or How I Learned to Stop Fearing and Love the Astro Crag.
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| Mt. Washington from the East |
September, 2011 - Gorham, NH
It was quite late when Eric and I pulled in to the Moose Brook Campground. The night was starry, dotted with blue-gray clouds, and the skyward summit of Madison was ink black, silhouetted by the waxing moon. We pulled up to our regrettably prepaid campsite -- regrettable because the ranger had gone home and we could have used the site without paying (I'll live, I suppose) -- where we found our dear friend Daniel sitting by a small fire, his tent already set up. Daniel is a jolly man, kind and good-hearted, with an endless well of sophomoric jokes that can please any male crowd (at least any male crowd worth hanging around). He's an avid climber and would be our lead for the weekend -- his hiking mantra is "let no one pass us on the trail." He rummaged through the trunk of his car (license plate: VHALEN) and procured a few Budweiser AmeriCans and handed them to Eric and me. We sat and chatted by the ever-growing fire and waited for our final companion, Pat.
It was nearly 1 AM when our company became whole, and Pat quickly arranged his sleeping gear so that he could enjoy a short time by the fire before we slinked off to sleep. Pat's a tall, handsome character who saddles the outrageous side of things, always quick to the punch. I'd known Coughlin and Pat since I was in high school. They were a part of the tribe,
along with Colin, who accepted me into their group wholeheartedly. I'd met Eric a few years later and he was instantly likable, with a favorable whit and an obvious sense of adventure and mischief. He was quickly adopted by my clan. This adventure, however, would be our first hike together, and it would be a doozie.
Our goal was to summit Mt. Washington via Tuckerman's Ravine. Now, many, many people climb Washington by this route -- heck, we even saw eight-year-old kids and dogs climbing this trail. That doesn't mean it would be easy, and we were excited for the challenge. Despite what you may or may not have inferred from this blog, I have never climbed Mt. Washington, and it seemed like a right of passage that I must undertake. When I was younger and in the Scouts, my troop would have an annual backpacking trip that would run from Madison to Washington. They would hold it the week after my summer camp ended, and by that point in the summer I'd had enough of scouting and such (didn't want to be tempted to throw anyone off a ridge). And let's not forget the tribulations hiking in August heat. So every year, I skipped the trip. In retrospect, it was a poor decision (but I'm fairly certain it's not the only poor decision from my teens). Now was my chance to get this hike under my belt, with fine weather and great folks.
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| Pat, me, Eric. Don't we look like we're havin' fun? Photo via Pat. |
It was crisp and foggy when I woke. Dew hung to my gear, my back was a bit stiff, and my eyes seemed to bulge out of my head. I shook Eric awake and we exited the tent. Next to the smoldering ashes of the fire sat Daniel, his eyes red and smiling. He was in a peculiar mood, possessed by the giddiness that accompanies a sleepless night. You see, Daniel does software for a company, and this software needs to be checked periodically to make sure there are no bugs in it. But, he needs to do this while no one else is on the server. This ideal time happens to be at 4 AM on Saturday morning --
this Saturday morning. He had therefore enjoyed little sleep. Eric busted out the camp stove and set about making coffee while Daniel tortured the sleepy Pat awake. We had intended to make a quick breakfast and be on our way, but were unable to leave the camp for about an hour and a half after waking. But soon, dear reader, we were on our way. The hills and mountains were but kissed with the flavors and shades of autumn, and a slight humidity clung to the chill air. It was a long drive to the base of Washington, filled with speeding, cursing and a bit of getting lost, but soon we were at the bustling parking lot for Tuckerman's Ravine. The lot was flooded with cars, so we had to park a bit away from the trail head. No worries, I thought. There's plenty of forest for all of these folks.
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| Wouldn't you want to live here? |
The beginning of the trip was quaint. The sun was up and bright, but the day was cool, with a crisp, autumn breeze clearing out the summer smells. Early leaves fell from the trees above, sprinkling the trail with a pale green blanket. The path was littered with novice day-hikers, toting fluffy dogs, toddlers on leashes, and elderly parents with them. We passed people speaking French and German, and others stopping for an early lunch. We were about a mile and a half in when our pace began to slow. Daniel was not feeling like himself, and it showed. His face became pale, gray, and his eyes were unfocused. We sat down under a hemlock for a minute -- letting people pass us on the trail, much to Daniel's dismay -- and I handed him some M&Ms while he sipped water from his bladder straw. After a few moments, Daniel got up and marched on, determined to push but not necessarily feeling better. Tenaciously, he refused to let how he felt impact what he was doing. We lagged a bit at first, but once his sugar and water levels were back up, Daniel was at the front of the group, his hiking sticks clinking on the rocks as we walked.
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Viewing the way to the summit.
Terrible children not shown.
Photo by Pat. |
Initially, the way into the forest was a low slope with a rocky trail, shaded by hemlock, fir, pine, birch and locus. But as our day drew on, the trail became steeper and less shaded. Winded, I'd taken my jacket and long sleeve shirt off, and Eric had stripped down to shorts. Ahead, we heard a ruckus; many people milling about and talking. Passing a ranger station that boasted shudders adorned with simple pine tree outlines, we came to a small wood shingle-sided building with a large porch. We filled up our water bottles and considered staying for lunch. Children milled about while parents smoked with cigarettes. Some moody teen, dismal at having to spend his weekend in the fucking wilderness (like, what the fuck mom and dad?), had plugged his iPod into a set of speakers and proceeded to blast some terrible music into the forests around us (what was the terrible music? I cannot recall, but any music in this situation is an affront to my senses and sensibilities). No one else seemed to notice or, at least, mind this imposition. I grimaced at the teen and declared that we could remain in this spot no longer. I took a sip of sweet mountain water from my canteen and we moved on.
As the trail grew higher, we passed fewer and fewer people. I'd thought this meant that most people had stopped at the building and turned around. When we came to a clearing, I realized this was not so. Ahead of us was a towering, granite wall, covered in stunted pine trees, purple and yellow wildflowers, and waterfalls. Dotting the way to the summit was a parade of hikers, crawling up like a line of ants on their way to a feast. Water trickled over mossy rocks while Bicknell’s thrushes and boreal chickadees danced between shrubs. As we approached the main waterfall, the trail took a drastic turn upwards. Giant rocks littered the way, appearing to have been tossed there by a careless, angry giant. I looked out at the valley and spotted clearings in the trees where mammoth boulders had fallen, causing major rock slides. I hoped to be far away from any such slide, if one were to happen soon (but still within viewing distance). The trail was marked by a white line on the rocks, highlighted by a path that had been carved through the rust-orange, sea green and gun gray lichens that lived on the boulders. The sky was steely gray, with low clouds passing quickly overhead, bringing a crisp air with them. As the breeze billowed through my t-shirt, I buttoned up my flannel and threw on a pakol hat a friend serving in Afghanistan had recently sent me (with great mystery, I might add! Ask me about it another time).
The going was rough, but we raced to the top. With every rock scaled, we imagined the peak would be over the next bluff -- it was not so. I was jumping from rock to rock, passing every person I came across, in a near fury to reach the summit. I'd pause for a few moments, keen to keep my companions in sight, then truck on. Stopping, I stared out at the surrounding peaks, all below me by hundreds of feet at this point. Sunlight began to peak through the broken bits of cloud, revealing a wintry blue sky. A bumpy carpet of woolly green extending as far as I could see. The granite ridge sloped down to Boott Spur on my left, and to Eisenhower, beyond. Ahead, I could see fresh snow on the mountain, and the spires of meteorological equipment protruding from the zenith. Eric and I made for the last bit of the trail, wind lightly blowing bits of snow in our faces. Hand over hand, we scrambled. And, just as we arrived near the top, a car drove by us. We stood up; before us was a guard rail and the black asphalt of the Mt. Washington road. Drivers whizzed up and down, slowing to take photos of their excursion to the White Mountains. It was an odd sight, and a strange sensation to plant my feet on a road after being on such rugged terrain, where so many had lost their lives to the elements, to the mountain.
We made our way to the visitor center, where we waited for Daniel and Pat. A squad -- a pack? -- of motorcycles carelessly zipped by us, nearly forcing us off the road. This hardly felt like the mountain we'd been conquering all day. Atop Washington, a foot of snow covered most of the bare ground. Icicles clung horizontally to weather antenna and building sides, proof of the unearthly weather that occurs on the mountain. When Pat and Daniel caught up to us, we made our way to the top of the top, to the sign that said:
MT WASHINGTON SUMMIT
6288 FT 1917 M
(Doesn't it sound more impressive in feet?) We found ourselves at the back of a long line of tourists waiting to take their photo next to the post, like eager passengers waiting for a new ride in Disney (or any ride in Disney, for that matter). We were next in line, when a group of French Canadian tourists tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to be greeted by their pleading expressions. One woman asked, "Please, we are on a tour bus. It leaves in 45 minutes. Could we jump ahead of you?" The favor seemed ridiculous, but I wasn't in a mood to argue about the absurdity of the request, so we obliged them. They handed me what felt like 15 cameras and I took their photos. I handed back the cameras and, as they walked away, I asked, "Wait, would you mind getting one of us?"
"Désolé," the woman responded. "Je ne peux pas vous aider."
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| Daniel, me, Eric. We're still havin' fun. Photo by Pat. |
The group left. I turned to the group behind us and repeated the question, but was told, "nous ne parlons pas anglais." So Pat, Daniel, Eric and I took turns taking photos of each other, figuring that was as good as it'd get. We picked up our gear and made way for the visitor center -- overrun with tourists, with a dash of hikers -- for hot coffee and a bit of chow. I sat, eating my PB&J, watching the throngs of people walking past, checking their watches to be sure they didn't miss the train back down (what would they do if they missed it?
Walk the whole damn way?).
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| The way back down. Photo by Pat. |
I changed my socks and we rested for a bit, before we picked up our heavy bags (they seem heavier. Are they heavier?) and made our way back down the mountain. The rumble of a legion of Harleys disappeared into the mountain air as we walked further and further from New England's highest parking lot. People often think the way down will be easier, and in some ways it is. You're working
with gravity now. But don't let this lead you into a false sense of ease, as the way down requires careful footing. Not to mention you are, by now, a bit tired. Step by step, we made our way back down to the valley floor, feeling like a small group of mountain goats, meandering our way through the rocky mountainside. We stopped at the waterfall, where we enjoyed a smuggled Yuengling -- they should really sell that stuff up here already -- and I cherished a small pinch of tobacco in my pipe. The forest was quiet now, ne'er a hiker crossing our path. Back under the forest canopy, the day grew dim. At first, we figured it was because we were under the trees, but soon we realized it was because we were ascending the east side of the mountain, and the sun had settled beyond the peak of Washington.
The forest grew dark swiftly, and we had but one headlight for the group. Carefully, we walked through the forest, as the trail began to level off and switch back. I remembered the story
Trail Dad had told us, how he and his buddy had been too stoned to get off Washington in time, and they'd had to crawl to get out. I was happy to not be crawling out. Ahead, we spotted a train of lights moving slowly through the forest. As they approached, we could see it was a group of a dozen people, carrying small candle-lit lanterns. I waved and said hello as they walked by, but they passed on without saying a word, staring solemnly ahead.
Finally, we arrived at the trail head visitor center. To our surprise, the area was still bright with twilight. Famished, we hurried to the car and made our way to find grub. Traveling down the road, I stared up at the transforming sky. Above Jefferson and Madison, the air was crimson and sherbet, fading to dull blue and purple, dotted with glimmering stars.
Around 10, we pulled in to the Gorham Wal Mart parking lot -- the only joint open, I swear -- and parked Pat's Rav 4 amidst 18-wheelers and beat-up pick-ups. Inside, we grabbed a case of beer and a tube of ground beef for burgers. I watched a family, seemingly covered head-to-foot in dirt, pick out a BMX bicycle for their chubby son. We left the Mart at the same time as they, and watched the boy ride off with pride into the night, his butt crack exposed for all to see.
We headed back to Moose Brook Campground and found no ranger on call. Finding the most remote campground around, we scavenged for firewood, made our dinner, and set our watches for 6 AM so we could leave before the ranger showed up to collect the campground payment. We devoured the burgers Pat and Eric made for us, but there was one left no one could finish. We didn't want to attract bears, so we tossed it in the fire, watching it sizzle while we talked deep into the night. An hour or so later, I took a stick and broke the still sizzling burger apart. While the outside was a charred puck, inside, the meat was still pink and juicy. We laughed at the grossness of the meat, while Pat shouted "that's inside you! that's inside you!," doused the fire, and went to bed, still chuckling about our day's adventure.
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It was strange, I thought. That burger had been cooking for almost an hour and a half, but it never cooked all the way through. Washington had not been what I thought it would be. I'd imagined a wild, open wilderness, with a couple of hardy hikers along the trail, but found something quite different. Had my image of the mountain been tarnished, charred? Sure, I guess a little. But on the inside, I was still ready to head back out, spend time with dear friends on the trail. I rested my brain and prepared for sleep.
No, I thought then. That metaphor is much too silly.
