“If Pacific Northwest hiking is yoga then the Adirondacks are CrossFit.” ICAME TO THE Adirondacks confident. I hike in the Pacific Northwest — Mount Hood, Mount Baker, the North Cascades. I train in rain. I climb volcanoes. I log thousands of feet of elevation gain on a regular Saturday and call it fun. I know what calf burn and quad fatigue mean. I know the particular ache of the last mile back to the car. So when I set out for Whiteface and Esther, I expected beauty. I expected effort. I expected something comparable. What I did not expect was to find myself laughing out loud on the side of what appeared to be a seasonal waterfall and asking the forest, “Is this really the trail?” Back home, hiking often feels like yoga. Our Pacific Northwest trails tend to be engineered into the mountain. Switchbacks are frequent and deliberate. The grade unfolds in long, patient lines. Even when steep, it is usually sustained and rhythmic. Dirt and roots dominate. Volcanic rock crunches underfoot. Moss softens the forest floor. There is often a sense that someone thoughtfully laid this path out and said, “Here. This is how you may ascend.” There is something meditative about a long Cascade climb. You settle into your poles. You monitor your heart rate. You find that aerobic sweet spot and stay there for hours. The forest smells like earth and cedar. You round switchback after switchback and gradually rise above tree line, where glaciers drape the shoulders of Mount Hood or Mount Baker in sweeping white arcs. The scale is dramatic, cinematic, and expansive. It is challenging, yes. But it is a challenge that allows rhythm. The Adirondacks do not offer rhythm, they offer engagement. Whiteface does not ease you upward; it points directly at the sky and says, “Let’s see what you’ve got.” The “trail” frequently resembles a boulder staircase assembled by giants who were not particularly concerned with uniformity. Water runs down it. Over it. Around it. At times I wasn’t sure whether I was hiking a mountain or ascending the bed of a creek that had simply decided to stay put. I looked up what was essentially a wet rock chute and just laughed. ‘This is the trail?” I asked out loud, like maybe the mountain would clarify. It did not. The grade does not gradually negotiate. It commits. Roots twist across the path like intentional obstacles. Slabs tilt at angles that require hands as much as feet. There are stretches where you look up and think, surely this levels out soon— and it does not. If Pacific Northwest hiking is yoga then the Adirondacks are CrossFit. Full-body engagement. High box steps onto kneeheight rock. Hands pressing into ancient Adirondack rock — older, denser, and The author on familiar terrain: a trail that lets the mind wander SUMMER 2026 | 47
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