Have you ever been sitting on your couch mindlessly watching
a concert on TV? Maybe you’re studying as you half-watch fans of the band going
absolutely crazy, their faces glowing, their eyes glued to the guitarist on
stage as if they want to kidnap him and never let him go.
You might think, What’s the big deal? It’s just a concert.
They can’t possibly be having that much fun.
An understandable thought.
But the truth is, you have to be there. In order to truly
experience something amazing, something that makes you feel more alive, you
must be present. A high-definition or 3D TV can only do so much.
For me, I receive a reminder of how incredible life can be
every August when I visit New Hampshire’s White Mountains. Sitting at home in
flat, balmy Washington, DC, it’s hard to imagine such a special place and, at
times, it’s difficult to get really excited about life and the experiences it
offers.
Then I head to the Whites.
This summer, more than most, demonstrated how otherworldly
the place can be. This wasn’t more acute than on the three-day hut hike I went
on with relatives (cousins J-bo and Pudds, J-bo’s wife Shanda, Aunt Sal and
Dad). In spending two nights in the White Mountains’ one-of-a-kind Appalachian
Mountain Club (AMC) huts, we rekindled a tradition that had fallen off the past
three years.
In a nutshell, the huts hike is incredible for the following
reasons:
1) The eight fully maintained huts are located at high
elevations and in cols between the most spectacular mountains that allow for
tremendous views from their doorsteps and easy hikes to nearby peaks.
2) The “Croo’ at each hut serves a delectable, filling
dinner each night at 6 p.m. and breakfast each morning at 7 a.m. which allow
for light food packing (I only eat lunch and snacks because they taste so damn
good up at 5,000 feet; I’m really not that hungry at 12 p.m. after a monster
breakfast, which is saying something for me).
3) The huts are spaced out perfectly, allowing for hikes
that can span multiple days without being too strenuous on even the novice
hiker.
This year, our plan was a bit different from hikes of the
past. Since Dad was mostly interested in photography and not doing too much of
the rocky ridge hiking that the Presidential Range is famous for, and Sal felt
the same way, they booked two nights at the Lakes of the Clouds hut on the
western flank of Mt. Washington. Us young kids, meanwhile, would spend Night 1
at the newly renovated Madison Springs hut by Mt. Madison and then hike over to
LOTC for Night 2.
The ascent up to the Madison hut was the most mundane part
of the trip, so let me skip ahead. Heck, even the hike up Madison with Pudds,
so she could bag the 4,000-footer, wasn’t all that memorable. We were
enshrouded by clouds, not an uncommon fate in the Presidentials, and were more
concerned about proper foot plants than taking in the 100-feet visibility.
But then came that first night, that first sunset.
The sky had begun to clear in the late afternoon, and after
devouring a gigantic meal — both Croos were tremendous in catering to my
ridiculous gluten- and corn-free regimen, even serving me more food than the
average guest wound up taking from the family-style setup — I couldn’t wait
to get outside, walk off the bulge in my stomach, and look around.
I followed a group a couple tenths of a mile toward a rocky
slab where there was a talk on the area’s geology. Believe me when I say, I was
interested. However, it was impossible not to be distracted by the scene around
me.
To paint the picture: To the southwest, Adams was visible
behind a thin layer of mist that gave off an ethereal mystique; moving east,
the ridge of Mt. Washington played hide and seek with me, peeking out from beyond
cloud cover one moment and then becoming completely invisible the next. At
times I saw the summit; at times, I saw the eastern ridge; either way, the view
was constantly changing; and due east and a bit north, I gazed in fascination
at what I’d describe as a sea of white clouds above the valley connected, at
the hip, it seemed, to the eastern ridge of Mt. Madison (whose rocky summit
rose above it all).
I simply couldn’t pay much attention to the geology talk.
I’d never seen anything like the landscape surrounding me.
I was in pure bliss. It was — and here’s that word again —
otherworldly.
Day 2, Sunset part 2
The one thing I missed from those views during the geology
discussion? The setting of the sun. The peak of Adams blocked most of the view
to the west, and by the time I returned to the hut, it was gone from the
horizon as darkness started to spread over the Presidentials.
I’d see that sunset on the second day.
The morning sure didn’t forecast it. Upon stepping outside
of the hut for the first time, I was engulfed by clouds. I could see about 23
feet in front of me. The sun? Nowhere to be found.
As it turned out, the weather didn’t have too much of an
effect on the views I took in during the day — at least not compared to how it
affected the rest of the gang. Because I’d hiked the Gulfside ridge trail over
Mts. Adams, Jefferson and Clay on many occasions, and because of my thirst for
new adventures, I decided to split off and hike down into the Great Gulf way
below all those peaks before making a ridiculous ascent of Mt. Washington.
The first mile going down the Buttress trail was arguably
the most difficult, treacherous mile I’ve ever hiked. It was raining. The rocks
were wet. Tree roots were wet and as slippery as ice. And I was descending a narrow
path complicated by heavy brush.
I survived.
Pretty soon, I was in the Great Gulf and, thankfully, hiking
on level terrain as I passed by several cascades. It started pouring. I
wondered how the folks on top of the world were fairing. The rain didn’t affect
me, besides from taking away my ability to snap photos. I kept going.
After a few miles on the Great Gulf trail, I emerged at
Spaulding Lake. From the edge of the small lake — I’d say, it was just big
enough to escape being labeled a pond — I had views, albeit clouded, of the
ridges of Adams, Jefferson and Clay above me. It was pretty cool to see them
from such a different perspective, and the whole scene made me realize just how
massive and impressive the range is.
Then the ascent began. My trusted White Mountain guide had
warned of an 0.8-mile ascent covering 1,600 feet, so I knew what I was getting
into as I started making my way up what seemed like a small waterfall. I soon
passed a woman descending the steep, slippery and often loose rocks. I was
impressed — very impressed.
I wanted no part of such a descent.
The trickiest thing about the trail was, well, staying on
it. Yellow blazes marked it, but there weren’t a lot of them, and they were
often faded and, unusual for the White Mountains, not on the most obvious
rocks. On several occasions, I would stop, gaze around for 20 seconds, and
finally locate the next blaze.
Because I was moving pretty slowly, the heavy breathing
never kicked in, and the eighth of a mile actually didn’t seem to take that
long. It was a situation in which I gave so much respect to the mountain,
nothing could seem too hard or difficult (those, in the Whites, are rare).
I’ll skip over the next part of the journey, because I’ve
done it now seven times. (Reached the top of Washington; saw tourists in
sandals; spent 3 minutes on the summit; got off it.) It was only mid-afternoon,
so I had time to go on a little side adventure I’d been excited about since
hiking Washington via the Huntington Ravine trail the previous summer.
Lion’s Head.
Parallel to the popular Tuckerman Ravine trail is the Lion’s
Head trail, which got its name for a rocky outcropping outlook on the east
flank of Washington. The “head” looked, from above, to be a pretty neat
formation of rocks where views in all directions could be obtained
What I couldn’t see from a mile away was the Danger Rock —
my name — that sat overlooking the ravine. But as soon as I reached Lion’s
Head, I knew I had to go sit on it. There was a nice group of French Canadian
college age students hanging out, so I asked them if they could snap my picture
while sitting on my new favorite rock.
I told the guy I handed the camera too that it, and my
Camelbak, were his if I fell to an undesirable fate.
As it turned out, the scramble down to the rock was easy and
danger-free (unless you’re an idiot). Three of the French Canadians and then
another boy, also French Canadian, followed my lead in the minutes following.
(Side note: I’m not kidding when I’d say that maybe half of the hikers I
encounter within the Presidential range are from Canada; meanwhile, anyone who
drives up Mt. Washington is an American. No wonder we’re such an obese
country!)
Sitting on the rock was one of those experiences you just
can’t replicate, and one that never gets old, either. I dangled my legs over
the edge while looking hundreds of feet down at Hermit Lake and the ravine.
Just a month earlier, I had sat on several rocky and more precipitous ledges at
Yosemite National Park, but in no way did they spoil this experience.
After retreating to the head and eating some gorp, I
couldn’t help myself from going back to the rock for Part II. It was that
enticing.
Now it’s time to, once again, skip ahead. The hike to LOTC
was nice (I especially enjoyed the views of the always-photogenic Boot Spur,
another path up Washington from the east; and the views of the lines of cairns
looking south that really do make me feel like I’m living in an Ice Age of
sort), and it was, well, nice to also reunite with Dad, soak my legs in one of
the two ice-cold lakes — although they’re very pond-like in size — and get some
warm, dry clothing on.
Oh, and dinner, as usual, was phenomenal and more than
filling.
But, again, the highlight of the day came, for me, with a
full stomach.
Following dessert, I stepped outside to join Dad by one of
the lakes, which was nestled a short walk up Washington from the hut. As I
joined him by the lake, which, when standing on the trail, is the foreground of
a view to the west, I was blinded by the colors in the sky.
Reds. Oranges. Pinks. I kid you not.
And like the previous night, the sky was almost in a hurry
to change, similar to a high school girl unable to decide on an outfit for the
night. The dynamic of clouds and the colors created by the sun dipping below
the horizon created a lights show that I’d put up against any other display of
nighttime colors out there (full disclosure: I’ve never seen the Northern
Lights).
We stood in spot for 10 minutes, unable to put our cameras
down, completely awed and excited by our surroundings. I’m usually not a huge
picture-taker, but each view, different from the one the moment before, turned
me into one.
I walked a little farther up to the Crawford Path, gaining
elevation until I found a smooth rock where I could sit and enjoy a different
perspective of the clouds and colors blanketing the valley to the west and the
sides of the Presidential mountains to the north. Huge, puffy clouds were
illuminated by the sun, turned into cotton candy-looking shapes. Other clouds
appeared to be giving off rays of light as if they were plugged in.
After awhile of admiring the new, changing view, I turned my
gaze to the southwest, where a perfect portrait immediately framed itself in my
head — the iconic, ragged shape of Mt. Monroe in the center, the bright moon in
the upper left corner, and the lighted hut in the bottom right part of the
frame, with those aforementioned colors behind it.
Snap. Wow. Amazing.
Sunsets, unfortunately, don’t last forever, but that one
sure seemed to extend itself, as if to say, Enjoy me while I last. I’m not
always this memorable.
Day 3: The incredible Mt. Monroe
While nothing would match the sunsets the rest of the trip,
the third day had its own appeal. Having awoken early, I took a short walk a
little before 6, admiring a much more subtle color created by the sunrise that
glistened to the north. Turning my gaze to the west, banks of clouds at very
low elevations gave off the air of white oceans dominating the valleys.
After two bowels of oatmeal, gluten-free pancakes and
coffee, I was fueled for a hike on the Crawford Path, the oldest trail in the
White Mountains. Hiking the Monroe-Franklin-Eisenhower-Pierce ridge is nothing
compared to the rock-dominated Gulfside trail on the north side of Washington,
but the views are just as good.
And as all the cousins agree, Monroe, with its photogenic
summit and false summit just to the west, is the coolest Presidential mountain.
(When you’ve hiked past the false Monroe peak, it’s always fun to peak behind
you and see Mt. Washington framed by Monroe’s pair of humps.)
What I somehow hadn’t discovered on several previous ascents
of Monroe is that there’s a smaller version of Danger Rock that overlooks the
wooded terrain in the Dry River Wilderness to the south of the Presidentials.
The cousins took turns sitting on the rock, feet dangling, gazing at the view
of green mountains spanning dozens of miles.
I didn’t get to enjoy too much of the ridge, as I had to
hike/run down the Crawford Path to catch the hiker shuttle in Crawford Notch
and retrieve our one car, but in no way could my spirit be squashed.
This year’s three-day adventure will be a tough one to top.
However, I’ve said that just about every year. That’s the thing about a place
as special as the White Mountains: Even as it’s aging by the year, it never
gets old.
You have to be there.
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