Nov. 8-9 — McAffe Knob, VA with J-bo

11.9.14 — McAffe Knob, VA: about 9 miles hiked on camping trip

I’d been on just one day hike (Old Rag in late September) since California, two months of almost no hiking. I needed a hike. Conveniently, my cousin J-bo had a weekend, too, when he could sneak away from the expecting-twins wife before the ever-approaching big day. Lucky for him, as well, McAffe Knob — a hike I’d heard about from a group of James Madison undergrads while doing Old Rag — was just half an hour from his place in Blacksburg. I had a four-hour drive from DC.

The trip, while short, was most certainly worth it.

We arrived to an overflowing parking lot on Route 311 less than 10 minutes apart — not bad timing, at all, considering our itineraries. At first I couldn’t believe how packed the lot was in addition to hundreds of cars stacked alongside the road. But as we started our hike — described online as 4.4 miles to the Knob but by sign as just 3.9 — I quickly realized that this was THE HIKE for Virginia Tech students. Half of the day hikers we passed who were descending wore Hokies gear (I guess they’ve rightfully given up on their football team and decided to hike; good decision!). That, of course, was the negative of the ascent and something I’d warn any day hiker doing the Knob during the school year about — you’re not going to have any peace or quiet. The trail was crowded.

But after a relatively uneventful and easy two-hour hike — the elevation gain was 1,700 feet but didn’t even seem that great — we emerged from the still-red-and-orange-covered trees to a large rocky outcrop, the Knob. As advertised, the views to the east and north were spectacular. Even in the late-afternoon light, we could probably see 20 to 30 miles of hills interlaced with mountains, made even prettier than usual by the sunlight reflecting from the west. I was a little disappointed that there was no open view westward, but quickly got over it.

We got our photo taken at the main popular outlook and then continued walking on open rocks that neatly looped around the knob, providing a variance of views without one having to reenter the woods. We settled on a large, flat — and unoccupied — rock ledge for dinner. The sun was almost down, and as I had figured, with it had gone most of the people. We had the place to ourselves.

Well, we and the wind. And cold.

Despite putting on all my layers — polypro, AMC longsleeve, lightweight fleece and 800-down jacket — I was cold. Like usual, my hands (err, fingers) felt it the most. Thankfully, they were still working enough for me to get out my newly purchased bear box and remove my food. I also got my little stove going, filling the pot full of water to boil for my mountain dinner and J-bo’s macaroni and beef-pork-and-chicken? hot dogs (seriously).

Well, the water took a LONG TIME to boil. This was probably due to a few factors: 1) The wind, although I did move the stove to a more protected spot; 2) The amount of water we were trying to boil; 3) And, finally, the fact that the gas canister was on its last legs. Yes, I had underestimated how much gas it had left, and in my effort to be as lightweight as possible (my pack weighed just 22.5 pounds!) I didn’t bring another one. During the wait, we did pushups to stay warm. We talked about as long as we could about the view. We ate all our dessert items — for me, that consisted of about four Reese’s, a Snickers and a bunch of J-bo’s peanut butter M&Ms. And I checked about 13 times on the water.

When it looked to, finally, be as close to boiling as water can be, I called it and dumped a bunch in my dinner pouch. J-bo then poured his Mac and hot dogs into the almost-boiling water. About 11 minutes later, he noticed that the flame was out. The gas canister was empty. Thankfully, it had lasted just long enough to cook his food.

Dinner was delectable, even if I was shivering as I shoveled down bite after bite.

By the time we were finished, it was pitch black save for the lights in Roanoke, VA (population: 98,465) to the east of us. I packed up things with my cold fingers and prepared for some night hiking. We had at least 0.6 miles to our campsite.

The hike down was pretty cool. Night hiking by oneself can seem a little creepy, but doing it with another person was just plain fun. There was no imagining of bears or other large creatures. Our headlamps were strong, and the Appalachian Trail’s white blazes weren’t hard to pick out on the switchbacking, descending trail. It didn’t seem like 0.6 miles before we reached a clearing and noticed a handful of other tents. We had reached the Pig’s Rest campsite.

By that point, I was warm. Being cold was an afterthought. After a fairly quick tent setup and without a book (unlike the smarter J-bo), I retreated to my sleeping bag at 7:30pm! I was out not too long after that and only woke up a few times during the night.

I set an alarm for 5:30am because, being so close to the Knob, I figured, we’ve got to check out sunrise! Plus, it was on our way back; it wasn’t out of the way. After silently but efficiently breaking down camp in the dark — I’m pretty sure we didn’t wake anyone — we carefully hiked down a tenth of a mile on a trail the sign told us ended at water. At first, we couldn’t find it, but then noticed a pool below some wooden panels. We treated it and then got back on the main trail. Soon, I was down to my base layers as we ascended back to the Knob.

We arrived up top about 15 minutes before sunrise, and there were already a few people huddled under blankets and in sleeping bags taking in the views. I layered back up and we enjoyed an incredible sky that — over the course of the next hour and a half — featured many layers of different clouds and, occasionally, the sun. I’ve always noticed that clouds make looking at a sky infinitely cooler, and this was no exception. And it wasn’t that cold – I wouldn’t say I was warm, but I was comfortable enough to sit, shoot photos, eat some breakfast, and overall enjoy the amazing scenery. We were temporarily joined by a few folks who had hiked up the 3.9 miles that morning — impressive! — and then quickly headed back down. We had much more peace and tranquility than a day before.

Eventually, we decided it was time to pack up, and enjoyed an easy hike down. We did the final 2 miles on the fire road as opposed to the main trail we had taken on the way up, and the going couldn’t have been easier. It was smooth, the grade very moderate.

We returned to the parking lot at 10:07 a.m., a short but very enjoyable hike completed.

This was also a significant hike because it was my first with my Gossamer Gear Mariposa Ultralight backpack. And I LOVE IT. While another gas canister and maybe an additional layer would have been nice, I fit all I needed quite easily into the pack, it weighed just 22.5 pounds, and I barely felt it. The pack was also quite comfortable and features a handful of mesh outer pockets for easy access.

This pack is undoubtedly going to make camping trips more enjoyable for me. I can’t wait for the next one.

Yosemite 2014 — Half Dome conquered!

September 1, 2014

On Monday morning after breakfast in Sonoma with my family, it was time for me to go off on my own. It’s never easy leaving the comforts of family and familiarity, but Yosemite National Park beckoned a mere four-hour drive away. I couldn’t resist the allure of one of this nation’s treasures. On Sunday before calling it a night I had applied for a permit to hike Half Dome, Yosemite’s crown jewel, on Wednesday. But I had plenty to look forward to before that 16-mile hike — assuming I was granted the permit for Half Dome’s 400 feet of cables to its flat summit.

About an hour away from the park, I turned onto highway 120 and drove past a line of stationary cars that must have stretched for two miles. Yes, Labor Day traffic coming out of Yosemite was alive and well. I had no issues the way I was going. As I entered the park, I learned that all the first-come, first-served campsites had space — also not surprising — which gave me plenty of options. I drove down toward the valley — passing the outlook where the incredible view of Half Dome and its surrounding peaks appears for the first time, a spot where Dad and I had stopped and gazed in awe during our 2011 trip — and then took a turn to the south and back up to Glacier Road.

After setting up my tent at the Bridalveil Creek Campground, which was pretty empty at about 7,000 feet, I packed up some food and my book and headed farther up the road to the Taft Point and Sentinel Dome trailhead. It was about 4pm. I had done both short hikes with Dad three years earlier, but I knew they would be equally enjoyable a second time around, especially in the late-afternoon and evening light.

The 1-mile walk to Taft Point reminded me of just how different Yosemite is a few months apart. When we had done the hike in late June, there had still been patches of snow. This time, the trail was completely dry. There were no signs of water — anywhere. When I got out to the point, with its sheer dropoff of more than a thousand feet, I carefully took a seat and was joined by a pair of ravens who sat just inches from the edge. I was a couple feet farther back. We took in the scenery together. I only saw four other people there, too; the place felt vast and empty.

After retracing my steps about a half mile, I turned left on the Pohono Trail, which took me around the northern edge of Sentinel Dome and offered tremendous views into the valley. After descending the first part of the trail, I knew it would be a lot of uphill to the peak. However, the ascent didn’t seem too long or arduous. After awhile, I reached a clearing with what appeared to be a radio tower and some kind of electrical hub. From there, views opened up to the east of neighboring high peaks and I took a few photos of Half Dome framed by the branches in the foreground of a large fir.

From there, I enjoyed the short ascent up to Sentinel Dome (8,123 feet), passing a few groups as I climbed the open rock slabs. It was close to 7pm, and the sun was setting on the summit that offers 360-degree views. I found a flat rock, ate my cheese and crackers dinner (note: the crackerbarrel cheese had basically melted during the four-hour drive when outdoor temperatures were in the 90s), read my book, and enjoyed the scenery. After the sun set and darkness began to envelope the peak, the western horizon turned an array of dazzling colors and I got the camera out. The only other people on top were a photographer and his two pupils, who were attempting all kinds of different shots using a tripod. As I began to descend, I turned back and snapped a few photos of their silhouettes cutting into the color sky, with the moon also bright.

The 1.2-mile hike down shouldn’t have been difficult except for the fact that my headlamp was basically dead. It had accidentally been bumped and turned on during my flight and now it was almost useless. Using a combination of the headlamp, my phone flashlight, and footprint identification, I was able to navigate the easy trail back to the parking lot. I have to admit, though, that was a bit scary. I guess, in retrospect, I could have waited for the photographer and his student. Still, being out in the wilderness by yourself with no phone service can be a little nerve-racking. But I made it, and the stars were incredible.

The only problem that night was the guy at the adjacent site. After I crawled into my tent and turned on my headlamp to read, he yelled out, “You’re not alone here! Turn your light off!!” I couldn’t believe it. The time was 9pm. I wasn’t doing anything egregious. But I didn’t want a confrontation, so I turned my light off and called it a night. Not surprisingly, I didn’t sleep well, waking up several times throughout the night.

MILES HIKED: 5.1

September 2, 2014

I had originally planned to wake up for sunrise at around 5am and drive up to Washburn and Glacier points, which both offer outstanding views to the east. But perhaps spooked by Mr. No Light, I didn’t set an alarm and instead woke around 6. Still, my live-to-explore mindset kicked in and I didn’t settle for hanging around the campsite. I drove up to the two points even though I knew the light wouldn’t be great. It was cold (38 degrees), underscoring the wide temperature changes during a Yosemite day (90 degrees) and night. Wearing my down coat and winter hat, I walked out to a rock at Glacier Point and read. It was a nice way to start the day, even if the sky looked bland.

After cooking oatmeal back at the campsite, I hit the road to drive up to Tioga Road. My plan was to hike to Cloud’s Rest — a 14-mile trek to a tremendous peak with great views of Half Dome and the valley. However, I first wanted to secure a campsite and get that set up. And having not gotten an early start, when I got up to Tioga Road, I encountered a traffic jam for construction — not too infrequent of an occurrence on the road and my second jam of the morning. I didn’t make it to the Porcupine Flat campsite until about 10:20am and after identifying a site away from where others were staying (I’d learned from that experience the night before) and paying, I didn’t get to the trailhead until 11am.

I also didn’t have enough water for the hike, so I walked to the edge of beautiful Tenya Lake and filtered 32 ounces to add to my Camelback, which already had about that amount. And finally, I started on the trail. It was late enough that I wasn’t sure I wanted to do the Cloud’s Rest hike. My other option would be to hike to the Sunrise Lakes and the high sierra camp at 9,400 feet, which would be a 10-mile day.

I hiked fast and passed dozens of backpackers with heavy loads who were all going to Sunrise Lakes. I reached the 2.5-mile mark in just over an hour and decided I could do Cloud’s Rest. However, about a quarter mile down the trail, I stopped and decided to turn back. My thinking was as follows: I was alone, no one knew exactly what I was hiking and I didn’t have cell service, and I didn’t feel that great.

(Note: Hiking by yourself is hard because you’re the lone decision-maker. Whenever you question yourself, there’s no one to tell you, ‘Oh, you’re fine, Jake, you’re a very strong hiker. And you’ll have me with you!’ It’s hard to explain, but very difficult. In the past, 99 percent of the time I opted to keep going. But this time, I convinced myself not to. I still would have had 4.7 miles to the summit before turning around.)

The hike to Sunrise Lakes was nice, but far from spectacular. I actually got confused, thinking the lakes were at the high sierra camp. When I arrived at the camp and there was a large, dry meadow, I thought for a minute it was a dried-up lake. Then I pulled out my map and realized that I had passed the three lakes en route to the camp. A couple years ago, Dad and I applied through a lottery for the high sierra camps, which are tent cabins — five of them — spread out in Yosemite’s high sierra. We weren’t chosen, but will definitely apply again. In seeing one of the camps for the first time, it was about what I expected. There was a main building with chairs and tables where breakfast and dinner, it appears, were served. Spread out around the building but not too close to it were the tent cabins. I look forward to that experience!

But on this day, I had to turn around and head back up the path toward the lakes. I made sure to stop at a lake, dip my feet in, and lie down to read my book while being baked by the hot sun. I felt like I was on a beach, except one that was at 9,000 feet and surrounded by the high peaks of the sierras. That was a pretty cool feeling.

When I returned to the junction, I noticed a man huffing and puffing his way up from the Cloud’s Rest trail. Once he caught his breath, the man informed me that he and his wife had decided to see how far they could go on the path. He made it about three quarters of the way to the summit. His wife, who appeared a few minutes later, had gone to the top. Well, not technically the top. She told me she had stopped just short of it when she got to the section of trail that was a couple feet wide with a thousand-foot drop on either side.

I felt sick to my stomach. How could I have missed that? I knew I had made the conservative decision, but inside I was killing myself for not being my usual ambitious self. Thankfully, as I had learned minutes earlier — when at Pluto Point, a place with cell service, I had called to confirm that my permit had been issued — I was set for Half Dome the next day.

I took in a mild sunset from Pothole Dome, the short peak right on the side of Tioga Road and adjacent to Tuolumne Meadows, and then slept very peacefully at the near-empty campsite. I was ready for the big day.

MILES HIKED: 10

September 3, 2014

On Half Dome day, I didn’t want to make the same mistake of a day earlier. I got up early. My alarm woke me at 5:23am and I was in the car a couple minutes later. After a seemingly interminable ride on Tioga, I reached the junction to the valley. As my car’s dashboard told me, it was slowly warming up outside. I reached the valley around 6:40, giving me 20 minutes to find water and the shuttle bus stop from Curry Village to the trailhead. It would have been about a 0.75-mile walk to the Mist Trail from the village, but I was eager to get to the trail as soon as possible. The shuttle was a bit late, but I was on the Mist Trail around 7:30.

The first portion of the trail is paved and alongside the Merced River. I had done the hike with my Dad three years earlier when we went to Vernal Falls. Then, the river was roaring like it never had before — as confirmed to us by a Yosemite lifer we met alongside the falls after getting soaked by its spray. He had never seen anything like it. This year, the river was nearly dead. It was most certainly dry season. After about a mile, I turned right off the Mist Trail onto the world-famous John Muir Trail. It would make for a longer ascent, but the incredible views that quickly opened up as I walked the switchbacks made it so worthwhile. I also passed by a woman and her band of horses stopped alongside the trail, bathed in early morning sunlight. I stopped on several occasions to admire the view of Half Dome and an unnamed smaller dome in front of it. The crazy thing about the 8.2-mile hike is that you almost do a full circle. As I hiked east, I wasn’t really getting closer to Half Dome, which was to the north. So while it remained in my view, the bald peak certainly didn’t seem very close.

The incredible thing about the hike was how much the scenery changed from one mile to the next. On the John Muir Trail, the path was packed-down dirt. After reaching the 4.5-mile mark, the trail turned sandy and I was tempted to take off my boots and walk bare-footed as I passed by the Little Yosemite Valley backcountry campsite (future idea!) and the ranger station. Then, as the trail turned north, I entered a long section of old-growth either sequoia or red wood trees. It was a welcome relief to escape the sun and the heat for the shade of the enormous trees.

I was on a mission, having eaten just a single Larabar the first few miles of the trail. After my turnaround the day before, I was determined to reach Half Dome’s summit and conquer the 4,800 feet of elevation gain in an absurdly quick time. Especially in the forest, I passed dozens of groups of people. Half Dome is a ridiculously popular hike, even after Labor Day. The granite dome of a mountain got so overcrowded that in 2010 the National Park Service began limiting the number of hikers each day through a permit system. At first, it was just for weekends. In 2011, it was expanded for seven days a week. Now, only 300 people are granted permits each day. As I got within about a mile of the summit, I came upon a park ranger stationed in a shady spot just before, it appeared, the trail became rocky and left the trees. The ranger asked for my name and checked his ipad. I was good to go. Talk about a unique hiking experience!

From there, it was all uphill, all steep. I first climbed up a spiraling staircase, stopping every minute or so for a few seconds to catch my breath. Having survived the stairs, I then climbed up steep rock slabs, careful to navigate my way around scree on some of the rocks (nothing’s more dangerous than scree on granite, except, of course, for water). I was tired and sweating and my legs were feeling it, but I was also full of adrenaline. I was so close!

And then, just ahead of me, there were the cables. They had been hard to imagine 6 miles earlier in the morning, but there they were — 400 feet of them. They’re not easy to describe, but basically poles were drilled into the granite about 10 feet apart going up the steep northeast side of the dome. Cables are attached to the top of the poles, about waist height. Also, wooden slabs are wedged into the base of the poles, providing makeshift platforms for hikers every 10 feet to rest without having to rely solely on gripping the cables. Gloves are essential, and I had brought my thin winter ones. Despite the ranger telling people not to leave gloves, there is a hidden pile of them behind a rock at the base of the cables.

As I began the ascent, I was a little nervous. I had never done anything like this before. I steadied my confidence by narrowing my focus to each 10 feet of climbing. When the woman in front of me left her wooden plank to pull her way up to the next, I would do the same. That was the rhythm I assumed. It was broken a few times as we stopped to allow descending hikers to shimmy past, and the women in front of me were another story. They both appeared to be in their 60s and for the majority of the ascent, they kept asking each other, “Why are we doing this?” “Are we crazy?” “How are we going to get down?” I chuckled inwardly and wondered the same thing. Even though the people descending said it was easier, I had a hard time believing them.

Really? For one, the rock was extremely steep. Additionally, I wasn’t particularly confident in the traction of my two-year-old boots. But there was no turning back. I was almost there. The last 10-15 sections were the easiest, as the grade lessened. The women were still fretting, but I had no doubts about reaching the summit. And then I was there, on top, having conquered the 8,844-foot, world-famous peak.

You would never think this from the valley views of Half Dome, but the summit is flat and expansive. You could play a full-field game of football on top. It was a bit hard to believe. Immediately, I scoped out the place where I wanted my picture taken. At the time, I mistakingly thought it was “The Diving Board,” made famous by Ansel Adams’ photographs. As I learned later, the rock outcropping above a severe, sheer dropoff is called “The Visor.” I sat on the edge of a rock and had a nice guy named Austin shoot several photos of me from about 150 feet away where I had eaten lunch and been joined by a high-elevation squirrel. It was a pretty cool spot. Then I walked a couple hundred yards west, going down the summit looking toward the valley.

The cables are the only way to hike up Half Dome, but many (crazy) rock climbers gain the summit by ascending its northwest wall. Many of them do it without equipment. I like to sit on rock ledges and don’t mind some exposure, but I could never imagine myself climbing a rock wall without support. Those people are the real adventure nuts.

After lacing up my boots securely, it was time to go down. Really quickly, any nervousness I had vanished. It really was much easier; I didn’t even need to use both cables. Gripping the cable on the right, I took itty bitty, quick steps with my boots and sideways walked my way down the cables sans any issues. It was an enjoyable descent, and I basked in how friendly everyone was in letting each other go up or down. During those moments I thought to myself that my faith in humanity, in the common good of people, had been restored (then again, it almost always is in the mountains).

On the hike down, I got a little dehydrated. It was such a hot day that even the 80-plus ounces of water I brought weren’t enough. When I reached the junction with the Mist Trail, I opted for the shorter, steeper descent, not to mention different from what I had ascended (Note: I’ll almost always take a loop as long as it’s not significantly longer than the out-and-back). On the path down to Vernal Falls, I think I passed half of France. There were swarms of people, the majority of them European. Because it was so crowded, the hiker etiquette I was used to disappeared. No one said hello. It was unfortunate, but I realized that’s just how it is on such a ridiculously popular trail.

Above Vernal Falls I came to a large pool of water. In 2011, it had been a raging river that my Dad made sure I didn’t even dip a foot in, thinking I might be pulled in and sent over the large waterfall. This year, there was no threat of that. I took off my shirt and walked down to the edge of the concave pool. Immediately, I lost my footing on the slippery rock and had no choice but to dive right into the bone-chilling water. It was COLD — probably the chilliest water I’ve gone full immersion into in quite a while — but very refreshing. After a couple minutes, I scraped my way back onto dry rock and laid on the granite, letting it quickly warm my body. It was a great feeling, especially for my tired legs.

There was another pool at the base of the 317-foot waterfall, and a party was in full swing. As I walked down the path adjacent to the waterfall, I observed people cannon-balling and diving off rocks into the pool. With the waterfall still somewhat powerful and a faint half-rainbow forming above the pool, it was quite the place to be. Apparently, a hundred other people felt the same way!

I waltzed down the final mile of paved trail with the hundreds of Europeans and completed the 16-mile hike a little more than 8 hours after I had begun. Well, actually, I wasn’t done walking, as I decided I had enough energy to skip the shuttle and strut back into Curry Village. By then, I was ready to sit down and enjoy Curry’s awesome buffet that had been a favorite dinner tradition for Dad and me three years earlier. But sadly, as a worker at the ice cream counter informed me, it was no longer a buffet. It had been changed a couple years earlier to a sit-down restaurant with a regular menu. I guess hungry hikers like me had made the buffet an unprofitable business. Oh, well.

The village was hopping with people, but I was kind of tired of crowds so I returned to my car to head back to Tioga Road. On the way, I picked up a hitchhiker named Sam who worked in Yosemite Village at a food stand and also is from Ann Arbor. What a coincidence! I enjoyed listening to Sam go on and on about how awesome living in Yosemite and working there was. It definitely sounded like a cool gig. Maybe if I’m ever in between jobs, I’ll do that. After dropping him off at the White Wolf lodge, I grabbed a quick dinner at the campsite then took in sunset and read my book with the headlamp at Olmsted Point as millions of stars lit up the California sky. The next day, it would be back to a different place. I wanted to soak up Yosemite and its wonders for as long as possible.

MILES HIKED: 16

TOTAL YOSEMITE MILES HIKED: 31.1

8.13-15, 2014: Acadia National Park — no easy trail!

The idea to visit Acadia National Park was born in mid-July at Wonderland in the Columbia Heights neighborhood of Washington, DC. After a morning soccer game with my DC SCORES team, I was enjoying my favorite postgame meal, “The Veganator,” at one of Wonderland’s picnic tables and discussing my future hiking adventures when my no-filter friend Emily piped in, “You should go to Acadia!” I know of Acadia — I knew my parents had been there — but hadn’t given the national park any thought until then.

A couple weeks later, I sat at the kitchen table at the Red House in New Hampshire thinking about what I would do the second week of my vacation when I would be all alone. The parents, sister, brother-in-law and baby would all be back in Michigan. Aunt Vicky would be back in North Carolina. I would have complete freedom. Sure, there was always plenty of New Hampshire hiking I could do. But the idea of going on a completely new adventure intrigued me.

How about Acadia, I asked? A day later, Dad came into the kitchen with a trail book and map he had found on the old house’s shelf of maps. I then spent a couple hours reading through the countless trail descriptions. Yes, Acadia didn’t have a mountain taller than 1,500 feet, but the trails seemed awesome — rocky, ledges, ladders, steep. That was all I needed to hear. I began to plan my trip. I was going to Acadia!

I booked a site at one of the island’s two national park campsites, Seawall. Then I watched as the weather forecast got worse and worse. When I left the Red House in the early afternoon of Wednesday, Aug. 13, it was downpouring and the forecast gave no indication of the rain lessening in New Hampshire or in Acadia, which was about four hours northeast of the Red House. Oh, well, I thought, this really is going to be an adventure! I even took the step of setting up my tent as much as I could indoors and stuffing it in the Civic so that setup would be minimal if I had to do it in a downpour.

As it turned out, by the time I reached the island around 7pm, the sky, although ominous, produced no precipitation. The island, also called Mount Desert Island because not all of it is the national park, was interesting. It didn’t take me long, as I passed gas stations and tire shops, fast-food joints and other commercial businesses, to recognize that this national park experience might be vastly different from others. I was in a national park, yes, but it didn’t have that pristine feeling that I often experience in this nation’s crown jewels. After setting up my tent, I drove across the main road to the beach and ate a dinner of a crusty sandwich and beef jerky (I could have done better) with a gluten-free beer while peering out at the wind-swept white waters of the ocean. It was chilly. I could tell the rain would be back.

Once darkness came, I returned to my campsite and crawled into my tent with my book. And thus began the night from hell. Soon, the rain started to fall. And then drops began falling on my head. Yes, I was getting wet. My five-year-old tent’s sealing was subpar. Add to that the fact that I happened to be stationed next to the campsite with the immature, loud, drunk, dick-joke-making college-age kids, and I wasn’t sleeping. The only thing that got me through that night was my book, “The Adventures of Buffalo and Tough Cookie,” a great read about a man who befriends a girl from next door and ingrains in her a love of hiking as they complete the 52 peaks in New Hampshire that aren’t 4,000-footers but all offer great rewards (Note: Hiking all of these peaks is a new goal of mine; add it to the list!). I finally fell asleep around 2 a.m.

I woke up the next morning at 7 a.m. The wind was still howling, but the rain was gone. The bottom of my sleeping bag was soaked. Thankfully, it had been a very warm night. I had never gotten chilled. I left my tent and picked up my site in record time. Good riddance. In order to cleanse my initial experience in the park, I needed to hike. I didn’t particularly care what the hike was or what conditions I experienced. I’ve never gone on a bad hike in my life. I just needed to lace up my boots and hit the trail.

So being on the southwest portion of the island, I drove to the nearest trailhead, which gave me access to a variety of peaks. The sky was completely clouded over, so I knew views would offer little, if anything. No matter. It was time to hike. The trail quickly gained the first peak, Flying Man (284 feet), a popular sunset destination. The rocky top gave me a (limited) view into Valley Cove below. After snapping a photo at the summit, I descended the trail into the woods until I emerged at a beach on the cove. It was a pretty cool setting. A hundred yards out or so in the water sat a medium-sized Coast Guard boat. The fog had lifted enough that I could see the land forming Northeast Harbor across the cove. I sat down, enjoyed a snack, and took in the scenery.

Then it was back to the trail and my next destination, Acadia Mountain (681 feet). The hike up Acadia was awesome. It was as extreme as almost any New Hampshire peak. It didn’t matter that I wouldn’t come close to reaching 1,000 feet. The trail was steep with many pitches that required using my hands to boost myself up. Add to that the fact that many rocks were slippery and the wind was howling, and it was an extreme ascent.

The top had zero visibility, but it did offer 30-plus-mph winds! I stood on the wet rock and took it all in. I had the mountain to myself, and I was loving it. Sometimes the elements make a hike memorable, even if you can’t see farther than 20 feet away. That was the case on Acadia Mountain. On my way down, I actually saw three groups of hikers — the weather was becoming more auspicious — as I headed south on the St. Sauveur Trail, going over its namesake peak (again, no views) before navigating the very slippery trail on the descent back down to the car. I made it back unscathed.

It was about 12:30 p.m. when I finished my morning hike. I knew I wanted to do another trek in the afternoon, but not before I found a place to stay. To be honest, I wasn’t confident in having an enjoyable camping experience after the nightmare of the night before. Heck, I didn’t know if my sleeping bag would even dry. So I drove up 102 to 3 and the north part of the island and then headed east to Bar Harbor, the touristy town. I mistakenly thought I might be able to find a hotel room at a reasonable price less than $100. Boy, was I wrong. I stopped at what looked like the most run-down place in town and was shocked when the unhappy-looking woman behind the desk offered me a room at $161. Ah, forget about it! I’ll try camping again, I thought. I drove through the tourist hotbed and continued on Route 3 south until I came to the Blackwoods national park campground in the southeast portion of the island. Luckily, they had a few spots remaining for the night.

I knew right away that my camping experience might be better than the previous night’s when the family adjacent to my site offered me their large hammer to help knock in my tent’s short stakes (the ground was rock hard). They were quite the upgrade from the loud kids of Seawall. After getting settled, it was time to hike again!

I drove west to Seal Harbor, where I was able to merge onto the 27-mile Park Loop Road, which accurately loops on the east portion of the island and has access to many trailheads. I took the road to the southern shores of Jordan Pond, which, I quickly learned, is a tourist destination. I was lucky to find a parking spot amid the swarms of people, and as I walked to the edge of the pond, I was far from alone. However, as is usually the case when hiking, once I began on the Penobscot Mountain trail, I quickly gained solitude. Crowds don’t climb. They just hang out.

Again, I was on a really fun, steep, rocky trail. I loved it. Even better — within maybe three quarters of a mile, I emerged from the woods and was treated to absolutely tremendous views as I walked up the open rocky slopes toward the 1,194-foot summit. Every few feet, I stopped, rotated, and took in the sites in every direction. I couldn’t identify what everything was. I didn’t care. I was in a spectacular place. The sky was as blue as the sea and the myriad ponds and sounds that stretched beneath me in all directions. On the completely exposed summit, with the late-afternoon sun radiating on the wooden sign that stuck out of a large cairn, I was joined by three other hikers. I contrasted that with the hundreds of people some 1,000 feet below on the shores of Jordan Pond.

From there, I descended to tiny Sargent Pond, tucked delicately in the col between mountains, before an equally enjoyable ascent to Sargent Mountain (1,373 feet). I had Sargent’s summit to myself. I gazed to the northeast at Eagle Lake with its azure-blue water. I turned around and shielded my eyes from the bright, almost-setting sunlight above Somes Sound. To the east on the other side of Jordan Pond stood Cadillac Mountain, at 1,530 feet the highest point on the mountain.

I was tempted to stay on top of Sargent for sunset and put my headlamp to use, but I was in an unfamiliar place and would be taking new trails down. It wasn’t worth the risk. Minutes later, I knew I had made the right decision as I carefully descended the extremely steep, rocky, and still wet Sargent Mountain North Ridge Trail. It would not have been fun to navigate in the darkness.

After what seemed a long 1.2 miles, I reached the northern shore of Jordan Pond. The sun had set and was already creating irresistible-to-view colors in the sky as I began walking on the pond-side trail. I had a good mile to go before reaching the parking lot at the southeast corner of the pond. The walk was incredible. As darkness took over, so did fog, and a few deer appeared before me on the trail. They didn’t seem scared of me as I approached, and nonchalantly trotted into the woods only when one of us had to make room. A few minutes later, I heard a splash in the water to my right and noticed a head poking up. I followed the animal’s movements and realized it was a beaver. It followed a pattern of swimming 10 to 20 feet and then poking its head above water to make a sound I can’t describe. A minute later, I noticed that it had a mate. Two beavers, what a scene!

As I ended my journey, I came out to a cadre of rocks on the edge of the pond and sat down. There was a group of people farther out on the pond to my left. We had the place to ourselves. The fog that had settled over the water created a mystical setting. It was dark, but a white pocket of light refused to leave the sky to the north and reflected on the pond. I didn’t want to leave. As the darkness got thicker, a pair of black birds suddenly flew in front of me making loud chirping noises as if to signify the beginning of night. Their communication was answered by another’s howling from the opposite end of the lake.

Finally I left and drove the park loop road back to the campsite, fully content from a memorable day of hiking. After some reading while enjoying a rice cakes dinner with beers, I fell asleep soundly at 10pm. I slept soundly.

MILES HIKED APPROXIMATELY: 10

Friday, my final day on the island, began with a visit to the campsite’s registration building. I had been told the previous day that because of the popular season, the only way to get a spot at the campsite for an additional night was to line up by 8 a.m. when limited spots were available. Unfortunately for me, when I arrived at 7:46 a.m., about 10 people were already in line. Fourteen minutes later, the ranger came out of the building to announce that just six (or maybe it was eight) campsites were available. I was on the outside looking in. I returned to my campsite and packed up. I had no idea where I would stay for the night.

But that was a future concern. In the moment, I was excited to take advantage of what appeared to be a spectacular weather day. I knew what I wanted to hike first — Champlain Mountain (1,058 feet). From the moment I read about the Precipice Trail, I knew it was right in my wheelhouse. It didn’t disappoint. The 0.8-mile trail was literally straight up. And that meant ladders and rungs — several of them. Not surprisingly, the trail was popular. It was the closest you can get to rockclimbing without, you know, actually rockclimbing. The trail consisted of climbing one ladder after another, with ledge walking mixed in. There were several sections when a misstep could have resulted in disaster. Still, this danger didn’t dissuade dozens of people from doing it. I guess I was a little surprised by how many people I encountered. Near the top I stopped and took the picture of a group of three about my age, including a girl who, her sister said, was afraid of heights. Wow. I was impressed she had done the hike (or been pulled along). There was that much exposure. Of course, gaining elevation so quickly, and being on the eastern edge of the island, also afforded outstanding views to the east of the ocean and the many small islands that dotted Frechman Bay. To the northeast I could see Bar Island, which you can walk to when it’s low tide.

Upon reaching the wide summit of Champlain, I headed south on the Bear Brook Trail, stopping often to pick the plentiful blueberries and huckleberries that dominated the edges of the rocky but easy trail. The trail dropped gradually and eventually entered cover before coming to “The Bowl,” a small pond that was quite popular on this August Friday. Families bathed in the shallow waters and others sat on pond’s edge. It was nice, but nothing special. I continued past the crowds and up “The Beehive,” another small peak I had read featured a very steep ascent. The only thing was, as I quickly learned, that ascent was from the east, not from my direction. I actually gained the summit quite easily. I sat and observed as people, their T-shirts caked in sweat, emerged on top from what I could imagine was a trail similar to the Precipice. I could have tried going down, but no, I was fine. One Precipice was enough, I figured!

Instead, I turned around and headed back the way I had come. The return trip was nothing special except for whom I encountered — the barefoot legend. I had noticed her going the other way, but this time I stopped and asked the woman if she always hiked barefoot. Her mom piped in, telling me that her daughter was Susan Letcher, one of the two sisters who had hiked the entire Appalachian Trail barefoot and wrote a book about it (which I still need to read, by the way). I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I was in the presence of a legend. I asked Susan what the hardest part of the AT was, expecting her to mention the spear-like granite rocks of New Hampshire’s White Mountains.

Her answer surprised me — a handicap-accessible path in Connecticut with gravel and poison ivy growing on its edges. She said that the gravel was tough on her feet, and she couldn’t avoid it. Makes sense!

After bidding goodbye to the legend, I continued my hike back to the summit and took a longer, roundabout way down to avoid descending the Precipice — probably a smart choice, especially as I would learn later about the poor tread of my sneakers. Once down, I drove south toward Sandy Beach, the island’s one public swimming salt water location. I thought I was going to swim, but once I stepped foot on the beach, felt the cold afternoon air and then the water hit my toes, and observed a beached jelly fish, I changed my mind. It wasn’t that appetizing. Yeah, my tough-guy reputation — if I even have one — took a hit, but it was OK. No one was watching me. After hiking the Precipice, I could live with not jumping in the cold water (plus, I had gone in Echo Lake the day before).

I read for awhile and then continued down Park Loop Road. I intended to drive to the campsite and maybe check on availability before heading to Cadillac Mountain for a final hike, but I couldn’t stop myself from pulling over twice to walk over to the red rocks above Newport Cove. While Sandy Beach wasn’t all that beautiful, walking on the rocks and looking out to the ocean was spectacular. I could have spent an entire afternoon traversing the shore on the rocks that jutted out above the white waters. Instead, I settled for about 20 minutes. I loved that Acadia offered such diverse environments that were equally amazing — in how many places can you go from a mountain peak to the rocks of an ocean cove in an hour?

By the time I was able to pull myself away from the red rocks, time was of the essence — I needed to start my sunset hike up Cadillac. My plan was to go up the mountain’s shortest route, the Cadillac West Face Trail that was 1.4 miles to the summit. I forget what time it was when I started, but I didn’t have a lot of daylight. Still, I wasn’t worried. I had my headlamp. I laced up my sneakers and started up. Immediately, I realized just how steep the rock-slab-dominated trail was, and it wasn’t completely dry, either. This would be no easy sunset hike.

Then, just like that, the sky was devoured by a cloud. This wasn’t before I enjoyed picturesque views of the evening fog above Bubble Pond below me. But pretty soon I realized there would be no sunset from Cadillac’s peak. That fact combined with the steepness of the trail and many wet rock slabs that I knew I would have to descend almost convinced me to turn around. Plus, the hike was taking, seemingly, forever.

But if you know me, you understand that I hate turning back on any hike. So I picked up my pace and continued on, determined to reach the summit simply because I had set out to do it. Finally — after what seemed like 2 miles — I reached the junction with the South Ridge Trail half a mile from the top. The path leveled out, and I jogged most of way to the top, which was disgusting. There was a store. There were dozens of cars. I was the ONLY person who had hiked the mountain that evening. The summit was even more touristy than the summit of Mt. Washington in New Hampshire.

Thankfully, I hadn’t planned on spending much time on top, anyway. I wanted to begin what was sure to be a treacherous descent before darkness. So I set up my gorilla pod and took a quick photo, simply to document the achievement, and then turned around. So long, tourists. Enjoy the views! After jogging the easy half a mile back to the junction, I took my time with every step on the way down. I had descended the most difficult pitches and was nearly down when, inexplicably, I slipped on a fairly flat rock and fell on my butt. It was a bit sore, but I felt fine. Then, a minute later, my shoe, again, gave out from me and I hit the ground, scraping my right hand. I looked at the blood from a decent cut — although not deep — and shook my head in disgust. What the heck? How had I made it this far down and now couldn’t take a step without slipping?

My confidence was a bit shaken, I have to admit. Still, I knew I needed to regain my focus. Even though I wasn’t far from Bubble Pond and could hear voices below, I was alone on the path. No one was coming to rescue me. I survived the final portion of the path, found a rock beside the still, tranquil pond, sat down and got out my medical kit to find a band aid for the cut. That taken care of, I grabbed my final beer and enjoyed watching the darkness, once again, take over such a beautiful setting. I had survived Acadia National Park, which didn’t take long to gain my respect. The summits might have been tiny compared to my other hiking destinations, but no trail was easy.

I’ll be back, Acadia. You’re spectacular!

MILES HIKED (APPROXIMATELY): 7

TOTAL ACADIA MILES HIKED: 17

New Hampshire 2014 — a summer of firsts

As I began my time in New Hampshire this summer, I didn't have any huge hiking goals. I planned to continue to chip away at summiting all 48 of the state's 4,000-footers — for the second time. Besides that, I anticipated some fun family hikes, as my nephew Nathaniel and brother-in-law Andrew were in Center Sandwich at our Red House for the first time.

Hike 1 — baby on back!
On my first full day in New Hampshire, I enjoyed my first new hiking experience of the trip — trekking up a mountain with a baby on my back. That's right. I joined the family — the parents, sister Rose, and the aforementioned Andrew and Nathaniel — for a short but steep hike up East Rattlesnake.

Nathaniel was great. Strapped into my pack, he barely made a peep as we (no, just I) sweated our way up the steep dirt path. Upon reaching the summit outlook with tremendous views of Squam Lake, I gave my back a rest and we enjoyed the scenery to ourselves until we were joined by a couple and their dogs. I posed for a few photos with Nathaniel as well as Charlie the Pomeranian, including my new Facebook profile photo.

MILES: 1.6

Hike 2 — Ladders and cliffs, oh my!
On Andrew's last day in New Hampshire, we decided to give him a little bit more of a hike than Saturday's. After all, we want this guy to come back. We needed to get him hooked on the mountains.

Mission (I think) accomplished.

The Morgan and Percival hike is the perfect four-hour casual hike with great rewards. I've done it dozens of times, but it never gets old. After a relatively easy climb through the woods, we reached the famous two ladders — the step from the top of the first to the bottom rung of the second is the most difficult — just below Morgan's rocky summit.

A couple minutes later, we were enjoying the Squam Lake view and our lunches.

After a 0.8-mile ridge hike, we arrived to another great view atop Percival, including limited outlooks of the bigger peaks to the north and east. We then squeezed our way through the caves just below the summit before what I consider a steeper trail back to the road.

NOTE: The path near the road that connects the Percival and Morgan trails and allows you to avoid road hiking isn't clearly named. But take it.

MILES HIKED: 4.7

Hike 3 — Dragonflies photobomb!
On Tuesday morning, I decided I needed my first 4,000-footers of the year. The smaller mountains are nice, but I live for the big guys. So I headed to the Livermore trailhead to do the 11-mile loop over the Tripyramids. Upon arriving to an empty parking lot, I knew there were issues. A minute later I noticed the sign — the trail was closed because of work being done to repair damage from Hurricane Irene.

I couldn't believe it. But upon reflection, it made sense. I remembered hearing about all the damage the 2011 storm caused in the White Mountains. I just didn't think repair work would still be ongoing three years later.

Still thirsty for a hike but not in the mood to drive much farther than the hour I had already spent in the Civic, I drove to the nearby Sandwich Dome trail. I didn't intend to hike all the way to the wooded summit of the mountain, but rather to the impressive Jennings Peak ledge 2.8 miles up the trail.

The hike, as I expected, was extremely steep and it didn't take me long to sweat through my T-shirt. But as is custom when I'm solo hiking, I powered on until I reached an outlook — Noon Peak at the 1.6-mile mark — and enjoyed the views of the Tripyramids and another 4,000-footer nearby, Tecumseh.

From there, the hike up to Jennings is pretty easy, even the 0.2-mile spur. On top, I sat down and enjoyed the mostly clear views of the dome, Whiteface and Passaconway. I didn't realize it at the time, but a photo I took captured not one, not two, not three, but four dragonflies. Oh, my!

I hadn't seen anybody on the way up, but while laying on the rock reading my book, three middle-aged ladies joined me. They were having trouble figuring out their directions, so I helped a bit (I could have said more) before they departed.

I took the Drakes Brook trail, which is longer but mellower, down to complete my nice loop hike.

MILES HIKED: 6.3

Hike (and bike) 4 — Bondcliff!
For the past couple years, I had mentioned to my Dad — the expert photographer — that he had to summit Bondcliff, one of my absolute favorite peaks in the White Mountains. The long, ridge-like top of Bondcliff (4,265 feet) is completely exposed and offers tremendous views in all directions.

The problem, however, is that it's not easy to reach Bondcliff. The shortest route is 9.1 miles — one way. The Dad is in good shape, but is also 60 and feels that's a bit out of his range. That's what had kept us from doing Bondcliff the past couple years.

This time around, Dad came up with a brilliant idea.

When walking the Lincoln Woods trail with Mom and Charlie the dog the week before I arrived in New Hampshire, Dad noticed how flat and bike-able the 2.9-mile stretch was. Just as important, it was legal to bike because it was outside the protected Pemigewasset Wilderness. So the plan was hatched. We would bike a total of 5.8 miles, leaving us with a doable 12.4 miles on foot.

The Dad was still a bit hesitant, but I pointed out to him how relatively easy the Wilderness and Bondcliff trails are; he verified my opinion with the guidebook (a smart move, considering my take on a hike is often vastly different from others'); and we were ready to go. Although every day's forecast was a bit nebulous, Wednesday, Aug. 6, looked the best for clear skies and great views.

We began the hike at 8am, and the bike ride was an adventure. The path had a very slight incline, but that's not what made it somewhat tough. Rather, the old railroad logs across the path served as obstacles, as I swerved back and forth to mostly avoid them, ocasionally holding on tightly as I bumped over them.

(Note: I didn't feel it while biking, but the next day my left wrist hurt whenever I tried to rotate it in different directions. Even a couple weeks later, it's still not back to normal. Riding a straight-handlebar bike on such a path put a beating on my wrist!)

The 1.8-mile Wilderness trail was a walk in the park. It was completely flat. From there, the Bondcliff trail's 4.4-mile ascent was mostly moderate. We stopped after maybe an hour on it to fuel our bodies with sandwiches. I pointed to a spot on the map where I though we had reached. Turns out, we had gone much farther (I found that out soon based on a water crossing).

As we got higher on the path, the trees began to thin, occasional views opened up through the brush, and then we reached the big rock that I remembered — from my 2009 traverse over the mountain — led to the open. We were there.

"Worth it," Dad smiled, mimicking what cousin Caitlin says every time we emerge from tree cover to reach an open view.

A minute later, we were on top of Bondcliff, and the views were tremendous. We were greeted by a perfect mountain sky, white puffy clouds layered over blue. We were also hit by a wind we hadn't felt in the woods.

We found a perfect flat rock overlooking the wilderness to the west and sat down. I devoured some cheese and crackers — best meal on top of a mountain — while Dad took off his sweaty shirt and wedged it between rocks to dry. As we relaxed, a large group of girls (maybe young college?) scrambled over to get their photos taken at our spot. I understood. It was prime real estate.

We had our jackets on. It was cold. They had T-shirts on and had hiked all the way from Galehead Hut with nothing more than what they wore and some water. I tell you, kids are crazy! That's a 5-mile hike — 10 miles round trip — in a place with unpredictable weather.

Dad didn't have his big, heavy camera, but he had his small one. He took some awesome photos of me sitting on the very edge of the ledge. I love having Dad on my hikes!

The way down was uneventful, except for the bike ride. In the late afternoon, we faced the added obstacle of having to ride around dozens of people who had hiked in to Franconia Falls. We survived. We made it back to the car three minutes later than our 5pm goal and headed to the beach for dinner with family friends.

It had been a new experience for us both. A bike-hike up a mountain!

MILES BIKED: 5.8
MILES HIKED: 12.4

Hike 5 — a day around Sandwich
The day after Bondcliff, I put in some manual labor as Dad and I took on our favorite annual Sandwich activity — cleaning the trenches around the house and barn! I didn't let that happen, though, without first beginning my morning with a climb up Eagle Cliff. The 0.6-mile steep path is the absolute best workout.

I'd love to just hike Eagle Cliff every day as opposed to going to the gym. There's no better way to start your day than hiking up rocks, looking for that next handhold, and then reaching the summit with its commanding views of Squam and mountains to the east.

In the late afternoon, after the trenches had been completed, I joined the family plus Aunt Vicky and her extremely energetic dog Sydney for a walk of the Brook Trail in Wonalancet. It was a fun walk alongside a river, and the bonus was that I got to carry Nathaniel on my back again. He loved it. So did I.

MILES HIKES: 1.2 (up Eagle Cliff)

Hike 6 — to Maine! 
Friday brought the excitement of hiking a 4,000-footer I hadn't summited — Old Speck Mountain (4,170 feet) in Maine. Of course, Maine meant a fairly long drive. But when a new peak beckons, the drive is worth it — especially a drive sans any traffic (oh, how I love being away from the city!). After two and a half hours, I reached the trailhead.

The hike up Old Speck involved a short loop over a mini peak called "The Eyebrow." Wanting as many views as possible, of course, I decided I would go over The Eyebrow on the way up. It was extremely steep. Almost near the top, I passed a man and a woman who were not young.

"This trail wasn't made for an 80-year-old," the man said.

All I could respond with: "I cherish my youth."

I continued on, hoping they would survive the descent but also in admiration of them (even if they simply had underestimated the hike). Then I brainfarted (can we make that a verb?). When I reached the fork to go back on the main trail, which was also the AT, I absentmindedly turned left.

The trail was going down. I had figured there would be some descent after the top of The Eyebrow — which had an outlook with great views, by the way — but I hadn't anticipated this. The trail was not going up.

Finally, I stopped in the middle of the trail, really thought about it, and realized my mistake. Thinking more about direction than the map (which I had conveniently left in the car), I had taken the wrong turn. I was en route back to the parking lot. Shit! I turned around and hustled up hill for a good half mile until I reached, again, the intersection. I continued straight, now going up.

The trail from there was no joke. Maine doesn't mess around. It was heavily wooded but steep, with plenty of light green moss making it beautiful, too. Some of the rocks were wet — I believe it had rained the day before — so I took care with each step while trying to maintain a good pace. I wanted that summit.

After what seemed like hours but was actually just two, I emerged from the trees to a a clearing and a fire tower. All that stood between me and the highest point were about 25 ladder rungs to the top of the structure. I took them one by one and reached over the wooden door with one hand while holding on with the other to unlock the hinge. I then climbed onto the wooden platform that maybe had room for three people.

I looked down. I was up a good 30 feet or so. I don't consider myself scared of heights, but I wasn't about to lean over the wooden railing.

It was so worth it. The views in all directions were tremendous. Smaller, sub 4,000-footers and lakes surrounded the peak to the north, east and south. To the west loomed the Presidentials, their tips cloaked in clouds. The sky was simply fantastic. I could have admired that view all afternoon.

But I did want to get back to New Hampshire for my parents' last evening, and I wanted to share the fire tower's views. So I climbed down, and then enjoyed a long but peaceful descent with no wrong turns.

Summiting Old Speck gave me 10 of Maine's 4,000-footers and 63 of New England's 67. My goal is to finish the last four — a bushwhack of Reddington and the three in Baxter State Park far north — in 2015. We shall see.

MILES HIKED: 8.5

Hike 7 — Taking Lee up Mt. Washington!
During my first week in New Hampshire, I learned that I would have the Red House to myself for the majority of my second week in the state. This set off myriad planning, including a trip to Acadia National Park in Maine for my last few days of adventure. It also got me thinking about having a friend visit my utopia, so I wouldn't be relegated completely to solo hiking. The other advantage, of course, would be that I could show someone from the flatland what all this White Mountain stuff I  always hyped up was about.

I knew my DC friend Lee would be in Boston with his parents for a few days, so I asked if he wanted to visit for a day or two. Lee wasn't sure at first, but eventually committed to a night and day in New Hampshire after I pitched a Mt. Washington hike — why not take him up the tallest mountain in New England? Lee was going to come up Saturday evening, the end of a relaxing and working (yes, working!) day for me.

In the mid-morning, Lee asked me if his parents could join him — not for the hike but for the New Hampshire experience. Why not, I thought? Aunt Vicky was accommodating enough to allow it, too. So Saturday evening, Lee and his parents (Mitch and Maria) arrived at the Red House. Lee and I booked it down to the town beach for some swimming as the sun set.

After a late-night game of Stratego (oh, how I love having someone to play board games with!), it was time to crash. We had a big mountain to climb the next day.

Lee was a natural on the trail. We took the pretty standard route from the west, hiking up the steep Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail to Lakes of the Clouds Hut before the final 1.4-mile push to the summit. We then took the Gulfside trail north toward Washington's biggest Presidential neighbors (Clay, Jefferson, Adams and Madison) before heading down the Jewell trail.

I've done this hike many times, so I won't bore you with details, but a few thoughts:

1) As usual, the summit of Washington was unappetizing. We waited in line for about five minutes to get our photo with the peak sign. Yes, stood in line!

2) The hike down from Washington looking north on the Gulfside Trail is the best part of this loop. I just love how those Presidentials stack up. It's a view that never has and never will get old.

3) I learned during this experience that when hiking with someone new to the trail, it's important to let them know sort of the etiquette of hiking. Not to be a stickler, but escaping to the wilderness is unique and things like music playing or cellphone use can take away from it. Lee is great and simply didn't know these subtle tenets of the mountains. I'm glad he accepted my awkward suggestions to cut them out.

4) I've always thought that going down the Ammonoosuc would be more difficult than the Jewell. After this hike, I'm not so sure. The Jewell isn't easy because there's so much rock to rock at the top of the trail over sharp and loose granite. Ammonoosuc didn't seem that difficult on this ascent and many of the rocks seemed to have been built into steps.

MILES HIKED: 9.5

Hike 8 — my first shelter! 
For the past few years, I've thought about doing a camping trip during my time in New Hampshire. There's no better way to experience an exquisite sunrise or sunset from a mountain than by sleeping high up, right? But the allure of doing long day hikes and returning to Aunt Sallie's cooking (or Mom's cooking!) at the Red House has deterred me. As crazy and ambitious of a hiker I am and despite my zest for beautiful views, having family in New Hampshire has kept me coming back to the house each evening. I do like the company.

This year, two factors led to my first overnight camping trip by myself in the Whites.

1) Late last September, I did a two-day, one-night camping trip with cousin Caitlin and her college friends on Franconia Ridge. It was an incredible trip. Read about it HERE. The experience gave me confidence that camping at the established sites in the Whites is enjoyable.

2) I knew that the Red House would be empty the second week of my stay. There was no one to cook for me, no company. If I was going to be by myself, why not in the mountains?

Encouraged by these factors, I set out the afternoon of Monday, August 11, with my heavy backpack. I had triple-checked at the house to make sure I had everything I would need for an iffy forecast and new experience (full rain gear, 800-down coat, winter hat, gloves, stove, matches, toilet paper, headlamp, first-aid kit, water bottle, sandals, book, food, and I'm probably forgetting some items). The pack didn't feel light.

(Note: Sometime very soon, I think I will invest in a much lighter pack.)

The going was pretty easy, though, at least initially. The 2.8-mile Zealand trail to the Zealand Hut is for anybody. Until the last 0.2 miles, it's very, very gradual. It's also beautiful, with a handful of bridges through marshes. At each one, I stopped mid-stride and peered around, half-expecting to see a moose, its legs caked with mud. Alas, there was no wildlife. Just a cool trail.

I stopped at the hut, because that's what you do when you're in the Whites. The full-maintenance huts are so nice, it'd be a shame not to take advantage of them. In this case, I actually did a favor for one of the "Croo" members — college students (or at least mostly) who run the huts, serving meals and performing skits for the guests. Have I mentioned how much I love the huts? Anyway, when I was purchasing a pair of shoelaces from the wooden counter, thinking I might be short on string to help tie my tent to the platform, I mentioned that I was going to the Guyot Campground. That got a Croo member's attention, as she asked if I could carry a message to the campground caretaker. Sure thing, I told her. She proceeded to find a piece of cardboard to write on (the fewer supplies they need, the less weight on their backs coming up to the hut, so no paper!) and craft her message. Once I had that, I was ready to move on.

The 1.2 miles from the low-elevation hut going up the Twinway is no joke. It's very steep and pretty rocky. It's not the toughest stretch in the Whites, but I think it seems even more difficult because it follows the easy stroll on the Zealand path. I busted my butt up it to reach a great viewing spot, where a rock overlooks tremendous views to the south, and took a break. While I was snapping photos, a group came up behind me. I could hear them talking about where they had stayed the night before, and a man mentioned Guyot. When I asked him about the campsite and said I planned on staying there this Monday night, he was a bit skeptical I would get one of their eight first-come, first-served tent platforms.

But it's Monday, I thought. And the weather is iffy. It shouldn't be that populated. Right?

It was around 4pm, though, so I knew I would be one of the later arrivals. Before parting ways, the man pointed to a carved out campsite adjacent to the rock we were sitting on. "Well, I could always come back here," I said, even though that would mean retracing the 3.7 miles I was about to hike.

The hike on the Twinway wasn't anything to write about, so I'll keep this brief. There was some up. There was some down. And there was a little level. I did pass a few spots where I could see people had carved out camping spots off the trail. But they didn't appeal to me. If a big reason I had chosen this hike was so I could enjoy the sunset and sunrise, what would be the point of camping in the middle of the woods far from those views?

After 2.9 miles plus the 0.1-mile spur to the wooded summit of Zealand Mountain (4,260 ft), I emerged from the trees  and saw nothing but sky. At first, it was surreal because I was in a flat space where the spruces were just high enough to shield my vision from neighboring peaks. All I could see were trees and clouds. A minute later, I reached the junction with the Bondcliff Trail, which would take me over Mt. Guyot, the unofficial 4,000-footer, and to the campsite.

The summit of Guyot, even if unofficial, is pretty nice if you can find a flat rock to sit on (not easy). I stopped for just a minute to admire the views across woods below of the always-intriguing Franconia Ridge and the always-in-the-clouds summit of Lafayatte (5,260). But then it was onward. Ever since the view, I had been nervous about the camping situation.

Sure enough, upon arriving at the site six tenths of a mile later, all the tent platforms were booked. The caretaker was out, too, so I didn't have his assistance. In retrospect, I probably could have asked one of the people who was using half a platform if I could have shared. However, being new to the game, I didn't know how platform-sharing etiquette worked.

The good thing was that the campsite featured a shelter. I had never slept in one of the wooden structures before and wasn't sure what to expect. What I got was a night with an old, grumpy man; a woman and her beautiful Golden Retriever; three guys who stumbled in late after, I'm pretty sure, imbibing some whisky atop the peak of West Bond (about a 1.8-mile roundtrip hike from the site that I also did for sunset); another mid-30s woman; and a father and two boys who came in after 7pm without a tent and were lucky that two women volunteered to remove themselves from the shelter and set up a tent on the edge of the platform I probably should have taken earlier. Otherwise, the man and boys would have been in real trouble.

I say all of that to say that, really, I had no complaints with the shelter. I didn't sleep well, but not because of anyone else. There was no snoring. No mice. I had plenty of room to even roll over.

So all in all, it was a good experience — minus the lack of sleep.

I didn't set an alarm for the morning, because I didn't want to wake anyone. Still, I woke up — probably for about the 16th time of the night — close to 6am and hustled up to Guyot, where I caught the end of the sun rising over the Presidential range as shorter peaks on the horizon were engulfed by the mists of morning. I enjoyed the views, although I was frustrated — and cold — by having a match box that didn't work for striking matches. No oatmeal for me!

(Note: after this experience, I made sure to buy lighters; so much easier!)

After returning to the campsite, packing up, filtering water and eating breakfast under the tarp canopy assembled by the site — a nice touch for those in the shelter, where you weren't supposed to take food; the three fellas definitely did! — I headed back the way I had come. Only difference? When I reached Guyot, everything was clouded over. I could see maybe 50 feet in any direction. Oh, well. I had already experienced the views.

I returned via the Twinway to Zealand Hut, where I bought a bowl of their midday soup (creamy tomato) to fuel up for my final peak of the trip — Mt. Hale (4,054 feet). I took the Lend-A-Hand trail up the mountain, one of the ugliest mountain trails I've been on in New Hampshire, with plenty of steep pitches, too! The summit is a big clearing with no views, but it felt good to bag another peak — as I continue to accumulate all of New Hampshire's 48 4,000-footers for a second time.

I went down the tame Hale Brook Trail 2.2 miles and then walked 0.9 miles on the dirt road — dipping my feet in the river during a break — to complete my trip, and my 2014 New Hampshire hiking experience.

MILES HIKED: 20.8

TOTAL NEW HAMPSHIRE MILES HIKED: 65