell me “no”. 

They have witnessed their fair share of Toddler Jess on trail. They have received random text messages proposing objectively ridiculous adventures. Yet somehow they continue agreeing to them.

I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with them.

But I am grateful for it.

There are moments on mountains like Cliff where confidence isn’t loud. It doesn’t look heroic. It looks like someone stopping, looking at a steep section, taking a breath, and continuing anyway. It looks like trusting your feet. Trusting your body. Trusting your preparation. And occasionally muttering something unprintable before proceeding upward.

That day, I watched both Rochelle and Court do just that. 

At one point, I found myself almost stepping outside the moment and simply observing the three of us moving through the cliff sections. Watching my friends climb was every bit as fascinating as the terrain itself. There were multiple points where hands became just as important as feet, and while nothing felt impossible, it absolutely demanded attention. 

This was not the kind of hike where you could put your head down and just cruise. You had to be present. You had to engage with the mountain. You had to earn it.

That is one of the beautiful things about having hiking partners. You get to watch people push themselves, problem-solve in real time, and move through hard things right in front of you. And they did exactly that.

What surprised me most was how quickly the fear I’d carried for years started to fade. It was not because Cliff became easy. It didn’t. Not because it became less steep. It wasn’t. 

The fear faded because uncertainty was replaced with experience. 

The intimidating relative I’d built in my imagination finally had to compete with reality, and reality turned out to be far more likable than the story I’d been telling myself.

The long walk out was exactly what you’d expect. Tired legs. Shared misery. Random conversations that only make sense after ten-plus miles in the woods. Equal parts laughter and suffering. Random songs we have made up over 100’s of miles of trail together. (We are still waiting for our record deal….)

My favorite kind of Adirondack day.

As we made our way back toward the trailhead, I found myself thinking about all the hikers I admire. The ones who tackle Cliff and Redfield together. The ones who stack multiple peaks into a single day. The ones whose adventures continually push me to reconsider what I believe I’m capable of.

For years, I assumed those people possessed something special that I lacked.

Now I wonder if that’s not true at all. Maybe they simply started. Maybe they took one step. Then another….Then another….Maybe confidence isn’t what gets us up mountains. Maybe confidence is what we collect along the way.

Cliff Mountain earned every bit of its reputation. It was long. It was challenging. It demanded effort. But in the end, the biggest obstacle wasn’t the cliffs. It was the story I had been telling myself about them. And like so many things in life, the only way through was to stop imagining and start climbing.

Footnotes:
* Not MY family gatherings…. I’ve just heard of others having these situations….
** I am not proud of this. But I believe in transparency.
*** A sad burrito is a burrito you packed while you were happy, BEFORE the hike. Then, while grumpy in the forest, these usually turn into sad burritos. They don’t quite make you happy again, but they make you less miserable.

I had a come to Jesus moment with my 46er journey.

I could not keep pretending I could train the same way, hike the same way, think the same way, and somehow wake up stronger. The Adirondacks do not reward delusion. They reward preparation. They reward humility. They reward adjustment.

If I wanted to keep moving forward toward all 46 High Peaks, I had to stop performing strength and actually build it.

So I adjusted.

Not to what Instagram hikers were doing. Not to what sounded impressive. To what I actually needed.

Me.

After years of researching routes, watching other hikers dial in their systems, overthinking gear lists, and romanticizing lean-tos in golden hour light, I finally did the thing that had been circling in my head.

I went backpacking.

Alone.

Because if I am going to confront my limits, apparently I prefer to do it thoroughly.

Solo multi-day backcountry travel became the quiet obsession. I wanted to know I could carry everything I needed on my back and rely on myself. No emotional support human. No easy bailout plan. No one to hand me a snack when morale dipped.

Just me and my pack moving deeper into the Adirondack woods.

And the woods responded.

I told myself I started backpacking to shave mileage off big summit days. That part was practical. Hiking in a few miles the day before a long push absolutely changes the equation. What once felt like survival mode started to feel strategic. I could approach peaks with fresher legs and a clearer head. My 46er progress shifted from grind to intention.

But that was only the surface benefit.

The real shift was trust.

There is something sobering about stepping onto a trailhead knowing you will not see your car again for days. Everything you need is on your back. Shelter. Food. Water filtration. Layers. Light.

You either have it, or you do not.

The first time I settled into camp alone, I kept waiting for the anxiety to spike. For the doubt to creep in. For the realization that I had overestimated myself.

Instead, I felt steady.

I walked into the woods with three days of gear and realized I was good. I can problem solve. I can manage discomfort. I can be alone without feeling isolated. I can wake up sore, make coffee in the quiet, and move forward anyway.

The Adirondacks are not gentle teachers. Weather shifts quickly. Trails erode. Rocks roll. Distances stretch. If something goes wrong, help is often hours away. You learn quickly that self reliance is not bravado. It is responsibility.

And strangely, it is freedom.

Backpacking did not just make my summit days stronger. It carved out space in my head. The noise quieted. The constant measuring of myself against others softened. Out there, there is no audience. Just breath, terrain, and the steady rhythm of boots on trail.

Also, for the record, I did not hate it.

I loved it.

I came out of that summer at least 100 notches more feral and significantly less fragile. The girl who once called herself not outdoorsy now voluntarily disappears into the woods for days at a time. The identity shift still makes me laugh.

Growth is wild like that.

It rarely looks polished. It often looks like dirt under your nails, a slightly too heavy pack, and the realization that you are far more capable than you allowed yourself to believe.

The 46er journey is still unfolding. The mountains are still humbling. But somewhere between overthinking and overpacking, I found something steadier than confidence.

I found trust.

And once you learn to trust yourself in the backcountry, it has a funny way of following you home.