A rainy weekend with the pooch.

Chris n Otis Get Wet...4/22/00
What better time to sneak away and try out my new solo tent than during a twenty- four hour rainstorm? I also got to climb my first Catskill 3500, Panther Mountain. Otis and I parked at the trailhead by the hairpin turn on Rte. 47. The rain had been steadily increasing in volume, and was continuously coming down from the moment we left the car. This trail is intense because you hit the trailhead and start climbing. The climb up to the ridge was steep, and felt like climbing up into the clouds. The 100% moisture gave everything a heavy glistening feel. It was chilly, in the forties, with occasional gusts of wind. The first thousand feet of vertical was mostly a trudge, like climbing a bunch of flights of stairs. Sharp, irregular rocks covered the trail, so I paid attention to my footfalls. At the 3000 foot level, the trail intersected the Panther Mountain trail. I turned left along the ridge, and the easier going sped my progress, and also gave me leave to look around a bit more as I hiked. The deciduous forest of the trip up gave way to cedars and hemlock. Still early in the season (April 22), I didn't see much in the way of flora. There were proto buds on the trees, but nothing out as of yet. Lots of brown, interspersed with green flashes where grass, moss or some particularly early blooming plant was basking in the abundant water. After gradually ascending the ridge line, I came to the last 500' of elevation before Giant Ledge. Again slowing down to pick my way carefully, I clambered up the last few pitches before arriving on top of a plateau-like summit. There was one campsite on the western edge of the ridge, and the wind there was blowing a continuous gale. I could tell there must be a dropoff and lookout there, but the thick clouds closed vision down to fifteen or twenty feet, so I had no idea of just how high I was. The wind was a real deterrent (though the thought of waking up on an incredible ridge held my imagination for a brief bit) and I followed Otis over the other side of the ridge where an even nicer campsite presented itself. I can see how these sites are crowded as all get out in the summer (s'posed to be a killer view...) but the nasty weather kept out everyone but me, Ot, and the giant jackrabbit I glimpsed as we approached the second site. Reminded me of the big giant bunnies Patty McD and I had seen when we camped on the Dingle Penninsula of Ireland. Curious too, as I've never seen rabbits up Clary way. I found a perfect hummock, maybe 6' by 10', the ideal spot to set up the baby Moss. And covered by eight inches of pine needles and detritus for a nice soft base. In a totally brilliant tactical manuver, I had packed the tent in the sleeping bag pouch of my pack, so was able to get it out and then set it up without wetting any of my gear. The pack cover had kept the pack (LL Bean; see, not a total gear snob after all! ) bone dry. My elation at my cleverness evaporated when I climbed into the tent to grab something while still wearing my soaking rainwear. Rain Rule #1: dry stuff only in the tent (except the dog, but we'll get to that later...). I pulled my bag and thermarest into the tent, stashed my pack under its cover, threw a quart of water and a bunch of clif bars into my fanny pack, then headed up the trail towards Panther Mountain. Hiking without my pack, the mile and a half to the summit of Panther was a nice jaunt. I was disapointed to find no summit cannister; I had wanted to sign in and go on record with the 3500 club. It appears one has to climb one of the trailless peaks to find the sign-in log. There was also no view at all (unless you count the fast moving banks of fog propelled by forty mile an hour winds as a "view"!). I stopped hiking for a few moments, gobbled a power bar, and headed back to camp. Oy, such an anticlimax! Did see some cat scat though, perhaps 'twas panther? Arrived back in camp around four, it was still raining. I'd say it went from pouring, to merely raining, to gushing great torrents of water the likes of which haven't been seen since The Flood, and then back to begin the cycle again. The inside of the tent was still dry (except the puddle I'd made going in there the first time). Furry was wet to the bone. He looks like a Lab, but when it rains his Rottweiller heritage becomes more apparent and he gets soaked. No "water off a duck's back" here. It ended up taking him all night to dry. Anyway, he was soaked, and kept trying to slip under the fly into the tent. I didn't want him in there until I could figure out how to control his abundant moisture so shooed him away. He went and lay down in a ditch. Literally. I looked over and there he was, giving me "the look"™, and lying in a ditch. I came close to packing everything up and heading home then and there. Instead, I boiled up some water and made hot chocolate. I wanted to go fetch water from the spring a quarter mile down the trail so I ambled over that way (Otis got himself out of his ditch and his funk) and refilled the water containers. Not lost on me was the irony of having to hike down the trail to get water when everything all around was soaked. I boiled up another pot (the stove worked famously after having been troublesome for one reason or another the last five or six trips) and hydrated some beef stroganoff. As usual, though it tasted most of cardboard, it hit the spot and made me feel warmer of mind and body. I fooled around, hung the bear bag, thouroughly investigated the immediate area, threw a rock off the edge of the palisade (never heard it land), in short, did everything I could think of doing without actually taking off my rain gear and getting in my tent. This I managed to put off until 6. When I was fully bored and wet and getting cold I finally went and opened the vestibule. After managing just barely to subdue Otis (whose glowing eyes were fastened on the warm, dry, inside of the tent like a rat on cheese) I stripped off my soaking wet pants (more on those later), dropped my jacket and slipped into the tent, arid as a desert in July. Mere moments later Otis took advantage of my momentary inattention and slipped into the tent and plopped himself right down next to me, after first shaking himself to better disperse the moisture to all corners of the tent. Bastard! Despite Otis' best efforts, I was actually rather dry, compared to the storm was still raging outside the tent. I clipped the straps on my sleeping pad and voila: reading chair, lower half encased in warm dry sleeping bag. I was happy to find that I can comfortably sit up and read and drink hot chocolate in my new little tent. Without the pooch it'd be palatial; with, it's merely cozy. I looked over at The Fur, and he was literally steaming! Really, steam was pouring off of him. I zipped down the door for ventilation so we wouldn't create any internal rain. Unfortunately, I forgot to do this when I finally went to sleep, so ultimately did wake up with the inside of the tent covered in condensation. I'd left the little window open, but forgotten to open the top half of the door to create a cross ventilation chimney effect. The vestibule's tiny, but would certainly serve to allow me to open the door while leaving the fly sealed. I guess I'm spoiled by the huge vestibule of the Little Dipper (which really rocked this winter when we dug out the vestibule so we could sit down and take boots on and off). Live and learn. Though there does seem to be more living than learning, sometimes. So where was I? Oh yeah, I hung out in the tent reading Beowulf and listening to the rain and wind wail outside. Due to the enormous quantities of hot chocolate, I had to step outside a number of times to relieve myself, but managed to stay fairly dry by slipping on my jacket and scurrying like a little bunny. Otis had the good sense (and bladder control) to stay put in the tent and not stir for the entire evening. By the time darkness fell (at like 7:30 on such a dark day) I was ready to hit the hay, but it seemed too early so I lit a candle and read a couple more chapters. Some while after that I blew out the candle, gave Furry a final pat (and 120mg of phenobarbitol as a chaser), and burrowed into my bag. Overnight it stopped raining, but the humidity, fog, and wind were still there in force when I awoke in the morning. I got up to pee, and decided it was much too nice back in my warm dry bag to stay up. Of course, when I awoke the second time, it was again pouring. I fired up the stove, made a cup of joe, and ate a clif bar for breakfast while packing my stuff. As I descended to the car (and all the shenanigans on NPR about "The Taking of Elian") I reflected on how nice it was to be in the woods, even with the continuous downpour. And in fact, the weather kept everyone else out, giving me the solitude I'd craved, even at a popular trailhead. The only downer of the morning was putting on my totally cold and soaked rain pants. And about those pants: what with being alone in the rain for twenty four hours, I found myself reflecting on gear. Where was I dry and comfy, where was water seeping in, what was that cold clammy feeling I just noticed? My North Face Mountain Jacket was keeping me entirely dry and warm, but my EMS knockoff "waterproof" trousers were anything but. And to add insult to injury, they kept sliding down (elastic, no provision for a belt ), bugging me no end. By the end of the trip I'd taken to walking holding the thighs of the pants in my hands so they wouldn't slip down. I'd briefly given thought to wearing my North Face bibs, which rock so hard in the winter, but figured they were overkill for this trip. Those cheapo pants cost me the only serious discomfort of the entire trip, live and learn. My new Moss Outland rocked the house, my old LL Bean sleeping bag and pack did fine jobs. I was generally comfortable in the nastiest weather I could imagine. Now all I've got to do is return to Giant Ledge sometime when I can see the view! Back to Camping Pages

Chris n Otis Get Wet...4/22/00

What better time to sneak away and try out my new solo tent than during a twenty- four hour rainstorm? I also got to climb my first Catskill 3500, Panther Mountain.

Otis and I parked at the trailhead by the hairpin turn on Rte. 47. The rain had been steadily increasing in volume, and was continuously coming down from the moment we left the car. This trail is intense because you hit the trailhead and start climbing.

The climb up to the ridge was steep, and felt like climbing up into the clouds. The 100% moisture gave everything a heavy glistening feel. It was chilly, in the forties, with occasional gusts of wind. The first thousand feet of vertical was mostly a trudge, like climbing a bunch of flights of stairs. Sharp, irregular rocks covered the trail, so I paid attention to my footfalls. At the 3000 foot level, the trail intersected the Panther Mountain trail. I turned left along the ridge, and the easier going sped my progress, and also gave me leave to look around a bit more as I hiked. The deciduous forest of the trip up gave way to cedars and hemlock. Still early in the season (April 22), I didn't see much in the way of flora. There were proto buds on the trees, but nothing out as of yet. Lots of brown, interspersed with green flashes where grass, moss or some particularly early blooming plant was basking in the abundant water.

After gradually ascending the ridge line, I came to the last 500' of elevation before Giant Ledge. Again slowing down to pick my way carefully, I clambered up the last few pitches before arriving on top of a plateau-like summit. There was one campsite on the western edge of the ridge, and the wind there was blowing a continuous gale. I could tell there must be a dropoff and lookout there, but the thick clouds closed vision down to fifteen or twenty feet, so I had no idea of just how high I was. The wind was a real deterrent (though the thought of waking up on an incredible ridge held my imagination for a brief bit) and I followed Otis over the other side of the ridge where an even nicer campsite presented itself. I can see how these sites are crowded as all get out in the summer (s'posed to be a killer view...) but the nasty weather kept out everyone but me, Ot, and the giant jackrabbit I glimpsed as we approached the second site. Reminded me of the big giant bunnies Patty McD and I had seen when we camped on the Dingle Penninsula of Ireland. Curious too, as I've never seen rabbits up Clary way.

I found a perfect hummock, maybe 6' by 10', the ideal spot to set up the baby Moss. And covered by eight inches of pine needles and detritus for a nice soft base. In a totally brilliant tactical manuver, I had packed the tent in the sleeping bag pouch of my pack, so was able to get it out and then set it up without wetting any of my gear. The pack cover had kept the pack (LL Bean; see, not a total gear snob after all! ) bone dry. My elation at my cleverness evaporated when I climbed into the tent to grab something while still wearing my soaking rainwear. Rain Rule #1: dry stuff only in the tent (except the dog, but we'll get to that later...).

I pulled my bag and thermarest into the tent, stashed my pack under its cover, threw a quart of water and a bunch of clif bars into my fanny pack, then headed up the trail towards Panther Mountain. Hiking without my pack, the mile and a half to the summit of Panther was a nice jaunt. I was disapointed to find no summit cannister; I had wanted to sign in and go on record with the 3500 club. It appears one has to climb one of the trailless peaks to find the sign-in log. There was also no view at all (unless you count the fast moving banks of fog propelled by forty mile an hour winds as a "view"!). I stopped hiking for a few moments, gobbled a power bar, and headed back to camp. Oy, such an anticlimax! Did see some cat scat though, perhaps 'twas panther?

Arrived back in camp around four, it was still raining. I'd say it went from pouring, to merely raining, to gushing great torrents of water the likes of which haven't been seen since The Flood, and then back to begin the cycle again. The inside of the tent was still dry (except the puddle I'd made going in there the first time). Furry was wet to the bone. He looks like a Lab, but when it rains his Rottweiller heritage becomes more apparent and he gets soaked. No "water off a duck's back" here. It ended up taking him all night to dry.

Anyway, he was soaked, and kept trying to slip under the fly into the tent. I didn't want him in there until I could figure out how to control his abundant moisture so shooed him away. He went and lay down in a ditch. Literally. I looked over and there he was, giving me "the look"™, and lying in a ditch. I came close to packing everything up and heading home then and there. Instead, I boiled up some water and made hot chocolate. I wanted to go fetch water from the spring a quarter mile down the trail so I ambled over that way (Otis got himself out of his ditch and his funk) and refilled the water containers. Not lost on me was the irony of having to hike down the trail to get water when everything all around was soaked.

I boiled up another pot (the stove worked famously after having been troublesome for one reason or another the last five or six trips) and hydrated some beef stroganoff. As usual, though it tasted most of cardboard, it hit the spot and made me feel warmer of mind and body.

I fooled around, hung the bear bag, thouroughly investigated the immediate area, threw a rock off the edge of the palisade (never heard it land), in short, did everything I could think of doing without actually taking off my rain gear and getting in my tent. This I managed to put off until 6. When I was fully bored and wet and getting cold I finally went and opened the vestibule. After managing just barely to subdue Otis (whose glowing eyes were fastened on the warm, dry, inside of the tent like a rat on cheese) I stripped off my soaking wet pants (more on those later), dropped my jacket and slipped into the tent, arid as a desert in July. Mere moments later Otis took advantage of my momentary inattention and slipped into the tent and plopped himself right down next to me, after first shaking himself to better disperse the moisture to all corners of the tent. Bastard!

Despite Otis' best efforts, I was actually rather dry, compared to the storm was still raging outside the tent. I clipped the straps on my sleeping pad and voila: reading chair, lower half encased in warm dry sleeping bag. I was happy to find that I can comfortably sit up and read and drink hot chocolate in my new little tent. Without the pooch it'd be palatial; with, it's merely cozy.

I looked over at The Fur, and he was literally steaming! Really, steam was pouring off of him. I zipped down the door for ventilation so we wouldn't create any internal rain. Unfortunately, I forgot to do this when I finally went to sleep, so ultimately did wake up with the inside of the tent covered in condensation. I'd left the little window open, but forgotten to open the top half of the door to create a cross ventilation chimney effect. The vestibule's tiny, but would certainly serve to allow me to open the door while leaving the fly sealed. I guess I'm spoiled by the huge vestibule of the Little Dipper (which really rocked this winter when we dug out the vestibule so we could sit down and take boots on and off). Live and learn. Though there does seem to be more living than learning, sometimes.

So where was I? Oh yeah, I hung out in the tent reading Beowulf and listening to the rain and wind wail outside. Due to the enormous quantities of hot chocolate, I had to step outside a number of times to relieve myself, but managed to stay fairly dry by slipping on my jacket and scurrying like a little bunny. Otis had the good sense (and bladder control) to stay put in the tent and not stir for the entire evening. By the time darkness fell (at like 7:30 on such a dark day) I was ready to hit the hay, but it seemed too early so I lit a candle and read a couple more chapters. Some while after that I blew out the candle, gave Furry a final pat (and 120mg of phenobarbitol as a chaser), and burrowed into my bag.

Overnight it stopped raining, but the humidity, fog, and wind were still there in force when I awoke in the morning. I got up to pee, and decided it was much too nice back in my warm dry bag to stay up. Of course, when I awoke the second time, it was again pouring.

I fired up the stove, made a cup of joe, and ate a clif bar for breakfast while packing my stuff. As I descended to the car (and all the shenanigans on NPR about "The Taking of Elian") I reflected on how nice it was to be in the woods, even with the continuous downpour. And in fact, the weather kept everyone else out, giving me the solitude I'd craved, even at a popular trailhead. The only downer of the morning was putting on my totally cold and soaked rain pants.

And about those pants: what with being alone in the rain for twenty four hours, I found myself reflecting on gear. Where was I dry and comfy, where was water seeping in, what was that cold clammy feeling I just noticed? My North Face Mountain Jacket was keeping me entirely dry and warm, but my EMS knockoff "waterproof" trousers were anything but. And to add insult to injury, they kept sliding down (elastic, no provision for a belt ), bugging me no end. By the end of the trip I'd taken to walking holding the thighs of the pants in my hands so they wouldn't slip down. I'd briefly given thought to wearing my North Face bibs, which rock so hard in the winter, but figured they were overkill for this trip. Those cheapo pants cost me the only serious discomfort of the entire trip, live and learn. My new Moss Outland rocked the house, my old LL Bean sleeping bag and pack did fine jobs. I was generally comfortable in the nastiest weather I could imagine. Now all I've got to do is return to Giant Ledge sometime when I can see the view!

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