Inside the Citadel

They toiled upward again but on a trail not as steep as before. Trees looked shorter, more ravaged. It grew colder and puffball clouds rushed overhead. They trudged over a ridge and stopped to stare; directly ahead, on the far side of a sudden valley, a massif of rock rose. It filled the sky and clouds whipped its top like smoke in the wind. “Everest,” Jennifer said, but Scott noted from her expression, her posture, that now she shared the drama of their quest. The trail circled left and up, tracking a ridge through small and twisted trees. Finally the trees ceased all together and the trail climbed into a zone of bushes and grass. It zigged and zagged, higher, higher, until it reached bare, broken rock. The wind quickened and a dense, gray, moistness enveloped them, shutting off all view of the world below. Scott and Jennifer climbed over bare rock until they saw no higher place to go. An eerie brightness raced up the slope, closer, closer, and suddenly the wind ripped the mist away. They stood on the highest spot for hundreds of miles, gazing out across green distances. They saw mountains and more mountains and lakes that shone like puddles in the sun. Around them other hikers emerged from nooks and crannies where they had sheltered from the wind. They smiled, exclaimed, gestured at distant horizons. Scott grinned at Jennifer and lifted his arms in celebration. “How high are we?” The wind tugged at her hair. “Fifty-three hundred and some feet. Not much by Rocky Mountain standards but it’s way up there for the East.” “Of course, you start lower in the East too,” she said. “Good point.” Scott looked at her appreciatively and without warning a mist like cold smoke, darker than the previous cloud, rushed upslope and enveloped them. They crouched to avoid the bite of the wind. It began to rain. “Jesus.” Scott rummaged for plastic slickers he had stuffed into his pack. They helped each other pull them on and crawled beneath an overhanging ledge. “What time is it?” he asked. Jennifer wore a watch. “Two-twenty-four.” Scott shivered in sudden cold. “We should start down soon,” he said. She thinks I know what I’m doing, he thought. She thinks I climb mountains like this all the time. He planned this hike in the comfort of his New York City apartment, visualizing well-tended trails, a campsite with views. It looked easy, sitting at home. He peered out from under their ledge. “Christ. Still raining. Let’s go.” Picking their way, they followed white blazes painted on rock down Marcy’s west flank, opposite the way they had climbed. Scott guessed that most of the other hikers would probably descend the other way, back the well-traveled route. Piles of stones also marked this trail. Rain stung their faces. The rock slanted in slippery slabs but was easier going than the jumbled riff-raff on top. The mists parted for a moment, and in that moment Scott glimpsed a slanting line of trees below. “We’re progressing,” he called back. They descended into the trees and the trail dropped steeply into a high-walled valley. Rain laced this chasm like rivulets of steam. Peering down, Scott experienced a strange excitment; we’ll remember this, he thought. He looked back; Marcy had disappeared into cloud. “There’s a body of water down in that valley called Lake Tear of the Clouds. I thought we might camp there.” “’Lake Tear of the Clouds.’” Jennifer caressed the words. “Sounds good to me.” They sloshed down a steep path that in this storm now became a streambed. A valley floor rose toward them. Jennifer walked in front, hair wet, face dripping. She’s doing it, Scott thought. She’s not complaining. The rain slowed to desultory drops by the time they reached the valley floor. Scott unfolded his map; Panther Gorge lay to the left, Lake Tear of the Clouds to the right. They turned right and walked along in muddy ooze. He anticipated an idyllic mountain lake. They rounded a bend and he saw ahead a marshy pond covered with algae. Jennifer stopped. “Lake Tear of the Clouds?” “More’s the pity. I’m afraid so.” It was, a rain-darkened sign noted. Bad enough, the aesthetics. Worse, Scott scanned the shores of this fetid place and saw no suitable campsite. It neared five o’clock. His ankles hurt and he knew Jennifer was tired. He pondered his map. “A stream flows from here down to the Opalescent River and our trail pretty much parallels the stream. Let’s walk and look. All we need is a level place for the tent.” They splashed through mud. Trees tangled together, rock and stump holes pocked the ground. They had carried their packs up the biggest mountain in New York State and down the other side and all they wanted now was a flat spot to put their tent. But the further they walked down this dripping valley the more rugged the terrain became. “Unbelievable,” Scott said. They plodded on, hardly speaking. At least the rain had stopped. “What time now?” “Twenty to seven.” It would grow dark, in early July, at about nine, Scott calculated. They slogged down this muddy trail and he spotted something white through the trees. The Opalescent River? He rushed forward, snapping branches. Yes! He saw boulders and green, tumbling water. He stood on a stretch of flat ground beneath a Garden of Eden grove of pines. Jennifer followed. They flopped down on pine needles, slipped off their packs. “How far do you think we came?” “Twelve, thirteen miles,” Scott said. “Hard miles,” he added. They heard a splashing. Two hikers carrying bright orange packs hurried in the fading light along the muddy trail. “We found our cave,” Scott said. “They’re still looking.” He and Jennifer had done it, so would these others. He watched the orange packs disappear. He did not feel like sharing; what he felt was pride.