Neither Rain Nor Snow Can Stop a Trek in the Adirondacks

MY first introduction to the phrase "heaven up-histedness" came in my room at Rock and River, a comfortably rustic lodge tucked into a birch-rich mountain cleft outside the town of Keene, N.Y.

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It was Orson Scofield Phelps, according to the text accompanying the man's photo, hung on the wall, who coined the term after blazing the first trail to the summit of nearby Mount Marcy, New York's highest peak, in the 1800s. Standing atop that rocky peak, staring over millions of acres of craggy Adirondack mountains, Mr. Phelps was reportedly struck with feelings of "heaven up-histedness." Whatever that means.

The Adirondack Mountains have some of the Northeast's most spectacular backcountry ski runs, treeless slashes cut from the summit of the many high peaks either by human hand or the tumbling of rock. To reach these unpopulated prizes, you must either hike or snowshoe up a hill (with skis or snowboard strapped onto a backpack), or affix your skis with grippy, stick-on climbing skins that generate traction on the ascent. Randonnée, or alpine touring, bindings allow the heel to rise from the ski, as it would with a cross-country touring setup (the heel is locked down for the descent). Telemark bindings, with their heels-free design, also work well.

One of the beauties of the Adirondacks is that, unlike those on most Northeastern mountain ranges, the climbs begin with long, relatively flat approaches. That affords even relatively inexperienced skiers and snowboarders a wilderness snow-sliding opportunity. They can simply climb until the terrain tilts beyond their ability, then turn around and let gravity do its thing.

In the Green and White Mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire, much of the backcountry skiing demands instant commitment to expert-level terrain.

And so I went to Keene, about 10 miles east of Lake Placid, last February to get out into the backcountry of the Adirondacks. I began to doubt my decision when I walked outside and realized it was about 50 degrees and raining. But those unpromising conditions didn't seem to dampen the spirit of my guide, Jesse Williams, who had just arrived at the Rock and River in his Toyota pick-up.

Like the late Mr. Phelps, Jesse, 34, has made a career of guiding in the Adirondacks. Unlike Mr. Phelps, who was reputed to be "lazy and shiftless," Jesse is a bundle of caged energy.

Of middling height, and with a torso built on long days of clinging to ice by hand (the 'Dacks are a popular ice climbing destination, and many of Jesse's clients enjoy ascending long spires of frozen water), Jesse possesses the cheerful-no-matter-the-conditions attitude common to guides. Whether it's genuine or a put-on hardly matters; it's contagious, and I soon found myself excited at the prospect of skiing in the rain.

"We'll make the most of it," he said, peering through his coffee steam at the streams of rainwater running down the window. "It'll be an adventure, that's for sure."

Jesse had suggested we tackle the Wright Peak Ski Trail. Like many Eastern ski runs, Wright Peak was cut by the Civilian Conservation Corps, the Depression-era agency that employed some 2.5 million able bodies from 1933 to 1942.

Mount Marcy, at 5,344 feet, is the region's best-known summit, but it demands nearly seven hours of climbing, and the trail, which is maintained for hikers, is too narrow for proper skiing (I'd skied it on a previous trip, and can attest to the challenge of safely navigating hikers and snowshoers).

But as its name suggests, the Wright Peak Ski Trail, just northwest of Mount Marcy, was cut with schussing in mind. And although it is no Sunday stroll in the park, reaching the 4,587-foot summit doesn't require a 5 a.m. start.

We drove in Jesse's truck to the trailhead at the Adirondack Loj, which owes its unusual spelling to the phonetically obsessed Melville Dewey. The creator of the Dewey Decimal system (naturally, he would sign his name Melvil Dui) formerly owned the lodge; it is now owned and operated by the Adirondack Mountain Club.

By the time we changed into ski boots, arranged our packs and began hiking up the trail (normally, one could ski directly from the lodge, but the season's dearth of low-altitude snow forced us into pedestrian mode), the temperature began to plummet and the rain turned to snow. We stopped to affix toothy crampons to our ski boots, a highly unusual measure on this trail, but one that provides unassailable traction over ice-rimed rock and root.

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