The East Coast Isn’t Just a Place for Mountainfolk to Leave

Recently, I hiked up a peak near Lake Placid, New York. Hurricane Mountain isn’t high by Western standards—just under 3,700 feet—but in the Adirondacks its rocky summit and bare-bones fire tower offer panoramic views. It was just the beginning of fall. The first of the season’s trees burned red and yellow, shocks of color in an otherwise green landscape. The morning saw a bit of frost, and even on a sunny, 70-something afternoon, the air felt crisp, relieved of its late-summer weight. I ascended 2,000 feet from the trailhead in just over two and a half miles, hiking quickly through low, evergreen forests, past open marshes ringed in fiery trees, up knotted trails to the smooth granite summit.

The Adirondacks are stunning. It’s all bucolic countryside and forest, farms nestled in rolling hills with horses and sheep hemmed in by old fences and low walls. Gorgeous old stone churches and pre-revolutionary war homes punctuate neat, quiet towns. Glittering creeks and lakes nestle in the valleys. The trails are rocky, muddy and root-filled but carefully cut by dedicated trail crews. The mountains are more dramatic than most in the northeast, comparable to New Hampshire’s White Mountains, home of the northeast’s tallest peak. The Adirondacks aren’t really mine to tell you about, of course. This weekend was my first spent in the tranquil range, part of a two-year exploration of what the Eastern half of our country has to offer.

I was born in Seattle, raised in the Cascades. When I was a 13 year old, infatuated with the arts and convinced I was meant for bigger cities, my roots weren’t anything I was proud of. Having never lived anywhere except the Pacific Northwest, I didn’t quite understand what it offered, how the landscape I grew up in had impacted my understanding of the world. I definitely didn’t consider it a part of my identity.

I grew older, more self-aware, and genuinely fell in love with skiing, mountaineering, the backcountry. I learned to surf in crummy, cold Washington waves. I took road trips down the coast. I began to understand what my home meant to me. But the itch to see different parts of the country—and the world—didn’t disappear. I moved all over, to San Francisco, to Chicago, to Buenos Aires. Eventually, I landed in Brooklyn. I’ve been here for two years, spending about six months of the year on the road, for work and play. I’m out West a lot, but I’ve been spending as much time as possible in the northern reaches of the East Coast too, learning about these mountains and the communities that call them home.

There’s an attitude among outdoorspeople that all good things happen out West. It’s not all pretentiousness, of course—there isn’t much wilderness east of the Mississippi. Most of the premier climbing, skiing, surfing, and mountain biking destinations are in the Mountain West or along the generous, rugged West Coast.

When I moved to Chicago for college, I quickly learned what kind of capital Seattle offered. I learned that it bummed me out to be away from the mountains, from the things I loved to do. I learned just how flat and boring (sorry, Illinois) other parts of the country could be. Of course, it wasn’t all bad—I sailed on Lake Michigan, went snowmobiling in northern Wisconsin, skied at funky, tiny ski hills like Mt. Bohemia. But I was, occasionally, the pretentious kid from out West, and when I moved to Brooklyn, I figured the outdoors in the eastern half of our country, like the Midwest, would leave something to be desired. I figured I’d get the city out of my system, get in all my outdoorsing while I was traveling, and leave the East Coast without a second thought after a couple years.

I spent last weekend camping and listening to music at an old ski hill with one rope tow run by families, crisscrossed with gnarly, painstakingly cut mountain bike trails. It’s called Otis Mountain, and it’s a good example of what the East has to offer: family- and community-run spaces that exist not because tourists come from around the world to see it, or because the government funded its protection, but because the people who live there want it, build it, and use it. Rootsy, from-the-ground-up places aren’t singular to the East coast, but my experiences out here—climbing and skiing Mt. Washington in the early spring, long weekends in a small town Vermont farmhouse, cold, wet camping trips along the Appalachian Trail, bike tours up the Hudson Valley, summer journeys to the islands off the coast of Maine and Rhode Island—have been defined by just that ethos.

I love getting after it more than I love just about anything on this planet, but my experiences in the mountains, in the ocean, and on the road have always been about the people. Long backpacking trips, powder days, and humbling surf sessions just aren’t as fun without someone to share them with. Mountain towns wouldn’t be the open-hearted, good-natured places they are if not for the people who build their lives there. And the East Coast has no shortage of dedicated, badass outdoorsfolks, from endurance athletes and backcountry skiers like Andrew Drummond to entrepreneurs like Jason Levinthal of Line and J skis, Corinne Prevot of Skida, and Jeff Allott, founder of Adirondack-grown mountain bike brand Solace Cycles and co-owner of Otis Mountain.

Last weekend in the Adirondacks, I was lucky to get a glimpse into the lives of the people who call those mountains home—trail builders, schoolteachers, skiers, mountain bikers, students, and families alike. Sure, the snow isn’t as consistent as in Utah, the peaks aren’t as dramatic as the Cascades, the mountain towns aren’t buffed-and-polished bastions of outdoor culture like Jackson Hole or Telluride. But bigger isn’t always better, and I can’t help feeling that the East coast deserves more credit from the outdoor community than it gets, for the stunning places and wild good times it offers, but more so for the people who have built New England into a profoundly connected, engaged community of like-minded people who love to spend time outside.

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