Hidden Lake
Now with the great Red Horse Creek fording and the Serpentine Ponds under my bushwhacking belt, it is time to start the long trek to Hidden Lake. This camouflaged lake shall host my eighth, and last night, of this trip in the southern Five Ponds Wilderness backcountry, and I want to make it a relaxing one. Since there are still many miles to go before arriving there, it is in my best interest to get my butt moving.
It is difficult leaving the westernmost Serpentine Pond behind and re-entering the unbroken forest, as the setting is as beautiful as any in the Adirondack Park. It might lack the majesty and awe of views from the High Peaks, but it has a simple peaceful beauty that is hard to beat. Fortunately, the black fly horde buzzing around my head provides an incentive to be anywhere other than here.
Before leaving, I set my compass bearing northward, knowing full well that I need to eventually turn west to reach Hidden Lake. Unfortunately, a series of wetlands currently lie between me and the lake, which requires a slight detour to the north first. That means climbing over a steep ridge if I want to avoid the probability of getting wet.
And I do so, as staying dry is my preference whenever possible.
The climbing starts soon after leaving the westernmost Serpentine Pond. Luckily, a drainage coming down from the ridge acts as my guide, as it is cut in the same general direction as my bearing. The exertion soon leads to profuse sweating, necessitating a quick change of wardrobe, as in off with the raingear that has adorned me since leaving the Red Horse Creek this morning.
Section Stats:
Date: July 2, 2015
Length: 2.7 miles (4.6 total daily miles; 38.7 total trip miles)
Difficulty: Moderate (length)
This break gives me a chance to evaluate the drainage I am following. The climbing has petered out, with an open, wet area replacing it, a high stone cliff forcing the stream to come from the west. The cliffs give me pause, as they are cutting off my further progress northward. After consulting the map, it appears I am on the wrong drainage, taken mistakenly as the proper one is likely smaller, with appreciatively less water flow.
Instead of continuing along the drainage prematurely westward, I strike out on my own, heading northwest through an ancient rock slide in the cliffs, climbing once again. My compass bearing setting is now 312 degrees, which I am hoping gets me to a location where I can avoid cliffs on the other side of the ridge.
And cliffs are almost as bad as getting wet, as far as I am concerned.
The climbing continues for about an hour since leaving the small pond. Rock cliffs frequently force detours upon me, making my climb a zig-zag affair. The first requires me to move along its base until finding a cut to climb through. I am not so lucky with the next one, forcing me to make an even farther detour before getting up and over it. This pattern continues as I ascend the ridge – rinse and repeat style.
At some point, while approaching the height of land, my last video battery gives up the ghost and the camera shuts off for the remainder of the trip. Unfortunately, this happens before reaching the top of the ridge, so there is no evidence of my elation upon ending my climb. Take my word for it, if I had a surfeit of energy, a celebratory dance would be a certainty.
The celebration appears a tad bit premature however, as steep rock cliffs seem to be in my future as I descend too. This time, finding a descent is key. From the height of land, it is impossible to see the bottom, but it is obvious it is a steep way down, requiring some careful footwork.
While resting briefly, basking in my accomplishment before taking on a new perhaps more arduous task, I notice that the side of my backpack is quite wet. At first, I wonder if it is sweat, but there is just too much of it, otherwise, dehydration would have conquered me long ago. Perhaps a wet tree? Nah, the wet from yesterday’s rain has all but evaporated by now.
Rock cliff on ridge climb
It finally dawns on me, the source has to be my Platypus collapsible water bag. I carry it in a water bottle holder on the side of my pack, where a tree could easily puncture it. Taking it out, I tip it upside down and apply pressure. Much to my chagrin, water drips out. It appears that the seam on top has broken, so no puncture. This leak is harder to fix and may force this container into early retirement, perhaps in the future, I will just carry two Gatorade bottles.
After this brief stop, I start my descent, as daylight is burning and Hidden Lake is still way too far away. Steep rock ledges are quite abundant on the descent, making picking my route carefully critical. A large cliff separates the descent into two phases, both of which contain challenges of their own. It takes me about twenty minutes to work my way down the side of the ridge, my relief almost palpable as it draws to an end.
A small stream signals that the worst of the descent is over. According to the map, its twin is nearby, so I modify my compass bearing to 310 degrees and head right for it. Upon reaching the second stream, I change my bearing once again, now heading more westward toward my ultimate destination. Although Hidden Lake is still a good distance away, most of the climbing for today is over.
Post ridge stream crossing
Bushwhacking a short distance through dense forest yields an extensive open wetland to the south, the destination of the twin streams crossed earlier. I continue well inland, staying away from the steeper slope and within the mixed forest where it is easier to hike. Unfortunately, the slope finds me occasionally, but I continue along the contours as best I can. When I cannot fight the urge to check out the wetland any longer, I capitulate and head down for a peek.
The open area is extensive, surrounded by usual coniferous forest. Shrubs, sedges and other herbaceous vegetation dominate here, with young trees and some snags scattered about the edges. Unseen is the stream meandering through its center, with only a common yellowthroat and a swamp sparrow suggesting its presence. This large stream is the main reason for my detour northward over the ridge, as crossing it further south may prove too difficult.
After checking out the boggy wetland, I return to my previous location farther up the slope and away from the denser forest. The large stream appears through the trees, but soon my bearing pulls me away from the open area, and it slowly disappears from view. The forest starts taking on a more second-growth appearance now, with smaller trees appearing more frequently, while larger ones becoming increasingly sparser.
Extensive wetland
As the forest becomes increasingly more open, ferns begin to dominate the ground cover, at times completely obscuring the forest floor. When I stop to marvel at the fern cover, I notice that I am standing in the middle of the densest fern cover and that it creates a strip through the forest, like a road perhaps; an old road.
Underneath the ferns in the road there are remnants of a herd path, still in use, but not so much that it is entirely obvious. Although it is not going precisely in the direction I wish, I decide to follow it nonetheless, as it is close enough. This makes the going a little faster than while bushwhacking, and I can always leave it if it swerves away from Hidden Lake later on.
As I continue west, I begin to hear a roaring noise in the distance. At first, it is difficult to tell whether it is in my head or not, but it quickly builds in intensity as I continue heading west, becoming more distinct and obvious. There is no doubt about it; it is the sound of rushing water. My anxiety level begins to rise, picturing another fording like the Red Horse Creek earlier this morning, or something much worse.
Fern-covered old road
After hiking down the road for about thirty minutes, I arrive at the source of the noise, the road ending at the stream. The stream is wide, deep enough to require fording, with a good current, and obviously, quite wet. The noise is nearly deafening now, much louder than would seem appropriate for the water rushing through the scattered rocks in the stream.
The mystery surrounding the noise has to wait however, as my more immediate issue is crossing the stream. I remove my boots, tying them around my neck and pulling up my hiking pants to the knees. The stream is not as deep as Red Horse Creek, much to my relief. When ready, I head across the stream for the second fording of the day.
The crossing is much easier than that at Red Horse Creek. The water is shallower, with many rocks, giving me more peace of mind while crossing, despite the constant roar distracting me. It takes little time to make it across, so I find myself on the other side before I know it. Like the previous fording this morning, the water is quite cold, so I dry my feet off and get them into my boots as fast as possible.
Loud stream along old road
While working my way back to the remains of the road, I notice a mostly dry creek bed leading upstream, likely due to flooding overflow during the spring melt or intense rain events. Looking up the dry creek bed reveals the likely source of the constant roar, a glimpse of a waterfall, or more accurately, a cascade. Wanting to get a better look, I rock-hop up the dry creek, with the roar of the water becoming increasingly louder with each new rock.
The cascade is in full display as I get closer. The water cascades over a series of rocks, falling approximately twenty feet or so. The constant flow of the water is almost mesmerizing, as I stand there and stare for a while before finally realizing the scene deserves a photograph or two. The noise is deafening, blocking out all others, leaving me a little paranoid, as it would be quite easy to sneak up on me.
I retrieve my camera and start capturing some images. Unfortunately, my camera takes only still photos and not video, thus I cannot capture the cascade in its full glory. My video camera’s batteries are all spent, leaving that out as an option. Often short videos are possible even with low charge batteries but unfortunately, the thought of that option eludes me.
Although difficult, I force myself away from the cascade and back to the old road. On this side of the creek, the road appears to get more use, at least judging from the more obvious evidence of a herd path. Young trees at the edge of the road appear cut, although something might have bitten them off instead. Plus, soft mud in the road contains old prints that appear human-like, although they might just as well be a bear. If a bear, hopefully it does not mind me using its path for a little while longer.
Loud cascade along stream
After following the old road for a short way from the creek, it becomes increasingly indistinct. It seems odd that it would get harder to follow as I draw closer to Hidden Lake, but maybe there was a turn farther back that I missed.
As Hidden Lake draws closer, I set a new bearing on my compass and leave the old road behind, heading straight for the lake. It does not take too long before the lake begins to appear through the young conifer trees. Getting to the shore takes a lot of effort, but thankfully once I pop out of the forest along the lake’s eastern end there are enough rocks/logs to navigate along the lake’s shoreline.
Hidden Lake is a relatively small lake, more pond than anything else. What it lacks in size, it more than makes up with in beauty. From my location in the eastern bay, I walk along the shore heading for the north side of the lake. Setting up my campsite in that direction puts me closer to the old logging roads at Ginger Pond, which I will use to exit the area tomorrow morning.
When I get out of the bay, I get a beautiful view of the entire lake. Conifer trees line the shoreline, with frequent rocks and some downed trees along the shore. Another twin narrow bay exists on the far side of the lake, mirroring the one I just left, giving the lake the shape of a snail, with the majority of the open water representing the shell.
Upon taking numerous photos, I turn back to business: locating and setting up a campsite for my last night on this trip. My search starts just inside the forest near the lake’s shoreline, but nothing stands out as ideal, with too much slope along the shore. Then the thought of disregarding the rules of camping 150 feet away from water sources churns up some guilt. Much hemming and hawing continue as I search about, as I slowly move farther and farther from the shoreline. Finally, I find a nice level area within a grove of young hardwoods and scattered stumps, well beyond the 150-foot limit, for once.
Hidden Lake shoreline
The sound of the falls remains audible as I hurriedly set up my tarp and impose some organization on the surrounding chaos of nature. The hum of the cascading water is constantly in the background, sounding like the wind blowing through the trees in the distance than like water flowing over rocks. Hopefully, the sound does not initiate the urge to pee throughout the entire night.
Finding a limb to hang my food rope is a challenge. Locating a large enough tree limb to hold my remaining food, greatly depleted since I started, is exceedingly difficult. When I finally find something that might work, I almost immediately get the rope caught up in the tree when it repeatedly wraps around a small limb.
F@$&!!
It immediately gets ugly. The long day, combining with my exhaustion makes a nasty brew of frustration and swearing. The yelling ruins everyone’s wilderness experience in the immediate area, that is, if there were anyone else around, other than the nonhuman denizens of the forest. They probably start complaining about the new neighbor immediately though.
After calming down, I pull the limb down as far as I can. Luckily, it is thin and pliable, as I can finally reach out and grab it, holding it in one hand while I untangle the rope with the other. When it is finally free, I start looking for a better tree to hang the food bag in. My patience nears exhaustion just as I find a better limb farther away, and the rope goes up with no more issues.
I make dinner quickly, just wanting to get it over with and hang my food before something else goes wrong. After eating, cleaning and hanging the food, I pick up some gear and head down to the lake’s shoreline to filter water and take in the scenery for one last evening on this trip.
Hidden Lake
After finding a nice spot with a comprehensive view of the lake, I start my gravity filter, for what is most likely that last time for this trip. While the filter does its own thing, drip by tedious drop, I set about setting up my camera and getting out my binoculars.
Wildlife, come and get it! And they do.
A duck flies over, evading my binoculars, though by its silhouette it is most likely a hooded merganser. A common raven, its raucous caw sounding continuously from the north for a while, finally flies over the northern portion of the lake. Several fish jump from beneath the water, leaving large ripples on the lake’s surface; at least I hope they are fish. A white-tailed deer emerges from the forest on the opposite side of the lake, lingering a while before turning back in the direction in which it came.
By half-past eight, I pick up my stuff and head back to my campsite before it gets too dark to find it. Fog already starts developing on the lake as the temperatures cool, allowing mosquitoes to emerge from their afternoon nap. I retreat into my shelter almost immediately upon reaching it, not feeling up to tolerating the insect onslaught soon to come.
Once into my sleeping bag, I set about catching up with my note-taking, but that does not last long before I start feeling drowsy. I surrender my pencil and secure it with my notebook, taking one last look at the map before calling it a night. It is only a short bushwhack over a hill to Ginger Pond, where the old logging roads will take me back to Raven Lake Road, and eventually my vehicle.
So when the morning comes, it will be time to head back to the frontcountry. It probably will not take long after leaving that I will be wishing I was back here at Hidden Lake. Despite the food hanging limbs being in short supply.
Hidden Lake shoreline
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