Enjoying the morning at Hoxie Gorge

KA-KA-DOODLE-DOO!!!

The sudden and loud metallic sound rings within the lean-to at Hoxie Gorge, waking me out of a sound sleep. The moon dully illuminates the interior, giving everything a ghostly glow that makes it difficult to discern whether I remain in dreamland or not.

KA-KA-DOODLE-DOO!!!

A second call, louder than the first, shakes me from my sleep-induced stupor. As the shroud of sleep erodes from my consciousness, I finally realize the source of this mechanical sound, but it is not any machine.

It is the rooster.

The rooster has jumped the gun, apparently confusing the moon for an early morning sun. I check my watch, and it is only about five in the morning. In the middle of the summer, this might be a reasonable time for first light, but for now the sun will not show for another hour or so.

Then as suddenly as it started, the rooster stops his crowing. Maybe he realized he jumped the gun, so he hit the snooze button for another hour to catch a little more shut-eye, while he still can. Thankfully so, since there is no way I could sleep through another hour of his raucous call.

Despite the bone chilling cold, which I can still feel within my -40 degree Fahrenheit rated sleeping bag, I fall off to sleep once again, only to be roused again an hour later by another round of the rooster’s raucous calls.

At least this time the sun‘s rays are lighting up the top of the forest canopy, instead of those of the moon. The shock of being aroused for the second time, combined with the sun’s burgeoning light, is more than enough to put an end to my slumber for the early morning.

The chill in the air reminds me of winter, more than spring. The moisture from my mouth quickly condenses forming a cloud around the opening of my sleeping bag. Much of the moisture freezes on the bag’s material, forming a light glaze of white on red. My feet, chilled from the night’s cold temperatures and the limited blood flow, feel more like icicles, with what little feeling they have left in them.

Our limited conversation apparently arouses our feathered companions, as they begin to leave their corner refuge and move around the lean-to looking for scraps of food for breakfast. As they walk about in the unoccupied portion of the lean-to, they leave little tokens of their appreciation for us allowing them to spend the night with us.

Since I am along the far wall, the chickens tend to leave these tokens near the plastic sheet Dave is laying on. I tell Dave that it is good luck if they poop on something of his, but he is not buying any of it. When they start approaching his pan and stove, he takes action, shooing them away.

One courageous hen comes over to my side of the lean-to, and struts right up between my sleeping bag and the wall, picking up scraps of food along the way. Every time I attempt to get my arm out of my sleeping bag to touch her, the chicken hurriedly runs off toward the entrance of the lean-to. Settling back in the sleeping bag, it returns, obviously curious about what is going on in this corner of the lean-to. This dance continues several times before the fowl gives up and pursues her companions outside the lean-to and in the forest.

The amount of crap left in the corner with the glass shards indicates this must be the first evening the chickens roosted in the lean-to. Could they have arrived between the party of the previous night and when we arrived at the lean-to? It seems likely. Or, maybe they were attracted to the sounds of the party and came to partake but were too late. Who knows what goes on in the head of a chicken?

Chickens at Hoxie Gorge lean-to

The frigid air keeps us in our sleeping bags longer than usual for the last day of a Frostbite. We previously decided to eat breakfast here at the lean-to rather than do the usual bug-out and look for a dinner routine. Finally, Dave emerges, which facilitates my own extraction procedure, finally ending with cooking a breakfast of oatmeal on my MSR Whisperlite stove.

It is nice to use the Whisperlite stove, since it, like most of my other winter gear, rarely gets out except for this annual trip. I have a gallon container of Coleman Fuel, purchased probably over a decade ago, that really needs to get used up and just a few meals a year is not cutting it.

After eating our breakfast, we pack up the rest of our equipment for the short hike back to the car. There is some discussion of cutting right through the clearing, or using the road, to get back to the trailhead parking, but in the end we decide to return via the way we came. Mostly due to my urging, since I brought my Garmin Legend HCx handheld GPS and I forgot to map our trip in.

Before leaving, we feed the last of the flatbread to the chickens. The bread leftovers are significant enough that the chickens cannot keep up with all the pieces I throw down to them. At one point, the pieces of bread begin bouncing off their heads. They stand confused for a brief time after being hit in the head, before scrambling off in an unsuccessful attempt to retrieve it, as more often than not one of their companions has already done so.

The trip along the trail back to the car is not an easy one. The cold night temperatures have frozen the snow solid, making the trail slippery and uneven. Dave has no trouble navigating the slick surface with his microspikes, but since I am wearing my bushwhacking hiking boots, I slip and slide all over, feeling helpless to prevent breaking my own neck. I struggle to keep up, looking for every little path of clear ground in which to plant my foot so as not to land on my back. Occasionally, I walk entirely off the trail, avoiding the slippery packed down snow altogether.

We hike down to the confluence, across the snowmobile trail and down along the main stream, with me slip-sliding the entire time. After leaving the culvert, I gingerly hike the trail down to the main stream, doing my best to prevent myself from sliding all the way down the ravine and into the cold water.

Fort at Hoxie Gorge

Along the trail where it follows along the stream bank, we encounter the beginnings of a fort or cabin. Small eastern hemlock trees, downed with a handsaw, lay stacked on top of each other, forming four rudimentary walls. Larger trees are at each corner, giving the whole thing support. Green foliage hangs on the branches of the cut trees, as if this structure was built recently. We never noticed this thing on the way in, could it have been built yesterday?

We return to the trailhead by 10:30. If we return to Syracuse now, we will be back before noon, a record for a Frostbite Overnight. Instead, we decide to honor another FBON tradition, and drive down to the Eureka store in Binghamton. Usually, we stop there on the way back from the Catskills, but this time we will have to go out of way to go there. The drive to the Eureka store goes by without difficulty, which is unusual since typically we end up lost trying to find the place.

After much browsing, Dave buys a few things, but I set my sights on just a single product, Kahtoola Mircospikes. Yep, the same product that kept Dave from sliding all over the place while hiking in snow this very morning. I have Yaktrax at home, but the microspikes look more effective and probably a lot more durable. Plus, they are marked 20% off as part of their winter closeout sale.

After leaving Binghamton, we drive back to Syracuse under very sunny skies and mild temperatures, just like a typical Frostbite Overnight. Topping off the end of the trip, we stop at Danzer’s German and American Restaurant for lunch in Syracuse. The delicious meal is a fitting end to another successful Frostbite Overnight, albeit a shortened one.

Hopefully we will get back to normal next year.

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