CANYON COLD: The Ice Alcoves of Platte Clove

               

WINTER’S FIERCE COLD is intimidating. People respond differently according to their nature. Some cling to hibernation, flocking to supermarkets on the first threat of a portentous winter forecast. Like chipmunks they hoard groceries until the storm passes in the cheeks of their pantries. Others follow the southward bird migration, avoiding the snowy season altogether. Then there are us artic foxes, snowshoe hares, and boreal chickadees of New York’s Hudson Valley who refuse to let the snows and wintery blows of winter coop us inside. We dare to confront the frost and artic blasts of winter head-on; we extend the hiking season into those sacrosanct months when many outdoor recreationalists acquiesce to the self-imposed comforts of dormancy. The rewards are resplendent to those who brave the cold.

                The ice canyon formed each winter in the Catskill Forest Preserve is guaranteed to generate gelid glee. A cynosure of beauty in any season, never are Platte Clove and Devil’s Kitchen so seasonably sublime and attractive to the eye as on a mid-winter afternoon. Impressive ice alcoves and alleyways accessed by an adventurous trek atop frozen Plattekill Creek-bed is amazingly august. The wintertime clove’s alpine allure is ample elucidation why the artic fox, snowshoe hare and boreal chickadee choose to spend their New York winter’s wide awake. In a season where daylight is limited and the opportunity to satisfy shunted senses sparse, the iced-over canyon chasm of Plattekill Creek is grand enough to goad even the most dormant fair-weather friends out of hiker hibernation. Will it goad you?   

                MAKE NO MISTAKE, winter activities in the outdoors have risks. Dress properly, eat and hydrate smartly, bring proper equipment, and exercise the good sense not to exceed one’s abilities. Of all the seasons, winter is the most unforgiving. Study where you are going beforehand and know what lie ahead. Platte Clove has an earned reputation for death, danger, and injury. Once entered, there are no easy exits.

                Today’s efforts are focused on the upper clove. Its abrupt escarpments offer an attractive array of ice art along a series of staggered waterfalls, icicle-draped walls, and simple streamside scenery. Starting out at the ice-climbing omphalos of Devil’s Kitchen, we begin the day with instant ice. The Devil’s Kitchen entry to the clove is rugged year-round. In winter the conditions are magnified. Over our boots we fasten steel-toothed crampons to maintain traction. Our initial descent is steep and tricky. Caysey slings webbing around a tree root as a guideline for the initial boulder-lined, eroded drop.

                A snow-packed pathway is a sign that ice climbers are out in force today. Soon their multi-colored synthetic ropes comes into view strung over the massive ice columns of ice formed on canyon walls on either side. Vertical columns of ice rise over 200-feet tall, so close to one another in fact that they appear as folds in a single fabric of frozen window drapery. We focus on our footing to avoid ice slips and the accidental stream dips in areas where the ice is thin. The path we follow crisscrosses from shore to shore, with fresh-fallen snow concealing where the creek flows.

                The sun illuminates the ice colonnades. Many are so thick that it is difficult to grasp that these icicles formed completely from ground surface run-off. The enlightening glimmer of the frozen rows of successive coluns make me imagine I am passing through a Greek academy. I readily expect to see a toga-clad wise man spouting out knowledge whenever the trail meanders around one of many glacial erratics. Instead I see a middle-aged woman in blue gortex belaying her partner in climb up the frozen spire. He holds an ice tool in each hand, swinging them into the ice, alternating each swing with a step-up with his spike-toed boots. His crampons differ slightly from ours. The teeth in his toes edge straight to catch the ice with each forward kick; ours slope downward to brace and steady our steps. Like us, both belayer and climber wear helmets. We each carry an ice ax of about 18-inches to assist our balance and/or catch a fall should we slip.

                As we descend through the Kitchen, the wooded side of Plattekill Mountain rises in the clearing ahead. Fed by mountain streams, Plattekill Creek drains the Kaaterskill and Plattekill mountain watersheds. These mountain ranges form the canyon wherein the creek flows. A precipitous drop is required before we reach Plattekill Creek. Once at the base we look upon the lower tier of scenic Bridal Veil Falls. Two teams of ice climbers are set up here. Unlike rock climbing where foot an handholds remain constant, the freezing, thawing and flowing patterns of the stream assure climbers different routes up each winter; sometimes different experiences even during the same season.     

                The frozen falls are also unique to study for us scramblers. When the ice forms and reforms it takes on artistic appearance. It hardens into all sorts of shapes, tantalizing to our imaginations. Bulbous orbs resemble cotton balls, icicle rows a pipe organ, jagged stalagmites gleam in the sun like rock candy. Nature has a way of preparing its own gallery of authentic craftsmanship. Like a museumgoer at an Auguste Rodin exhibit I move in close to the falls base to admire the ice sculptures up close.

                With still many more ice exhibits to see we follow the snow blanketed Plattekill Creek streambed east. It is easy to discern where to step during the summer to avoid wet feet, here it is less clear. In the summer the entire bed is flowing, but in winter the edges freeze up. Only the current maintains its flow, weaving left and right, partially concealed beneath brittle ice. The path taken by others is still conspicuous, but not always reliable. Deepened footprints show where others have fallen through. An occasional opening in the snow shows moving water. At other times the current’s rumble is heard even as we stand overhead as dry as can be. As in a minefield we step carefully. As attentive as we are, we are not without incident. Ice gives out beneath Howard’s foot. He submerges calve-deep. The cold water seeps into his boot. Even though he has packed an extra pair of dry socks, he bids farewell to our group retracing his steps back to his car. The dangers of frostbite and hypothermia are too real to shrug off lightly.

                THE ASCENT UP A WOODED HILL  on the south shore to bypass the treacherously steep Japanese Falls gets our blood-flowing. Within the first few steps I unzip my jacket. Soon I remove my jacket altogether, stashing it in the backpack I carry. Although today’s temperatures are single-digit, as long as I keep moving I stay warm. The art of winter travel is to dress in layers, adding and removing clothing as needed to manage moisture. The cold is not so much a threat as moisture is. Wetness leads to hypothermia as night follows the day. It can be generated from within (perspiration) or from without (rain, snow, river, etc.). I take pain throughout the day to brush off any snow accumulating on my gloves, jacket or pants before my bodyheat has chance to melt it. Most of the day I maintain a temperate comfort level wearing just a fleece sweatshirt atop a synthetic shirt. To ward off frostbite I wear gloves and a neck warmer. I alternate between wearing and not wearing a winter hat beneath my helmet based upon the needs of my head to vent. On this uphill woods walk the hat is off.

                We make our own trail through the woods relying upon instinct and summer memories to know when and where to drop down to again meet-up with the creek. We descend steeply to the base of Japanese Falls. A small section of the pool below the falls is surprisingly still in liquid form, a testament to the ferocity of the force of water rushing down the falls. The rest of the basin in rock-hard. A mound of ice rises ten feet in the air, miniscule against the sky-high frozen falls that soars immediately behind it. Matt and Caysey inch out across the ice pool, attempting to scale the mound. I think back to my childhood at how much fun parking lot snowplow buildups were to climb. The memory causes me to smile. I follow them out. Ula snaps a photograph of us Three Musketeers standing side-by-side. Then unscripted and unprompted, they gang up on me. Grabbing hold of my arms and legs they threaten to throw me in the pool. Once free I get even hurling snowballs in both their directions.

                Resuming the creekwalk, we enter my favorite zone. The riverbed nestles ever close to the canyon wall. Here avails amazing opportunities to observe the salmon, flesh, and blush-red stained bedrock so commonly exposed in the clove. The gorge wall rises straight up from the creek a thousand feet or more. It is hard not to be in awe or feel dwarfed by the enormity of this geological skyscraper whose length comprises at least a city block or two. I am eager to experience this zone this time of year amid nature’s winter décor.

                The Plattekill Creek drops hundreds of feet over a gentle and gradual descent between Japanese Falls and Emerald Falls, one complex boulder-field excluded. We pass the final ice-climbing duo just prior to reaching the boulder field. I comment on their commitment coming this deep into the canyon. In between giving his partner the slack on the rope he needs to climb, he tells me it is well worth the effort to find virgin ice. Holes formed by other climbers’ pick axes remain an entire season, removing the route-making challenge of ambitious or advanced climbers. The absence of boot prints in the snow tells us that the riverbed ahead is all ours for the season’s first ingress of exploration.       

                I take the lead, walking confidently and assuredly with some steps, using my ice ax to test the snow stability at other times. My lead is eclipsed when I stop to photograph the winter scene. The pristine, untouched winter environ is bliss. Each bend in the river gives a new perspective or fresh angle.

                The path through the boulder field at first perplexes. A mishmash of accumulated erratics washed downstream from Japanese Falls, or perhaps fallen from the cliffs above, this is a tough trough to navigate. The copious cavities formed between the rocks (but concealed by snow) and the exposed ice on the surface of other rocks make for some tricky and careful travel. Ula and I work together to shimmy down a boulder while seated on our bums. One of us serves as a spotter to the other while sliding down sheets of ice, hopeful not to break through the ice at our feet upon landing.

                The boulder field bleeds into the sandstone high-rises I admire so fervently. Today its red rock is crisscrossed by long, white icicles that hang in succession from jagged rock shelf tiers like rows of stockings suspended from the hearth. At the far end, blue sky creeps in above a distant wooded mountain slope. The sky lets in the sun, which helps to warm my ungloved hand from numbing in the brisk cold air. Only  a few more photos to compose and then I’ll be able to re-sheathe it in my glove. Fingers, like ears, the nose, and toes, are the most susceptible to frost bite. To cure the numbness, I form a fist inside my glove and then clench and unclench my fingers to stimulate blood-flow. I experience a sharp tingling sensation after about ten fist-pumps, but tolerate the sting as the price I must pay for good photos to memorialize this experience.

                After traversing down a multi-step staircase of snow-concealed waterfall tiers, a rock overhang comes into view. Crystalline spears dangle from the overhang like fangs from a jawbone. Spurred by impulse, I crawl into the mouth, as if tempting fate to chomp down and bite. In between a pair of menacing eye-teeth, I declare victory over the abominable snow creature whose gaping mouth I have penetrated. Then like Jonah from the whale of Lazarus from the tomb I resume the hike in the same body but resurrected in mind and spirit.

                There are more ice and snow formations along our route than even my over-active imagination can properly process. Sense saturation is as much a reality on a winter Platte Clove scramble as risks of frostbite or slips and falls. Whiteness abounds. The air is ever brisk. The gurgles of the stream underfoot invigorates us, reminding us how the frozen ground permits us a passage otherwise not possible. Soon the ubiquitous frozen crystals of winter that should awe and excite fades, converting the sublime into the commonplace. We know we have had our fill. To indulge further would be to overeat, biting off more than temperance and prudence should permit. Yet, the gluttons for grandeur that we are we push on to receive one more highlight prior to turning around. We trudge on to the always impressive Emerald Falls, snaking our way down its steep side embankment to reach the frozen pool at its bottom.

                THE NAME EMERALD FALLS will not appear on any map or in any guidebook (to date). It is a moniker I gave to the cataract, as its summertime lush green mosses, ferns, and leafy growth conjured up in me images of Irish springs. On this occasion the moniker is a misnomer. Perhaps Quartz Falls or Diamond Falls or Glass Falls are more appropriate to capture the waterfall’s white, translucent appearance. The sixty-foot torrent is a solid mass of marble white. Frozen in time, as well as element, the Plattekill Creek flows wide as it pours over a cliff of indomitable exposed bedrock.

                As bleached as the foam that accumulates in the summer months, a ramp of ice sits at the base of Emerald Falls. Surrounding the ramp is the ideal skating rink. Regretting not brining my ice skates, I venture out on the ice anyhow. Inching forward ever slowly, I listen carefully for cracking, even as the imps in my head compel me forward. Dread and common sense battle with a daring urge in my psyche, before reason tempers and then expels temptation completely. I scurry back to the safety of the shoreline proud of how far towards the center I made it, as well as in my decision to turn back before breaking through.

                Had we the tenacity to travel further, the enclave of Gray Falls and the amphitheater of Twin Falls lie only a half-mile downstream. Beyond that are additional falls and ice-encrusted coves that as tempting as they may be will only strand us further from our cars when the early winter nightfall sneaks upon us. Following our tracks back we are soon at Japanese Falls. We climb its shores following our earlier tracks up the hill, but then rather than descend into Devil’s Kitchen we stay to the high ground and bypass it. This will take us to the Clove’s signature attraction. The tallest of the waterfalls, Plattekill Falls is only a minutes’ walk from where we parked our cars. Blazing our own path through the snowy woods to rejoin the Plattekill Creek, we – by chance – encounter one more trip highlight.

                Trudging through knee-deep snow, we swap out of crampons for snowshoes. Our climb above Japanese Falls rises high and then levels on a ridge. We border a rock wall, adorn with run-off icicles so tight to one another that it has a curtain-esque appearance. Up ahead, the trail is obstructed by an ice wall formed where icicles have dripped down from a rock overhang strutting out into our “trail.” What otherwise would have been an easy pass-through is sealed shut. Only one wall is ice-free. Caysey leads the way in climbing through the opening of this naturally formed ice shelter. I follow. Behind me comes Ula. The ice-cave comfortably sits three. Outside the sun burns the last of the day’s fuel. Its soft rays sparkle, backlight, and gleam off the thick walls of the ice cave. We sit inside awhile admiring the prism-like alcove that nature has formed. What a find?

                Our options forward are now limited by the ice cave wall obstructing our path. A 20-foot drop below the ridge prevents us from going around. We can backtrack, or as Caysey soon suggests, we can assert the supremacy of man over nature. I back up as Caysey prepares his swinging arm. Chips of ice fly as the blade of his ice ax strikes the wall in front. Then again. This time a crack spreads across the wall. Repeatedly Caysey his ax live the caveman club that made Bam-Bam Rubble famous.

                    Ula and I watch Caysey pound out an opening into the ice. He is rather enjoying himself much akin to the sledgehammer slam contests found at carnivals. There’s a personal satisfaction involved in making one’s own way in this world. An ice chink large enough to be an ice burg crashes into my helmet. I begin to sing to cheer Caysey on. He pauses in his swinging to look at me with a smile and a twinkling eye as he shakes his head when I get to the refrain in the Doors’ hit:

“You know the day destroys the night,

Night divides the day

Tried to run, tried to hide

Break on through to the other side

Break on through to the other side

Break on through to the other side.”

Self-styled as our group’s comic relief, I pride myself on the musical repertoire I bring to the moment. Once when we were deep below the Earth’s crust exploring Xanadu Cave it was “Help” by the Beetles that I sang. While hiking it was the lyrics of John Denver’s “Sunshine on my shoulder” that filled the air on a bluebird day. Music motivates. It arguably did here too. A few more swings of Caysey’s ax and the other side was reached. I instinctively change my tune. In my best raspy Steven Tyler voice, I start to sing Aerosmith’s “Take me to the Other Side.” The same eye-grimace of Caysey looks back at me, accompanied by the shake of the head that makes me think he is dreading not earlier throwing me into the pool of water at the base of Japanese Falls as threatened. Our entire group now passes through the hole.

                It is amazing how “otherworldly” such a pass through a real-deal “looking glass” feels while on an outdoor adventure. The entire day we have journeyed through a different world where snowdrift and freeze rule. Like the artic fox, the snowshoe hare, and the boreal chickadee we took winter in our stride, refusing to let cold or fear deter. To those who once thought that hiking ends when the temperatures drop, we really did break on through to the other side.

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Michael N. Kelsey has wandering in his blood and is known to take the road less traveled. Mikes organizes and leads trips through Platte Clove in all seasons, as well as kayaking, backpacking, caving and snowshoeing trips. Contact him at AWAYAdventureGuide@gmail.com.