1.19-22 — Winter hiking in New Hampshire

Until this year, I wasn't particularly interested in winter hiking. Seriously.

If I could experience the mountains all summer, with some spring and fall hikes mixed in, that was enough. Why go through the hassle of preparing for the winter chill? Why risk losing limbs, getting frostbite, dealing with hypothermia. Why? Why? Why?

Then this past November, I began looking at photos from a Facebook group I'm in called "Hike the 4,000-footers." The shots of New Hampshire in the winter — of the snow, of the rime-encrusted trees, of the way the sunlight shines on the spruce trees — were absolutely stunning. I've seen unbelievable beauty hiking in the state's White Mountains each August, but nothing compared to what I was seeing — and just in photos.

I needed to experience this. It was time to winter hike.

I got in touch with Susan, my aunt Vicky's friend, who graciously offered up her house in Holderness, NH — an hour or so from most of the area's hikes — as a base. Then I casually mentioned my planned trip for mid-January to Dad. Having just retired, he was intrigued. Then he was in. I had a hiking partner.

That was a good thing, because Dad brought a cautious approach that I lacked. When I told him I planned to hike 4,000-footers, he came back with a skeptic answer. Did I know how fierce the weather was up there? Had I forgotten that Mt. Washington had recorded, until recently, the world's harshest winds atop its 6,288-foot summit?

During the next two months, Dad and I had countless phone conversations. We talked boots, coats and crampons during Thanksgiving break. We had about 23 conversations about layers when I was home in Michigan for the holidays. I bought a pair of winter boots, crampons and new pairs of wool socks, and Dad gifted me a base layer, and a new fleece.

Dad also suggested using a guide on our first day in New Hampshire who could show us how to actually approach this winter hiking thing. One of the things I've always loved about hiking is being free from society, from following someone's instructions, but I couldn't argue with Dad — as good of a hiker as I consider myself, the winter is a different beast.

Finally, we were ready. I packed more for this four-day trip than I ever have before. I checked two bags at the Southwest counter (free bags!). I was headed north. All my friends shook their heads when I told them about my "vacation." Going north and hiking? Are you crazy?

Well, yes. I am crazy.

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Sunday, Jan. 18 — The scariest day of the trip
We didn't hike 100 feet on Sunday. It was also the scariest day of the trip. By far.

It was freezing rain in Manchester, NH, when our flights arrived. And it wasn't stopping. All day. We had what is usually about a 75-minute drive to Sue's. It would take much longer.

The "compact" car we were given was a neon-yellow Kia Soul. Amazingly, I've rented about six cars in my life, and two of them have been neon yellow! I think the rental companies are trying to tell me, Jake, you need to be more salient. Stand out!

Anyway, we got on the road going between 30 and 40 mph on the highway. Soon, we were in a traffic jam. We stopped at a rest area and while I futilely tried to find a gluten-free nutritious food offering, I got an alert on my phone — Caris LaVert, Michigan's stud basketball player, was out for the season. Oh, what a crappy Sunday!

We got to the healthy grocery store in Concord where we planned to buy our food for the week. After walking over 50 feet of ice, we came to the front door — "Went home; closed for the day" was the gist of the paper taped to the door. Great! Thankfully, there was a Hannaford nearby, where we stocked up on our breakfast, lunch and snack foods for the week.

After many more SLOW miles and a Google Maps route that somehow navigated us away from the main highway, we arrived at Sue's around 6:30pm, some four hours after our flights had landed. I was even able to gun the Soul up the ice driveway.

We made it. We ate a delicious soup and bread dinner. The rain continued to fall. It wasn't stopping anytime soon. We called it a night early, hoping conditions would allow for our introduction to winter hiking the next day.

Monday, Jan. 19 — Navigating Mount Washington's slopes, about 6 miles hiked
I woke up Monday around 6:30am to the soothing lack of raindrops. Sometime in the middle of the night the freezing rain had ceased. We had a clear, unseasonably warm MLK Day on our hands. Eating breakfast and packing our bags took longer than expected, and we were on the road a bit late. After the 90-minute drive, we arrived about 20 minutes late to the Eastern Mountain Sports store in North Conway.

Upon entering, we were greeted by a slender, fit-looking man who introduced himself as Ian. We would later learn that Ian lives in Portsmouth, NH, on the coast with his wife and holds down a sales job with an equipment supplier. During down periods, he travels inland to Conway to guide hikes and climbs while staying with a friend in town. Sounds like a pretty good life!

Ian immediately suggested doing an ice climb that would get us experience using ropes. That, it seemed, was his favorite thing to do, but we had no interest in ice climbing, as cool as it sounds. We made that clear, and he was very amenable to changing the plan to a hike up the slopes of Mt. Washington — something he had done with groups the previous two days, too.

Then, it was gear inspection time. I'm proud to say that we graded out well. Ian approved of my boots, crampons and layers. He was initially skeptical of Dad's boots, but not after the Dad explained that he'd been testing them in sub-0 degree temperatures in Ann Arbor and they'd done fine. All Ian provided me was an ice axe — my first ice axe! He hooked Dad up with some crampons, we repacked our bags, and we all hopped in the Kia Soul to head north!

After arriving at Pinkham Notch, I quickly made my first no-no — putting on my crampons while seated on the wooden porch of the lodge. Ian gave me an appropriate scolding, and we began hiking up the famous and wide Tuckerman Ravine trail — the most direct path up Mt. Washington. Of course, beginning at 10:30am and with our lack of experience, I only had a very small inkling in the back of my mind to go for the summit. Our stated goal was to reach Lion's Head, a cliff on the upper shoulder of Washington nine tenths of a mile from the top.

On the trail, we passed and were passed by numerous hikers who had skies on. Washington's eastern side is world-famous for its ski slopes — separate from the hiking trails — and people routinely hike up the main trail and then ski down. What a fun workout! I also peppered Ian with questions. After all, we had to get the most out of our guide, right? Things I learned: The importance of shedding layers while ascending to make sure I don't sweat; how to use the ice axe for self-arrest; how critical it is to put on the down coat during breaks; and that insulated water bottle carriers are good items to have.

The Tuckerman trail wasn't the most scenic, but when we turned onto the path toward Lion's Head, things got more interesting. The snow got deeper, and I found my cramponed feet sinking more with each step. It also started snowing, making things much more wintry. My hands also started to get cold, and I learned a lesson that would help me the next two days — always just wear mittens, not gloves. I don't have very good circulation — I knew this by comparing my hands to Dad's, which never get cold — and it's hard to warm really cold hands.

As we got close to emerging from the spruce-lined trail into the open and could hear the wind above, Ian alerted us to have our masks and goggles in easy-to-access pockets. I loved the fact that my new backpack has about five outside pockets in which it's easy to stuff such gear. I was wrestling, though, with my layers. I had just my base layer and outer shell — a rain coat — on and didn't want to put on my fleece and start sweating as we ascended. At the same time, I was getting cold. It's a difficult balance I would learn more about in the ensuing days.

We turned a corner on the trail and, just like that, the gusts hit us. Quick, Ian said, put on those layers and get that full-face mask and goggles on. We were in the midst of probably 40-50 mph winds whipping around falling snow.

Winter at its finest!

I didn't bother to take my outer shell off, instead putting my down coat over it. I also put my balaclava and goggles on and quickly got my mittens back on. My hands were freezing!

With ice axe in hand, I brought up the rear as we slowly made our way up the deep-snow path. Visibility fluctuated between 20 and 100 feet, with occasional glimpses of the snow-covered slopes above us. Dad and I had no idea where we were going; we just followed Ian.

It was crazy. It was cold. But I loved it!

At 1:23pm, we stopped and Ian took some photos of us. I could tell that he was ready to call it quits. He had let us know that the EMS turnaround time was generally 1:30pm. He told us it was pointless to continue onward. We wouldn't be able to see anything. But my thirst for Mt. Washington hiking hadn't been quenched. Not yet. We convinced Ian to give us another five minutes of stumbling up the snow drifts. After passing a group of descending — and very cold-looking hikers — we were all alone in the mid-afternoon fury.

Then it was time, sadly, to turn around. Descending was pure fun. Unlike during the summer, I didn't worry about falling, because the soft snow was harmless. My steps were awkward. I stumbled. I fell a couple times. It was glorious. My hands were near numb, but I managed to click my camera a few times and capture just a tad of the madness. Then we were below tree line with no more need for the masks or goggles, and we enjoyed a calm, if not exciting, descent.

Overall, I wouldn't say Ian was the greatest guide of all time, but Dad and I agreed that Dad's investment — a Christmas present to me — was definitely worth it. After the experience — and Dad's purchasing of microspikes at EMS afterward — we felt ready to tackle our own adventures.

Tuesday's forecast, though, called for winds of 90-plus mph on the high peaks (which we would later learn referred to Mt. Washington). Would we get blown away without Ian by our side?

Tuesday, Jan. 20 — A 7-mile loop in a winter wonderland
I woke up Tuesday with my mind set on summiting Mt. Pierce, the most accessible peak in the Presidential range at 4,311 feet. But over breakfast while looking at different weather reports, Dad — always the smart one — convinced me Pierce might not be the best idea. The high peaks called for blow-you-over winds and sub-0 degree temperatures.

We settled on driving to the same spot in Crawford Notch and hiking on the other side of Route 302 up the Mt. Avalon and A-Z trails, where there were a few peaks we could chase. It was cold — probably in the low teens — but once we got moving, we warmed up. And there was no wind in the woods — none. Using the lessons learned from the previous day, I started the hike with just a couple layers and my mittens. I was warm but not sweating. The woods were incredibly beautiful. The path was mostly packed down and easy to follow, and the snow-covered spruce around us glowed in the morning sunlight.

Early on, we were passed by a solo hiker who seemed as excited as us about the weather. He told us he had hiked all 115 4,000-footers in New England and the Adirondacks — a goal of mine; I'm about 30 away — and was now trying to get in as much winter tramping as possible. Amen to that.

After 2.8 relatively easy miles, although it got steep the last mile, we reached the junction with the 0.6-mile spur up Mt. Tom. We placed our packs down in the snow and grabbed lunch. As I was taking the first bite of my delicious sunbutter sandwich on toasted raisin bread, I was nearly scared out of my boots — and crampons — by a bird that had swooped down, having smelled my sandwich. The little jay and its partner were relentless during the next 10 minutes, flying from perch to perch around us. I shielded my food as I ate, always on the lookout. We had some fun with it, too, as Dad held out a piece of his sandwich and I photographed the bird swoop in for the freebie. Dad's such a magnanimous fellow.

As we were about to begin up the Mt. Tom (4,052 ft) spur, a burly gentleman emerged from the woods and greeted us heartily. Turns out Tom was the 40th of New Hampshire's 48 4,000-footers for him and he hoped to do a few more during the winter. He was also an avid photographer like the Dad and took a couple great photos of us before we parted ways. People are always so friendly in the woods!

Then it was time to ascend our first winter 4,000-footer, as too much standing around had my hands and feet cold. The 0.6-mile climb seemed easier than the memories I had of ascending Tom twice during the summer. There was a thin coating of soft powder on top of the packed down snow, and the trees only got more beautiful as we climbed. Just before the summit, I emerged at an outlook with a view to the southwest — a first winter landscape view.

How to describe it? I'll use two words: Winter Wonderland.

Upon continuing to the tree-covered summit, Dad remembered that there was supposedly an opening to the northwest and we followed faint footprint through the snow and trees until we came to a parting in the spruces and an incredible view toward Franconia Ridge, the Twin mountains and more looking west. All around us, spruces were coated with a snow that glistened in the early afternoon sunlight. Everything was amazingly still — the wind having forgotten to wake up on this perfect Tuesday.

We took it all in. I couldn't stop smiling. Then we continued on.

Judging by the calm weather, I decided when we returned to the junction that we could go an extra 0.4 miles and climb Mt. Field (4,340 ft) as well as Mt. Avalon (3,442 ft) for a three-summit day! The nine tenths of a mile to Field was wonderful. The grade was mild, a light snow fell on us, and I never tired of looking at the trees lining both sides of the trail. As I walked up the final 100 feet to the summit, I pulled out my phone and took a video – I wanted to, as I best I could, give people at home on their couches just a sense of how magical this place was.

Mt. Field's summit reintroduced us to the wind. Maybe 20-mph gusts hit me as I put on my balaclava, mask and goggles. It was cold, but far from unbearable. A very short path to the left through foot-deep snow led to an impressive view of the Presidential range across Crawford Notch. There were also tremendous views to the north. After a couple minutes without my mask, I felt a couple eyelashes freeze but I didn't care — spectacular scenery can make you forget about such things.

To complete our loop, we next hiked to Mt. Avalon, and boy were we glad we were going down. The trail was one of the steepest I've ever been on, which is really saying something. Of course, descending a snow-packed trail is A LOT of fun. On several pitches, Dad got on his butt and got some good momentum sledding down on his waterproof rain pants. I tried this too, but something slowed me down. I'm not sure if it was my pants, crampons (which I thought were off the ground) or my larger pack. I settled for some minor glissading and, simply, really easy and fast hiking.

After a mile and about 900 feet lost, we had just 100 yards uphill to Avalon's top, which offered the best views of the day. From the small peak, we had a grand view of the Presidentials, Mt. Washington standing tall and grand before our eyes.  I gazed at Pierce and dreamed of gaining its summit the next day. But mostly, I just thought of how blessed we were to be experiencing such beauty and having it all to ourselves.

Wow.

On the final mile or so of the descent, I took my crampons off and just hiked in my boots. Immediately without the tightness of the metal, my feet felt warmer, not to mention lighter. I slid-walked out of the woods as lightness waned in the January sky. We arrived back at the notch around 4:30pm.

I finished an impeccable day with some delicious Thai food, a Michigan win over Rutgers, a little State of the Union watching, and a mug of peppermint tea courtesy of Sue. And with a great forecast for Wednesday, I dreamed Tuesday night of another winter wonderland to experience.

Wednesday, Jan. 21 — Another world atop Mt. Pierce, 6.6 miles hiked
When we woke up Wednesday morning, there was no doubt about the forecast — it was a good one. Sure, we knew from experience hiking in the summer that anything can change at any moment in the White Mountains. However, this day was shaping up nicely. The 'High Peaks,' meaning Mt. Washington, had projected winds of 25-45 mph. Even if that's what we experienced atop Mt. Pierce, we wouldn't be blown away. We'd survive.

As I drove the Soul along Route 302, Dad leaned toward me to shoot photos of the Presidentials, getting a head start on photography for the day. The first 1.8 miles of the trial wasn't as beautiful as the previous day's. There wasn't as much snow on the trees and it didn't seem quite as wintry. Still, it was beautiful.

Then, after passing the Mitzpah Cutoff intersection, where a right turn would have taken us to the closed Mitzpah Hut, the scenery became downright gorgeous. It was very cold — maybe 5-10 degrees — but sunlight danced off the tall spruce trees above us and found patches of the snow beneath our feet. When we stopped for a lunch break, I found one of those islands of light and was able to stay warm while stationary by basking in the sun's warmth — at least for 10 minutes.

My hands and feet, though, started to chill, so I began up the trail again and turned around after maybe one tenth of a mile to return to the Dad. I felt like a dog, racing up ahead on the trail and then back. Anything to warm up.

As we approached the summit, the scenery became breathtaking. To our left, views began opening up of the Presidentials and there were a couple spots where we could see the summit of Mt. Washington framed perfectly between two trees. On the right side of the trail, the larger spruce trees were magnificent to look at as they featured a heavy coating of rime ice and snow. I gazed at one after another, wondering how such thick layers formed. The answer, I guess? Winter!

After passing the guy from Kentucky on his way down, we emerged in the open and it was spectacular, a winter wonderland. There was no wind. The sun was bright. And it was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop. We had all of this to ourselves.

Unbelievable.

I was mesmerized by the trail signs at the intersection, which during three seasons are wooden. On this day, there was only a small patch of the sign that was naked. The rest was coated in about an inch of snow and rime ice. We walked up toward the summit, following faint footprints on the hardened snow surface that cracked under each step. Some steps, my foot sank in a bit; on others, they didn't.

I couldn't believe the summit of the 4,311-foot mountain — it was completely still and warm. I could have laid down and taken a nap. I didn't even have my down layer on. After several minutes exploring the top of the exposed peak, we walked back down and started walking on the Crawford Path toward Mt. Eisenhower. Quickly, it became apparent that this was one of those need-snowshoes trails. Every other footstep, my crampons broke at least a foot through the snow. The going was possible, if difficult, but I felt more guilty about postholing and making the trail tougher for those with the right equipment. So after maybe two tenths of a mile and taking some photos, we turned around.

The descent was uneventful, and I went the last 1.8 miles without my crampons, allowing me to somewhat slide down parts of the trail although my new boots' good traction didn't allow too much of this. We arrived at the car after 4pm and headed back to Plymouth, where we enjoyed a delectable dinner out at the Italian Farmhouse with Sue and Woodie (gluten-free bread and pizza!). What a day.

Thursday, Jan. 22 — Places around home, 1.6 miles hiked
Thursday, sadly, was our last day in the winter paradise. We packed up everything quickly and said our unworthy thank yous to Sue and Woodie (they had been so, so good to us!) and got on the road early. We had a lot to experience.

Each summer, we congregate on the Red House in Center Sandwich, NH, for a couple weeks. Three things we do every summer are hike West Rattlesnake, visit the pothole, and go to the town beach several times. The Dad and I planned to do all three this winter morning (minus the "several times" part).

We began at West Rattlesnake, where the parking lot was empty and an ice rink. Surprisingly, too, the trail — which is incredibly gradual and easy during the summer — was the iciest we had experienced in four days. The crampons were absolutely necessary. It was weird — walking up the 0.8-mile path, nothing felt familiar. The twists in the trail, the scenery to my left and right ... it all felt vastly different from the summer. The trail felt longer, too. The views from the top, though, were the same except that we were looking down on a frozen, still Squam Lake instead of one crawling with boats and water skiers.

We had the summit to ourselves, and I found a patch of snowy rock that was as comfortable as my bed back home and settled in for a short nap while the Dad took photos. It was that relaxing. When I woke up, I joined Dad in gazing at the beautiful patterns in the ice some 800 feet below us. We also noticed the patch of the lake where ice had been cut out and removed, Dad said, to use for summer refrigeration in the area.

After what seemed like a long 0.8-mile descent, we got back on the "Curvy Road," as we've called it forever, and wended our way toward the Red House. In downtown Sandwich, what with its one blinking yellow light, I made that familiar sharp left onto Diamond Ledge Road and hit the gas. The road clearly had been plowed and the 1.5 miles or so to the house were a breeze. When we reached the Red House, it looked like, well, the Red House. The non-winterized house was beautiful cast against the white surrounding it. Across from it, we enjoyed gazing down at the lake, the view that's never been old year after year.

Stop 3 was the pot hole, but not after we ran into old friend Tom Fleischmann on the way. We talked for several minutes then continued on to a destination that each August is our cold water fun spot. During the summer, we visit the pot hole on the hottest days to jump into the icy water and sit in the attraction's namesake, the pot hole. On this January day, the parking lot was not plowed — clearly, this wasn't a winter destination.

Well, it should be.

We spent probably close to an hour enjoying an incredible scene — a combination of thick, beefy, safe-to-walk-on (but be careful!) ice chunks, which sat atop beautifully shaped icicles, which dangled above running water. In the pool that we jump into during the summer, there was a large chunk of ice that seemed attached to the main fortified area of ice. Late during our stay, I decided it was safe enough to step onto. I did just that, and laid down to, naturally, pose for some photos that I'll add to my modeling portfolio. Only as I was laying there did I notice that water was starting to creep onto the edge of the ice and that maybe it wasn't so strongly attached to the mainland. I quickly moved off of it.

It's hard to describe how magical the pot hole was. You'll just have to take my word for it (and view Dad's photos).

Sadly, our time was running short, but we had one final stop to make on our visiting-summer-spots-during-the-winter tour — the beach! And like we've done on so many August evenings, we enjoyed a picnic at the Sandwich town beach, which had a plowed parking lot and even two other people (although they were fishermen sitting in their truck). We busted out the cheese and crackers and sat at the picnic table, gazing out at the dozens of fish huts that dotted the frozen lake. Before we left, I walked out on the ice to the spot where the swimming dock I dive off usually is. Then I walked back in, probably at a pace slower, even, than my breaststroke.

On the drive to the airport, I thought of how incredible a trip we'd had. What's amazing about the seasons is that something you may have experienced dozens of times during one season seems completely new and fresh in a different season. This truly was a new experience for us both, and one I can't wait to repeat.

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