Our Hurricane Story

It wasn't long after I finished my eggs, sunny-side up, when it really started to rain. It had rained all night, but this post-breakfast rain was the real deal, the torrential sort. The rain would pound down relentlessly. At times we'd think "Hey, it let up a little..." before looking up and noticing that the "lulls" still had rain coming down in visible sheets.

The Highland Center sits at 2000' on an open plot of land, the highest ground on Rt. 302 through Crawford Notch. The Southern end of the Presidential Range rises across the road to the East and three 4000' peaks (Willey, Tom and Field) rise up just out the door to the west.

We had prepped the grounds for Irene, storing all the patio furniture, turning over benches and stashing flower boxes. Our only action during the storm was checking windows for leaks (there were many) and periodically checking the historic train depot, a short drive away in the JCB loader.

Three times during the storm Stacey and I ventured down Rt 302 into the Notch in my truck. The motivation of the trips was partly to look for any standard hikers, but also curiosity, wanting to see what we've never seen, and probably will never see, again.

On the first trip we made it three miles South, passed the Willey House historic site to where the Appalachian Trail crosses the road before heading up into the Presidentials.

On our second trip down into the Notch we barely made it around Saco Lake, which was now across the road, taking a small hiking bridge with it. The Silver and Flume cascades, normally narrow bands of water that gently trace their way down a swath of cliffs, were ragging torrents of water ready to overtake the road at any moment.

That's Silver Cascade at 1:30 p.m. during Irene. This is Silver Cascade on a normal day. 

Flume Cascade during Irene. And now, Flume on a normal day. 

On this trip into the Notch we were turned around short of the Willey House. A new stream (there had never been one here before) had punched its way out of the side of the mountain and across the road, along with a pile of debris. 

On our third trip, we didn't make it passed the two cascades. The water had actually begun to recede, but  at some point in the two hours since our last trip into the Notch, the cascades jumped the road we had been driving, leaving a delta of mud and rocks, some the size of basketballs. 

The road on the uphill side had been undermined by the rushing water, dropping the pavement down five feet in places and washing sections of granite curbing downhill.

The storm pulled away in the early evening. The Highland Center was almost completely unharmed, with only a few newly planted trees bent to the ground. Stacey and I toured North along 302, where we saw a young-male mouse grazing peacefully along the road, isolated by flood waters.

Later we'd learn that there has been a slide at the Willey House historic site (which we had driven by earlier in the day) that trapped two cars, which N.H. Fish and Game pulled free later that night. No one was injured.

Amazingly, the Willey House site is historic for a reason not unlike this story. In the early 1800's the Willey House had a house and barn on the site. A drought, followed by torrential rains, unleashed a landslide that killed all seven members of the family and two hired men. The family had fled their house for a "safe" cave during the night, leaving beds unmade and a bible open, but didn't make it to the cave before the slide swept them away. The house, built in 1793 and the first in the Notch, was left untouched by the slide.

The tragedy occurred on August 28, 1826.

185 years before Irene, to  the day.

Stacey and I did some work around the Highland Center Monday, repairing stone dust that had washed out of the patio built earlier in the summer and putting patio furniture back in place. Finally, that afternoon, we (the dogs included) made it home for the first time in three days. The drive took an hour and a half, and hour longer than usual. With Rt. 302 so badly damaged, we had to go North and East to Rt. 16 and through Pinkham Notch, where the roads were badly damaged, but passable. The long commute may be the norm for awhile.

Our new house was unharmed, thankfully. One road down, closer to the East Branch River, was a different story, with the road completely washed away in places and homes damaged. Many other parts of our town didn't fare well either.

Mountain Pond

We had a productive morning of splitting firewood, transplanting ferns and, okay, I sat on the couch some too, but then it was time for a walk in the woods.

A 10-minute drive on unpaved roads got Stacey and I to the trailhead for Mountain Pond. Three miles, a snake, a wood pecker and a giant, appropriately named, mountain pond. Not bad for a mostly rainy day off.

From Madison to Crawford

Looking South from the Highland Center in Crawford Notch. (AMC Photo)

A Presidential Traverse, it's the best known long-hike in the White Mountains, 19.2 miles if you hit all the summits—an elevation gain of almost 9000'. Typically hikers start with Mt. Madison and hike south, ascending Mt. Washington in the middle of the hike, then finishing with the Southern Presidentials, descending into Crawford Notch.

Now I am on my way, from Madison to Crawford Notch. One week after my time on Madison ended, I accept a full-time position with the AMC as the Maintenance Supervsior for the Highland Center in Crawford Notch. A nationally recognized adventure lodge—Outside Magazine placed it in its top 10.

The seed for all of this began in September 2009 while I was, appropriately, doing a Presidential Traverse. Just after sunset, with a full moon rising, I took a rest stop at the OLD Madison Hut. I tied Espresso outside and made my way inside to the bathroom (now the Star Lake bunkroom). On the wall I saw a sign, soliciting funds for the upcoming Madison rebuild project. I filled the information away.

Six-months later, frustrated with my job and sitting at home, I wrote a letter (e-mail).

I began the letter with:

I am writing to enquire about the possibility of joining the AMC construction crew that will be renovating the Madison Hut this coming fall and spring. I am a full-time carpenter with 10-plus years experience, I have a passion for the White Mountains and am experienced in the Northern Presidential Range in all seasons...

And ended it with:

I enjoy my current work as a carpenter but am looking to make it both more challenging and more rewarding. Working with the AMC on the Madison Hut would fulfill both of these goals while also getting my foot in the door with an organization I admire and would love to work for.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

I sent the e-mail to any AMC address I could find with hopes that it would eventually be forwarded into the correct hands. It was, and I got the job as a seasonal employee. However, I was warned at the time that the chances of it leading to a full-time position were slim to none. Staff jobs with the AMC are few and far between and highly competitive.

Well, less than a year after writing the letter, here I am, AMC Staff, and I feel happy of myself (click for video). Thumbs up for rock and roll!

The Photo above is looking South from the main Highland Center Lodge. The lake is Saco Lake, the headwaters for the Saco River. The two buildings that can be seen are train depots used by the Conway Scenic Railroad, which my great uncle, Dwight Smith, founded in 1974 and has since sold. The depot buildings are two of the seven buildings that I will be responsible for. I'll post more about the history of Crawford Notch...sometime. 

The Homestretch

Watching the sunset from the summit of Mt. Madison, 4-12-11

After a 12 hour workday, stepping outside, climbing uphill and watching the sun fall to the horizon is the perfect final exhale on a hard day's work. The orange glow of the setting sun lingers for over an hour at the hut, this time of year from 7:30, as the sun as nearing the horizon, to after 9, when the sun is long gone. The window of time makes up our post-work, post-dinner, personal time, when we actually have a chance to step away on your own and enjoy the beauty of where we are lucky enough to live and work.

On cloudy days, sometimes the sun manages to break through for a last hoorah, and even when the hut is completely fogged in and you can hardly see to our shed, let alone the horizon, the setting sun still casts and orange hue into the haze. 

I've been making a point to enjoy the sunsets at the hut this spring. How are you going to remember today? Taking the time to watch the sun go down can turn bad days into ones that you can't help but remember fondly, even if you're simply happy that it's over. Sunsets are chance for me to step aside, take a deep breath and reflect on how I am going to remember the day, the week and in a way, this whole experience of what has been me on madison. 

Mentally, today marks the beginning of the homestretch for my time on Madison. Two more weeks of official hut building before preparations begin to open the Hut for the season, although we will surely be tying up lose ends even after the hut begins welcoming guests.  There's still a ton of work to be done, but the crews are working more efficiently than ever and each task crossed of the list moves us one step closer. 

Updates may be few and far between over the next two weeks. I am throwing my normal schedule out the window and hiking to the hut tonight to start my work week. I may come down to wash my underwear, and if not that then maybe to pay my bills. Other than that its full steam ahead, working hard to get to an end I am not sure I am ready for, but when it comes, the time will be right, and onward it will be, to the next big adventure. 

“What is the feeling when you're driving away from people, and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? -it's the too huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.” ~ Jack Kerouac, On The Road

An epic Madison sunset on an otherwise cloudy day. 

Panoramic sunset from the summit of Mt Madison. Mt. Adams is on the left.

An icey sunset from the summit of Mt. Madison

Running to the Mountains

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.