The Frostbite Trip

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January 1976. I froze my toes. This is a very long entry, as I want to record the entire four-day expedition. Perhaps you can learn how better to keep warm outdoors from hearing of my mistakes here.
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I was new to winter mountaineering, a rookie, a boot. On this backpacking trip in the High Peaks area of the Adirondack Mountains (ADK) of New York, I suffered some superficial but extremely painful frostbite on three toes, resulting in losing half of the toenail on my big toe. A lot of skin on these three toes also sloughed off later. I learned a lot about keeping warm through my mistakes that week, and it severely tested my Zen equanimity.
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The Buddha said that life is full of Dukkha (i.e., suffering, unsatisfactoriness, etc.), and this trip was full of it. Yet the beauty of the winter in high cold mountains made all the pain and suffering worth it.
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It was January 1976 and the temperature got down past minus 20*F every night with brisk winds. I had assembled some good new equipment and had done my homework. I just lacked experience. I had a new tent, goose down sleeping bag, cooker, goggles, boots and snowshoes. On the advice of Jim Wagner, the great Keene Valley climber/outfitter, I rented an ice axe. I could not afford to either buy or rent crampons also. My total backpack load weighed 65 pounds, not counting clothing worn and hardware in hand.
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Clothing in those days was wool, head to toe. Polar Fleece and the miracle synthetics had not come out yet. Soft merino wool was worn next to the skin. The two layers of wool were enclosed in an outer wind layer of nylon/cotton blend.
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There were several reasons that I froze my toes. 1.) My boots were too tight. 2.) I put on cold boots in the morning and just sat around cooking breakfast. 3.) I was not eating enough to generate body heat to combat the terrible cold.
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I left the roadhead at nightfall, climbing up the forested mountain trail in the moonlight. Here was a Dharma Bum who did not yet know what agony awaited him. I reached an ADK leanto shelter and bivouacked for the night. I failed to cook a meal because I was exhausted from a 10 hour drive. This was a big mistake, because my metabolism needed fuel to produce heat.
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[Day One.]
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The next morning I froze my toes. I got out of my sleeping bag, put on my boots (which were cold and too tight), and started cooking breakfast on my one-burner cooker. I had to melt snow for water for cooking and drinking, and I had not practiced the technique enough. I sat in cold, tight boots while waiting for the long slow breakfast process to unfold. My feet did not cease hurting for 16 hours.
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There were many lessons learned from this painful ordeal:
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Wear larger boots. I had too many socks packed into a boot that could not contain them without restriction. Your toes must have wiggle room so that blood can circulate. (Later, I moved up a boot size and I now wear less socks.) Loosen the laces until you are climbing and need the support. Put boots in the bottom of your sleeping bag during the night to keep them warm. Or, do not even put the boots on until ready to climb. Cook while your feet are either in sleeping bag or in warm moccasins. Do not put on cold climbing boots until ready to move out. Gather snow for melting in a garbage bag the night before, so you can feed it into the pot while in the sleeping bag. Melting snow is a complete art in itself.
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After breakfast, I packed up, laced on my snowshoes and headed up the trail. The snowshoes were laced up way too tight, which further cut off the circulation in my feet. I was in tremendous pain but continued on. Perhaps this was due to Marine Corps stubbornness, or I could have been hypothermic and just slow-minded. My feet were cold all day. I climbed up the Ore Bed Brook Trail for the entire short January daylight.
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I had always wanted to climb over the Range Trail, reputed to be the most strenuous but most scenic trail in the Adirondacks. It ascends up from a high pass, up and over Saddleback Mountain and over Basin Mountain, leaving you deep in the High Peak area, with astounding views all around.
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At dusk, I reached this high pass between Saddleback and Gothics Mountains. The wind was ferocious and the temperature was plunging. I desperately set up my tent in the gathering darkness. It was brand-new, and the guy-lines were not properly adjusted (big mistake), so I had to take off my mittens and tie new knots and make numerous adjustments. My fingers and hands became so cold, I could not feel anything but extreme pain.
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I managed to unzip the tent door and throw my pack inside, falling inside after it. It was now dark, and I was horrified to be lying there with frozen fingers and toes, in unspeakable pain and relatively helpless. I thought I was going to die. I had read true stories of mountaineers freezing to death or losing their fingers and toes to amputation after frostbite. I was crying from the pain.
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I managed to shut the tent door, get my sleeping bag and foam mat out of the pack, get into the bag and zip it closed around me. I could not cook because my fingers were useless, so I just lay there in agony. Dark, pain and stark fear. Dukkha, dukkha,
dukkha, ... this is the First Noble Truth: All Life is Dukkha. Indeed, it was.
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I thought about what options I had. I thought that I might be able to race down the mountain at first light of morning and get to civilization. I would have to put my boots on with frozen fingers. I was certain that I would lose fingers and toes to amputation but was hoping that I could save my life. I would have to abandon all this new equipment, because I could never re-pack it into the pack.
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After a while, I realized that I could salvage the new backpack by putting it on my back and I may be able to save the small cook stove by throwing it into the pack, but I must leave my tent and sleeping bag behind. For hours I lay in pain like I have never experienced, before or since. I cried and moaned. I felt bleak and alone.
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I woke up at midnight. My feet were still hurting intensely, but my fingers were numb and painless. Good, I thought. My fingers might work. Now I may be able to salvage the sleeping bag, which was a big investment. But the tent would have to be left. I felt a little bit better and more confident that I could live through this. I fell asleep again.
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[Day Two.]
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At dawn, I awoke with no pain in my toes. This was such a great relief. I had to urinate, so I got out of the sleeping bag, into my boots and out of the tent. My fingers and toes became cold and painful almost immediately, but not the intense pain of yesterday. It brought tears to my eyes, but it was manageable pain.
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Realizing that I was quite hungry, I thought about trying to cook a meal before retreat down the mountain. Before entering the tent again, I looked up at the east face of Saddleback Mountain above me, the beginning of the original Range Trail objective. In the blinding sunlight of a cloudless day, I could see the trail winding upward through untracked snow. It was so seductive. I have always been easily seduced by the prospect of a dangerous adventure.
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Breakfast went well and refreshed me. I lay back down in the sleeping bag and let the food digest and warm me. I drank a quart of tea. The pain was gone, and thoughts of Zen contentedness came back. Distantly, thoughts of options and decisions to be made lingered. What should I do? Should I go down or - unthinkably -- up?
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Deciding that I would make the choice later when I got booted up again and outside the tent, I packed my cooker and sleeping bag inside the pack and laced the boots and gaiters for major travel, in either direction. Then I stepped outside, donning snow goggles for the dazzling snow-reflected sun.
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I looked down-trail at my old tracks leading up to this high pass. The idea of the warmth below was tempting. Then I looked up at the Range Trail above. On impulse, I opted to continue upward. I tore down the tent, stuffed it into the pack, strapped on the snowshoes and shouldered all my gear on my back. During this packing ordeal, my fingers and toes became terribly cold again, making my eyes tear up. But, the snow above was without tracks of human or beast, and it lured me on. I committed to the ascent.
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The snowshoes (original Sherpas) were designed for steep climbing, and there was a primitive trail up Saddleback's east face. I waded through deep untracked snow, up zig-zagging ledges, hooking my ice axe over boulders or around roots. I struggled all day up and over Saddleback, catching views of the surrounding mountains that I could not believe.
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It was when going down the south side of Saddleback that I almost died, nearly falling off the series of large rocky steps. There was a coating of verglas ice on these huge ledges and it was a very steep face, so the snowshoes had to come off. Looking down the face, it was obvious that any fall would cause you to bounce and skid down these icy ledges until you plunged down into the snowfield and forest far below. Falling could not be contemplated at this point. Crampons would have been nice, but I could not afford them, and a climber on a budget cannot complain.
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As I started down these huge iced steps with heavy pack, my feet slipped and I sat down hard on the step with feet hanging over the edge. But I continued sliding down toward the step below, and as my feet hit the next ledge they slipped off that one too, causing me to sit hard on it, continuing to slide downward. There was clearly no end to the trajectory, and I was picking up speed.
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I took one look down at the treetops far below and instinctively executed a "self-arrest" with my ice axe, turning toward the ice and leaning all my weight upon the axe's pick. (I had read about this many times in the history of climbing but had never practiced it.) The pick was 6 inches from my eye as I watched it dig deep into the verglas, catching solid after skidding for about 9 inches. I was anchored, but my feet were in mid-air.
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I felt around with my feet and found a spot of rock that was not iced. Moving to the right, I got onto a ledge that led away from the icier ledges. Off the face, I lay in the snow, trying to re-gain the composure of the Zen mountain hermit. Whew! We know all about Buddhist detachment, but the thought of becoming *detached from the mountain* was just too scary!
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In snowshoes again, I stumbled over the pass between Saddleback and Basin Mountain and up to Basin's north ridge. With one hour of daylight left, I found a flat spot high on the north ridge suitable for a tent site. The trail was untracked snow, with no sign of a human presence. The powder was deep. I stomped the snow with my snowshoes on to pack a platform for my tent, then I set it up, going around it to adjust the guy-lines.
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What a beautiful wind-swept wilderness! Not a sign of living tracks. There was only endless powder snow, rocks, and some scrub balsam. It reminded me of a Zen rock and sand garden. The wind was cold, with gusts that nearly knocked me over.
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Thinking that the snow in the immediate area was packed enough to support my weight, I unlaced the snowshoes and stepped off the left shoe. To my surprise, my left leg plunged completely into the power snow until I was up to my crotch, and my foot still did not touch ground. My right leg was horizontal to the surface, supported by being across the snowshoes, while the left side of my body was buried up to my left armpit. I struggled to get up until I was exhausted. Finally, I used a snowshoe as one would use a raft on water, and I muscled up onto it. After that, it was always snowshoes on when outside the tent. It was the deepest snow I have ever floundered in.
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Supper, a very deep and restful sleep, and then breakfast. I was feeling better and without pain, except when first booting up and whenever doing anything with my hands. Life was good, or, at least, exciting.
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[Day Three.]
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Now it was time to saddle up and ascend the north face of Basin Mountain. Bright sunlight on the east side and freezing cold northwest wind on the other, it was an exercise in extremes. My sunward left side would be hot and sweaty, with the left eye of my goggles fogged up, while the windward right side would be freezing cold, with the right eye of my goggles clear because of wind ventilation. The wind was threatening to blow me off the mountain. I had to execute a scary traverse over very steep ice close to the summit. Then came one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen.
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As I reached the top of the north side of Basin Mountain, I stumbled in the cold over the summit plateau. Suddenly, in the distance I saw Mt. Marcy and Mt. Haystack ahead in the brilliant sunlight. Snowy, alone and aloof, Mt. Marcy looked like the perfect mountain. I felt at the top of the world.
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I wish so much that you were there with me to see it, but I realize that not everyone is willing to go through the hazards and discomforts necessary to experience such environments. (Han Shan would have understood, however, and he would have laughed with glee, scampered off and written another stanza to the Cold Mountain Poems.)
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Coming down Basin's south side trail was pure fun. It was a long sloping descent on deep untracked powder snow. I was able to take long plunging steps downward with my snowshoes, and it was much like the "kick and glide" technique of cross-country skiing. With a 65 pound pack on my back, I took bold plunging strides down into the endless powder. It was effortless, and I was covering a lot of ground quickly. The snowshoes hit the cushioned snow and slid down in a controlled floating glide, one foot, then the other. I remember laughing at the fun that I was having. Then, I was overcome by darkness.
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I had suddenly and without warning fallen face-first into the snow, head downhill and feet uphill. I fell so fast, I did not have time to put my hands up to break my fall. My arms were still at my sides. The 65 pound pack drove my head and shoulders deep into the snow. Snow was packed into my nostrils, mouth, and between my glasses and face.
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I could not get up, and I was practically upside-down. The weight of the pack kept me down, and, as I thrashed in the snow, I realized that my right foot was caught on something on the trail above me. Finally, I realized that I must undo my pack harness to get out of its weight. I pushed the pack behind a log nearby to keep it from rolling down the mountain, then I struggled up to my entangled right foot. The snowshoe’s frame had been hooked on a root, which stopped me cold and pitched me face-first downward. I moved down the rest of the mountain with more humility after this.
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Finally down from Basin Mountain, I came to a trail crossing. I decided to stash my pack near there, quickly do a day climb of Mt. Haystack, come back here to my pack, take the trail northward that leads down to the valley and camp somewhere on that trail. As I started towards Haystack, I saw the first person in days, at his camp by the trail. He was a lone rambler like myself, seeking solitude and the beauty of the High Peaks. He may have been a Dharma Bum, but we only talked briefly of the philosophy of equipment, weather, snow, wind and trail.
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On the climb up Haystack Mountain, I ran into a party of five coming down. I noticed how easily they walked with crampons on, and they used ski poles for balance against the gusting wind. All of them nodded a friendly greeting to me as we passed, except for the last guy, who reproached me for my lack of wisdom in climbing solo. He was, of course, right, but it still disappointed me that he could not tolerate my own choice to pursue happiness in my own way.
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After a delicate climb up rock and ice (crampons would have made it safer), I reached the long ridged summit of Haystack. It was in the Alpine Zone, with no vegetation bigger than mosses. There were mountains in all directions. Mt. Marcy was close by and directly to the west, with Panther Gorge between us, yawning open at my feet.
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The day was wasting away quickly, so I carefully down-climbed to the trail and hiked back to my pack. Taking the side trail towards the valley, I made my last camp on a windy spot on the trail. Like so many end-of-trek camps, this one was cold, bleak, windy and lonely. It was a miserably cold night. My goose down sleeping bag was not as warm on night Four as it was on night One. The night temperature was minus 20*F, just like every night, but the bag was not as warm.
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Goose down is not adequate insulation material for really desperate expeditions in humid weather, and, in fact, it can be dangerous. It does not handle moisture well, and I had been thrashing through snow, sweating, etc. Goose down just absorbs moisture and will not dry out. It may be excellent for desert treks, but not for winters in the northeast. For a few extra ounces in weight and a bit less compressibility, the new synthetics tolerate moisture, provide more warmth over a long wet outing, and can save your life.
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[Day Four.]
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I awoke cold. I ate a breakfast, packed up and hit the trail downwards with the goal that I would make it to the roadhead today. I was cold, tired and beat.
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Climbing down a mountain is often the most painful part. Your feet are bruised and your legs, back and body are so sore. You feel like an abused refugee from some unspeakable war, staggering toward civilization, beat and alone. It is hard to find the strength to take another step. In times of torment like this, I think of Gary Snyder's teaching of the "meditation of the trail," where he taught Jack Kerouac that it is all about just placing one foot in front of the other. I call it Trail Zen, and it has kept me walking out of many a wilderness when all I wanted to do was lay down.
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As the trail descended into the valleys, its slope leveled out more, and the nature of the winter landscape was not as harsh as on the peaks above. Without the wind, it seemed almost warm. I was terribly thirsty. (Little did I realize it, but I had been drinking water without minerals in it for many days, because I was melting snow for water, and snow is distilled water.) It was at this point, only several miles from the roadhead, that I experienced The Best Drink of Water in my Life.
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As I was crossing the narrow footbridges over the streams of the lowlands, I could hear the gurgling of the water flowing beneath the snow. This drove me half crazy from thirst. Finally, I found a footbridge where the stream seemed close below. I took off my pack and pulled out a goblet that I had been given as a gift before my trip. Laying on my stomach on the bridge, I reached down through a hole in the snow to the flowing stream. I scooped up a goblet-full of water and drank.
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It was a shock of absolutely wonderful taste. The full mineral content made it taste as rich as champagne to my deprived senses. Merely water from a mountain stream, it was delicious. I toasted the sport of winter mountaineering and also my escape from danger and pain, and I drank my fill.
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End of epic.
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-Zenwind.