Crossing the Gully: An Adirondack Backpacking Winter Adventure

Since the age of six, a knife has been my constant pocket companion and a dependable daily tool; and on one trip, my blade delivered me from serious injury and maybe death. Seven years ago, I was two days in on a five day solo trip into the rugged Five-Ponds wilderness in the Western Adirondacks. It was early January through deep snow in an unbroken trail, the last person passed through about a week and a half prior according to the trail register. My Atlas snowshoes broke through the crust-topped powder and I dragged a sled behind me with the gear I needed for the journey. Generally I never used a sled, but this was a long trip and didn't feel like carrying the weight. Little did I know that sled could have cost me my life.

Each foot grew heavy from pushing the powder down as I trudged down the trail. I had already been walking for a few hours and the cold air forced its way into my lungs as I rapidly pushed out the hot breath of exertion. I was on the east-side of the Five-Ponds loop heading toward High-Falls on the Oswegatchie River. I came across a two-log bridge that spanned a small gully about 12-feet wide. A creek, frozen now ran under the simple bridge some ten-feet below.

I started to disconnect the sled from my tow harness as I had done at the previous half dozen log bridges, but this bridge looked wider than the rest: at least a foot wide of rough unhewn logs. I took the lazy man's way out of leaving the sled connected to me as I snowshoed across the snowy bridge. I steadied myself with my trekking poles clearing the snow off the logs as I walked, the crampons bit firmly into the wood. I checked behind as the sled slid truly in my track.

I was nearly across myself and my sled nearly half way when the large jolt hit me that nearly sent me on my way. One knee fell down to slamming against the bridge as my other foot stayed firm; the snowshoe crampons gripping as my entire body torqued. I looked behind me at the nylon rope over the simple bridge, and saw my black sled hanging down - only a few feet from the frozen creek below. My pack and other gear stayed in the sled, bungeed down securely, as it swung like an unbalanced pendulum, its weight pulling me down with every pass.

My back arched backward as the harness rose up, every muscle in my body fighting the insidious force of gravity that beckoned me to my doom. I dropped one trekking pole as my hand slipped out of the loop and grabbed hold of the bridge, the carbide tip of the other lodged firmly between the logs. The pole fell against the ice making a loud "tock" sound, it was the only sound I heard as all else went silent in that late morning winter forest. I no longer heard the chirps of the chickadees nor the howling Adirondack wind, only the sound of that pole thumping against the ice.

I had thoughts of releasing and falling backwards under the pressure of the sled, falling through the ice. I wondered how deep the water was, if there were any rocks below, would I break a leg or my back in the fall? I thought about how long I would lay there for; it would be at least another three days until I was reported missing. It was mid-week and it was unlikely another skier or snowshoer would venture back this far. Yes, if I survived the fall it may be days in an injured state before receiving any help. Of course this was a region without cell service and years before anyone thought of carrying a satellite messenger: a true wilderness. I thought back to the previous night at Janack's Landing campsite overlooking Cranberry Lake and to the packs of coyotes that howled on the ice and left their tracks before me. Would they find me, injured or dead? In that moment, fighting to balance myself on that log, I mused at being a meal for a hungry coyote. If I was going to go, it was a way appropriate to how I lived my life.

Maybe it was the exhaustion of winter travel or a general lack of physical prowess but I couldn't lift that sled up. I grabbed hold of the rope with my gloved hand and pulled like I was in the tug of war battle of my life, for I certainly was. I was locked in a stalemate against the sled, its swaying weight mocked me. What was I going to do? I had to drop the sled, risk the loss of my gear and try to walk out to the trailhead that day. Maybe the water wasn't deep and I could salvage some of my equipment, at least enough to survive the winter climate on my way out. I tried unbuckling the tow harness, but couldn't manage the buckle one handed. My one hand was still grabbing the trekking pole steadying me on the bridge. I pulled my glove off with my teeth to get better dexterity, but still couldn't manage pulling the nylon through the buckle under that much tension.

Then I looked to the small Cold Steel para edge knife I kept around my neck. It was an unassuming tool, a black kraton handle held upside down in a black kydex sheath and worn around my neck like an amulet to ward off evil. In the winter, when pockets are buried under layers of polypropylene and gore-tex, accessing a pocket knife is difficult, impossible even. That is why I like the neck knife, it is always quick to deploy with a simple tug and always within easy reach - even when balancing on a log bridge. I started carrying neck knives when I started French and Indian War reenacting, and realized how handy the jaw-bone patch knife I carried around my neck was while engaged in general camp work. When I found that manufacturers like Cold Steel made modern neck knives, I knew I had to have one and now I have several.

I knew I had but one choice, so I yanked on the handle of my knife with my free hand exposing the small but sharp partially serrated blade. I reached the knife around behind my back till I felt the blade catch my tow rope. In one swift motion, I pulled the knife, sliding the cutting edge against the nylon rope until I heard a sharp "snap." Then seemingly moments later, I heard the crash as my sled pulverized the ice below. At once, all the tension was released from my body like a rubber band snapped into the sky. I nearly fell, but somehow caught myself between the moments of tenseness. I looked down at the sled below sticking tail first into the ice and at the small knife curled in my fingers. I snapped my knife, my lifesaver, back into its sheath around my neck and pulled myself to a standing position on the bridge.

After finally crossing, I crawled down the steep bank to salvage my gear. I found my other trekking pole close by and retrieved it to give me the added balance I needed to get my sled out. I used the pole to grab the severed end of the tow rope and pull the sled to the side of the bank where the frozen ice was thick and strong. The ice cracked as I drew the sled out of the frozen water and closer to me, but luckily it held as the sled plopped firmly out of the hole. While in the gully, I unbuckled the bungee cords and began throwing my gear in bundles up over the snow covered wall. Finally the sled was empty, and honestly a part of me considered leaving it there by that creek like parts of a Conestoga wagon burned by marauders. But, I tossed the empty sled with cut tow rope and impact damaged sides over to the rest of my gear.

Luckily for me, the waterproofing techniques I used for packing worked and very little of my stuff was soaked; most importantly my sleeping bag was bone dry. I paused at the far side of the bridge, taking an equipment survey and pondering the rest of my journey into the Five Ponds. Should I stop now, having just escaped a snowy demise or should I push on? Looking up at the snow covered trees and the sun trying to poke out, I contemplated the utter beauty and danger of winter wilderness solitude. I retied my tow rope, tightened my snowshoe bindings and trudged on deeper to find more adventure. Be assured on the rest of that trip, I faithfully disconnected my sled every time I came to a bridge.

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