Peak Experiences: Danger, Death, and Daring in the Mountains of the Northeast

Icy Passage through Iroquois Pass

Carol Stone White and David Scott White Icy Passage through Iroquois Pass During an extended January thaw, we decided to climb our first remote, trailless peak: 4,360-foot Mount Marshall, named after Wilderness Society co-founder Bob Marshall. It seemed like a good idea to do this long bushwhack trip in relatively warm weather, and we checked out what the mountains would be like in such conditions by climbing over Big Slide Mountain to the Johns Brook valley. There wasn’t much standing water, even in the notoriously muddy spots; brooks were fast, but not flooded. So off we went in a murky 50 degrees for our 14-mile round-trip to Mount Marshall. The first tributary rushing down to Indian Pass Brook was high, but it was possible to cross on rocks; the second tributary had rapids and was swollen over its banks. We scouted up the steep bank for a possible crossing and saw two young men descending. “We’re packin’ out today,” they reported. “Conditions are bad! There’s blowdown upstream.” We hiked up to look at the possible crossing: a big log all the way across. We shimmied over; it was doable, but the rushing water, roaring just inches below our boots, was unnerving. From the high-water trail, we decided to bushwhack the south face of Iroquois Peak rather than lose ascent to the soggy lowlands to reach the Iroquois Pass Trail. We hoped to intersect the trail well before the pass. Blowdowns and snow-buried stunted evergreens caused us to posthole up to our knees in soft snow. When the mountainside steepened, becoming nearly vertical below us, we were forced to climb and clamber around great rock outcrops to find more level terrain, where staying upright would be possible as we slabbed the steep slope. We searched for any passage through claustrophobic forest , where heavy hunks of snow plopped repeatedly onto our heads from evergreen branches, seeping into our hoods and melting down our necks. After Dave jumped off a huge fallen tree into deep snow, I sat resting and wondered, Is this the turnaround spot? We won’t get to Marshall and 171 d a n g e r s o f w a t e r i n t h e m o u n t a i n s back in these conditions, and we don’t dare return through this trackless forest in the dark. But a brief review of what retreat meant persuaded us to continue. The trail could not be far ahead, and on the other side of Iroquois Pass was the Interior Outpost down at Lake Colden, where a ranger is available. From the pass it would be 7 miles back, down a steep 1,000 feet to Lake Colden, then over the Honey-I-shrunk the-kids-size boulders lining Avalanche Lake. Finally Dave yelled, “We’re on the trail! But it’s good news and bad news— it’s under a foot of water.” So what? Our bodies and feet were already soaked with sweat and melt, it was reasonably warm, and we were generating tremendous heat. Just plow through it and get down. But after slipping off a submerged rock into knee-deep slush, I realized with a sinking heart that our progress would be slow. We’d have to struggle to keep our balance and not topple into the icy slush. Now I was frightened. The thick evergreen forest surrounding the trail would be hard to walk through with snowshoes, so we continued carefully through the water, unable to see our feet. Occasionally we stumbled off something and went into the icy water up to our hips. Our progress was glacial—we couldn’t risk falling in altogether! At some point I realized that I couldn’t feel my feet and jumped out of the water, fighting off panic. Now we’ve gotten ourselves into real trouble. Thoughts of permanent consequences raced through my mind—even survival itself. We’ll have to bushwhack 1,000 feet down to Lake Colden; it will get dark; we’ll reach the top of an icy cliff that cannot be descended and we’ll search through impenetrable forest for a way down, postholing and breaking an ankle— “We’ve got to eat something.” Dave slung his heavy pack through balsam branches to the ground. We have only two and a half hours more of daylight, I thought. But not eating or drinking enough would be a...