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