Winter’s grip is loosening, and the land is waking from its long sleep. Soon even shaded mountain tarns will be wholly free of ice. Of course, cyclists have been working out winter’s kinks and canoeists and kayakers are already making the most of the high water on many rivers. It’s a good time to be out and about. But this is also the time when trip‑planning takes on a certain urgency. Summer will be here before we know it, and there’s still a lot to do. There are routes to be studied, menus to prepare, and gear to overhaul… Read more…

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Some folks like roughing it, or think they do. I did, once. My dream of a good time was hanging like an addled bat from the flank of a knife-edged ridge and snatching forty winks in a gale-buffeted tent, while waiting for the next avalanche to sweep down off the towering heights. So when my first long camping trip proved to be a never-ending ordeal of sodden clothes and blood-sucking flies, I shrugged off my misery, comforting myself with the thought that I was preparing for bigger and better agonies to come.

Here’s what happened. My brother and I pitched camp in a dank sag along a riverbank, right in the center of a dense tangle of alder, birch, and cedar. No hint of a breeze penetrated the thick, interlocked branches. We set up housekeeping in an Army pup tent, vintage 1945. It had no floor and no mosquito netting. Whatever the tent’s shortcomings, though, the blackflies and no-see-ums loved it. And they told all their friends. We were never short of company.

The weather was no help, either. Dense fog blanketed the ground each night and hung around through the early morning. Then the sun took over, turning our canvas shelter into a steaming sauna — just before the daily thunderstorm arrived to fill the sag with standing water. Finding dry wood in this postdiluvian landscape proved impossible. So we ate cold beans directly from the can, and made coffee by stirring powdered instant into tepid water. Our tent, soaked repeatedly by storm and fog and never given a chance to dry, soon developed a microclimate of its own, drizzling a fine mist down on our cotton-batting sleeping bags at all hours of the day and night.

But we were young and fit. We survived. And we bragged later about how we could take it. In truth, though, we’d have enjoyed ourselves much more if we’d followed Nessmuk’s advice. On the other hand, the self-described “limber-go-shiftless” dean of backwoods letters seldom strayed far from the nineteenth-century tourist track, and he often decamped to a waterfront hotel when the going got tough. You may not have this luxury. The longer your trip and the more difficult your route, the more likely it is that you’ll have to rough it at least some of the time. Nature deals the cards, after all. But this doesn’t mean that you can’t try to make the best of even a bad hand. Preparation, organization, and a keen eye for the lay of the land will always improve your odds… Read more…

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Like Rick, we came for the waters. Unlike the wise-cracking proprietor of Casablanca’s hottest nightspot, however, we found them. We’d come to scout a whitewater drop on a river only ten miles from our home. So far, everything had gone according to plan. The two-lane town road narrowed to one. The pavement gave way to gravel, then the gravel turned to dirt and the road ended in a bulldozed clearing. Just beyond lay a towering mound of trash and discarded household appliances. This didn’t appear on the Chamber of Commerce’s recreation map, but we weren’t surprised. The distinction between public land and public dump is often ignored in New York’s North Country.

We didn’t let this discourage us, though. We ignored the stink of rotting garbage and the lazy, droning flies. It was a glorious autumn day, and we could hear falling water singing in the distance. Leaving our kayaks on the roof rack, we bushwhacked down to the riverbank through a tangle of mixed second-growth. One look round and we knew it was no-go: the stream was too narrow and too obstructed for our touring kayaks. The next time, we agreed, we’d bring the pack canoes.

We climbed back toward the truck, enjoying the unusually warm fall weather and paying little attention to our route. After all, we were on public land. Or so we thought. We began to have doubts when we came across the first salt block. By the time we saw a permanent tree-stand, our doubts had become certainties. We knew we were trespassing.

So did the four guys standing on the road where we broke out of the woods. They were all suited up in woodland camouflage, and each cradled a rifle in his arms. They didn’t look welcoming. “Oh, Hell!” we both muttered. And the chords of “Dueling Banjos” started echoing in my imagination… Read more…

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