The only independent, nonprofit news organization solely dedicated to reporting on the Adirondack Park.
When photographer Nancy Ford and I read that Gleasmans Falls dropped a frothy 70 feet, we imagined a miniature Niagara tucked in the woods. Instead, we found a series of small, pounding flumes on a quarter-mile stretch of the Independence River. By Linda Murphy
With apologies to the Edward Abbey- loving wilderness purists out there, nothing sets a road cyclist’s heart aflutter like a good stretch of smooth black asphalt through the countryside. By Dan Keefe
I’ve been hiking in the west-central Adirondacks for years, not only enjoying the woods but also pushing a measuring wheel. I recently rewrote the Adirondack Mountain Club’s guidebook, Adirondack Trails: West-Central Region, which came out late last year. By Norm Landis
I am thinking a lot about Mike’s toe. The big one on the left foot. It’s swollen, purple and covered by an ugly brown blister. If he loses it, I don’t know what I’ll do. I might have to cut off my own toe in penance.
Picture the Adirondacks as they were just after the glaciers departed: Windswept peaks rise naked from the gravelly aftermath of the Ice Age, temporarily bare of soil and forest.
This is a piece about ice climbing. I’ll tell you what I know, how it’s done, when it’s done. I’ll explain all the pointy tools and where people do it. By Don Mellor
I had been to Lost Pond on the Nun-da-ga-o Ridge on summer hikes several times, but I never visited it in winter until two years ago on skis. What a lovely place mantled in snow!
This story starts in 1896. That year, on Aug. 20, Newell Martin and a companion, Milford Hathaway, ascended the vast rock cirque on the South Face of Gothics—no ropes, no helmets, no pitons, nothing at all to protect them from a deadly fall. By Phil Brown
Snowshoes are an integral part of the winter landscape in the Adirondacks, almost certainly dating back to when the first humans began to explore these snowy mountains on foot.
A river primeval By Mark Bowie Before dawn on an early September day, fellow paddler Rick Rosen and I drifted in a pea-soup fog on Lewey Lake, anticipating a colorful sunrise. A loon wailed nearby, tantalizingly out of sight. We waited. And waited. The mists rose, unveiling a swatch of mountain forest, some blue sky, then resettled, dashing…