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.

My First Madison Trip

"When you get those rare moments of clarity, those flashes when the universe makes sense, you try desperately to hold on to them. They are the life boats for the darker times, when the vastness of it all, the incomprehensible nature of life is completely illusive." One Week (a really good movie)

To say this will be a bitter-sweet week on the mountain sounds a little too dramatic. I will, however, reflect a little more than usual. Take some extra time to think, consider how lucky I am to enjoy the life I live, the place I am in and to have experienced the people I have met along my ways.

Monday will mark the two-year Anniversary of my first trip to Madison—my second and final hike with Brooke. It's what started all this.

Me on my first trip near the Madison Hut (99/365*)

It was Easter weekend and I had no clue what I was getting myself into. Brooke and I crawled out of the back of her Pontiac Vibe Saturday morning, packed our gear and snowshoed up the Daniel Webster Scout Trail. I had a dozen or so NH 4000' peaks checked off my list, but I had never hiked over 5000', or done any peak in winter conditions. While the calendar said early spring, it was still winter high in the mountains.

Above treeline, without crampons, winter boots, ice axes and only a 3-season tent (the missing season being winter) we were unprepared at best. Undeterred, we summited Mt. Madison by mid afternoon and slid our way down the West side into Madison Col. With clear skies and low winds, we decided to camp near the hut, which was closed for the winter. Brooke wasn't feeling well, so she curled up in her sleeping bag in the tent, while I buried the base in snow for warmth and explored the Col.

Brooke and I's tent in Madison Col (100/365*)

The temperatures dropped and winds built throughout the night, bottoming out around 5 degrees with winds upwards of 60 mph. My tent wasn't built to stand in such conditions, and it would succumb to the winds in a Utah dust storm later that year.  It survived this test though, and at day break we began packing our gear. It was tough to pack given the conditions, so Brooke and I teamed up. She stayed in the tent, stuffing sleeping bags and rolling sleeping pads while I shuttled the gear to the South wall of the hut, where we were sheltered from the fierce North winds and better able to pack.

That hike with Brooke is one of my fondest memories of her. The sense of adventure. Her blind exuberance and anything can be done attitude. The hike out was treacherous, with high winds, icy snowfields and trails. Brooke slipped and slid a short distance down a snowfield early on, giving herself a decent scare (we should have had ice axes and crampons). From that point on, she slide down every steep section on her ass, destroying her pants. I thought she was crazy. She was having fun.

Brooke approaching the summit of Madison, Osgood Ridge in the background (101/365*)`

I thought Brooke was crazy for leaving for Africa when she did. How could she afford it? What about medical school? What about me? In reality it was only two months. In reality, it was an opportunity of a lifetime. In reality, how could she not go? In reality, it was an adventure tailor made for Brooke.

I faced a few of the same critics when deciding to take part in the Madison project. And I also had incredible supporters, including Brooke. Sometimes I wonder if I'd be doing this project without her. Without discovering Mt. Madison with her or without the lessons she taught me about life, and death.



*I didn't take any photos this weekend, these old ones are filling in photos of the day.

The Commute

The clouds beginning to open Wednesday night, a sign of the clear weather to come. (97/365)

What am I doing here? Alone. My skis on a sheet of ice that's rippled like sand on a beach, but solid, slick and peppered with boulders, sloping away in front of me, disappearing as it rolls over the lip of Tuckerman's Ravine, the sun behind me getting low, casting my long shadow over the edge, into the abyss. 

The weather had been up and down all week. Fog, blowing snow and high winds, the elements bottled us into Madison Col and wouldn't let us out. We hunkered down and worked, logging 35 hours in three days. Thursday morning, getaway day, the end of our shift. We'd work until lunch, pack our bags and head home. As the sun came up it was clear, this day would not be like the others. The lid had lifted. Cloudless skies and snow covered mountains, blue on white, squinting in the glare at the peaks above and valleys below, the pull was irresistible. Adventure. 

Madison hut under clear blue skies Thursday morning (98/365)

The idea had been discussed. A traverse of the Northern Presidential Range to Mt. Washington and then a ski run down to Pinkham. Up and out of Madison Col, along Mt. Adams to Thunderstorm Junction, around Sam Adams and over Adams 5 to Edmands Col, up the snowfields onto Mt. Jefferson, around the summit cone to Monticello's Lawn, down into Sphynx Col, skirt the summit of Mt. Clay and then up, across the cog railroad tracks and the home stretch to the summit of Mt. Washington. Strap on your skis, point them off the summit, carve some turns to the top of Tuckerman's Ravine, drop in and hold on, ski it to the floor of the ravine, hit the Sherburne trail and ski your way home, a 4,200 vertical foot ski-run home to Pinkham Notch. Work week over. 

By our 10 a.m. coffee break I was committed. The others were wavering, but I was in. I called the front desk at Pinkham and got the avalanche report for Tuckerman's: moderate danger, natural avalanches unlikely, human triggered possible, Left Gully and Hilman's Highway were the safest routes down.  Later, from the top of Tucks, I could see Left Gully and Hillman's, both untracked and filled with snow. They didn't look good. 

Leaving the hut Thursday.

Still surveying my route, a gust of wind blew from the west, hitting my back and sending a river of snow racing along the ice, hovering just off the ground, moving like water and pouring into the ravine. Was there a reason no one had skied the Hillmans or the left Gully while the entire right side of the ravine, to my left, was tracked with ski turns? I trusted my instincts and ignored the report I had gotten earlier in the day, opting to ski the rightside of the Ravine. 

My legs long since exhausted and my pack yanking at my shoulders, I unweight my edges, allowing my skis to cut a traverse to my left and slightly downhill towards the darkness of Tucks. They chattered as I dug my edges in, avoiding a premature slide over the edge, hunting for a safe place to drop in and commit to a route.

That morning I had finished up some work and ate lunch before heading out the door. Ryan, the caretaker at Gray Knob had hiked over to say hello and decided to hike along with me for the stretch to Edmands Col, where he'd have to peel off and head back to his hut. I had my usual load of pack-out gear, clothes, my book, my camera, with additional water, an ice ax, avalanche shovel, ski googles, and extra clothes added on for the bonus trip. Plus, my skies lashed to the side with compression straps and my boots clipped into the bindings. I realized only later that my pack weighed a ton, but throwing it on my back under the blue sky, sucking in the easy-breathing mountain air, I didn't notice. 

Taking a break at Thunderstorm Junction

After leaving Ryan in Edmands Col I began to feel the work of the trek for the first time. My pack began to weigh down my shoulders, heat was building in my quads, and fire had been lit in my calves, burning as I kicked the toe points of my crampons into the steep slope, climbing up and out of the Col. I could see a black dot on skis traversing Sam Adams towards Edmands, following my route. I figured it was Tristan or Tom who were both supposed to be catching me by Washington and joining me for the ski, but from that point on I never saw anyone else. I was alone. 

Walking alone from Jefferson, around Clay to the summit cone of Washignton, I kept checking the ridge behind me, looking for Tom and Tristan. I wanted them to catch me. That was the plan. I didn't want to ski Tucks alone, but by the looks of it, I wasn't going to have a choice. As I trudged up Washington, I began to get the feeling of the surreal. The window blew uphill from behind, throwing up ground blizzards of snow against the blue sky. I'd kick in my toes and work my way up, then stop, taking quick breaks, leaning on my ski poles, catching my breath, and still checking the ridge behind me for signs of company. Still no one. 

I didn't stay on the summit for long, just enough to enjoy having it to myself—a rarity. I was wet from sweat and the wind was starting to give me a chill as it blew chunks of ice from the summit towers. It was beautiful weather for Mt. Washington, but I still didn't feel comfortable , given the solitude, time of day,  my level of exhaustion and what still lay ahead. I hiked off the summit enough to find shelter from the wind, took off my pack on an icy slope and untied my hiking boots. It was time to change into my ski gear. 

My feet had swollen from the long hike, and it took me over a 20 minutes to get my ski boots on, each one taking a combination of prying, yanking and, on the icey slop, standing and stomping. They're old boots from high school, and are tough to get on in a ski lodge, let alone at 6000' on an icy slop in 40 mph winds and blowing snow. I managed, then repacked my bag, slung it onto my back and stepped into my bindings. Down. Off the summit and to the rim of Tucks where the real fun was to begin. 

Once skiing, the planks on my feet didn't want to turn. I had to fight my body and pack through each move. I wasn't even in the Ravine and I was already survival skiing. It wasn't pretty. I was nervous. Get down. Get home.  

I cut to the right of the ravine, over the rippled ice, into the shadows and over the edge. I made a long traverse over the steepest pitch, knowing full well I'd eventually have to point my skis downhill, make turns—ski. 

The snow was awful. It had warmed in the afternoon sun, but now, at 6 p.m. it was in the shadows and frozen solid into deep, rugged granular. It was like skiing on a combination of big rocks and sand, both of which grabbed your skis, not wanting to let them turn. It was the worst snow I'd ever skied, on a slope that felt vertical, with blocks of crusted snow cascading down the ravine as I jumped from turn to turn. I made it. The floor of the ravine. My legs wanted to explode. I wanted to be done. I hit the drainage and joined the Sherburne trail. The home stretch to Pinkham. I made it. 

I don't remember much else from the day, I had hit a drunken form of exhaustion I didn't expect. Tristan was waiting in the Pinkham parking lot. He had bailed on the traverse shortly after leaving the hut. Tom had continued on, but we both presumed he bailed as well somewhere along the way. 

Matt gave me a ride from Pinkham to my truck and I drove the two hours home to North Yarmouth where Stacey was waiting. Honey I'm home. Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a bitch.