A Wild and Scary Night

TATR 2020

There’s always a wild card on TATR (The Adirondack Trail Ride).  At least there is in my experience.  Really, how can you mountain bike 585 miles, solo, through the rugged terrain of the Adirondack Mountains and not expect at least one wild card?

Some of these wild cards hurt more than others, some are fed by your mental state, and some are downright scary.   After racing in the annual Grand Depart of TATR for five consecutive years, I’ve finally learned that “something” will always happen to me out there on the remote trails, in the woods, in the middle of this gorgeous 6-million acre mountainous park in northern New York.  The idea of this race is to bike-pack solo and independently, keeping your load as light as possible while balancing the gear that you certainly may need in mid-September for the cold and rain and to camp in the Adirondacks.

TATR has grown in popularity among bike-packers since the first race six years ago, but the finish rate remains at about 50 percent.  It’s a grueling course:  deep mud, downed logs to hoist your bike over, two river crossings, at least 70 miles between resupply potential at convenience stores, 50,000 feet of climbing and dense blowdown deep in the woods that makes navigation even more challenging.

With over 2,000 miles of racing and countless training miles on the course, I was shooting for a personal best on TATR 2020.  Central to my strategy was to complete the section of woods from mile 36 to 56 by the first evening.  In every past race, I’ve camped between mile 43 and 48, deep in the woods and utterly exhausted. 

As I stumble in the dark this year hunting for the trail, my bike, all my warm gear, my GPS and food I’ve lost, I see my personal lead over last year’s time evaporate.  First night, I’m riding strong, faster than ever before, and I make a stupid blunder….all in my own backyard.  I know this section of the race so well and regularly train on it since I live just 20 miles to the south on the course.

My first year riding TATR I made the mistake of leaving my bike in an attempt to find the trail. Panicked when I couldn’t find the bike, I lost precious hours and daylight as I worked to retrace my steps.  I learned that lesson well – don’t leave the bike. 

This mistake is different, or at least it’s a variation.  I didn’t intend to leave my bike.  

Embarrassment played a part in swearing just a few people to secrecy about this story.  Last month though, a friend from Boston turned up at our place with a version of the story he heard in New England so I decided it is time to tell it from my viewpoint. 

I know the tendency will be to judge me for this foolish mistake.  But for those who lean toward armchair quarterbacking, know that it has taken me nearly a year to wrap my head around this.  It helps to think about the psychology of being lost and the stories of how a person lost for days finally exited the forest only to cross a road and go right back into the woods.  I have been picking apart exactly what my mind was doing every step of my first night fiasco.

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I hit the enormous blowdown deep in the woods at about mile 52, and it’s dark at 9 pm.  I lay my bike down to locate the easiest path through the jumble of logs and branches.  I have a euphoria about me, excited to feel so strong and to be so far along at this point.  I feel like I have the energy to ride for several more hours.

Without realizing it, I quickly become disoriented.  I’m certain of where my bike is but when I “backtrack” around one blowdown, I realize it’s the wrong blowdown.  Still, I spot another blowdown and move toward that.  That euphoria gives way as I study the woods, the jumble of logs, individual trees, searching for a round trail marker but they’re old ones, non-reflective types, that are often hard to see on this trail.  Plus, the marker I need might be on a downed tree.

I have a good helmet light so I methodically pick routes to walk in my search, knowing that I must take care not to wander deeper and even further away from the trail.  I finally admit to myself that I’ve lost all sense of direction and I know the smart move is to hunker down and wait for daylight.  But, all my warm clothing is on my bike.

I’m small, thin and my body temperature drops like a rock.  I balance the need to keep moving for warmth with the potential of wandering further away from the trail.  I keep moving but slowly and with as much awareness as possible.  When my light gives out, I have no choice.  I make it to one of the trees I’ve picked out that has a deep hollow at the base.

I sling my pack off to get a water bottle and realize I have ground cloth, a 2’ size piece of minicell foam and a chamois hand towel with me.  So thankful I also have a light wool shirt and an airshed pullover that I put on along with my pack.  I keep my helmet on and curl up in the hollow of the tree with the foam pad under my hips and the chamois draped across my bare knees.  Wish I had worn my bike capris instead of shorts.  Wish even more that my Garmin and cellphone with the Gaia app was in my pack.

I have no idea of the time but think about Guillaume, the one racer behind me who camped several miles back and intends to start riding at 3 am.  I call out, “Anybody out there?  Help!  I’m lost.”  Wish I knew the time.  I shiver and shift to my right hip, repositioning the chamois to cover my top leg.

Guillaume is certain to see my bike laying in the middle of the trail, in front of the blowdown.  But what if he assumes I slipped into the woods for personal needs and simply keeps going?  Even if he decides something is wrong, he won’t know where to look in the dense forest.  I call out again.  Perhaps I doze lightly for a few minutes but then my hip aches so I need to switch to my other side.

What if I missed a trail marker and the blowdown that stopped me is actually off the trail?  Guillaume would then never see my bike.  I call out louder.  I switch to my back.  I try to guess the time but I can’t see the moon, only bits of moonlight filtering through the dense canopy.  I develop a routine.  I call out, I switch to my back, reposition the chamois on my bare knees, and do my ten-minute round of breath work.  I try to sleep, just a little, fearful I’ll miss my window to call out to Guillaume as he passes.  Then I start the routine again.

I’m cold, I shiver, I do more breathwork to try to increase my body temperature.  All my years of studying breathwork is paying off.

I wish I had my sleeping bag with me, or better yet the Garmin or Gaia map app.  If only they had been on my pack instead of on my handlebars I would have easily gotten back to the trail.  My spot tracker is on the bike too and I think I’m grateful it is.  Otherwise Mike, having seen my icon off-trail on the trackleaders.com map, would worry whether I was camping or lost.  He probably would assume I’m camping but when my icon failed to move in the morning, I know he’d start looking for me.  That’s when I start wondering just how far off the trail I am.

I did walk for quite some time in the dark.  I thought I was careful not to venture too deep into the woods, but how could I tell since I didn’t know for sure the direction of the trail.  What if all this time I had been traveling further away?  I could be truly lost out here and not just off the trail a bit.  If Guillaume doesn’t hear me and I can’t find the trail in the daylight, I’ll have to be rescued.  I know Mike will find me once he finds where my spot tracker last pinged and my bike is laying on the trail, but I calculate how long that could take versus how cold I am and how hungry I’ll be.  You can certainly survive without food for weeks but my energy level drops fast without it.  I have nearly 2 bottles of water with me and a water purifier in my pack.  

I think about all the rescues the DEC rangers do.  I’m confident they would find me, but I don’t want to be one of the rescued.  I call out even more often.  If Mike knows I made this mistake, he’ll want me to drop out of the race.  If I make a mistake like this, maybe I have no business being out here.  I decide I’ll just have to drop out.  I’m so cold that I’ll need to recover once I find my way out.  I keep calling out, switching positions and guessing the time.  I think I doze lightly again but I’m certain it’s only for five or ten minutes.  I try sitting up against the tree but that’s even more uncomfortable, and colder.

In my mind, I retrace my steps before my helmet light failed.  I had managed to traverse back to a few landmarks I had identified to try to keep from wandering too far.  I remember seeing a light in the distance, up over a hill.  Startled, I had called out, wondering if a racer ahead of me had camped.  No one had responded, so for some reason I walked the other way, convinced I was moving toward my bike.  I remember that seeing that light actually scared me a little.  My thought process was to proceed in the other direction and only if that plan failed would I walk toward the light.  I never saw the light again, obviously unable to retrace my steps in the dark forest, even with my helmet light. 

Why would I not immediately go toward that light?  I think back to last year’s race when my mind was jumbled and lacked all clarity.  I rode off the race course when I had been within two miles of a resupply at the Olmsteadville general store.  I remember all the decisions I made that at the time seemed reasonable but which added 12 miles and more than 1,000 feet of elevation to my ride, and utter disorientation.It turned out I had bonked.  Bonking, caused by the depletion of glycogen stores in the muscles and liver, causes severe weakness, fatigue, confusion and disorientation.

I hadn’t bonked tonight so why had I made the decision to leave my bike and then, even more importantly, to continue walking away from a light?   Suddenly startled, I realize that light was probably from my bike.  My bike headlight, powered by a Dynamo hub when pedaling, casts a “stand” light for hours even after the pedaling has stopped.

I think about stories of what people do when they’re lost.  I try to think of the name of that book on mistakes people make when they’re lost (Lost Person Behavior: A search and rescue guide on where to look – for land, air and water by Robert Koester).  How serious are my mistakes tonight?

I call out, I switch to my back, reposition the chamois, and do more breath work.  Maybe I doze.  Maybe I don’t.  I stand up to move around and hear something in the distance.  I call out again.  Guillaume calls back and I see his light!  He yells to come toward him but I can’t see anything in the blackness and simply can’t walk without stumbling.  He makes a long, slow hike with his bike my way to lead me out with his light.

The relief floods through me and for the first time I feel hungry.  Guillaume shares some food with me and we continue making our way through the brush back to the trail.  I shiver until we’re back to my bike and warm clothes.  I follow Guillaume through the blowdown, incredulous to think how daunting it seemed the night before.  

He suggests we walk for a bit since the trail is rugged and I’m grateful for that since I’m not sure my muscles will work on the bike.  I just need to get to Rt 8 to quit.  When he does get back on his bike, I follow, amazed at how effortless it is and how good my muscles feel.  By Jimmy Creek, I’m back to normal and scoff at how I considered quitting.  

After asking Guillaume not to tell Mike should he run into him in Speculator, I assure him I’m fine and tell him to go ahead since I plan to slow my pace just a little.  I am well aware that I owe Guillaume for getting me out of the woods before I went too far downhill.  Because of him, I am able to recover from my night and continue my ride.

I make Speculator by mid-day, ironically my fastest pace to that point of any year.  I resupply and continue on through Fawn Lake to Perkins Clearing and then to Mason Lake where I camp early at about 8 pm.  The next day I start about 5 am. pushing on to Indian Lake and Inlet and then past Stillwater, determined to make the Oswegatchie Educational Center that night.  

My judgment is certainly impaired that night since I should have at least stopped by Soft Maple to camp.  I keep going though until in the dark of night I become suspicious of my Garmin.  My recollection of the turn into the woods for the Center doesn’t mesh with my Garmin directions and I retrace my route on a dirt road looking for it a couple of times.  Finally, utterly exhausted at 5:30 am, I throw my sleeping bag down on the side of the road.  It starts drizzling and big logging trucks start passing through an hour later.  

By 7:30 I’m moving again and discover I simply need to continue further along this dirt road.  As usual, the kind folks at the Oswegatchie Center have put out snacks and water for us in the woods.  Todd, Sherry and their daughter Hannah, and Robin all greet me as I exit the woods.  They send me over to the Center for coffee and breakfast with Bill.  These folks are like extended family who I look forward to seeing each year.  

My eventful first night had ramifications, particularly in my decision-making.  I certainly exhausted myself on Day 2 as I tried to make up time from that first night.

Day 3:  I only make it to Wanakena where I camp at the village lean-to.  It’s always so cold waking up in Wanakena, despite going to bed with every shred of clothing on I’m carrying.  It is though, the prettiest little village in the entire Adirondacks – in my opinion!  It also has such a warm and roomy public restroom in the village “square” and Nolan at Otto’s Abode makes TATR racers so welcome.   These are the important things on TATR!

Day 4:  I make it through the Peavine Swamp and Cranberry 50 section.  I continue through the Tooley Pond Wilderness Tract and out to Rt 56.  Soon after turning off that road I find a secluded spot to camp.  

Day 5:  I know it’s a long haul to Lamphere’s Store up in Hopkinton and I need water.  It’s shortly after 6am but I knock on a door where I see lights and Shirley not only fills my water bottles but makes me a cup of hot coffee!  I peddle on.  I have another relatively late night.  I make it to Meacham State Park to camp at 11:30.

Day 6:  I’m up before dawn but while I’m in the bathhouse, it starts raining sideways and all my gear under the pavilion is wet.  I push on.  Because of Covid, I had planned to camp as much as possible to stay on top of social distancing.  By the time I get to Wilmington though, I need a room in my favorite motel – The North Pole Lodge!

Day 7:  By 5 am I’m on the singletrack headed toward Hardy Rd.  Halfway through the day I start to get sluggish, still feeling the effects of my close to “all-nighters” on the first two days.  

By 5 pm I’m in Westport where I intend to resupply and coffee up at Ernie’s Deli….but it looks like the little store was a Covid casualty. That’s a shame.  It was a great little store.  There is nothing else in Westport that I know of for food.  There’s a motel back up the road behind me, but I need food.  I had planned to eat and continue on until I needed to camp.  Now I’m cold and hungry.  

As the temperature continues to drop, someone on the street tells me about the Westport Hotel, a mile out of town by the fairgrounds.  They serve food.  I decide to go for the food and a room.

Day 8:  As I peddle up over Mountain Spring Road and think about Grover Hills Deli in Mineville, I have sudden clarity about my food situation.  I had an emergency freeze dried meal and a few snack bars in my fork bag.  I could have eaten that the previous night and kept going.  The mistakes keep piling on.  That night I camp near the Boreas River.

Day 9:  The frost is thick at 7 am.  I easily make it across the river and through the first few miles of Lester Flow.  Beyond the first creek though, no brush or downed trees have been cleared and it is increasingly difficult to even find the trail.  I navigate with my Gaia app in hand in addition to my Garmin.  

Eventually I make it to Olmsteadville to resupply in the mid-afternoon.  I continue on through North Creek and on toward Crane Mountain. First though, I must contend with a narrow plank that has replaced a bridge. I simply cannot negotiate it that high in the air.

TATR magic strikes though as a group of young teenagers on motor bikes rides toward me. One of the boys steps up and tells the others who are wanting to go that first he has to help this “girl” across with her bike! I have a grandson just like him – a kid who would jump up to help someone.

I pick up the trail in the woods and continue toward Crane Mountain where I will eventually camp.

Day 10:  I start before dawn and make it to Northville in about 14 hours from my camp spot.

Finish Time:  10 days; 12 hours; 12 minutes

This was my fastest ride of the 4 TATRs I’ve completed, and  I was stronger than I had been in the past.  One huge blunder had a ripple effect that likely cost me two days, and that’s probably why I feel like I have unfinished business out there!  

I do enjoy the training.  Especially during Covid, it helps to keep me focused.  I also love how much I learn about myself while I’m out there each year.  

So, TATR 2021 starts on September 10 and my bike is packed.*  

*My backpack now contains a number of items that would have addressed my problems on that first night. I’m also returning to my early TATR strategy of wearing bike capris instead of shorts!