New Years Day, a Hiking Complex

At its root, hiking is simple. You learn the basic skill for hiking—walking— in your first year or so of life. But at its best, when it is done right hiking is beautifully complex. Physical exhaustion, mental reward, danger, spiritual gain; I find all and more on my best hikes. New Year's Day was one-such hike

Undercast clouds pour over the Southern Presidential Peaks. New Years Day 2012. From the Gulfside Trail.

We started before sunrise. And finished after sunset. We spent 12 hours on our feet and managed little more than a stagger for the final flat mile. The route wasn't heroic and our pace wasn't worthy of a stopwatch, but neither were our goals. We wanted a good, a solid, hike. A nice walk.

Sinking waste deep into a snowdrift, my first step above tree line didn't go well. Two quick and easy miles before sunrise, with little more than a dusting of snow underfoot, had made a bit complacent. The forecast—mild temperatures, light winds and a clear sky—couldn't have been better, but as I hauled myself free of the drift, looked up and saw the gray inside of a cloud covering the rocks and snow that supposedly led to the summit of Mt. Washington, I was reminded of how little forecasts can mean up here.

Fortunately for us, where we headed was soon above the clouds and the sun soon followed us, rising into the blue bird morning from the fog that filled the valleys with a blanket that stretched to the horizon. The first sunrise of the New Year will be a tough act to follow.

Stacey enjoying the view on Mt. Washington's Boot Spur just after sunrise.

We climbed Mt. Washington's summit cone like a spiral staircase, wrapping our way from the rim of Tuckerman's Ravine up and around to the Crawford Path and marching rhythmically onto the summit, home of the "World's Worst Weather" and world-record winds. We sat down with our dogs and had a snack. Stacey couldn't have asked for a better day—tame weather, no crowds, no cars and no train—for her first trip to the summit of Mt. Washington, but I looking more forward to showing her the ranges real, more wild peaks, Jefferson and Adams.

First, the bliss hit. After leaving the summit, on the Northern snowfields of Mt. Washington, Espresso and Charlotte, having apparently expended no energy thus far, frolicked. Sprinting amongst the snowdrifts, they played, and barked, and otherwise unleashed the inner puppy they both so seldom show in their doggy-years old age. Above all else, we hike for fun. And while Stacey and I are strict with our pups when hiking, keeping our pack tight both for safety and out of respect for the hills, this time we couldn't help but just smile and let them play because to play, in such a rugged, unforgiving, often harsh and treacherous place, is a privilege, and they earned it.

Stepping over the iced over tracks of the Cog Railroad, we got back to business. Soon, we were clipping ropes to each dog and white knuckling our way along the rim of the Great Gulf, peering down into the abyss as we hiked the short section of trail that runs closest to the drop.Once we hit the slopes of Mt. Clay, the clouds, which had been undercast in the valleys below, began to blow up and over us, reducing our world to a small bubble of rocks and snow that blurred into a dense fog. Its inevitable that such a change in the weather, pristine blue sky to nothing but gray, will put you slightly on edge, but we confidently trudged onward.

Stacey in the fog, after robing Espresso's bandana to shield her face from the wind.

We headed back above the clouds and into the clear over the summit of Jefferson, through Edmands Col and along the slopes of Mt. Sam Adams. But by the time we hit Thunderstorm Junction, with darkness an hour or so away, there was a decision to be made about summating Adam. Do we climb it, or skirt around it and head down? Up we went. The wind had increased, gusting enough to knock us off balance on our rubbery legs. It was getting colder. And we were tired. And we were out of water. We were clearly pushing our luck on what had so far been a near perfect hike.

We hit the summit of Adams and looked over the other side. A wall of clouds raced up at us from the valley below. In an instant, the view was gone. Rocks, snow and clouds. I know Mt. Adam's well and I've managed to lose my way leaving its summit on more than one occasion. We had a map and compass, but orienteering in such a situation... well, it wouldn't be fun. Fortunately, there were faint crampon markings in the wind-packed snow. They zigzagged between the rocks and led from cairn to cairn. Soon, we were below the clouds, and not long after we dropped into the col between Mt. Adams and Madison—as close to home as I can get in the mountains. We passed the hut and headed down Valley way. Four miles to go. In the dark, we staggered to the truck.

Stacey braving the elements.

There is work to be done on a hike. Navigation. Safety. Basic responsibility. You need to keep your guard slightly raised, especially in winter. But a good hike has so many isolated moments. There's time for casual chit-chat, serious discussion and witty nonsense. There is room for Quakerly periods with no discussion at all. Just you, the mountains and your thoughts. Personal time. We had 12 hours free of any other distractions and we made the most of it.

Happy New Year.

The Crawford Notch Outlaws

"Road Closed." The sign leaves little for debate. The State Police Cruiser, blues flashing, parked sideways straddling the yellow line, emphasizes the point. The orange dump truck blocking the road adds muscle to the message.

The rules don't apply to us though. We avoid the sign, the fuzz and the wide load and zoom down into The Notch. Windows down we whip around the corners, riding the edge of the crumbled shoulder. For miles we have the road to ourselves, scarred river banks on one side, bulldozed rock slides on the other.

We're outlaws.

Bridge out ahead! Looks like its the end of the road toots.

We slow down, pull into the dirt parking lot (full of cars belonging to other outlaws), gather our belongs and stroll across the crumbled bridge, waving to the construction workers along the way. Once on the other side, we jump into our getaway vehicle, and speed home.

Yeaaaaahhh. Outlaws.

End of the road toots. The Route 302 Gap as of 9-1-11. 

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.

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.  

Winter to Spring and Back

Our main work area and what will become the new dining room. (95/365)

Tuesday 4/5/11, 9:00 p.m.

Things change quickly in the mountains, and it all starts with the weather. Most of the hike up yesterday was typical for early spring. Deep snow but packed. Most of the crew barefooted, some used crampons. I went with snowshoes for the added traction.

You expect the weather to deteriorate as you gain elevation, but the downward spiral in conditions we experienced in the last 1000 yards to the hut was some of the worst most of us had seen.

I’ve mentioned it before, but the last 1000 yards of the Valley Way trail, our main access to the hut is notoriously steep, you gain elevation quickly and leave the protection of the trees which have sheltered you over the first three miles.

Yesterday any semblance of a trail on the upper half of the 1000 yards was gone, covered by falling, blowing and drifted snow. Tristan was not of far ahead of me, but his tracks were already wiped clean. The big yellow sign warning that the area you are entering has some of the worst weather on earth, to turn back in foul weather, and that many people have died above treeline, was buried. When each of us crested the steepest section, with a short easy uphill remaining to the hut, we were hammered head on by a southerly wind that blinded you with snow and ice pellets, hurdled at you with hurricane force.

Later at the hut we talked about how each of us had difficulty finding out way to the hut over this home stretch, wandering without a trail, hoping to run into the hut we’d all hiked to dozens of times before.

My sleeping area for the week

By last night, everything had changed. The temperature went up and it started to drizzle. By 2 a.m., we are all awake, alarmed by the sound of rushing water. Water from melting snow was cascading from the slopes above. finding its way under the hut and begin to make its way up through our floors. This is normal for the hut during spring thaws, a result of the difficult location, but normally its unoccupied. By 6 a.m we had significant water making its way inside and by 6:30, all five of us were outside, lightly dressed in the warm spring air, up to our shins in wet slushy snow, our boots soaked, digging and chopping drainage ditches into the snow and ice around the hut. It worked. We diverted most of the melting runoff around and away from the hut. Success.

Now, as I write this in bed, 14 hours later, everything has changed again. Its the harshest of winter conditions outside. Hurricane force winds. Blowing snow. Total whiteouts. Ice pellets being driven uphill from the north, peppering the window at the head of my bed. Our snow trenches are frozen solid and covered with drifted snow. I shoveled snowdrifts away from the back door before bed, but I am sure it will be blocked by another massive pile by morning.

Goodnight.

A typical evening at the hut. (96/365)

Weekend Update

It was a good weekend for resting, not so much for photo taking. Here's my weekend photos-for-the-sake-of-taking-photos batch—must keep the photo-a-day theme going. Enjoy. Back to the mountain. See you Friday. 

92/365

93/365

94/365

Airlift and Airlifted

91/365

Out for a Stroll

Star Lake Frozen in the fog.

90/365

Mountains to Ourselves

Matt on the Summit of Mt. Adams

89/365

Back to Madison

Matt leading the final stretch to the Madison Spring Hut

88/365

Packed — Away I Go

Photo 87/365

Espresso is looking bummed as I am all packed and ready to go. I think he has figured out that he isn't coming. This fall I had him fooled (he looked much happier).

I should be hitting the road around 5:30 a.m.

This will be my last daily post until Friday. I should be hiking up tomorrow to open the hut and then hiking down Thursday at the end of our shift. Weather permitting, we will have an airlift of supplies sometime during the week.

While I am gone the best place for updates will be my Twitter feed. You don't need an account, just go to www.twitter.com/meonmadison. For those who have never seen Twitter it can be a little confusing, but give it a shot, just look for the blurbs that are said by me (MeOnMadison). It's the easiest way for me to update as I can do it via text messages. They'll be short and sweet i.e. "Hiking up, clear weather." or "Airlifting today, woo hoo."

For the most accurate forecast you can check the Mount Washington Observatory website. The conditions and forecast are for the Summit of Washington, slightly more harsh but only a stone's throw away. It is the same forecast we get via radio at the hut. To get an idea of the temperature difference you can scroll down and look at the Auto Road vertical temperature profile for Mt. Washington.The hut is at 4800' on Mt. Madison, so our temps will be somewhere between the 5300' and 4300' readings.

To get visual idea of our conditions you can check the North view webcam from Mt. Washington. Often you'll only see clouds, but on a clear day you can see a deep dip in the in ridge, Madison Col. That is where I am at. The large peak on the right is Adams. Typically you can see Mt. Madison on the cam as well, but the camera has been spun to the left (west) slightly by wind and they have yet to turn it back.

Away I go again, same place, different journey. Onward.

Booked

86/365

An essential piece of the packing process, stocking up on books to keep me occupied up at the hut. Last season it was Peter Matthiessen (The Snow Leopard and Killing Mister Watson) and Edward Abby (Desert Solitaire and the Monkey Wrench Gang). It was Abby who grabbed my interest as I read sitting at the kitchen after dinner, by the stove with my sheet up, or in my sleeping bag by headlamp. 

I shop for books by Author, I get hooked on a particular one, read a group of his books, stall and then move on.  First it was Rick Ridgeway, then Hunter S. Thompson, then Abby, whom my interest in has recently hit a wall. This spring at the hut its going to be Jack Kerouac (The Road, Big Sur and The Dharma Bums) and Kurt Vonnegut (Slaughterhouse Five). 

I am just as excited to get back and enjoy quiet reading time as I am to be in the mountains, go for after-dinner hikes and build a historic hut.

Packing Process Progress In Piles

85/365

There is a "Here we go again," feeling that comes with repacking for Madison, but overall it feels much different this time. The nervous anticipation of the unknown has been replaced with excitement to see old friends. Instead of calling for necessary new-job details as I was 6-months ago, I am calling the office to track down Matt to see what he has in mind for hikes and to let him know I'll be crashing on his floor if I head to Pinkham Sunday night. 

Packing is similar to going on a hike as its a lot of the same stuff (backpack, sleeping bag, long johns) etc., but there are camping things I don't need (a stove, a water filter) and there are hut things I do need (a hammer, tape measure, cribbage board)

When I hike I make one big pile, sort through it, add a few things take away a few things and then jam it all, a precisely organized mess, into my pack. Done. Madison is different. I need to plan what I am packing up on my back, the essential clothing, bedding and other lightweight gear, what I need for the hike (crampons, snow shoes, gaiters) and what I am having flown up, the non-essential and heavy items, like  extra clothes, rain gear, insulated work clothing, tools, beer and skis. 

There is a margin for error since I'll be hiking up and down every week. Still, it's nice to use the helicopter while I have the chance and semi important to remember the essentials the first week. 

Today I began the process, but it was more throwing everything out of my storage bins, putting it in a big pile and calling it progress. 

Hey, its progress. 

Work is Done — Time to Pack

84/365

As promised, Alex and I finished the back of the barn yesterday. All involved are pleased with the results, most importantly Pete who owns it, so that is good. Under budget and ahead of schedule. 

Now its time to really start packing for Madison. Little things. Making sure I have enough work gloves, and all the tools I am going to want. My skis. 

I spoke with Charles, the head of the AMC Construction Crew yesterday. Monday's weather is looking "Okay" for flying but Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday look "very promising." Tom hiked up last week to check things out and reports no major ice inside the hut but extreme snowdrifts outside. I can't wait to see. If we aren't flying on Monday, I'll probably hike up.

Phantom Ladder — Blog Update

83/365

Which way is up?

Working in the snow apparently, Alex and I will finish residing the back of Pete's barn today. I'll have before-and-after pictures once (if) the sun comes back out. 

Tomorrow I'll start packing for Madison, again. I'll be down every weekend, so if I forget a thing or two, it isn't a big deal, but Id rather have it brought up on the helicopter than on my back hiking in snowshoes. I have two new batteries, a new bag and an 8GB memory card ordered for my camera, so I should be set  to continue taking pictures up on the mountain. 

So how am I going to do a daily photo blog while on top of a mountain? Magic. 

Actually, here's the plan: I am going to delay things a week. I can schedule posts, writing them on the weekend and setting them to pop up on here at set times. Next week I will not have any photos of the day. I will have some posts up, maybe some "Best of" bits linking to my favorite photos and writings from the first three months. Or perhaps a few of my favorite pictures that weren't photos of the day. The following week I will start posting the photos from the week prior. So a week from Monday will be my post from the Monday before, and so on throughout the week. Make sense? 

I'll also reorganize the blog a bit, putting more posts on the front page, so if you miss a a day you just need to scroll down. I'll also use Twitter (yes, Twitttttttter) more frequently because I can post updates quick and easy via text on my cell phone, i.e. "Clear weather today, airlifting... photos next week." Super interesting stuff like that. I'll give more instructions on that before I head up.

Hopefully I'll be bringing back some worthy photos and stories. This week has been pretty boring for me to blog. Living and working in the same place puts a limit on things. 

Antarctica interview today!