The journey up Giant Mountain via the ridge trail is not the longest of hikes you’ll find in the Adirondacks, but holy hell is it steep. At almost three Empire State Buildings tall, this high-peak has over 1,000 ft of elevation gain per mile. And with its continuous slope and rock scrambles, you feel every foot of it.

This was my second attempt at summiting this mountain. I was here exactly a year ago. I had it in my head that I wanted to do some winter backpacking and so set out to camp next to the beautiful mountain top pond called 'the Giant’s Washbowl'.

Except the lightweight tent I brought was more suited for 3 season, fair-weather camping and I got hit with an unexpected winter storm. The tent failed, and I spent the night covered in snow. With frozen wet boots, and the weather not improving, I had to call off the next day’s summit attempt to try again another day.

So there I was, trying again another day. But this time I came better prepared and in better weather. Instead of backpacking up the mountain I set up a more established base camp at Chapel Pond. The goal was to use a campsite I could drive up to in order to bring more substantial winter gear, as opposed to only taking whatever backpacking gear I could carry on my back.

For this purpose, I brought my trusty car-camping tent, the REI Base Camp 6. I’m beginning to love this tent for winter camping. With it being cold and dark for so many hours of the winter day, a lot of time is spent in the tent, so I like the fact that it's one of the few tents I can stand up and move around in a bit. It's roomy enough to have a cot, chair, and small camp table all set up in there. A true base-camp setup. 

After staging my gear for the early a.m. adventure, I cooked up some dinner, sipped on tea and cozied up with a new book: 

“At the Mercy of the Mountains: True Stories of Survival and Tragedy in the Adirondacks”

Fitting. 

My alarm went off at 6. It was still dark out. I made coffee by the light of my headlamp and the warm glow of the camp stove. 

The weather that day was a bit wonky. There would be three distinct weather zones on the way up to the summit.

Down at the base, it was a bit slushy and wet.

About halfway up the mountain, there was an area going through a freeze-thaw pattern.

The last push towards the summit was covered in fresh snow drifts.

I brought both my microspikes for the ice, and snowshoes for the drifts with the plan of switching them out accordingly.  As it turned out, the snow at the top was not yet enough to warrant snow shoes. But after last year’s debacle, I took this as a ‘better to have and not-need’ than a ‘need and not-have’ situation. 

One of the appeals of Giant Mountain is that it is very easy to get to. The trailhead can be found right off the road of Rt 73 across from Chapel Pond. 

However, its ease of location was quickly counterbalanced with a lack of warmup. The trail was immediately steep as I climbed over a series of river rocks and switch backs.

It wasn’t long before I came to the first overlook though. Already needing to catch my breath, I took the opportunity to enjoy this early view.

Just beyond, I came to the Giant’s Washbowl, the mountain-top pond where I spent a windy snow-covered night a year prior.

As I climbed in elevation, the slushy snow hardened into ice.

In true Adirondack fashion, the ‘trail’ was often just paths carved out by the intermittent waterways. 

Which meant that these rocky stairs were now tiled with a thick layer of ice. 

Intimidating at first. But with microspikes on, the stabby positive traction made walking on ice even more secure than walking on bare rocks with hiking boots.

Further up, I got a great view of the washbowl below. What a peculiar little mountaintop pond. Formed from a receding glacier if I had to guess. I wonder how much of that original glacier water is still in there, if any. 

About a mile up from the Washbowl the view opened up to the east and to the north. 

The look back was stunning. That low winter sun lazily made its journey across the southern sky. As if hungover from partying the night before, the sun never strayed too far from the horizon, seemingly lacking the energy to truly get the day started.

After a few more icey scrambles, the trail turned into a winter wonderland of fresh powder. 

Beautiful, but I was a bit annoyed. The snow was not yet deep enough to warrant snow shoes. I had hauled them all the way up here strapped to my pack. I was hoping to get some use out of them.

I paused and was amused at my own annoyance and wanting for poorer conditions. 

It was beautiful though. The snow was so white and fluffy, as if it had just fallen hours before. I took some snow off of a hemlock branch and ate it. I can't imagine ever tasting water purer than mountain-top snow, thousands of feet in the sky. 

Or maybe I was just extremely thirsty. I had been neglecting my water bottles. What is it about cold weather that makes us forget to hydrate? It’s not like I hadn’t been sweating on the way up. 

Eventually, after a few more snow covered scrambles, I made it to the summit. Partially guarded by some compact conifers, the wind slammed me as soon as I stepped out into the open. 

Stunned by the view, the howling windchill quickly sapped whatever warmth I had worked up on the way up. I took photos until my fingers became too numb to feel the camera in my hands. 
It was time to head back down.

As that low winter sun was now shining in my eyes, I realized how late in the day it was getting. It looked like I would be descending at least part of the way in the dark.

I was reminded of my winter hike up Wright Peak a few winters ago. The trail was covered in such deep snow that there were parts you could sled down on your butt. 

I decided to try that here. 

Big mistake.

Not nearly enough snow yet. 

So there I was, sliding on my ass over ice covered rocks, picking up speed, each bump more aggressive than the last.

Until finally it came to an abrupt stop by applying the brakes with my tailbone against the last boulder. 

“Uuuuunnhhhhhhhh….”, I called out several times. 

I layed there in the snow for a few moments, contemplating my stupidity, and became glad there were no other hikers up there to witness it. 

Will not be doing that again.

I was making good time down the rest of the way, but nonetheless, it was dark by the last third of the hike. Luckily my trusty headlamp was able to light the way. 

The occasional reflective trail marker, and the bright white snow helped illuminate the way without issue.

But it was about this time my whole body began to catch up with me. My legs were cramping, my knees were killing me, I was cold, and had a newly bruised tailbone. 

This sucks. 

I hate doing this. 

Why do I love it?

As I returned to my tent, I continued to contemplate the duality of man while crawling my way back into my sleeping bag and zonked out immediately.