My feet were already wet by 8 a.m., and they stayed that way until dark.

No, check that; my feet got wet around noon the previous day, when we hiked in to the Adirondack lean-to in the rain. It wasn’t the rain that was the problem, it was the trail.

The trails in the Adirondacks are the worst I've ever seen, mud-choked ruts made even more wretched by over-use.

In theory, the Adirondacks, of New York, are not much different than the White Mountains, of New Hampshire. Both are ancient, once-mighty ranges worn down by time and glaciers. The Adirondacks get the prize for being older. In fact, they are among the oldest mountains in the world.

But time is not the problem, either.

While the White Mountains get their share of visitors, the Adirondacks are descended upon by pumped-up Canadians from the north and the strong-thighed denizens of New York and New Jersey from the south. On any given weekend in the summer or fall, you will find the shelters packed and the trails crowded.

Not today. We had deliberately gone mid-week to avoid the throngs. The shelter we picked was out of the way, the mountains we targeted more remote and less sexy than the grand peaks along the Mount Marcy ridge. There was not a soul on the trail. The forecast was for sun.

It started to drizzle the moment we got out of the car. Before we were a mile in, I had to dig out my raincoat and pack cover. The foliage was a tad past peak, but even under the overcast the trail was illuminated by a ghostly yellow light.

The shelter was empty. It was with relief and gratitude that we accepted its protection. Despite everything, we were about to engage in that sacred rite: sleeping in the October woods.

A big part of that magic is the fire. Despite the rain, I was confident I could nurse one to life. I was wrong. Even the tinder was soaked.

At one point it looked as if the fire might win out against all odds, but it started to rain again. All my tricks had failed. We played a round of cards and went to bed at 6 p.m.

No sooner had we settled down than something like the wind rippled across the legs of my sleeping bag. It was an animal, but I’ll never know what kind. It fled before I could grab my headlamp. We heard it sneaking around once or twice during the night. The next morning we found that all our paper napkins had been chewed.

The rain became a light dusting of snow, then stopped sometime before dawn. The morning was gray and unfriendly. I put on my dry socks.

We were aiming for two so-called "trailess" peaks. In fact, there is a trail of sorts, a narrow, muddy thing strewn with boulders and cross-hatched with branches that rake your face and rip at your clothes. For perhaps half a mile, it followed some boulders up a stream.

Up on the ridge was a junction informally known as “Times Square.” Letters and arrows indicating the various peaks were scratched into rocks, but they were nearly illegible.

While it was fall down below, it was winter up here. The hemlocks and pines were silvery with frost, blown around by an arctic wind. The boulders on the trail were glazed with ice. We made a false start, retraced our steps and laboriously found our way to the first peak.

The second was easier. Except for the mud. Long black bogs of it, pooled with cold water. I went ankle deep again and again. Once I could feel it trying to suck the boots off my feet with real intention.

I think the sun came out for 30 seconds, but it might have been 25. Still, beneath the overcast, we had a good view of the other peaks. The bigger ones, like Marcy, had snow on top.

You don’t hike down these trails so much as lower your body from boulder to boulder. By the time we hit the shelter, the feel of my toes squishing in my socks seemed ancient.

Yesterday’s rain had turned parts of the trail into a stream, and we slogged through this on the way out. The mud and water no longer mattered to my feet. When it started to rain again, I didn’t even bother to fish out my gear.

The drive from the trail head to the nearest town was dark and endless. I rode barefoot, hoping to dry my ghostly, blistered skin. I drank in the heat from the dashboard. By the time we reached town I was ready for that other sacred October rite: pizza in a strange bar.

Mushrooms and onions.

Another good day in the mountains.

Columns by Fred Contrada are published weekly on MassLive.com and in The Republican.