Tag: hiking

Section Hiker, Weather Watcher (Part 7): You Are Not Home Until You Are Home

Thursday June 8, 2023 – The Kinsmans 2 – You Are Not Home Until You are Home 

I fall asleep. How, I do not know, but I wake to dawn’s early gray light and the rumble not of snoring but water.  

The murmur of the stream, and the patter of water dripping from trees.  

No, it’s not rain. Not yet anyway.

Our bunkmate snores on as we rise to boil water and make breakfast and head off up and up and then down, then up, then down again, a long rocky descent. Here on Day 5, I’ve settled at last into the way of the trail. The Kinsman Pond shelter provides a good stop for lunch but I’m soon cold and stride off down and further down the dark trail by the rushing stream and at last – at long last, and not a second too late, see the roof of the Lonesome Lake hut through the trees.  

Soon my friends arrive and I treat everyone to hot drinks and snacks and a very welcome warm up and revival before what promises to be a last gentle 2.7 mile descent to our ride home and what promises to be another great dinner.  

Alas, the day is not over, not by a long shot. We stride warm bellied and merrily along the aforementioned gentle dirt trail. I wonder why anyone would go up to Lonesome Lake the way I always had gone, up the steep rocky trail from the Lafayette Campground. We’re all chattering along and dreaming of dinner when the trail descends into the raging Cascade Brook. I sit to take off my boots and begin to wade across, boots in hand. 

As the others catch up, calls of “Wait! Come back!”  There must be a better and safer place to cross.  

I put back on my boots and we walk down the trail that appears on our map to be the Basin Trail.  And then, suddenly the trail ends. 

What do you do at the end of a trail you thought was the trail? Do you bushwhack? We bushwhack. Bushwhacking has such an adventurous lilt to it. I picture men with long swords cutting back the underbrush. Bushwhacking in fact is not nearly so romantic or easy. We stumble over soft and uneven ground and through a tangle of prickers. Sharp low branches snap back into our faces.

We trip along, willing the woods to turn back to a trail. Alas its now clear that whatever we saw on the map as the trail we were looking for was wrong. We can now see the trail clearly, on the other side of the stream, rushing and roaring beside us. We scan hopefully up and downstream for a better and safer place to cross. At last, find a spot where the stream widens and slows. We wade in boots and socks and all across the stream onto the Basin Trail on the other side. Its steep and rocky and not the nice trail I’d imagined it to be. But yes, better than bushwhacking. We trudge along, glad to have found it, until the trail veers left into the stream and crosses back over it to the other side. No way! Way. The way through is through. This cannot be. This is.  

I wade across the stream in my boots a second time. Put down my pack and wade back in and across to pick up Pat’s pack despite her protests. Go back and forth a third and fourth time to retrieve other’s packs. Good heavens.  This has been an adventure already.  My feet wet, boots soaked. The sun begins to set over the hills, the valley darkens. We scurry down the trail, but something has to give. 

Jen and I determine that we’ll head off to get the car leaving the others to wait at the Basin Parking Lot.  On the map it doesn’t look far and on the drive down Franconia Notch on 93 it isn’t far. But when we get to the Basin, the trail twists and winds on and on and on. 

Are you sure this is it?

Are you sure we didn’t miss a turn?

Alas, sure. The car ahead, further down this way. We go on and on down the bike trail a mile and a half.  Turn off the trail at last into a parking lot and the joy of the car being there. Weariness turns to elation. 

And second guessing. 

Could we have done it differently when we came to the stream the first time?  

Should we have turned back up to the Cascade Brook Trail when we crossed the stream?  

Should we have bushwhacked?  

We don’t know what to think. We think and rethink our decision making and why we made the choices we did. We text Roger to let him know that we’ll be home in an hour. We pick up Marsha, Pat and Barb and arrive home at Roger and Marsha’s for a luxurious hot shower and more laundry and a meal surpassing my wildest dreams of steak, Brussel sprouts, beer, pie and ice cream.  

Maps confirm that our decision was the right one. Backtracking up the Basin Brook Trail to the AT Cascade Brook trail would have been much longer by a long shot.  Despite having to cross the stream twice, everyone got down safely. We are all elated to see that a right decision was made.  

And humbled to see how hard it is to make decisions in these situations – to go forward or backward, bushwhack or what?  

All week we’ve been chasing choices. Do we go over to Galehead or head back down? Do we bushwhack and cross the stream at a safer place? Is the summer or winter bag the best choice?  And where is the sun and how do we find it?  

Section Hiker, Weather Watcher (Part 5): The Kinsman’s: Moose

Wednesday, June 7 – Kinsman’s 1: Moose

Years ago, Dad and I did this hike through the Kinsman’s, his last bit of the AT in New Hampshire to complete. I wanted to mark his effort and hike it with him.  

This early morning, low gray clouds, drizzle. We gather for a picture in the dirt parking lot. Roger takes off to meet us again in a couple of days after we descend into Franconia Notch.

It’s so quiet out here but for the brook that really is babbling beside the trail. It reminds me of my newest favorite trail here, Bridal Veil Falls, where Betty Davis and her lover fell in love and where a marker recalls a love that came to an end with an untimely accident.  

Later this morning as the trail turns from the brook into drizzle and cloud, no sound, just steady breathing, the patter of boots. No birds, no road, no hikers on the trail. I’m far enough ahead I can’t hear the women chattering  behind.  

Yes, its wet. Drizzly and cold and wonderful. The “wonderful” of it all surprises me once again. Those years ago hiking this trail with Dad I just didn’t get it. Didn’t get why anyone liked hiking, the plodding burden of it all. That day I used one hiking pole reluctantly, feeling too much like an old man I didn’t want to be. Fussed and worried about Dad navigating rocks when I should have worried about myself falling on this steep, rough trail badly in need of repair. Why would anyone want to do this? I thought then. 

Today, I couldn’t imagine backpacking without two poles. And yes, the quiet wonder of everything that is here. 

When hypothermia sets in, your brain shuts down, your mind retreats inside yourself. A few hours up the trail and Pat is cold. I think of the hikers on Lafayette with cotton tee shirts and shorts.  

We pause for lunch for Pat to warm up and all of us to put on an extra layer. Devour bits of chicken from last night’s feast.

Up the trail, glistening pellets of fresh Moose poop. Moose up here, what another wonder.  I’ve yet to see one since moving up here to the North Country.  They are disappearing due to ticks moving up this way in the warmer weather. I’ve heard stories of them being found covered in thousands of ticks that suck their blood and strength.  

From the one moose I have seen hiking, I know they are elusive, still and quiet and out there watching.  They can’t see well but can hear and smell.  Smell uslong before they ever see us. I see them out there smelling us now, standing so still, so quiet we mistake them for trees.  

This is not the hike we would have chosen, the sun promising to be as elusive as the moose this next week. And I’m glad we are out here today, despite the weather. You could miss the Whites if you waited for the sun, its one of the cloudiest regions in the country.  

The trail continues dark, cold, increasingly steep. We grunt and groan (or is that me grunting and groaning), hoisting ourselves up on the next boulder, pulling ourselves up by tree roots rubbed smooth by so many hands. The trail detours around downed trees that have been down for a long time. Water pools in the trail. Ahead, yet another tree over the trail. Neither Jen nor I notice it and bang our heads hard. I swear loudly. She falls backwards. 

Whatever was the top, we missed it in the fog and rain and after a short descent arrive at the Eliza Brook Shelter. The old dark one that Dad and I had stayed in has been replaced by this bright new lean-to. 

As we boil water and prepare for dinner (Lasagna with Meat Sauce, serves 2, 75% of your daily sodium, 850 calories – Perfect!) we are joined by two young through-hiking brothers.  Marsha is delighted that they too are wearing bright yellow dishwashing gloves like she’s had on all day. Perfect for this kind of weather, they all agree. 

The brothers are continuing down to Franconia Notch this late afternoon – another 9 miles. As for us, we can’t imagine another step and prepare for bed. Instructions to sleep with our heads toward the outside, “The mice run around the edges.” Promises of screams if mice in fact do run over our heads. Shy confessions of snoring. Silent vows to wop them awake if they do.  

I loved today, everything about it. Yes, even this “shitty trail” as the young hikers christen it.  It’s a comfort to hear that they too found it hard!

Why on a day of hard and cold and yes sometimes just wet and miserable, a shitty trail and a hard ascent do I love it so here? How happy I was walking out front, friends chattering behind. Glowing wet leaves as we pass.  

One more trip to filter water before turning to bed.

There, under the log, a lady slipper. The first of the day.  

Section Hiker, Weather Watcher (Part 4): Wilderness

Tuesday, June 6, 2023 – Wilderness 

It’s pitch black when I wake to walk out to the bathroom. Pause on the porch to see the waning Strawberry Moon nestled in the Notch. Today we’ll head out the Ethan Pond Trail to Crawford Notch.  It’s one of my neighbor Kris’ favorite trails which surprises me as he is one for super long and rigorous competitions in the mountains. A few weeks ago he ran up and down to Lonesome Lake some 20 times, 66 miles, to raise money for the food pantry. I delight in seeing a few stars this early morning. Clear skies bode well for a gift of a day.

I return to my top bunk to pull on my damp hiking clothes and fold the wool blankets piled at the foot of the bunk.  

Adults don’t sleep in bunkbeds. 6 year old boys with little sisters do.  

I drape the blanket over the edge, flap it gently. A giggle from Jen in the bunk below. Pull it up, fold it once and let it descend and flap once more. The second blanket descends. This time it flies out and snaps back at my helpless bunkmate below. 

“Hey!”  A tee shirt flies helplessly up.

The final, third blanket descends. Quickly snaps back to a startled, “OOOOH!”

Success!  

I can’t stop laughing. 

I continue to laugh as I climb down the ladder and take off to the bathroom. The women are reprimanded and reminded by other guests that quiet time lasts until 6:30. 

I join the small group of early risers with plastic cups of hot coffee, as the hut master serenades us on her ukulele with “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.”  

How many hikers don’t fall in love with the hut crew! 

Oh yes, I love this little hut by the stream.  

After breakfast we’re gifted with a graduation ceremony and receive our own Junior Naturalist Badges. And yes, still laughing about my early morning victory, “I thought the first time that he couldn’t have done that on purpose… I felt bad snapping my tee shirt back at him….”

Before we set out, I’m asked to offer a water blessing for my hiking friends at the stream. (What are they thinking?). We share our thanks for the gift of this thundering stream water and so many things we have discovered out here like laughter and lady-slippers, delicious hot meals at the hut and hamburgers on the ride over to the trail. For Roger and each other.  As we close, I draw them over close to the pool where I’m kneeling, to splash and bless my friends to shouts of delight.  

And yes, I’ll add the gift of sunlight this morning! There’s nothing like a day of fog to make you appreciate the sunlight today. 

The trail is smooth and overgrown. Heady with our Junior Naturalist knowledge we quiz each other, “What tool do they need to use on this trail?” 

“Loppers!”, my fellow Junior Naturalists cry.  Exactly! 

What is wilderness? This is wilderness: This valley torched and scorched, pillaged of trees and destroyed by fire. This valley a wasteland that some believed would never come back to life. 

And this valley and the little pockets of refugia and resilience, shelters of life, that connected together and turned what was once a “wasteland” into wilderness once more.    

We count 101 lady slippers along the way.  

A pause at Thoreau Falls.

Our sauntering mood switches to thoughts of Roger who is waiting at the end of the trail to drive us home. Without cell coverage, we can’t reach him to let him know we’re late. I think of that ride home. The promise of a hot shower, laundry, clean clothes, a delicious dinner. I swing out ahead. I never really got the joy of this – this way of stepping briskly down the trail. It’s always felt disparaging to not take in the slow stride and sweep of the trail. But today, Roger needs to be found, home beckons and I slide into the swing of a brisk stride and move out ahead.

Miles ahead, the sound of a train whistle – civilization beckoning.  

At last I come to the train track, cross it, and head down the steep incline to the parking lot. Call out, “We’re here!” to the car I think is honking for us. Alas, no, its the wrong car, wrong parking lot and no Roger. I turn back up the trail to the train tracks to wait for my hiking companions.  

Together we walk a slow mile up the side of the road to Wiley House where indeed waits Roger and Giffords ice cream. 

I drop off my laundry at Marsha and Roger’s, return an hour later showered and clean-clothed for a fabulous salmon and chicken dinner, blueberry pie and watermelon.  

The women have folded my laundry and ask me to check if it’s all there. They gather close around the counter as I sort through tee shirts, socks, and here a pee pad which I put aside with,“This is not mine” to their squeals of laughter.  

“This is what I have to put up with Roger.”

“You actually brought four pairs of socks?!,” they cry in wonder. “Four pairs?”

Section Hiker, Weather Watcher (Part 3): Bail

Monday, June 5 , 2023 – Bail 

Pitch black and time to get up. Rattling windows, pelting rain. I reach up for the hooks above my head to stuff yesterday’s damp hiking clothes into the bottom of my sleeping bag. Turn over, waiting for them to turn dry and warm. I need to get up and not just lie here thinking about getting up. I reach down to the bottom of my bag, pull on my cold damp tee shirt, pants and socks. Sit up and proceed to bang my head. Swear.  

Over breakfast, the weather report from Mount Washington: 32 degrees on the summit, winds with gusts of up to 70 miles per hour. It feels like 17 degrees out there with the wind chill. We are all grateful for our choice to head down and change plans. Everyone else at the hut is doing the same thing except a few hardy, or fool-hardy, young hikers who are heading to Galehead. Even Stick chooses not to risk it and will miss filling in the last 8 miles he had to Galehead. He’s headed off instead for his last hurrah at Katahdin.  

It feels warmer out here at the breakfast table than it did last night for dinner. I’m adding to my list of other gear to bring, a warmer jacket. I’m glad this morning to have my hat and vest. 

Before we head down the trail, Barb shows me numerous adjustments to my pack to keep the belt from slipping too low and banging my thighs which it did all day yesterday.  Perhaps I’ll grow to like this pack? 

I’m ready as can be. The crew croons their encouragement, “Stay upright. It’s slippery. Go slow and careful.” 

Again, “Be careful.”

I look around the beautiful room that has been our warm home and shelter from the storm. So grateful for the time here. Vow: Go home and get that jacket. Keep writing, it’s home. Keep coming to the mountains, they are home. Keep making home in community. Don’t let Jen beat you at cards tonight.  

And now, the far end of another day, and here at Zealand Hut and making home on the top bunk again. This night, learning to duck my head and change out of my wet hiking clothes in the bathroom.  

It’s been a good day. A long slow descent down the Old Carriage Path. Impossible to believe that donkeys ever used to trek up a trail as rocky, steep and slippery as promised.

Roger was waiting to pick us up and drive us over to Twin Mountain where will take the Zealand Trail into the hut. We stop for a hot burger, hot coffee. I inhale it all, amazed at being so ravenous.  

The Zealand Trail is a dream. After yesterday’s rocky ascent, howling wind and snow, this afternoon a gift of a slow meander on a lush smooth trail by ponds and bogs. We see our first lady slipper (!) and count 67 on our way to the hut. This, my sweet spot of walking in the woods.   

And when we arrive at the hut, the gift of a quick dunk in a perfect size hollow in the stream. Shivery delight.  

Last night we were all inspired by the group of young adults at Greenleaf who completed the Junior Naturalist Program and most importantly were bestowed bright badges before we left the hut this morning. This afternoon we spend the afternoon and evening learning about contours, tools we need to care for trails, how to spell Carrigain.  After dinner, we send Pat out to the porch to listen to the Naturalist Program and learn how Zealand gets its power. (Solar) 

Tomorrow we too will have earned our own badges.  

Section Hiker, Weather Watcher (Part 2): Lafayette

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.