Mountain Dog — Last Hike to the Hut

For my last fall hike to the Hut , I decided on a scenic route. Instead of a casual 4-mile hike from the North, I decided to hike directly from Pinkham Notch, south of the Hut. A 7-mile stroll that builds in difficulty, finishing with a steep climb up the headwall of Madison Gulf, just Espresso and I. 

We have two hiking modes together. One with him in front, leading the charge on four legs, and another with him on my heels. For the most part, he lets me choose which. If the terrain is easy and there's a chance we may run into some wildlife, I keep him on my heels. On steep, rugged terrain, I let him go on ahead. Even in his old age, he can out climb me any day—I wouldn't want to hold him back!

A bit before noon we headed up the Old Jackson Road, not a road at all, but part of the Appalachian Trail. It wasn't quintessential hiking weather; sporatic light rain, hissing as it hits the newly fallen leaves, fall light filtering through the bare branches and that distinct crispness to the air,  combined to make it perfect enough for me. Espresso stayed at my heels. Every so often something would crash through the woods along side us. We'd stop. Look. I put my camera away for this hike. Stowed my cell phone (off) deep in my pack. Whatever it was, there'd be no pictures. I wanted to enjoy it all completely. Was it a moose? Bear? Deer? My imagination?  Knowing you're not alone, the reminder that these woods aren't yours, makes you feel that much luckier to be a guest.

We crossed the Mt. Washington Auto road, it's highway-wide gash cut through the forest heading up hill. Fresh, jet-black black pavement. The road is closed for the winter, but parked at the crossing was the Observatories giant Bombardier snow tractor, with it's tank-like tracks and passenger compartment on the back. Wilderness? Edward Abby definitely had a point. Monkey Wrench Gang? Where's Hayduke when you need him.

Espresso's Taped Toes

From there, it was into the Great Gulf Wilderness and up Mad Gulf. Espresso and I had hiked the route before, an approach for our first trip up Mt. Adams and one of the only hikes where he ever needed assistance—a lift up steep rock slabs or over boulders that are too tall or too close together. At times the trail borders on vertical and that trip wore Espresso claws to the point of bleeding—they had just been trimmed at the groomer—and I had to do some patch-work doggy first aid in the tent that night.

Once we got into Madison Gulf I let Espresso pass and he took off like a puppy, bounding over boulders and up steep rock slabs before I even got within range to see how he was doing it. He'd be waiting for me at the top of technical sections with his "Let's Go, Let's Go!" grin.

He's nine now, nearing senior status in dog years. After a long hike I can tell he's sore, but on the trail, you'd never know. He still has the bounce in his step, and is always ready to go. If we stop to rest, or to enjoy the surroundings, he'll take the break. But if I sit too long, he'll start crawl into my lap with muddy paws, wagging his tail, eventually bouncing around and barking, wanting to keep heading up the trails. Typically a low-key dog, on the trail is the only time he'll show such a level of excitement. 

Espresso's leading the way on a previous hike up Madison Gulf.

Heading up Madison Gulf, one of the more difficult trails in all the White Mountains, his age was merely a number. He charged ahead with more confidence and speed then he had showed two years before on the same trail. He'd climb, and wait, then bound up another steep stretch. On steep slabs or short, near-vertical sections, he'd follow cracks, gripping granite with his claws, even pulling himself upward with his front legs. A rock climbing dog.

We crested the headwall of the Gulf, and made our way through Madison Col, across patches of snow and ice to the hut. The weekend crew was on its way out. Soon, we had the place to ourselves. I lit a fire in the wood stove, put a wool blanket on the floor for my pup, and changed out of my hiking clothes.

Espresso laid down, and quickly fell asleep. His typical post-hike routine. I made some dinner, and settled in for the night in front of the wood stove. Home.

In all, Espresso spent four weeks at the hut with me and they were by far my most enjoyable. The first month I was there, he stayed with my parents. I knew he could handle hut life, but the job was new to me, and I felt it was best to not have the added variable. I loved hut life, but there was something—warm, furry, brown, four-legged and gives hugs on command—missing.

When my Mom hiked to the hut, Espresso came too. I said he'd hike down with her, but I knew he'd stay with me. I moved my sleeping area from the bunk room to the small attic loft above the kitchen. It was a dark, damp and dirty area that I couldn't even stand up in, but I put an extra bunk pad and wool blankets beside mine, and Espresso and I had our new home. He'd ride up the ladder on my shoulder every night for bed, or sometimes even climb the ladder himself. In the morning, I'd get on the ladder, and he'd put his paws on my shoulder and crawl up on it—fireman's carry down, ready to work for the day.

Whether sleeping in the hut, under the stars, camping in my tent, in the back of my truck, on someone's floor or couch, Espresso makes it homr. Once he was up at the hut with me, I didn't head back to Maine for three weeks. Why bother? We'd hike down from the hut and live the life of nomads. One weekend we ventured to a party in Plymouth. Espresso worked the room in his typical fashion, and even joined us in the sauna, sitting up on the bench and soaking up the heat. From -20 wind chills to a 150 degree sauna.

On one late night hike from the hut, Espresso proved his worth. Matt and I decided on a route that took us on the Parapet Trail, around the summit cone of Madison to the Eastern side, opposite from the hut. From there, we'd climb the Osgood Trail over the summit and back down to the hut. It wasn't an extreme adventure, but there was fresh snow, wind and darkness to contend with. Plus, the Parapet Trail is notoriously difficult. It doesn't have any significant changes in elevation, but cuts a bouldery traverse over scree and through krumholtz. It can be a tough trail to follow on a nice summer day, and under the conditions we were hiking in, it was going to be difficult to borderline impossible. With Espresso, it was a synch. We just followed his tracks and they led from cairn to cairn, marker to marker. He'd occasionally wait for us, and then forge ahead, leading us along the entire mile of the Parapet to the Osgood Junction. I'm not sure if it was by memory (we've hiked it twice before), by smell or pure instinct. Either way, he's a mountain dog like no other.

Espresso and I enjoying the weather outside the hut. 

The End? Just the Beginning.

"Aim above morality. Be not simply good, be good for something." Henry David Thoreau

All good things come to an end, or at least they get put on hold for the winter. Madison is shuttered—closed for the season.

Now I'm forced to confront the question I've been avoiding. What next? On the surface, it's back to the grind. Setting my alarm, rolling out of a comfy bed into a heated apartment, a morning routine without alpine views or blizzards. Driving to work. Driving home. On the surface, it's lacks what I've loved about Madison so much.

But there's been a lot more to Madison than just the routine. By separating from so much: Espresso, my job, a relationship, technology, a bed. I know more of what I can do without, and what I truly can't. The challenge now becomes maintaining—not falling too far back into the routine of "normal" life—remembering what has made this special and seeking more.

So what's next? Short term, more hikes: A winter Presidential Traverse, soloing Katahdin in winter (it's now allowed) and finishing the New Hampshire 4000-footers with Espresso. Longer term goals: A road trip West, a job on Antarctica, and any other adventure that comes my way. If Madison has taught me anything, it's to go. Take the adventures. You won't regret it. When I was deciding whether or not to take on Madison, I asked my friend Pete "How can I afford it?" Pete's response: "How can you afford not to?"

And on a side not. I am going to keep this blog going. If all goes as planned, there will be more to write about.

Airlifts

For the first month of the project our day-to-day work was dominated by the weather. Everything seemed extreme, even the nice days. We'd have warm temps, sunshine and crystal clear views. On lunch breaks we'd sit outside amongst the rocks soaking up the sun. The next day we'd have torrential downpours, hurricane winds and 33 degree temperatures. We'd put on our rain gear and hoods, doing out best ignore the weather and simply focus straight ahead, and work. We'd come inside to eat, and then go back out. We'd become robotic to cope with the weather.

Our second month has been dominated by the weather as well, but in a different way. The weather had much less of an affect on our day-to-day work, but had more of an effect on our progress. The roof was on, giving us dry work space. We'd still work outside a lot, but we'd have the shelter of the new hut to setup tools and work. Compared to the previous month, it was luxurious— even if the weather was no better or worse. The weather's main affect was on our airlift.

Our airlift was originally scheduled for Monday the 25th, set to deliver us materials, food, another new air compressor, a second wood stove, three hot water tanks, shutters to close the hut for the winter, cement and other items, while at the same time flying out trash, unneeded tools, etc. We knew a mid-fall airlift above tree line would be greatly dependent on the weather, possibly delaying it by a day or two, but the way it unfolded put a drag on the crew. At times we were left wondering if we'd have to shut down for the winter all together. No airlift meant no work.

On Monday the 25th the forecast indicated we might have a chance to fly, but the weather never cleared on time. On Tuesday, we had a clear weather window almost all day. The entire morning we prepared for the lift. Organizing trash, preparing out loads, clearing areas for new materials and taking out window sashes so we could move materials inside. But the helicopter never came. It was late in arriving to Dodge (where it would fly to us from), and the weather window closed. Wednesday was a washout. Thursday was clear, but winds made it uncertain. The helicopter flew up to drop us off a top crew, but was unable to land due to winds. We waited by the radio and eventually received word that the pilot thought he could possibly land a few loads to our south at Star Lake, a quarter mile away and slightly uphill. There, the wind was still moving up hill. The first load was a net full of 80lb cement bags. It was a struggle and he set the net down hard, breaking a few of the cement bags which were wrapped in a tarp.

The video doesn't do the event justice. It was clear another attempt wouldn't be in the works. We used our search and rescue liter to carry the bags of cement, still wrapped in the tarp, back to the hut. Still, no airlift.

Our rescued bags of cement

The weekend crew didn't have any better luck and we began the next week still waiting for the airlift. I hiked up alone on Monday, and it was decided to not send the rest of the crew until we got the lift in. We had very little work without the resupply of materials and food was getting scarce as well. We were down to our last pound of butter (an essential).

Tuesday, we finally had perfect weather. A top crew was flown in, Everett hiked up, Steve flew up, and we got over 20 loads in and matched most with out-loads.

An airlift approaching

Sending up an out-loud 

The project can go on.

Hiking with Mom

The only thing better than doing what you love is getting the chance to share it.Three weeks ago I got to do just that when my Mom hiked up to the hut with me for the beginning of my shift. 

She invited a few friends to come along and met me at Pinkham Notch Monday morning. After shuttling my car to my usual parking area in Randolph we headed up the Valley Way trail from Appalachia. Mom, Betsy, Shelley and Athena had gotten a head start up the trail while Don and I moved my truck, but we quickly caught them. Well, everyone but my Mom.

Mom had left the parking area ahead of her group and had already taken a wrong turn in the maze of RMC trails. Luckily, cell phones work in the area and we quickly got her back on track. No more hiking alone Mom! 

Mom wouldn't let me hike with her though. She wanted to keep her own pace and not worry about holding me back. I was willing to hike any pace just to be with her, but let her have her way. Leaving her with Shelley and Betsy, along with a map and instructions, Athena, Don and I blazed ahead. 

In a blatant overuse of technology, Mom and I kept in touch via text message. I would text her from a trail junction with instructions for her to text me when she reached the same junction. This way, I could make sure they were on the right trail, and also make sure they were still keeping a reasonable pace for the trip. After the first junction, they were already 40 minutes behind. I was worried, but I sent Mom a few pep-talk texts and kept heading up the trail. 

I voiced my concerns to Athena, who knows the relationship between my Mom and I as well as anyone. I had confidence my Mom would have no problem turning around if she needed to— she is smart like that. Athena reminded me though, that while my Mom knows her limits, she will also do anything for her sons and she knew how important this trip was to me. 

At the next junction, with my Mom's group over an hour behind, I sent Mom another text, telling her that I was proud of her whether she makes it to the hut or not. And reminding her that if she needed to turn around, I'd do the same and hike down with her. Still, she kept plugging away. 

My Mom's slower pace on the easier terrain worried me. The Valley Way trail only gets harder, with the final 1000 yards being infamously rugged. However, as the terrain got difficult her groups pace stayed the same. Slow, but steady. She was doing great. 

I reached the start of the final 1000 yards, which had a smattering of icy spots for the first time this fall, and headed up ahead of Athena and Don. I wanted to warn outgoing hut crew, particularly the cook who oversees our tight quarters, of my groups upcoming invasion. Athena and Don arrived 30 minutes later after me. While Athena got warm inside, Don headed up Mt. Madison and I nervously waited for my Mom. She texted saying she was at the bottom of the 1000 yards and heading up. I waited another 45 minutes or so and began hiking down to meet her. I found her just below tree line, plugging away at the steep, icy, rocky stretch that burns the legs of even the strongest hikers. She was going to make it, and with a smile too!

Madison Col had been thickly frosted with rime ice the previous night giving it a sparkling but chilly appearance. I wanted to show my Mom around the Col, but figured she needed a break. Nope. We headed right by the hut and up to the Starr Lake and the Parapet, the alpine lake and scenic overlook a quarter mile up hill from the hut. 

Having my Mom up at the hut with me made my whole experience on the project seem that much more real. I knew both she and my Dad were proud of what I was doing, but having her there, and seeing that she shared a bit of my awe for the area meant a lot. Even before the hut project, Madison Col was a special place to me. And after the project is done, I hope to continue bringing friends and family there so they can experience it for themselves. Mom will always be the first though, and I couldn't be more proud of her for it. 

Mom and I in the Col between Mt Madison and Adams. 10-11-10.