The excitement grew as the weight of my 95-pound pack settled upon my back and my face twinged as my legs feel the welcomed annual burden. What a wonderful feeling, not because one enjoys the toils of such weight, but because of the anticipation of the trip that always accompanies it. As I slip down the old trail with my trusty rifle in hand I glance back at my truck and the opening which represent civilization and the rat race of modern living. A quaint smile sneaks out as I turn my back on modern comfort and gaze toward the primeval forest known as the Adirondack Mountains. "No motorized vehicle" the sign reads. The fresh snow on ground adds to the expectation of the weeklong hunt that lies ahead. As I trek further into the deep woods of late fall, I leave further behind my possessions and titles. No "Sirs" or "Misters", no corner store, and no bank. My title is that of "a deer hunter" and my possessions are either on my back or in the tent camp that awaits me five miles away. Money will only be good for starting fires. 

  It will be cold; maybe very cold; and in the end I will be thankful for the week spent this November in such conditions. During the week I will scout and hunt my way around the thick, dark forest and I am sure that I am the first to step foot on much of the still virgin ground, save the creatures of the land of course. Streams become my roads and the mountains my road signs. The sun provides me warmth by day and the night's bitter, stinging cold will make a warm fire a necessity.

If I am fortunate as in years past, I will get to watch a doe feed with her yearling, or the tiny chipmunks noisily chasing each other about the floor of fallen leaves. If I am least fortunate I will see only the trees and the land, but still I will be the luckiest man alive.

I carefully observe my surroundings looking for clues as to the whereabouts of a mature Adirondack whitetail. Deer are few, big bucks are fewer. The odds are stacked sharply against the hunter that makes an Adirondack monarch his quarry.

Ah, the blessed solitude. The solitude of the hunt is what brings me to this rugged country. For if my quest for the king of these mountains is unsuccessful I will not have lost, and if my quest is successful I will have not won because these lands of the great Iroquois Nation and our forefathers, will never be tamed. This expanse of New York wilderness may allow you to borrow some of its beauty, but it may foreclose on the life of the unprepared traveler just as quickly. The solitude will draw mankind to its cedar swamps, remote mountains and hidden lakes long after I am gone. There will always be larger, faster, and stronger deer to remind me of my own humbleness. There is something about the natural human instinct to hunt that makes the bond between wilderness and man strongest for the hunter.

But for now I simply do not contemplate or try to measure the value of the hunt. For as I gaze toward the mountaintops I see a treasure beyond any value that can be measured by a lowly man. To my north ascends a mountain and to my south a large impenetrable swamp. From the beautiful open hardwoods of the mountain sides to the crystal clear lakes of the valleys, it all adds up to a land which I cannot sufficiently describe in words to recreate its wond   er for the minds eye. It is primal. It is vast. It is the great northern forest. These are the Adirondack Mountains.