the summit and the spectacles it unveiled — of Marcy, with its majestic sweep above the clouds; of Gothics, with its distinctive slides; and stately Algonquin, presiding assuredly over the McIntyre range. This wasn’t sightseeing: this was epiphany, something we all wanted to experience again and again. Which, drawn like moths to lampposts, Logan and I set out to do, now frequently joined by my older son, Liam. Together, the three of us climbed the peaks in rapid succession. Big Slide, Giant and Rocky Peak Ridge, the McIntyres, Street and Nye, the Lower Great Range, the Dix Range, Marcy, Skylight and Gray. On Logan’s 13th birthday, we did the Upper Great Range, culminating in a successful sprint up Saddleback, which, owing to the repute of its daunting cliffs, marked the moment that I realized that we could actually finish these peaks. I couldn’t believe it. That said, we never let the thrill of our goal eclipse the wonder of the journey. We appreciated all the peaks for what they had to offer. Along the way, we also learned about grit. Like anyone else, we endured our fair share of bugs, rain, and knee-deep mud, and even days when we were forced back due to conditions. But we also had days where we persevered through the elements, such as our hike up Algonquin, where we faced winds fierce enough to make us reconsider our recreational choices altogether, but through which we persisted, and, for our efforts, were rewarded with a memorable photo of the boys on the summit — their smiles a happy contortion of angst and relief. From there, it was onto the rites of passage — or, better yet, the mountains of passage: the swamps of the Santanonis and the Sewards, the slog of Cliff and Redfield, and the infamously vexing Allen. We did not hike these mountains so much as wear them — in the bruises on our limbs, the tatters of our clothing, and the mud that plastered our legs like tattoos. It was during these hikes that we were also introduced to those near-mythical beings — the trail Jesuses, those giddy climbers whose immaculate clothing seemed the upshot of some unholy Faustian bargain. I almost felt like we got extra mud as recompense for the dispensation given them. Yet, no matter how scarred these trails left you, they were memorable, which is why I retain a special affection for them. It seems that I, like many climbers, am most fond of that which confounds me. IT WAS WHILE RETURNING FROM one of the “mountains of passage” — in this case, the Sewards — that I had my encounter with the police officer. At the time, I was driving southbound on I-87, about an hour from home, with Logan fast asleep in the back seat. After having been awake for more than 20 hours, I was exhausted, not just from the hike but from the long drive that followed. So, I was hardly surprised when police lights began flashing in my review mirror. What did surprise me was how accommodating the officer proved to be. He commended us on summitting 35 peaks so far — even though he chastised me for wearing jeans on the first. (“I should ticket you for that one,” he said). Thankfully, he let me off with a warning. It was at that moment that I realized that being a 46er is about more than individual achievement. It draws us into a community beyond ourselves — among people with whom we may have little in common except our shared passion for these peaks. Since embarking on this journey, I realized how many of my friends and acquaintances have either completed the 46 or were trying to. Even the sympathetic police officer was working toward his 46 — he had 28 peaks under his belt — and appreciated the challenge so much that he opted not to make it tougher by giving me a ticket. But, as proud as I was of our impending achievement, I realized that we didn’t do it alone. That is a second insight I got from my encounter with the police officer. We, as climbers, are not just connected to each other by a “hobby”; we are bound to one another in a way that we can’t be with other people. That’s the biggest takeaway I get from the 46er organization. It’s that rare club that is both exclusive and welcoming — exclusive, in that admission is reserved for those who have completed The author and son Logan on Whiteface become 46ers 16123 and 16126 50 | ADIRONDACK PEEKS
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