Solo Summit: Cascade & Porter (#1 & #2 of 46)

Welcome back to Just Ruck It. I’m your host, Lindsay, and today I’ve got a story that starts with frostbite fears and ends with a whole lot of mud.

This was my first ever solo hike of an Adirondack 46er—two of them, actually: Cascade and Porter. I originally had everything planned weeks ago, but when summit temps dipped below 40 in June (yep, welcome to the ADKs), I hit pause.

When I finally went for it, the cold was gone, but the winds were howling, the rocks - slick, and the trail - swampy from days of rain.

This wasn’t just about checking two peaks off the list. It was a real test of my training. Could I climb strong without constant breath breaks? Could I handle the boulders, the elevation, and whatever else those trails threw at me… alone?

My pack was stripped to the essentials—just 10 pounds—but the mental weight of doing it solo? That was something new.

This isn’t just about climbing a mountain—it’s about showing up solo, pushing past your comfort zone, and proving you’ve got what it takes, even when it gets ugly.

Going solo isn’t always some bold, deliberate decision—it just kind of becomes the norm. Trying to match up schedules with friends who are equally outdoorsy and free on your exact days off? That’s a logistical miracle. So what ends up happening is: a whole lot of planning, a little bit of worrying, and none of the comfort of a hiking buddy.

For me, solo is default. Hiking with others is the bonus. And honestly, I don’t put a ton of thought into going alone—it’s just how I roll. Though maybe I should, sometimes.

That said, solo hiking has its perks… and its drawbacks:

Perk: It's quiet. You actually feel the forest. The birds, the wind through the trees, your own footsteps—it’s meditative.
Con: No one to distract you during those long, tedious stretches that feel like they’ll never end.

Perk: You get to prove you’re a badass. You set your own pace, face your own doubts, and come out the other side stronger.
Con: If things go sideways, it’s on you. No cell service, no partner to help—just your skills and whatever’s in your pack.

Perk: Total freedom. You hike when you want, rest when you want, eat snacks when you want. No compromises.
Con: No shared memories. No one to laugh with about the mud pit you misjudged or high-five when you hit the summit.

For this hike, I chose to go solo because Cascade and Porter are often called “beginner-friendly” by high peaks standards. The trails are well-traveled and usually busy—so I figured if something did go wrong, I wouldn’t be alone for long. It felt like the right place to test myself, without completely stepping off the ledge into the unknown.

But heading out solo also means you are the backup plan. No shared gear. No one else to carry the first aid kit or the extra snacks. It’s all on you—which means what’s in your pack really matters.

Now, I’ll be honest—my pack lives fully loaded. It’s always prepped for an overnight. You never know when the urge to disappear into the woods for a mental reset might hit. Plus, at 20 pounds, it makes for a solid lunchtime ruck workout at the office.

But climbing two high peaks? That’s not the time to haul a mobile campsite up a mountain.

So there I was, in the Cascade parking area, unzipping compartments and basically performing gear triage. Out came the stove, tent, sleep system, extra clothes, and backup everything. What stayed? The essentials: snacks, water, a filtration system, poop kit, and a mini med kit—enough to keep me fueled, safe, and warm on a cold windy summit.

All in, I got it down to a lean 10-pound pack. Light enough to not drag me down on the boulder scrambles, but still enough to handle whatever the trail might throw at me.

This hike had been weeks in the making. I’d tacked vacation days onto a work trip, planning to hit several peaks, starting with Cascade and Porter on Sunday. We rolled in Saturday and set up a cozy RV basecamp—glamping at its finest. But Mother Nature had other plans. Classic Adirondack mood swing: valley temps in the 30s overnight and a forecast for 90s by midweek.

I hadn’t packed my winter layers. It’s June. Summit temps should be cool—not freezing. So Sunday was a no-go. I pushed the hike back a day to when the summit would warm up closer to 50.

Even Monday didn’t go as planned. I had this vision of hitting the trail at first light… but vacation mode hit hard. I didn’t get to the trailhead until 8 a.m.—just in time to snag the last parking spot.

After one final pack shuffle and strategic trekking pole decision to pack one and use one, freeing up a hand for root and rock scrambles, I stepped off.

I brought 3 liters of water, one with electrolytes. And I’ll say this: I should have brought a fourth. I used my Smartwater bottle rig from the Loyalsock Trail, which was great for flat hikes, not so much for climbing. I found myself constantly parched, stopping more than I wanted to. A hydration bladder would’ve let me sip and stride. Lesson learned: drink like a rucker, not like a backpacker.

As for the hike itself—Cascade started climbing right out of the gate. No warm-up stroll, just up. Consistent incline, nothing wildly steep, which made it easy to find a rhythm. I get why it’s considered beginner-friendly for a high peak. But “beginner-friendly” still means boulder scrambles, exposed slabs, and terrain that demands your focus—and your legs.

Cascade was my first summit of the day. I picked it because it’s known for its 360° views, and I knew I’d need that boost—that summit high—to fuel the push over to Porter.

The views did not disappoint. Bluebird skies. Cold, gusting winds. And me, arms wide, jumping with joy on the summit marker. Number one of 46, and I did it solo. A year ago, this would’ve crushed me. Today? I was breathing steady, legs strong. That wasn’t luck. That was months of rucking paying off.

After a wind-chilled snack break nestled behind a rock warmed by the sun, I spotted Porter in the distance. Shorter, less dramatic-looking, and well within reach. I felt good—legs fresh, energy high—so I set off.

But, I’ve got a little visual quirk—I only can see out of 1 eye at a time and that means, No depth perception. Which means descending from high elevations? Not my strong suit. Every step down becomes a trust fall with gravity. So yes, I butt-scooted down a fair bit of Cascade. Zero shame. My motto: better to butt scoot than get butt hurt.

I made my way back into the tree line and to the trail split to Porter. Oh Porter. 

The descent into the col was fine—some blowdown, a few water-logged sections—but nothing terrible. And then came The Mud.

You always hear about ADK mud, but it’s a different thing to experience it. Black, sticky, stinky, and deep. Trail etiquette says you walk through it, not around it. But when it’s a calf-deep bog and your trekking pole disappears to the hilt? All bets are off.

I was balanced on a log, stabbing for solid ground. Saw a rock. Went for it. And that rock betrayed me. My left foot sank, then my right, and suddenly I was doing a TikTok-worthy mud dance. Both boots submerged, socks soaked, legs coated. It wasn’t pretty—but it was so Adirondack.

Still, I was close. I wasn’t turning back.

I sloshed my way to Porter’s summit—less dramatic than Cascade, but still beautiful in its own right. I flopped down, devoured the rest of my snacks, and stared at my once-brown boots, now wearing thick black bricks of mountain funk. The descent wasn’t going to be fun.

Porter didn’t let me down easy. The climb down was slow, muddy, and full of awkward slips. And when you’re middle aged, going down is WAY harder than going up so this trip back was going to test me just ask much as the way up. 

As I made my way back, hikers going up glanced at my boots with wide eyes and whispered, probably questioning if they were ready for what lay ahead.

And somewhere in that long, muddy descent, it hit me: I’m lucky.

Not just because I made it. But because I could. I could climb two peaks in one day. I could do it solo. I could do it strong. Minimal breath breaks. Just steady effort, refueling, and keeping pace. That kind of stamina doesn’t show up out of nowhere—it’s built under weight, one ruck at a time.

I passed a couple sitting on a boulder, looking wiped. They asked how much further. In the high peaks, we don’t say “you’re almost there”—because false hope is dangerous out here. I sat and chatted. They were barely a fifth of the way in. I told them the truth: today might not be your day, but the fact you tried puts you way ahead of most. A year ago, I was where you are. And with grit and consistency, you’ll get there—and it’ll actually be fun, not punishment.

They turned back. I saw them later at the trailhead, smiling. That stuck with me.

Because this wasn’t just about summiting Cascade and Porter. This was about climbing out of who I used to be. And every step of this muddy, windy, butt-scooting hike reminded me—I’m not just capable of hard things anymore. I crave them.

Thanks to rucking.

So what does it mean to climb these peaks?

In the Adirondacks, there’s a title reserved for those who summit all 46 high peaks over 4,000 feet: the ADK 46er. More than 14,000 people have officially registered as 46ers—but many more have quietly completed the journey without ever submitting the paperwork.

Turns out… one of those quiet legends is my dad.

On my breaks during the climb, I had just enough cell service to swap a few texts with him—only to find out he had hiked all 46 solo, years ago, as a way to reset and heal after splitting with my mom. I had no idea. And suddenly, it all made sense. The wildness in me—the pull toward the trail, the solo grit—it’s in my blood.

He admitted it wasn’t the safest move, doing them all solo, but we both understand the truth about these mountains: they don’t care about your plans. They don’t care about your training, your timeline, or your sense of invincibility. If you’re not paying attention, if you lose your respect for the terrain—they’ll take something from you. Sometimes, everything. The weekly ranger recaps are proof enough of that.

With his encouragement and a few “please be smart” reminders, I made it to the top of #1 and #2 on my own 46er list. And I’ll be honest—44 more sounds like a lot. It is a lot. But now I’ve got this big, beautiful goal pulling me forward. I’m not in a race. This will take years. And that’s fine. Because every peak is going to come with a new story, a new person I’ll meet, or a new lesson I didn’t know I needed.

And the best part? Rucking has given me the strength to not just dream about this journey—but to live it.

So let’s recap—

This was my first ever solo high peaks hike. I tackled Cascade and Porter, #1 and #2 on my journey to become an ADK 46er. It wasn’t perfect—plans changed, summit temps dropped, the trail was soaked, and the mud was out for revenge—but I did it. I felt strong. I felt steady. And I felt… ready. Not just for this, but for all the mountains still ahead—literal and metaphorical.

Now here’s your challenge:

I want you to pick your Cascade. Choose something that feels just a little out of reach—but doable if you really commit. Maybe it’s your first solo hike, or your longest ruck yet. Maybe it’s putting on a small pack and getting up of that sofa for the first time. Whatever it is—pick it, plan it, and do it. And when the mud hits—because it will—remember that every badass has to start somewhere. Why not now?

And with that…

Thanks for joining me on the trail today. I hope this story reminded you that progress doesn’t always look pretty—but it does look powerful. Whether you’re just starting your own 46er list, chasing a goal that scares you, or simply trying to put one foot in front of the other, I’m here to cheer you on. So check in with us on your journey @justruckingit or head on over to share your story on Substack.  I love to cheer you on for your life goals. Because,

Life is rucking wonderful—especially when you climb higher than you thought you could.