Getting bitten by the hiking bug while conquering a mountain

It was early in June of 1975 and the forest around my Limekiln Lake home was amassed in lush green color.

I was nine years old and looking forward to long exploratory trips up and down Seventh Lake and Fawn Lake Mountains and along the inlet and outlet to Limekiln Lake.

But I wouldn’t be alone on those treks. The woods were now swarming with countless blackflies and they became my perennial hiking partners as I followed well worn Deer trails through the dense under story.

I would douse my wool baseball cap and cover my neck and arms with as much Deep Woods Off as I could, but it still wasn’t enough to deter the voracious appetites of those tiny varmints.

The back of my ears and my elbows would get riddled with bites.

But I found the worst place to receive a bite was the heel of my hand, as a bite there would cause me to scratch myself raw.

I had decided that day to explore the sweeping hillside on the opposite side of Fawn Lake.

I headed down Parkhurst Road to the trailhead that led out to the little hunting camp at the outlet of the lake.

I was only half way to the lake when one of my little hiking partners bit my eyelid, and another attacked my neck.

The blackflies were quite thick along the outlet stream and it seemed as if they wanted me to turn around and not continue to my destination.

But I forged ahead, wringing them from my wrists and neck with both hands and killing hundreds with each swat.

It was a warm day and the sweat from my brow dripped down my forehead.

The mix of sweat and bug spray stung my eyes so badly that the first thing I did when I got to Fawn Lake was wash my face in the cold water from the outflow of the beaver dam.

I stood in the grasses of the open meadow as my hiking friends created a compact black cloud that shaded me from the sun.

I wondered just how many there were!

Nonetheless, I persevered and crossed the old dam.

I found a small open area and started to go up the small mountain, climbing hand over hand and from tree to tree.

I had never been all the way to the top of Fawn Mountain and was determined to get there.

And it seemed that my hiking partners were willing to join me in the trek up the slope.

After about a half hour of scrambling, swatting and surveying the hillside for the best routes I summited what I thought to be the top of the forest covered mountain.

There was no view, no marker, and no evidence that led me to believe that I was not the first human to summit this peak.

So there I was, all bloody and bit up. A nine-year-old explorer, with one eye swollen shut, wearing a limp, wool baseball cap.

Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Big Moose Lake. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com