In early October, 1984, feeling restless and with some time on my hands, I decided to hike the Devil’s Path from Overlook Mountain to Hunter Mountain. The Path has been called “the most dangerous in the east” by more experienced climbers than me. Legend says it was given its name because only the cloven feet of the Devil could traverse the 20 mile ridgeline trail. It involves climbing up and down Indian Head, Twin, Sugarloaf, Plateau and Hunter Mountains, most of which can be seen from high points along Tinker Street. My worn Vasque hiking boots would be my cloven hooves: martial arts had gotten me into shape. I packed 35 pounds on my back, grabbed up my trusty walking stick, Heathcliff (I bought it in Bronte country), and set out on a sunny morning for an adventure. I went alone because I didn’t know anyone else crazy enough to undertake such a journey.
I climbed Overlook in a flash, encountering only two French men who looked like thugs. The skies turned gray and rain began to make the path dark. I passed the turn off to Echo Lake, and went down to Devil’s Kitchen. The French men had beaten me there. I didn’t feel good abut them, so I pushed on, climbing Indian Head almost straight up, rock climbing. Around six, I looked for a place to camp on Twin Mountain, and ran into a huge porcupine who turned and fled from me. Startled, I stood transfixed.
I heard honking, and looked up to see a V-formation of Canada geese headed south. Good signs.
I camped in a grove near a ledge, put up my shelter, and settled down to a supper of bread, a shot of bourbon, and a smoke. When rain drops drummed on my shelter roof, I sat smug — until my sleeping bag got wet. That night I spent 12 hours cold and wet, surviving because polyester sleeping bags are “warm” even when wet.
At first light I shoved my wet things in my pack and started down Twin, only to find a cave at the beginning of the descent, where I might have slept warm and dry. The climb down was, again, real rock climbing, but by late morning I was on the summit of Sugarloaf, on a ledge looking east over ranges of mountains unfolding in bright ripples. I loafed and spread my bag out to dry in the sun.
One of the rewards of hiking into the mountains is the quiet — well, the relative quiet. There’s always the roaring sound of wind or jet planes. Towns are always just around the corner. The mountains were gold, russet, green, orange, and yellow: autumn at its peak. In the distance the Hudson River sparkled.
I made it to the Mink Hollow shelter by late afternoon, after spending over two hours scrambling like a mountain goat down Sugar Loaf. A precarious, challenging trail.
It had been an exhausting day, with times when I felt that I was balanced between life and death. One misstep, and the Devil would have claimed me. I felt absolutely clear as a result of the enforced meditation of watching every foot fall.
It was when I stopped that thoughts came flooding in. I remembered reading stories about Mink Hollow. Chief Joseph Brant, the great Iroquois leader who sided with the British in the Revolution, had raided near Woodstock. (A civilized man in every respect, he went to London and was presented at the court of George III.) His ghost haunted the Devil’s Path, as well as those of the witches who had roamed the mountain looking for herbal remedies.
The sun set on the southwest ridge of Sugarloaf. Birds chirped, geese honked, planes droned by in the sky. I dined in style on canned chicken, rye bread with mustard, and a piece of chocolate for dessert.
Darkness fell, and with it cold. I was alone on top of a mountain, feeling exhilarated for having climbed so high so fast — and for breaking free from my life in the low lands. Most of all, I was proud of myself for facing my fears of the natural world: the dark, the cold, the woods. This adventure demonstrated to me that curiosity and courage are primary virtues. The mountains force you to confront yourself at the deepest level, and in return they can give you back the self society takes from you.
Ironically, as I pulled myself up by gnarled root and embedded rock, looking back through ferns, pines, and birches in the valley I’d just left, the only thoughts that came to me were blessings: what better place to look for God than on the Devil’s Path?++
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