No View, No Problem: Vanderwhacker Mountain

June 19, 2026 - By ashleykclevenstine

I had the day off from work today, and I’ve been trying to make a point of hiking with Hudson whenever my days off don’t line up with Josh’s. My original plan was to hike O.K. Slip Falls, but while catching up on old blog posts and hiking journals the night before, I realized something exciting: I was only one difficult hike away from completing the 4-3-2-1 Way Challenge.

That changed everything.

Hike Report

6/19/2026

After a bit of research, I settled on Vanderwhacker Mountain. As usual, I left shortly after Josh headed to work around 5:45 a.m., turned on some Adirondack music, and pointed the truck north. As Hudson and I merged onto the Northway, a rainbow stretched across the sky ahead of us. I couldn’t help but smile. It felt like a good sign.

About an hour and a half later, we arrived at the trailhead. The drive down Moose Pond Club Road was an adventure in itself. Thankfully, the Tacoma handled the rough dirt road, potholes, and rocks with ease. A few years ago, roads like this would have had me nervously inching along, but now they’re just part of the experience.

Cell service had disappeared long before we reached the parking area, so I used my phone’s satellite messaging feature to send Josh a quick update that we had arrived safely and were starting our hike. I was pleasantly surprised at how easily it worked—and even more surprised when he was able to reply.

Before hitting the trail, I pulled out my Field Notes notebook and jotted down some observations about the drive, weather conditions, and our start time: 7:14 a.m. The thermometer read 65.7°F. The forecast called for strong winds and the possibility of afternoon showers.

We were the first hikers to sign in that day. In fact, nobody had signed in the day before, which wasn’t surprising given the severe storms that had rolled through the region. This was my first time intentionally taking detailed notes before a hike, and I quickly realized how useful it would be. Between the hiking journal, nature journal, and blog posts, having those observations written down felt invaluable.

The first mile and a half was mostly flat—which, as I’ve mentioned before, is my favorite way to begin a hike. The trail followed a small unnamed brook, crossing it repeatedly and occasionally walking right through it. At one point, we came across what looked like the remains of a bridge that had long ago been washed off to the side. Fortunately, the water level was low enough that crossing on rocks wasn’t difficult.

What did surprise me was how overgrown the trail was. Branches and wet vegetation leaned into the path from every direction. Between the lingering moisture from yesterday’s rain and the narrow trail corridor, Hudson and I were quickly soaked from the knees down.

When we reached the marsh, the surrounding mountains were hidden beneath a blanket of clouds. I hoped the wind would eventually push them away and reward us with a summit view. We still had plenty of climbing left, so there was time.

Hudson, meanwhile, was having the time of his life. He has never met a body of water he didn’t want to investigate, and he made sure to splash through every puddle, brook, and muddy patch available. He’s becoming such a dependable hiking companion—always staying close and frequently checking back to make sure I’m still following.

Around the halfway point, we reached the Observer’s Cabin. I was surprised by how far it sat from the summit, but I’m sure there was a practical reason for its location. The cabin appeared to be in decent condition, complete with a functioning pit toilet nearby. There was also a partially collapsed structure standing nearby, quietly returning to the forest.

After the cabin, the real climbing began.

The trail eased into the ascent with a moderate grade before eventually steepening considerably. The steeper sections lasted a little longer than I would have preferred, but Hudson handled them effortlessly, hopping from rock to root like he’d been doing it his entire life.

This section of trail was stunning.

The forest was still dripping from the previous day’s rain. The trees swayed in the wind while low clouds drifted through the woods, creating an almost dreamlike atmosphere. As the trail continued upward, we found ourselves climbing directly alongside—and often through—a flowing brook. Water rushed over the rocks beneath our feet, making many sections slick and requiring careful footing.

The wind grew stronger as we climbed, and although it wasn’t dangerous, it felt a little unsettling in the foggy woods. To keep myself occupied, I started singing Adirondack songs.

There is something special about singing in the middle of the forest.

The songs echoed softly through the trees, and it gave me an opportunity to realize just how many of them I’ve memorized over the years.

Around 9:00 a.m., Hudson and I reached the summit.

Or rather, we reached a cloud.

The fire tower itself is surrounded by trees, though there is a small lookout area just beyond it. Unfortunately, everything was completely socked in. There wasn’t a view to be found.

Still, I wasn’t ready to leave.

I clipped Hudson to the tower, pulled out my sit pad, and settled onto the concrete floor. With no scenery to sketch, I drew what I could see: the tower legs disappearing into the mist and the outlines of trees fading into the clouds.

While I sketched, I ate a snack, drank some water, and added a few notes to my journal:

“The thermometer says the temperature here is 51.6°F with 93.6% humidity. My feet are starting to feel damp from all the mud, puddles, and brooks we’ve crossed. I’m disappointed there isn’t a view, but I’m grateful I can sit here and write and draw. Hudson is lying beside me, chewing on a stick, perfectly content to just be my buddy. This is where it’s at.”

As the wind continued to pick up, I started wondering whether it was clearing the clouds or signaling an approaching storm. In the Adirondacks, that can be a difficult distinction to make. After about twenty minutes, I decided it was time to head down. Better safe than sorry.

Besides, the clouds showed no signs of lifting.

The descent was every bit as beautiful as the climb. Fog drifted through the trees, raindrops clung to bright green leaves, and the brook provided a constant soundtrack. I continued singing Adirondack songs as Hudson and I made our way back toward the cabin.

Then things got a little more exciting.

Near the boggy section by the Observer’s Cabin, I stepped onto a wet wooden plank intended to help hikers cross the mud. My foot immediately shot out from under me, and I landed squarely in the muck.

Hudson rushed over to investigate and offer assistance.

His concern was appreciated.

His help was not.

Fortunately, I escaped with little more than a bruised ego, muddy pants, and what will probably become a colorful bruise over the next few days.

As we continued down the trail, the winds began to settle and patches of blue sky appeared overhead. For a moment, I felt a twinge of disappointment. Maybe if I’d waited another hour, the summit would have cleared and rewarded me with a view.

But that’s hiking.

You make the best decision you can with the information you have at the time.

Besides, I was still able to enjoy a clear view of Little Beaver Mountain from the marsh on the way out.

Eventually, Hudson and I arrived back at the trailhead, signed ourselves out, and headed for the truck. A dry change of clothes had never sounded so appealing.

As we bounced our way back down Moose Pond Club Road, a Ruffed Grouse crossed in front of the truck—the perfect final wildlife sighting to cap off the day.