Sunday, June 4, 2023 – Lafayette
A fitful sleep. Up at 5 to continue sorting and figuring what to bring and what to leave. Devour yesterday mornings saved half-omelet of spinach, broccoli, sausage and cheese. So good!
What is it that I worry about? What can actually go wrong? What is it that puts me in this state of anxiety and dislocation?
Hours later, packs stuffed in the car, “butts in our seats” at a little after 7:30. We’re all nervous, all excited and not sure of so many things we can worry about – the open vulnerability of the ridge, the variability of weather, this afternoon’s forecast of storms, and who knows what else we’ll find to worry on.
Roger drops us off at The Basin parking lot in Franconia Notch. Gray clouds and spitting rain as we head up the Liberty Spring trail into the dark woods. A steady slow ascent over rocks and roots slick with rain. The showers slow, stop. A tease of brilliant blue sky appears through the treetops before disappearing in dark clouds.
Nothing feels familiar or right, my pack loose, steps insecure. I’m not yet into the swing of the trail. I’m reminded again that it takes me some four days to acclimate. By then we’ll be in the Kinsmans perhaps and I’ll have the surety of feet that is not mine today.
I fuss with my new pack. It’s not as good, maybe just not as familiar as Dad’s old green pack that I’ve worn these past few years since I started backpacking.
I go to step forward, fall back and down hard. What happened? I twist around to see my pack cover snagged on a branch.
“Are you alright?” the concerned young hiker behind me asks.
“No problem!” I say. “Just fine!”
“Do you need a hand up?”
“No, no, I got it,” I say as I stumble to stand.
Wow is my little finger sore.
I let the group of young hikers pass. How I hate hearing footsteps on my tail urging me faster and forward. Perhaps its why I fell.
This morning I want to ramble, to slow to the trail. But today is no day for lallygagging. Instead, a long day ahead and a day to keep moving, to stay warm and dry.
We pause at the white army tent at Liberty Spring Tentsite. Mack bounds out to meet us, his third day of his summer caretaker duty here. He’s full of chatter, then disappears as quickly as he appeared. We continue to ascend through white fog.
Another dreamy spot of blue breaks out briefly. At the ridge, a turn to drizzle. With no views today, we won’t head down to bag Mount Liberty.
As we ascend, we turn out onto the ridge in white fog and drizzle. Nothing out there to see but all this beneath our feet: this white Trillium and tiny starflowers peeking through snow. Reds and blues, purple and gray. The views be damned, I am in love.
How many times have I hiked a ridge like this cursing the fog, willing the clouds to part and sun and blue to break. But today, all I want to see is this, this fragile beauty at my feet.
“I guess a good thing about this weather is that you can’t see Lafayette looming ahead”, offers the passing hiker. I can imagine it out there, rising in the fog.
Slow steps, wet and slow.
Who was that who said it was flat up here on the ridge? Wisps of snow turn to sharp stings of hail in wind. Now howling lashing wind. Now fat feathers of snow here on the peak of Lafayette.
I pause to take pictures, fingers frozen.
And once again, how is this, I know how happy I am. Here in these “miserable” conditions I feel buoyant, alive, joyful, immersed in the beauty of this place. I can’t get enough of it: the rime ice crusted sign, frozen snow on trees, snow sculpted by wind. For sure the promise of a warm mug of tea and hot dinner a mile down the trail helps buoy my mood.
Three young men in cotton sweatshirts and baggy shorts pass us by. Its June, right? Who would think snow? But up here above tree-line anything can happen and often does. A young woman died here last year trying to finish her set of 4000 footers. She packed light, took a wrong turn in the trail as the cold descended.
In the rocky foundation of an 19th century hotel, Jen pulls out her emergency shelter for us to get warm.
I am not a light packer. I’m packed for survival and warmth. I have enough food for our whole group for days. But I’m ready if I end up stuck here.
Descending the trail, I’ve had enough of stinging snow crystals and wind. I shout to the wind, “This is miserable!” Wonder what am I doing here? My pack cover flies off, I tighten it down. At last, the gray shingles of Greenleaf Hut at the top of the rock path ahead.
I strip off wet clothes to hang on hooks in the top bunk. Bang my head once, twice, three times on the low ceiling. I think later of how much better it would have been to change in the toilet stalls. The delight of warm clothes however makes it all worth it.
Alas, I don’t see Dad’s headlamp hanging up here that he left eight years ago.
Climb down the ladder, bent over with a sore lower back and feeling and looking like an old man. I am not enamored with my new pack. It’s too heavy as well – I weighed in at 33 pounds this morning, carrying too much as is my wont. Too much water I never did drink. Too much food I didn’t eat.
Bent and slow, I walk over to get a cup of tea as we meet to talk about plans. Tomorrow we are scheduled to head to Galehead but there’s a promise of more snow and high winds.
It’s a hard decision to bail. I’m asked what I think and I think of Dad who hiked and skied until he was 85 because he always knew when to stop and when to bail. He never got injured, never broke a bone. Well, perhaps if he did get injured, he never told us about it. Perhaps its not so hard to bail with a forecast like this and looking out for the good of the group.
We are able to change our reservations to Zealand and will hike down the Bridle Path and then get a ride to the trail into Zealand. It will give Pat about a ½ mile day on the AT for the day tomorrow but we will be smart and safe.
The wind howls, the ridge looms above.
We settle in for cards. Jen’s pack of cards is washed of color and is all gray and somehow supposed to be good for your brain. We are brain weary from watching our footing on wet rock all day. White fog descends outside the hut. The cards are as confusing and obscure as the landscape up here.
The comfort of cards. Time up here in the mountain, at the long wood table in the hut with the smell of this evening’s stew slows and stills us to another rhythm, to life in community and play.
We are deliberate, slow. Snarky over cards and steaming cups of hot chocolate that once again never before tasted so good.
Let’s see, is it my turn?
“My family would play so much faster.”
In unison, “Shut up, Jen.”
I vow on Wednesday that when we’re home I’ll pull out warmer gloves and bring new playing cards!
My left leg, my lower back, my right thigh are all in need of a good night’s rest. As I sit down to write and remember what happened today, I realize I should definitely stretch. I get up to do that. I am not yet attuned to the jostle of the trail.
Day hikers in cotton tee shirts and hoodies crowd the other tables. We glance over at them, whispering our concerns, feeling so glad we are here for the night.
“They’ve got a long way down and a cold wet way of it….What were they thinking?”
“Cotton is death,” Dad drilled into us whenever we headed into the woods. I worry about them heading down. Yes, “What were they thinking?”
The cotton-clad hikers now gone and the close of a delicious hot dinner.
“Bring the leftovers down here,” Stick says from the end of the supper table. He’s a tall thin man in his late 60’s who’s finishing tomorrow a nine-year commitment to section-hike the AT. He’s been out for a month this time and can’t keep up with the calorie loss. He’s lost 17 pounds this time around. Tomorrow he’s headed over to Galehead despite the weather report.
That night, I dream of coming to a dark road, headlamps of approaching cars in the distance. I stop at the edge of the road, run as the headlamps approach, fall, can’t get up. Instead of getting run over, I decide to wake up. Fall asleep to the roar of wind.
Navigating Through Change 