Things went to shit Thursday afternoon. I had been home from the mountains for 10 minutes. By Saturday evening, two days earlier than scheduled, and with no plan, I was on my way back to the hills. A classic escape. I threw my extra sleeping bag and sleeping pad into the back of my truck along with my other escape gear, ice axe, crampons, skis boots and poles, backpacks, stove, fuel, snowshoes and clothes, and jumped in. On the Road.
With a hug, I dropped Espresso in my parents front yard and headed for the border, not Mexico or Canada, but New Hampshire, which for me is just fine. Once there, I grabbed some rations: trailmix, apples, a hunk of pepperoni, a block of cheese and a 6-pack of PBR Pounders. Survival food.
It was after hours and after dark, but I knew I'd find him, somewhere. I spotted Matt, crazy and proud, hacking away at his log bench with the Construction Crew shop at Pinkham all to himself. "I have beer," I said as I came through the door. "So do I," he replied. Perfect. We bickered a bit over the course of action, to go for a night hike, or work on his bench. Matt won, and we grabbed chisels and starting rounding the corners off the logs to create a more finished look. Late night beer, wood and chisels, not much conversation, a few grunts, a little smoke, laughs and the sweet music of baseball on an old-time radio in the background.
Neither of us knew the score.
 |
| Matt testing out the bench. |
I slept in the field at Camp Dodge that night, the clear sky full of stars laid out a thick coat of frost over my sleeping bag as a swollen creek provided just enough noise for a perfect night's sleep.
It was all exactly what I needed.
And none if it worked.
I feel asleep and awoke with the same pit in my stomach I had come to the mountains to escape. Fed up, I took it out on the mountains. Strapping my skis and boots on my pack, I struck out solo up the Tucks Trail. It was crowded with a zoo of spring skiers looking for the last few turns of the season. Most lazily slogged up the trail, unaccustomed to the world of no chairlifts. They relaxed and took breaks, laughed with friends and enjoyed the overall scene, as anyone should on a beautiful Sunday morning in the mountains. I on the other hand hiked hard, crazily throwing one leg in front of the other, unwilling to stop, no breaks, no water. Sweat. I ignored the burning in my legs. I was determined. Determined to do what, I am not really sure.
I blasted by HoJo's, the typical gathering place on there floor of the ravine, only stopping once to strap on my crampons and pullout my ice axe. One step after another, I powered my way up the side of Hillman's Highway. I had shed the crowds, and had the chute mostly to myself, aside from a sporadic skiier or an occasional hiker to dodge on my way up the kick steps.
Hillman's Highway, the large chute running from center to left, taken from the Tucks' Trail
Out of breath, I finally sat down amongst a bare patch of rocks atop Hillman's, 3500 vertical feet above where I had started. I chugged my only liter of water, changed from my Limmers and crampons into my ski boots, and stepped in. Time to go down. I had the chute to myself, and skied it well, nonstop, ignoring the fire in my legs that began on the hike up. There was a crowd beginning to ascend the kicksteps up the chute, and even more assembling at the bottom to begin their climb to their first run of the day. At the bottom I stopped amongst them, and business like, changed from ski boots to Limmers and put my skies back on my pack.
My legs were already jello, but for the second of what would be three times, I climbed. I found the angry rhythm of my day, stabbing the handle of my ice axe into the slope above me, then I'd kick the toe of my crampons into the spring snow and step, kick, step, kick step, kick step, until I was even with my axe handle. Then I'd repeat. Stab, kick, step, kick, step, kick step, stab. The snow steps were crowded, and the slower traffic would step aside and exchange pleasantries as I attacked my way up the chute. Towards the top of my third hike up, a group of college age guys stepped aside. "Dude, you're lapping us," they said. I thought I had recognized them. I had passed them on my second trip up... they still hadn't skied."I'm a much better hiker than I am a skier," I said, knowing full well they'd see me getting punished for my determination on my trip down.
By my final run, my skiing was atrocious. There was no connection between my legs and my skies, my tips went where they wanted as I torqued my body weight to try and get them to turn. I'd hit moguls of spring snow, and get pitched forward, recovering in time to hit another and have all my weight sent backwards, getting under control just in time to stop, catch my breath and do it again. I hit the bottom of Hillmans, surprised I hadn't blown out a knee, and skied/hiked the Sherburne Trail back to Pinkham. Mission Accomplished. Well, not really. I still felt shitty, now I just had sore legs.
I slept under the stars again that night, and the next morning was more of the same except this time I tore up the Valley Way Trail, for some reason determined to make the hike in a set amount of time. It was unlike me. Hiking isn't a sport, it isn't to be timed, or competed in. But for the second straight day, I was racing. The mountains won, of course. I hit a wall at the start of the final 1000 yards to the hut, a dragged my ass, tail between my legs, up the homestretch, exhausted, hungry, and not-so ready to start my work week anew.
I learned a bit about the mountains over that week. You can run to them but you can't hide. The mountains can heal wounds, they can offer perspective, but on their own, they can't solve life's problems. Sometimes that takes going home.
