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Showing posts with label Hiking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hiking. Show all posts
January 16, 2011
January 2, 2011
New Years Trip
A counted down the final seconds of 2010 on the Quay, a view point on the slopes of Mt. Adams that looks down into the valley below. The lights from town shinning below, sporadic fireworks barely noticeable from so high above. We passed around a bottle of Southern Comfort, snapped photos and counted down using my $30, very unofficial Timex Watch, standing in the snow, wearing slippers and down booties. We had sprinted and slid to the Quay from the Gray Knob Cabin minutes before midnight. A spontaneous idea that needed no debate.
"Happy New Year!" It couldn't have been any better. Me, the mountains and a group of my best friends that I'd only met three hours before. I didn't even know their names. The Mountains have a way of making friends out of strangers. As does SoCo apparently.
I had hiked up to Gray Knob that night. Setting out from Lowe's store at 7:30 and reaching Gray Knob by 9:30. This fall I heard a few people mention heading up to the RMC Hut for New Years and when I arrived I recognized two faces. Benzo and Garret. Benzo is a regular member of the RMC trail crew and a member of the AMC trail crew this fall. He was a familiar face from Huton, the AMC dorms where I had spent a few nights. On a small-world note, he's a North Yarmouth native. His parent's house is less than a quarter mile from where I live. Garret is one of the two Gray Knob caretakers this winter and a shelters caretaker for the AMC this passed two summers. I had only met him once, sitting on the steps of Stearns Lodge after a shift-ending hike down from Madison.
The crowd at Gray Knob was eclectic. A small group of French Canadians, the RMC crew Benzo had brought up, and a few older gentlemen who were staying a 1/2 mile away at Crag camp, another RMC hut. In all, about 15 people, but only half a dozen or so lasted until the countdown at the Quay.
I rung in the New Year with a lighthearted debate with some girl named Jenny over the constellation Orion. We both agreed he wore a skirt of sorts, however, I pictured him as the Mel Gibson in Braveheart type with a plaid kilt. She had her own fantasy, with him in a skirt made of leather strips, adorned with metal spikes along the bottom. It seemed important at the time.
I slept outside that night. In my bivy sack on the flat snow covered rock just outside the door to the hut. It rained a bit and my bed sank into the wet snow as the night went on, but I was warm and dry. I even slept in a bit, waiting until 8:30 to crawl out of my cocoon for the New Year.
I hiked a loop in the Northern Presidentials New Years Day. Breaking trail in snowshoes from Gray Knob to Edmonds Col below the summit of Mt. Jefferson. I had aspirations to summit Jefferson, but soloing a 5000' peak in low visibility and high winds, despite the unseasonable warmth, seemed like a bad idea. Instead, I hiked North on the ridge along the Gulfside trail. Eventually, the clouds broke and the sun came up, offering views of Mt. Washington, and the summits of both Jefferson and Adams.
"Happy New Year!" It couldn't have been any better. Me, the mountains and a group of my best friends that I'd only met three hours before. I didn't even know their names. The Mountains have a way of making friends out of strangers. As does SoCo apparently.
I had hiked up to Gray Knob that night. Setting out from Lowe's store at 7:30 and reaching Gray Knob by 9:30. This fall I heard a few people mention heading up to the RMC Hut for New Years and when I arrived I recognized two faces. Benzo and Garret. Benzo is a regular member of the RMC trail crew and a member of the AMC trail crew this fall. He was a familiar face from Huton, the AMC dorms where I had spent a few nights. On a small-world note, he's a North Yarmouth native. His parent's house is less than a quarter mile from where I live. Garret is one of the two Gray Knob caretakers this winter and a shelters caretaker for the AMC this passed two summers. I had only met him once, sitting on the steps of Stearns Lodge after a shift-ending hike down from Madison.
The crowd at Gray Knob was eclectic. A small group of French Canadians, the RMC crew Benzo had brought up, and a few older gentlemen who were staying a 1/2 mile away at Crag camp, another RMC hut. In all, about 15 people, but only half a dozen or so lasted until the countdown at the Quay.
I rung in the New Year with a lighthearted debate with some girl named Jenny over the constellation Orion. We both agreed he wore a skirt of sorts, however, I pictured him as the Mel Gibson in Braveheart type with a plaid kilt. She had her own fantasy, with him in a skirt made of leather strips, adorned with metal spikes along the bottom. It seemed important at the time.
I slept outside that night. In my bivy sack on the flat snow covered rock just outside the door to the hut. It rained a bit and my bed sank into the wet snow as the night went on, but I was warm and dry. I even slept in a bit, waiting until 8:30 to crawl out of my cocoon for the New Year.
My bed New Years Eve
The crowd at Gray Knob cleared quickly New Years morning, with each little group cooking their own breakfast and cleaning up the evidence from the night before. Those of us who lasted until midnight tried to tell out stories, but apparently everyone who had gone to bed somehow knew everything that had happened. Sound travels well in Gray Knob apparently.
A group enjoying New Years Day breakfast at Gray Knob
My snowshoe tracks
I eventually headed back to Gray Knob. I sat and chatted with Garret for a bit, packed my gear and headed back down Lowe's path as the sun set, finishing my trip by headlamp.
The rest of the pictures are here.
The rest of the pictures are here.
November 25, 2010
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 |
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.
November 6, 2010
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.
September 25, 2010
A-Typical Day (Part 1)
I had already woken up a few times early Wednesday morning, but each time I couldn't hear the wood stove crackling in the kitchen or Tom milling about and I'd burrow back into my sleeping bag. Tom is the early riser. If I hear him, I know it's time to get up, which usually makes me the second to rise.
The wind had been hammering our stone hut all night. I got up to go to the bathroom and saw that someone had tied one door shut and used a step ladder braced against a wall to barricade another— fire codes be damned. Our doors blow open in high winds, which if fine during the day, but a bit of a nuisance in the middle of the night. Adding to the disturbance was a random bunk rattling slam. With earplugs it wasn't too loud, but it still shook my bunk as if the wind was blowing boulders off the summit of Adams and sending them bowling against the hut.
Trying to sleep on a construction site with hurricane force winds blowing outside can be noisy business with tarps flapping, wood falling over and buckets and trash barrels blowing around. You can try and secure everything at the end of each day, but that is all you can do. Try.
Eventually, I hear the wood stove begin to pop and know it must be around 6 a.m. I carefully slide out of my bunk, avoiding the ladder to the uppers, and negotiate the 5 foot drop to the wood planked floor. Without any light, working only by feel, I pull on my work pants, the same ones I wore the day before. I slip my wool IBex shirt, the same one I wore the day before, over my head, along with my wool IBex hoody, the same one I wear everyday. Finally, and without much grace in the tight space between my bunk and the next, I pull on my wool socks, which I think... are the same ones I wore the day before.
Working at Madison you dress for function. Warm, warmer and warmest. If it's dry it's clean and to clean something you dry it.
I walk out of the bunk room where there is still snoring going on and slip through the wool blanket hanging in the doorway and into the kitchen. Tom, old-fashion hut building Tom, is sitting on the Madison chair in front of the wood stove, sipping coffee and reading, using the kindle application on his I-Phone. The Madison chair is a coveted piece of furniture. A leftover salvage from the demo, its tall and narrow, about the shape of a child's high chair, with "Madison" written in the back rest with nail heads, kind of like sequins but with the points of the nails sticking out and folded over on the other side.
Sitting on one of our wooden benches, I rub my eyes and begin to shake the morning fog from between my ears. Getting up early means first dibs on the skillets and I'm reading to take advantage. I grab three eggs, half a dozen slices of prosciutto, four breakfast sausages, slice some jack cheese and some butter, grab the medium size skillet and throw a match at one of the propane burners on the stove. Breakfast scramble.
One by one the rest of the crew emerges from the bunk room as I cook. The breakfast free-for-all begins with everyone gathering their own ingredients along with coffee and tea. The morning chatter centers around the wind and the mystery hut shaking slams in the middle of the night. Everyone has there own story. Bethany would be on the verge falling back asleep when, BOOM, she'd be startled back awake. Tom, who barricaded the doors thinking they were blowing open and slamming shut, sat awake in the kitchen in the middle of the night, trying to discover the cause. Of course, it never happened while he was up, it waited until he crawled back into his bunk. Everett however knew the culprit, he could see the leaning stack of plywood out his bunk window. He'd watch the wind blow it slightly off the wall before slamming it back down with 70 mph gusting wind force. With no other solution possible until morning, he'd lay awake and glare at the plywood, hoping to scare it into submission.
After breakfast I lace up my work/hiking boots, pull on a jacket and slip out the backdoor of the bunk room before the 7 a.m. weather-radio call. It's 6:41 and I don't have to be working until 7:30. I step over the trench we've dug for the waterline, scramble over the rocks we've moved to make room for the addition, walk around the thick steel storm door from the old hut and passed the coals from our burn pile. Finally, I swing my leg over the yellow rope that marks our job site and step onto the Osgood Trail, part of the Appalachian Trail.
I climb. For the first minute I'm surrounded by low trees, but then I'm in the clear. Nothing but a big pile of rocks between me and the summit of Madison. The wind, still extremely gusty back at the hut becomes more sustained the higher I go. It begins blowing me up the mountain, giving me a boost from behind with each step. At 6:59 a.m., 18 minutes after I stepped out the door, I am standing on the summit.
The wind had been hammering our stone hut all night. I got up to go to the bathroom and saw that someone had tied one door shut and used a step ladder braced against a wall to barricade another— fire codes be damned. Our doors blow open in high winds, which if fine during the day, but a bit of a nuisance in the middle of the night. Adding to the disturbance was a random bunk rattling slam. With earplugs it wasn't too loud, but it still shook my bunk as if the wind was blowing boulders off the summit of Adams and sending them bowling against the hut.
Trying to sleep on a construction site with hurricane force winds blowing outside can be noisy business with tarps flapping, wood falling over and buckets and trash barrels blowing around. You can try and secure everything at the end of each day, but that is all you can do. Try.
Eventually, I hear the wood stove begin to pop and know it must be around 6 a.m. I carefully slide out of my bunk, avoiding the ladder to the uppers, and negotiate the 5 foot drop to the wood planked floor. Without any light, working only by feel, I pull on my work pants, the same ones I wore the day before. I slip my wool IBex shirt, the same one I wore the day before, over my head, along with my wool IBex hoody, the same one I wear everyday. Finally, and without much grace in the tight space between my bunk and the next, I pull on my wool socks, which I think... are the same ones I wore the day before.
Working at Madison you dress for function. Warm, warmer and warmest. If it's dry it's clean and to clean something you dry it.
I walk out of the bunk room where there is still snoring going on and slip through the wool blanket hanging in the doorway and into the kitchen. Tom, old-fashion hut building Tom, is sitting on the Madison chair in front of the wood stove, sipping coffee and reading, using the kindle application on his I-Phone. The Madison chair is a coveted piece of furniture. A leftover salvage from the demo, its tall and narrow, about the shape of a child's high chair, with "Madison" written in the back rest with nail heads, kind of like sequins but with the points of the nails sticking out and folded over on the other side.
Sitting on one of our wooden benches, I rub my eyes and begin to shake the morning fog from between my ears. Getting up early means first dibs on the skillets and I'm reading to take advantage. I grab three eggs, half a dozen slices of prosciutto, four breakfast sausages, slice some jack cheese and some butter, grab the medium size skillet and throw a match at one of the propane burners on the stove. Breakfast scramble.
One by one the rest of the crew emerges from the bunk room as I cook. The breakfast free-for-all begins with everyone gathering their own ingredients along with coffee and tea. The morning chatter centers around the wind and the mystery hut shaking slams in the middle of the night. Everyone has there own story. Bethany would be on the verge falling back asleep when, BOOM, she'd be startled back awake. Tom, who barricaded the doors thinking they were blowing open and slamming shut, sat awake in the kitchen in the middle of the night, trying to discover the cause. Of course, it never happened while he was up, it waited until he crawled back into his bunk. Everett however knew the culprit, he could see the leaning stack of plywood out his bunk window. He'd watch the wind blow it slightly off the wall before slamming it back down with 70 mph gusting wind force. With no other solution possible until morning, he'd lay awake and glare at the plywood, hoping to scare it into submission.
After breakfast I lace up my work/hiking boots, pull on a jacket and slip out the backdoor of the bunk room before the 7 a.m. weather-radio call. It's 6:41 and I don't have to be working until 7:30. I step over the trench we've dug for the waterline, scramble over the rocks we've moved to make room for the addition, walk around the thick steel storm door from the old hut and passed the coals from our burn pile. Finally, I swing my leg over the yellow rope that marks our job site and step onto the Osgood Trail, part of the Appalachian Trail.
The hut and the summit of Mt. Madison
I climb. For the first minute I'm surrounded by low trees, but then I'm in the clear. Nothing but a big pile of rocks between me and the summit of Madison. The wind, still extremely gusty back at the hut becomes more sustained the higher I go. It begins blowing me up the mountain, giving me a boost from behind with each step. At 6:59 a.m., 18 minutes after I stepped out the door, I am standing on the summit.
Morning sun from the summit of Mt. Madison
The sun has been up for a few minutes when I reach the top, a glowing golden ball over the Carter-Moriah Range with Maine beyond that. The summit isn't as peaceful as the photos make it look. The wind is steady at over 60 mph (probably more) and even sitting I need to steady myself to keep from being blown off my granite seat. My hood gets blown over the top of my head, snapping and flapping in my ears until I grab it and tuck it into the neck and down the back of my jacket. Still, I sit on the summit and enjoy the view for 10 or so minutes and can't think of anywhere I'd rather be. Or any better way to start a day.
Morning from Mt. Madison
September 18, 2010
Mountain Misadventure—Live and Learn
As you spend time in the mountains they begin to shrink. The awe remains, but you know they can be conquered for you have conquered them— or at least you think you have. You've traversed their ranges. You've climbed them at night. You've stood on their summits in the middle of winter. When you live in the mountains, work in the mountains and begin to call the mountains home, they shrink even more. Instead of hiking in them, you go for walks on them. Strolls. Escapes.
Working and living in Madison Col can become confining. Your entire world, while at the freedom of 4800', has a 500' radius encompassing your kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, work place, commute and social life. You can get stir crazy. Thursday night Everett and I decided to head out for a walk after dinner. The weather was deteriorating, fog had rolled in, it was raining lightly at times. The wind was picking up too, but we needed an adventure.
We layered up. I wore wool long johns with shorts over them, a wool base layer on top, along with a wool hooded sweater and hooded rain jacket. I grabbed my head lamp and stuffed my pockets with candy bars. Everett did the same.
We headed up the Star Lake trail for a surreal ascent of Mount Adams. A cool blue light (moon? last remains of the sun?) made the fog glow. Madison Gulf to our left dropped into a blue hazy abyss of darkness and the summit cone of Adams was a black silhouette above. We scrambled over boulders above tree line, losing the trail, but not caring as we plowed on to the summit above us. We even enjoyed a beer toast part way up, proud of our adventurous little escape. We were damp from the mist in the air, but completely within in comfort zones.
As we topped the ridge a few hundred feet from the summit the wind picked up. It threw us a bit off balance, but we reached the summit signs with relative ease.
We decided to follow the Airline Trail down, a more gradual decent that still required boulder scrambling and the finding of cairns (stacks of rocks) to follow the above-tree-line trail. Going down Airline we began having more and more trouble finding the cairns. The rain and wind picked up and more fog settled in. We lost the glow we had from the sky and were now in total darkness other than our headlamps. Soon we couldn't find the trail at all.
Now the Airline is a pretty straight forward 8/10's of a mile to the Gulf Side trail which leaves another 3/10s descent to the hut. I had navigated the stretch with relative ease after sunset Monday in clear weather without a headlamp. The mountain had become bigger though. Huge actually.
We forged ahead in the general direction we knew the hut to be, but soon become disoriented. Repeatedly hitting dead ends of krumholtz (thick gnarly shrubs) and boulders to large for scrambling, we had no choice but to head back up hill, eventually hitting the summit to reorient ourselves. The weather had deteriorated a few more notches. The winds were over 50 mph and the rain fell in huge, driving, horizontal downpours. Even when yelling we could hardly hear one another from feet away. Our visibility was confined to a 10 foot area lit by our headlamps from under our hoods. The scene seemed more underwater than above. Later we'd find out that the wind chill was below freezing— around 28 degrees.
We decided to follow Lowes Path to the Gulf Side trail. Lowe's took us away from the hut, but we knew it to have better, more consistent cairns, and was only 3/10s from GulfSide, which is part of the Appalachian Trail and would be much easier to follow to the hut given the conditions. We began hunting cairns on Lowes Path. With one person staying at the previous cairn while the other hunts for the next pile of rocks that mark the way. The leader would stumble and scramble until he found the next cairn, at which point he'd SHOUT back to the other who would join him. The process repeated itself over and over until the leader could no longer find the next cairn, at which he'd return to the previous point and the roles would switch. It turned into a game that kept us focused, but it left the trailing person standing in the wind and rain, cold and exposed, but marking all we had, the last known sign of the trail.
Eventually, it become too slow. We weren't getting down fast enough and we couldn't find the next cairn even though most were less than 20' apart. Things were quickly going from tense to scary and teetered on the edge of worse. We were tired, cold and soaked to the bone. The situation was deteriorating in exponential clicks that were getting faster. We were still working as a team though, and made the decision to forget the cairns and Lowes path. We set a corse in a direction we knew would intersect the Gulf Side trail and crossed our fingers that we'd know it when we crossed it (or else we'd stumble into the abyss of King Ravine).
Working and living in Madison Col can become confining. Your entire world, while at the freedom of 4800', has a 500' radius encompassing your kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, work place, commute and social life. You can get stir crazy. Thursday night Everett and I decided to head out for a walk after dinner. The weather was deteriorating, fog had rolled in, it was raining lightly at times. The wind was picking up too, but we needed an adventure.
We layered up. I wore wool long johns with shorts over them, a wool base layer on top, along with a wool hooded sweater and hooded rain jacket. I grabbed my head lamp and stuffed my pockets with candy bars. Everett did the same.
We headed up the Star Lake trail for a surreal ascent of Mount Adams. A cool blue light (moon? last remains of the sun?) made the fog glow. Madison Gulf to our left dropped into a blue hazy abyss of darkness and the summit cone of Adams was a black silhouette above. We scrambled over boulders above tree line, losing the trail, but not caring as we plowed on to the summit above us. We even enjoyed a beer toast part way up, proud of our adventurous little escape. We were damp from the mist in the air, but completely within in comfort zones.
The Summit of Mt. Adams on a clear night (KBW Photo)
As we topped the ridge a few hundred feet from the summit the wind picked up. It threw us a bit off balance, but we reached the summit signs with relative ease.
We decided to follow the Airline Trail down, a more gradual decent that still required boulder scrambling and the finding of cairns (stacks of rocks) to follow the above-tree-line trail. Going down Airline we began having more and more trouble finding the cairns. The rain and wind picked up and more fog settled in. We lost the glow we had from the sky and were now in total darkness other than our headlamps. Soon we couldn't find the trail at all.
Looking up the Airline Trail on a Previous ascent of Adams (KBW Photo)
We forged ahead in the general direction we knew the hut to be, but soon become disoriented. Repeatedly hitting dead ends of krumholtz (thick gnarly shrubs) and boulders to large for scrambling, we had no choice but to head back up hill, eventually hitting the summit to reorient ourselves. The weather had deteriorated a few more notches. The winds were over 50 mph and the rain fell in huge, driving, horizontal downpours. Even when yelling we could hardly hear one another from feet away. Our visibility was confined to a 10 foot area lit by our headlamps from under our hoods. The scene seemed more underwater than above. Later we'd find out that the wind chill was below freezing— around 28 degrees.
We decided to follow Lowes Path to the Gulf Side trail. Lowe's took us away from the hut, but we knew it to have better, more consistent cairns, and was only 3/10s from GulfSide, which is part of the Appalachian Trail and would be much easier to follow to the hut given the conditions. We began hunting cairns on Lowes Path. With one person staying at the previous cairn while the other hunts for the next pile of rocks that mark the way. The leader would stumble and scramble until he found the next cairn, at which point he'd SHOUT back to the other who would join him. The process repeated itself over and over until the leader could no longer find the next cairn, at which he'd return to the previous point and the roles would switch. It turned into a game that kept us focused, but it left the trailing person standing in the wind and rain, cold and exposed, but marking all we had, the last known sign of the trail.
Lowes Path and the Summit of Adams on a previous hike (KBW Photo)
Eventually, it become too slow. We weren't getting down fast enough and we couldn't find the next cairn even though most were less than 20' apart. Things were quickly going from tense to scary and teetered on the edge of worse. We were tired, cold and soaked to the bone. The situation was deteriorating in exponential clicks that were getting faster. We were still working as a team though, and made the decision to forget the cairns and Lowes path. We set a corse in a direction we knew would intersect the Gulf Side trail and crossed our fingers that we'd know it when we crossed it (or else we'd stumble into the abyss of King Ravine).
As we went down more quickly the conditions improved (a relative statement). We spotted a cairn as we crossed a foot path and hoped to hell it was the Gulf Side trail. It was. We turned right (towards the hut) and picked up the pace, spotting its well made cairns at a higher rate than we head been on Lowes and the Airline. With each cairn or trail maker the leader would yell "GOT ONE!" as the follower rejoiced with praise and we forged ahead. It was another mile of fog, rain and high winds before we ran into the sign marking the Airline Junction, or safety shoot to the hut. We headed down and 100' from the door, finally saw the glow of the hut lights through the fog.
The hut was quiet with two crew members still stirring about glad to see we were back safe. "A bit wet out there" they said as we walked in the door, not fully realizing the extent of our 3-hour ordeal. Everett and I humbly began to share our story, admitting our multiple mistakes and acknowledging our good fortune. We threw some wood into the stove and began to strip wet layer after wet layer, wringing them out and hanging them dripping in front of the wood stove. Everyone else went to bed, but we stayed up for awhile contemplating what had just happened.
We were dumb. We had been cocky. We paid no attention to the weather and the hostility of the area we were heading into. The mountains can always throw more at you.
Eventually we crawled into our sleeping bags, as the wind and rain picked up even more, blasting so hard that it pushed the smoke from out stove down the chimney, filling the hut with a grayish haze.
We were dumb. We had been cocky. We paid no attention to the weather and the hostility of the area we were heading into. The mountains can always throw more at you.
Eventually we crawled into our sleeping bags, as the wind and rain picked up even more, blasting so hard that it pushed the smoke from out stove down the chimney, filling the hut with a grayish haze.