Four years ago, my kids were just getting to a point where the guilt of leaving for a day to go hike a mountain was less than the desire to hike a mountain, and a friend and I scarpered our ways up Osceola East and I pushed past the chimney to the summit of Osceola. I wasn’t aware of it then, but I had just bagged my first two of the 4000 ft mountains on “the list” for the AMC badge for hiking all 48 of the 4000 ft+ mountains in New Hampshire.
I’m doing my best Megan Rapinoe impression
A climb up Mt Waumbek in buggy weather last weekend has me with 8 left to go, and a steely determination NOT to end my quest on Mt. Cabot. (For those who care, I have the whole Bond Traverse: so Bond, Bondcliff, Zealand and West Bond, plus Cabot (ugh), Isolation (ugh), Jefferson and Madison.)
It’s been heavy going lately. I’ve done all the easy and close mountains – the ones where you hike for longer than you drive. This winter I did something to my knee which an orthopedic surgeon and MRI showed to be akin to “getting old” which took me 6 months and a Peloton to come back from. (To quote my surgeon, “Yeah, you’re no longer a runner.”) So I WAS going to knock off Isolation, Waumbek and Cabot at a minimum in the snow but nooooooo. (Isolation is a lot easier in the snow. Go figure.) Then I could day hike the Presidentials and have a glorious Bond Traverse overnight backpacking on Juneteenth. The best laid plans went aft agley, though. The Bond Traverse was still ON, the prep hikes had been done, and the discussion about exactly what summit foods we could make to inspire jealousy in our fellow campers was in full flight when the forecast got grim and grimmer. Look, I have hiked in rain. I have hiked in cold (-17 at the trailhead!). But hiking in rain AND cold is somewhere between dumb and dangerous – and definitely not fun. And theoretically this is a hobby I do for fun. So there was a deeply reluctant cancellation and rescheduling for fall.
We formed a self help society
The entire working/hiking community in New Hampshire has had a deeply frustrating season of it. Every weekend seems to be clocking in rainy, buggy, cold or an amazing mixture of all three. Or the forecast will be “appalling” and the day will be great and we’re left at home gnashing regretful teeth. Or the forecast seems doable, but the bugs “Biblical”. Or everything looks amazing – but it’s Wednesday and we all have two many meetings.
My hiking buddy and I can tell you in brutal detail about every mountain we’ve hiked (and will, as anyone who’s ever locked themselves in with us for the 14 hours of driving and hiking can attest – in fact we cannot be stopped). Every mountain has the litany of remembrance. Hancocks, amazing when you can glissade (aka butt sled) down them! Owl’s Head is underrated, and the best shape we’ve been in! (Only time we’ve ever trail run out after 17 miles wearing a pack – come hike with me to hear the full story!) The time we BOTH brought two summit beers (after a hot and thirsty hike the time before) – and it was snowing so we didn’t want any of them. How many months of the year we’ve been snowed on while hiking! (11). The crazy people we’ve met on the trail! Our not-so-secret desire for AT trail names! On every hike, we remember every other hike, adding in the sun-dappled streams, spectacular vistas, exciting weather, and insufficiently grippy shoes to our tale. (Flume Slide led to the creation of our “high friction” line of clothing.)
Garfield looking into the Pemigewasset wilderness across at Owl’s Head.
Four years seems like a reasonable number to take in order to summit 48 specific mountain peaks, although of course I’ve hiked many more in that time. Not all the mountains I hike count for the list, either for lame rules reasons (looking at you Mt. Hight) or because they aren’t tall enough (like my beloved Chocorua). By this year, I’ll have hiked more of the mountains than I am years old. But here’s hoping my knee and the rest of me holds together long enough to mail in for that great badge of honor, and I’m not stuck at 40!
I’m away for a week between roles in a cabin in New Hampshire. As you may know, big layoffs happened at my company on Friday. I was not laid off. My previous role was extremely vulnerable – the group I left was one of the hardest hit. And I know a ton of people impacted, so I’ve spent this week not in blissful disconnection, but checking in with the person who worked for me last Friday and is now unemployed, trying to figure out who I still work with and who might need me to keep an eye for roles, etc.
I picked this PARTICULAR cabin in the woods because I wanted to hike two four thousand foot mountains (Waumbek and Cabot), and these are a full three hour drive for Boston, which is a brutal one day trip. So I figured I’d knock them off (they’re not too difficult) while I was up here. But I’ve done … something …. to my knee. I think I have a meniscus tear (in my problem knee) which is causing instability and swelling. I’m having trouble with stairs. Did I still consider solo hiking a pair of 4000 foot mountains alone, in winter, with a bum knee? Of course I did. But the weather is also rather iffy, and that was one strike too many. So instead I went and did a super easy, completely flat 4 miles walk along a rail trail. Laaaaaame. The parking lot was snowy, but that was fine – our car was in the shop due to a rear ending that my husband was subject to, so I rented a 4 wheel drive just so trailheads would be no issue. I got in just fine, and did a lovely walk in which I saw no other living creature. It was gloomy and morose and like hiking in an old oil painting. I loved it. I got back to the car, texted my husband I was safe, and headed to the road to go get some dinner in the building gloom.
There’s a spectacular view of the Presidentials there. Right behind the clouds.
Less than a foot from the road, I lost traction, and got stuck. “No problem,” I thought “I’ll throw it into 4 wheel drive.” It didn’t work. I dug out the wheels with my hands. Didn’t work. And every attempt to power my way out I slid a little closer to the 8 foot ditch to my right side, where I would definitely be in trouble if I slid all the way in. A light snowfall was poetically falling against the pines, and I finally conceded my better judgement and called AAA. I told them where I was (thank you GPS!) and they patched me through to the towing company which said they’d be here in an hour. So I waited, increasingly hungry and in need of a bathroom, for an hour. At the appointed time, the dispatcher called me back and drawled. “We’ve gone the whole airport road in Jefferson, and we can’t find you at all.” “I’m at the Pondicherry parking lot, just shy of the Mt. Washington Airport” I replied.
There was a long pause.
“Which state are you in?” she asked. I replied, with growing unease “New Hampshire”. “Awww…. honey, we’re out of North Carolina. I’ll, uh, call AAA for you.”
I sat there in my car, waiting for a phone call (which never came), when a car pulled over – an old silver Ford Taurus by the look of it. “Are you stuck?” said the driver? I assured her I was, and darkly updated her on my predicament. “I’m going to call my boyfriend and he’s got a truck. He’ll get you right out of there.” Now normally I like to do things the proper way, but in this case, I said I’d be delighted if her boyfriend might be of assistance. It took maybe 20 minutes for them to assemble the full posse. The ladies in the car stayed with me the whole time. But two trucks, packed to the gills with young men with nascent beards and overflowing slightly dangerous energy, pulled up. In less than five minutes they had me out of that ditch and back in action. I think they were disappointed they didn’t end up needing the chain or shovels that they’d brought for the fun.
But it was 3 hours after I’d first stopped a foot shy of the road. I attempted to pay them, which was a complicated social dance, and then was on my way, chastened, sobered and deeply irritated that even my very safest possible alternative had still ended up being so complicated. I was also very grateful that only time had been lost: I was fine, the car was fine, it was like it had never happened. So I picked up some heat-and-eat from the grocery store right before it closed, came back to my cabin, and decided what I really needed was some comforting reading (Miss Buncle’s Book was just right) and maybe a new plan for roadside assistance.
Mood: 19th century oil painting with darkened varnish
For the last two and a half years, my hiking buddy Anthony and I have been waging a concerted campaign to show people how fun and beautiful hiking is, and to lure the unsuspecting from the comfortable back yards of sleepy Stoneham up to the ankle-breaking, muddy trails of the Granite State. After every trip, we post glorious pictures: sunrises, summits, friendly birds, glorious wildflowers, pictures of our boots hanging resting on granite slabs overlooking vistas of vast wildnernesses embraced by mountains whose names and journeys have been graven in our shared experience and captured on personalized “New Hampshire 48” maps on our bathroom walls.
Typically alluring scene: the summit of Carrigain
Yesterday marked my halfway point on my journey of New Hampshire 48 mountains taller than 4000 feet, as we strode along Signal Ridge to summit Mt. Carrigain. And instead of my usual glorious celebration, I’m going to give you the gritty insider view of the Real Secrets of the Stoneham Mountaineering and Libation Society*
SMLS Logo: Look up the motto yourself
Wednesday before, text: Brenda – “Free Saturday, thinking Carrigain. You free?” Anthony – “I hiked with you two weeks ago, did a 20 mile five mountain traverse last weekend and am hiking on Sunday too. So you have to drive.” Brenda – “Deal.”
The day before, 3 pm: text between the two hikers, just two things. A link (shared with the stay at home spouses) and the fateful words, 6:30 am. Brenda sets alarm for 5:45 am and plans to head to bed early tonight.
Pro tip: block the door with the stuff you don’t want to forget at 6 am
The night before, 8:30 pm, Brenda’s head: I should really go to bed. I have a hike early tomorrow, and I never sleep well the night before. I’ll just catch the women’s soccer game – two hours is perfect.
11:30 pm: Well, I didn’t really expect that to go extra time and penalty kicks. And I still need to make my sandwich and get my pack ready.
Midnight: I’m sure the next 5:45 will be the best quality sleep I’ve ever have.
1 am: Moves downstairs to guest bed due to husband who likes to dance flamenco in his sleep, especially on the night before hikes.
Fun fact: I hate sunrise
Hiking day 5:45 am: Alarm goes off. Birds are singing. The first light of morning is warming the Eastern skies and throwing golden light on the trees outside the window. Our hiker hero arises, stretches, and celebrates not sharing a room by launching into a stream of profane invective. Time to get up. She presses the button on the coffee, heads up to brush her teeth and don her traditional summer hiking garb. First breakfasts are a big bowl of Lucky Charms. It takes forever to fill the 4 liters of water she’s packing. The sticky note on the door reminds her to bring water and her sandwich. Everything else is already in the pack.
Fun fact: tiny cars are better for hiking. Read more for the shocking reason why!
6:35 am: Arrive at Anthony’s door. Celebrate most on-time departure yet with a surly welcoming growl and slurping on first of 64oz of coffee packed for the drive. Debate whether to take I93 or I95 and agree on a loop route. The mountain is 2.5 hours away no matter which way you go, so a minimum five hours of driving await our heroes. They enjoy the scenic rusting bridges, dump trucks and road construction along the way. Anthony refills Brenda’s coffee from thermoses twice.
The actual most common view
8:15 am: First stop of the day is the traditional fortification at the McDonald’s in Lincoln. It has very convenient access, bathrooms, and incredibly slow service. In exchange for a few measly dollars, our heroes use the facilities and come out armed with Sausage McMuffins (Brenda), Breakfast Burrito (Anthony), hash browns (both) and orange juice (Anthony). They still have nearly an hour to the trail head, but gloriously no one gets in front of Brenda on the Kankamagus and she can demonstrate to Anthony how she learned how to drive “on roads just like this” and tells him that the yellow speed advisory signs are for “amateurs”. Anthony comments how unusual it is for him to get car sick, and wonders what might be different today. They both agree it’s probably pre-hike nerves.
90% of our hikes start here. I haven’t yet figured out why frequent hiking hasn’t led to weight loss on my part.
9:15 am: Three miles up an shockingly well maintained dirt road with a shockingly poorly maintained wooden bridge. Anthony comments on the narrowness of the single lane road right before a giant pickup truck flies by the opposite direction. Finally they arrive at the trail head. Of course, it’s completely packed and there is no available formal parking. There are about five cars trying to find a way to park, the inhabitants of whom will spend the next 10 hours passing and being passed by our hikers. As Brenda expertly executes a 46 point turn to get into an available section of ditch, they play the traditional game of “car accident or trailhead parking”. Eventually, they’re parked between the gigantic pickup truck with extra sized wheels, broomsticks holding up an American flag with a black stripe and a “Don’t Tread on Me” flag – and on the other side a diesel Volvo with Vermont plates and a series of increasingly faded Bernie Sanders for President stickers. I feel encouraged by the fact that among all our differences, we are all here together and love hiking and mountains.
A comparatively nice parking lot
9:25 am: Finally time to hit the trail! We didn’t forget anything this time. In the past, we have discovered such adventurous forgotten elements as hiking boots (Anthony) and food (Brenda). Despite being the last day of July (we said it was the first of August all day, because time means nothing on the trail) it was about 45 degrees and snowflakes were seen the prior night on Mt. Washington. Brenda presses the “go” button on her satellite phone, knowing that the at home spouses will be anxiously checking the hiking pair’s progress all day. Or maybe once if they get curious to see just how slowly we’re moving.
I’m color coordinated, except for the sat phone
9:35 am: Suddenly the gallon of coffee consumed on the hike up makes its presence known, and the search commences for an appropriate tree/rock. Anthony says “at least we don’t have to worry about anyone coming down the trail at this time of day”. Seconds later a fit young man comes running down the trail at full speed with two fit looking dogs deftly trailing his heels. Hiking the Whites inspires a lot of humility, but appropriate trees are found with privacy from hikers in both directions.
Trail head signs have the least accurate distances of all your bad trail distance options
From then, the hiking. This has been a historically wet summer in New England. This time of year, all the trails should be completely dry, and definitely not muddy for miles. But not this year. The first two miles of trail are easy and even beside a glorious mountain stream. This increasing the foreboding because we have 3500 feet of elevation to gain and lose, and every mile you aren’t climbing a little means the trail will be that much steeper when it finally hits. And hit it does: the last three miles are an unrelenting forested UP. The trails are very crowded today, and we leapfrog with some hikers of similar speed, while being passed in both directions by the speedy. Discussion breaks out: which are the most depressing, the trail runners who effortlessly pass us breathing less hard than we do, or the 70 year olds who encourage us as they pass by telling us it’ll get easier once we get in shape in retirement?
Don’t. Fall.
Finally we break treeline. All along Signal Ridge groups are spread out watching the clouds break across Washington, making up stories about the red scar that dramatically mars Mt. Lowell, or talking about their upcoming wedding dress fittings. We linger for a lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches, Pringles, and fruit snacks. The cold winds carry the bite of October, and the stunted krummholz shows as clearly as a sign what the prevailing wind direction is. Eventually we doff our winter layers and tackle the last push to the summit.
Our lunch view – Mt. Lowell with the scar, Mt. Washington in the background
We linger at the summit too, reveling in the 360 views of old friends we have hiked or will hike or want to hike. It does take a while to orient ourselves and figure out that the Pemi wilderness is in the direction of the sign that says “Pemigewasset Wilderness”. I say my standard prayer that some day there will be a lightening strike on the Owlhead summit which would have the best view in all of New England … if it wasn’t wooded. A conversation breaks out on the summit as we share food and gaze in shocked amazement at the guy (wearing only bright orange shorts) who brought up a pulled pork sandwich. Boasts and exaggerations flow around previous gourmet foods we’ve consumed on the trails. Eventually, reluctantly, we part from our new friends and start down.
I wonder which direction the Pemi wilderness is?
When you are young, you complain about up because it’s hard on the system – real work. When you are old, it’s the down that gets you as your joints complain about the miles of basically controlled falls on to rocks that are sharp, unsteady, slick – or in special instances all three. I usually vow at this phase that I’m going to work on strength and flexibility between hikes. It’s hard to look up, because the footing requires all your attention, and you’re starting to get tired. By the time we hit the flat mud section again, we’re almost quiet having exhausted all the gossip, observations, upcoming plans, and discussions of trails we have hiked and will hike.
We went up all that. We will now have to go down all that.
At the last, a few tenths of a mile from the trail head, we linger at a sylvan pool with crystal clear waters crashing down polished granite into deep and mysterious pools whose clarity leaves you wondering if they are 4 or 40 feet deep. The roiling waters seem impossibly consistent, an impossibility of constant motion and change as the dying light slants down the steep sides of the mountain we just climbed to the dark green of the pines and maples clinging to a carpet of soil over the granite bones that are never far away. When we attempt to stand and resume our packs, it takes three tries.
We often record water crossings in hope of getting good blackmail material in case the other person missteps and gets doused.
6:10 pm: Like Mr. Rogers, we end our day like we began it, changing our shoes in car. Sore, but happy. And not looking forward to the drive home. But we are the Stoneham Hiking and LIBATION Society, and one more thing remains to be done in our traditional hike.
Glorious
7:30 pm Almost There Tavern: The after hike meal is highly anticipated event, and the topic of great conversation on the trail. This is one of my favorite spots, due to having Tuckerman Pale Ale on tap and friend green beans, both known health foods. They also have outdoor dining – not only important due to Covid but also due to the distinctive fragrance of people who have hiked through mud for 10 hours.
Preparing to libate
10:15 pm Finally back home again. Barely able to climb the stairs. The shower descends over blistered feet and aching knees, washing through sweat-tangled hair. As a last act of consciousness, I color in the trail and note the date.
My tracker – by SherpaAnt
24 down, 24 to go. The real secret is … it’s totally worth it and I can’t wait to go again.
*Fictionalized and exaggerated, because that’s how the SMLS rolls.
Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days, days in whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God. -John Muir
I spent about 12 hours over the last week or so going through the pictures I took in 2019. I believe the tally is about 10,000 pictures, give or take. I’m deeply lamenting that Google stopped automatically syncing drive and photos, since now backing up my collection requires actual effort. But at the end of each year, I create a “Best of” album that I use for creating calendars, making physical prints (so that some hacker can’t erase my children’s childhoods), and as the background scenes for my screensaver at work.
I’m always struck at how the photographs work. In the moment, my kids start groaning when I take my camera out. There’s a fake-feeling when you arrange them artistically and cajole them to smile. When it’s just me, sometimes I wonder if I’m really seeing things when I have my phone out, or if I’m just postponing the seeing to some later date which may or may not ever come. The moments that surround those pictures have all sorts of feelings: annoyance, exhaustion, aggravation, anger, humor, relaxation, exasperation. But by the time I’ve picked my favorite photos, the entire year looks beautiful, joyful, peaceful and full of familial bonding.
This transformation of life from banal aggravation to beautiful memories is a miracle of modern alchemy. The best part is that, as you pull out your memories along with these pictures, they start to conform to what the photos say. It was a great day. We all had fun. We get along wonderfully. We spend most of our time doing meaningful things together as a family. Memories are not the truth of what happened, or of what we felt at that time. They are changed by, and even created by, what we do with them after they are first born. I work hard to make those memories largely lovely (although I do save a few less beautiful ones for authenticity’s sake, and because given enough time they usually become funny).
Presidential Traverse, near Eisenhower
During this marathon session of photographic goodness, I couldn’t help noticing something about my year. There were a LOT more mountain scenes than in past years. My memories of those moments don’t include aching knee-muscles (impossible to photograph) or the pounding heat on Chocorua. But they instead evoke moments of peace, majesty, and a bigger and more lovely world. I’ve recently begun hiking a lot with an old friend who is the same kind of crazy I am about hiking mountains. On grim, cold days we sometimes text each other pictures of where we wish we were. With his not-so-great example, I was recently talked into doing my first ever winter hike, which required a massive re-kitting for appropriate gear. (OK, by talked into, I mean I said “Hey, want to go hiking on Wednesday?” and he said, “Sure!”.)
New pants, new gaiters, new boots, new microspikes.
It was a beautifully soul-clearing hike, starting in the dark of the morning before dawn. We climbed to beat the weather, due in at some uncertain time of the afternoon (the forecasts were wildly inconsistent). The skies at times darkened ominously and scarves of white clouds wrapped themselves tightly around the necks of Lafayette and Lincoln, across the valley. But there were glorious moments, too. A perfect boulder, covered in pebbly ice. A southern exposure with bright moss shining through the white snow. The expanse of Lonesome Lake perfect below us. The sound of bitter winds whipping above our heads, with short summit-pines protecting us from the greatest heat-stealing wrath of winter’s icy breath.
The ice was fascinatingThe moss was shockingly vibrant amid all the monochrome of snow and sky
As Boston braces for our first real snow of the winter on Monday, the experienced yankee might feel a mild claustrophobia setting in, as the world begins its process of shrinking to the size of the shoveled path. But perhaps this year will be different. Perhaps this year, I’ll be able to brave snow and ice, and meet my mountains again before spring.
Guys, I hate to be the one to tell you, but SUMMER IS ALMOST OVER!!! QUICK PANIC!
It’s possible that I’ve counted out the remaining summer weekends on my fingers and come to the conclusion that this weekend needed to be ALL THE SUMMER. This was definitely exacerbated by a realization I had during my “sabbatical” that I only had four summers left with Grey after this one, and I might well never spend another July with him. I am not ready for many (or any) lasts with my children that do not involve diaper pails. My friends will point out that I’m always looking way ahead and anticipating what happens next with my kids. This is true, but in this case it nicely focuses me on what I need to do right now: panic.
So this weekend I tried to cram in as much quality family summer time as humanly possible.
It started on Friday night with some rock climbing. A Very Nice rock climbing gym has recently opened about 3/4 of a mile from our house. Adam and I both did belay classes, and went in together (and with the kids) to get certified and do some climbing. Both kids loved especially climbing with a top rope (obviously they’re not lead climbing). We had a great time just being together and doing that as a family. The kids are excited about going back, and I’m excited about more activities we can do as a family that don’t involve sitting down.
Hanging out as a family
Saturday morning on the early side, we headed up to New Hampshire. Over 20 years ago, Adam and I hiked up to Mt. Major with our fellow college friends during Fall Break. The boys ran up the mountain, in an excess of testosterone. We have never revisited it, until this weekend. It’s a pretty easy hike with a big scenic payoff. There might have been some whining as we climbed to the top of the mountain, but not too much. We celebrated our summiting with a meal at nearby Hart’s Turkey Farm. Mmmm turkey gravy poutine….
Summit time!
But we needed to get back in good time, since some friends had invited us over for dinner! BBQ, of course, being the summer. A neighborhood-favorite game of bottle bash broke out, prior to the consumption of hamburgers. It was great to catch up with some friends! But we had to leave at a moderately reasonable time, due to needing to get up early again today.
You try to hit the bottle with the frisbee
See, it’s already August and we have not yet hit the beach! I mean, our children have been MIA for most of the summer, but basically all remaining summer weekend days are spoken for. So we HAD to hit the beach this weekend, or not at all. And so we did, on a summer morning with perfectly blue skies and relatively warm waters.
Beach bumsAbsolutely perfect weather
Now, when not posting breathless updates to my blog, I’m cleaning out the first and second floor hallways. Finally, almost a year after it should have been done, we’re doing the last planned part of the attic project and getting hard wood put into the first and second floor hallways, and pulling the carpet off the stairs. Given that this carpet may well be older than me, it is past due. But I definitely procrastinated on the work of it! Also, once again I failed to take a “before” picture. Why do I continue to be so bad at remembering that?
When I come up to New Hampshire, I almost always stand with my metaphorical eyes north to the White Mountains and my back to the Lakes Region. Sadly lacking the relatives with a summer home purchased for $2 in 1964, which seems to be how everyone else I know has access to a lake/beach house, my New Hampshire heart’s home is White Lake State Park, but I’m generally itinerant. From White Lake, you can look south to prosaic Mt. Whittier with the big ol’ antennae on it, or you could look north to the majestic, mysterious and storied Mt. Chocorua, the jewel in the crown of the Whites (in my opinion).
Hike More, Worry Less – my motto this trip
But this cabin I’m staying in is called the Ring Dike cabin. And inside an overfull white folder, scattered between brochures for train rides and menus from BBQ joints, were a handful of geological and (most intriguingly) astrological printed internet articles talking about the Ring Dike left behind by a 10,000 ft volcano that did a lot of exploding hereabouts 200m years ago. There is, in fact, this bizarrely circular ring of mountains about 10 miles wide where the caldera of this long-extinct volcano once stood. And I, having driven past it dozens of times or more, have never realized (never mind explored) it.
There is a relief map hanging in my bedroom showing the Ossipee Mountains. You can see how weirdly circular they are!
This seems like the world’s most perfect ghost story fodder. (Cabin in the woods. Alone. In a PSYCHIC RING.) And I promise to do more investigation and write a bit about the geologic and loony aspects of this Ring Dike. But first, I wanted to get in it and see it for myself. The morning was bright and clear. The day open and inviting. The hiking boots were already by the door.
Looking into the heart of the ring
But where to go? I have an extensive collection of maps and books to guide my hiking while I’m up here. And not a single one of them looks south of White Lake. So I turned to my trusty ol’ friend, the internet (I sweet-talked the wifi password from the landlord), and found a perfect hike. You’d drive into the heart of the great circle, then climb up to a ridge and look around and then climb back down. Looked great. (Anyone who has hiked with me before is already having heart palpitations.) Unfortunately, I couldn’t get a description of the trail head, but the road dead ended there. How hard could it be. (Really, I should come with a warning sign for hiking.) I emailed my itinerary to my husband and consoled myself that I may not have a map, but I do have a compass!
The heavenly stream
I never found the trail head. I did have a splendid time driving through increasingly remotish woods on dirt roads, being passed by cars that were cool when I was in high school with tattoo’d men hanging most of the way out of the moonroof. Oh New Hampshire. Never change. But the road was marked private where it should have continued. I drove back to the spot where there had been parking and a private land, public use trailhead. There was a river there, a mighty confluence of three streams, that looked like a slice of heaven in dappled light. As I was debating which random trail to follow, two guys got out of a car and headed up the path. I followed them. They made me uncomfortable. They kept skirting off the path for brief excursions, going from in front of me to behind me then passing me again. I was edgy, until I realized that they were geocaching. Phew! They were friendly and fine.
Northward squalls
A little ways in, I met a kind man wearing a music tshirt and walking a dog. He advised me to watch for the cairn and the red blazes, and take the Bayle Mountain trail. I took his advice, and attained a spectacular view for not that much hiking. I watched a rain squall pass over Chocorua lake. I ate my lunch. The wind blew away the flies. The mountain was entirely covered in ripe blueberries, like in Blueberries for Sal, only shorter. A man explained to his tiny, triumphant son that the hill had been scoured by a fire four years ago, and that it brought us the views and the blueberries.
The blueberries were perfectly ripe and delicious
Man. It was everything I wanted it to be. Except my ultraviolet light water purifier ran out of batteries and I couldn’t fill up my thermos when I got back to the glorious river.
I have now purchased a subscription to AllTrails and sent tomorrow’s itinerary to my phone. I think I would be content if I hiked every day, and forgot about the writing book. You can write books in winter.
I was about to wrap this all up philosophically when I remembered the most exciting part! I found a kind of scat I’d never seen before (clearly herbivore) and was wondering what it could be when I also found a tuft of white fur in a nearby pond. I think there must be a mountain goat up there! Very exciting!
Whose scat is that?Clues point to goat!
Um, philosophical ending. It was really nice to go hiking, and it’s really nice to rest and make my own choices. But I’m still kind of bad at it. Guess I need more practice!
As we flew into Seattle, the tip of Mt. Baker to the right pierced snowy and pristine through a sludge of atmosphere – a few pristine looking glacier piercing through air that was brown and grimy and disgusting. I’d left Boston weather in the 90s looking forward to the break the Northwest would surely give me, only to land in 95 degree dry heat in Seatac. Wednesday was a blur as all the Camp Grampers arrived, we fed everyone, we stopped to pick up some gear, and then the minute I’d finished the 8 hour journey to Mineral I hopped back in my mom’s car to head up the mountain to Longmire.
Longmire in the heat
It’s a remarkable feeling, to have woken up in Boston and yet found yourself staring up the great rift of Longmire Valley, past Rampart Ridges to the Tahoma glacier. When I walked into the ranger station to get my permit, apparently my face transmitted my depth of feeling. “Are you ok?” asked the ranger?
Back in January, I came up with this scheme. For the first time in what feels like ever, I have a little more vacation than Adam does – 3.5 weeks this year and headed to a full 4 weeks next year. Woooo! And every summer there are three main vacation options: go international (like last year), go to my folks’ house and head down to Ashland, or go to my folk’s house and go backpacking. It’s been many long years since that last option was selected. This year, Adam really wanted to go to Ashland again. But I wanted to go backpacking. Then I had a genius idea – I’d go ahead of time without Adam and go backpacking without him. So I reached out to a guide group and signed up for a guided tour – since backpacking alone is dumb and not ok. Bliss!
In June, I got word from the company that no one else signed up for the tour. Cancelled. AAAAAGH! I came up with plans B, C & D, none of which panned out. So here I was, weeks before the trip, with no plan E. My gaze strayed over at my preternaturally tall 12 year old son. You know, the one who was the right size to carry a pack. And who was the same age I was when I first went backpacking. Hmmm…. I carefully felt him out on the topic “Man, I bet you wish you were a big strong adult who could go backpacking like me!” And … he bit! He said he’d be willing to come with me! Usually willingness to hike with me is a sure sign you’ve never hiked with me before (ask Erin) but then and there we arrived at plan E. Ha!
I was careful selecting my route. My natural inclination is to pick my favorite campsites that are available and hike between them, elevation and distance be darned. Many’s the deathmarch I’ve planned for myself. But I wanted to lure Grey in more slowly – maybe even get him to like this without the use of post-hike hypnotic techniques. So colluding with the Ranger, we picked a very scenic, very satisfying, pretty short trip. We’d spend two nights (so the plan went) at Upper Crystal Lake Campground – a pretty, alpine spot only 3 miles off the road – a dead end with two campsites. Then on the second day, we’d day hike out, and hike out the third day.
My way back I meandered – using the last light of the preternaturally long day to walk the trail of shadows and breathe the fragrance of firs. I noted with some unease just how haze-obscured Mt. Rainier was, even from the depths of the park, by the smoke. But hey, it beat the heck out of rain, right?
The next morning Grey and I set out at the crack of noon from the trailhead. His first discovery was how amazing water tastes when pulled fresh from a mountain stream, as we refreshed the water we’d brought with us. And oh, it does taste so very good.
Traditional trailhead photo
We were about a mile up the trail (and by up I mean *UP*) when I realized that my carefully procured, conscientiously updated permit was, uh, back down in the car. I ditched my kid and my backpack and headed back down. And then back up again. Did I mention it was 95 degrees? There was a little bit of observational despair when my son learned that we were taking switchbacks ALL the way up the mountain (I’ve gotten smarter in my old age and no longer point out the distant high peak where I suspect we’ll be stopping), but we got past that and the conversation flowed.
And my, Upper Crystal Lake is a beautiful, beautiful place.
Near where we got our water
We set up camp. We napped. We read our books. We made dinner. (Hiking with a 12 year old sure changes how much food you go through a day!) He taught me how to play spit and Texas Hold’em. I proceeded to get two straight royal flushes and completely wipe him out of hard candy not once, but twice. We fell asleep that night, rain fly off our tent, gazing up at the stars. Before I took my glasses off and roll over, I got to see our tent overflown by the long, silent wings of an owl.
The second morning dawned just as hot. It had cooled off somewhat over night, but we hadn’t slept so much well as long and by the time the sun cleared the mountain walls, the temperature was rising again. There was little shade in the valley, and much bugs. I’d cultivated a blister. And the news from the boots making their way up the valley was that while the mountain – not 20 miles away from us – was currently entirely covered by haze, a cooling, cleansing rain was on its way to the mountains the next day. I prefer to experience my cooling, cleansing rains from indoors, when possible.
It looked like an infinity lake
We took a walk around the lake proper, stopping as is traditional every five minutes to take another picture.
I saw no fish to eat the plentiful bugs
Then we broke up camp and headed back down. And as we got to the bottom, Grey insisted we fill up from that self-same delicious stream to take the water home with us – a precious commodity. And I knew that I’d hooked him.
Backpacking buddy – getting the coldest, fastest water from a mountain stream
I’ve been hiking with Grey since he was born. Pretty literally. Here’s a picture of us together in the Fells about 6 days after he was born. (For the record, too soon. I overextended myself pretty significantly on that hike.)
Six days old
I remember walking with him in the woods and imagining that day, someday, when his feet wouldn’t drag behind mine and I wouldn’t have to slow down. I knew that it was likely that in a twinkling, he’d go from being behind me to being ahead of me – fleet feet dancing lightly up trails that made me feel the gravity of my years. Many’s the hike I’ve dragged my children on when I told myself this impossible story – that some day they would be stronger, faster and more enduring than me.
Grey has had this phenomenal weekend. Saturday was supposed to be dedicated to cleaning out the attic. It’s amazing what sort of neat stuff you do when you’re procrastinating, isn’t it? Instead, we played a video game together as a family (Ultimate Chicken Horse – I was the hapless sheep and terrible at it). Then Adam and I found the *perfect* countertop, which happens to require us to find a brand new flooring tile because it works with the backsplash and beadboard beautifully, but doesn’t go at all with the flooring. This is something of a miracle, because neither Adam nor I have been able to stand a single one of each other’s selections until we got this one, and we both really like this one.
We’re thinking the darker gray in the countertop for the flooring.
After we got back, we decided to go for a hike. Thane really didn’t want to go, but we dragged him anyway. Grey was happy to come, and wore the really neat wool nurse’s cloak that his great grandmother (or great aunt – something like that – Laureen can you tell the story in the comments?) wore when people wore woolen cloaks with brass buttons. He was awesome on the hike, and the only thing he complained about was his brother’s complaining.
It’s a super cool cloak
The he came home and finished Raymond Chandler’s novel “The Lady in the Lake” which he clearly enjoyed very much. “Man,” he said, “All the characters seem to really dislike the private eye. Pretty much every single one of them has called him a bad name!” Adam replied, “Dick is the slang term for a Private Investigator. It doesn’t mean jerk.” “Oooooh that makes a lot more sense.” We finished the night up watching some Star Trek Deep Space 9.
Today, he cheerfully went to church and cheerfully participated in a lovely service. Then after we got home, he was struck by a brilliant idea. He wanted to go geocaching. And for once, his brilliant idea was brilliant. Honestly, I’ve wanted to do geocaching for years! It’s exactly the kind of thing I always hoped my kids would get into. Grey watched a Youtube video on the fundamentals of geocaching. He proposed a token to leave behind (a sticker of our family crest). He identified the best app, which he asked me to download. He found the nearby caches, and pointed out two that were in easy striking distance. And then he very politely asked me if I would go geocaching with him (since I’m the one with a smart phone). The weather was fairish today, and he’d also been talking about how much he really wanted to go ride a bike, so I suggested that we ride our bikes to the Fells (it’s less than a mile) and proceed on foot from there.
And we did!!
I’ve been wanting to bike to the Fells for YEARS. If this was my childhood, that’s what would’ve happened all the time. It’s so nearby, and so amazing that it’s within easy biking distance. And it is – less than 10 minutes each way. That’s nearly what it would take to drive it, and way faster than walking it.
The bounty of the first cache
Once in the Fells, I followed his lead in finding the caches. His joy and satisfaction and enthusiasm on finding his first ever cache just radiated from him. He was extremely diligent in logging the visit in the logbook, and putting the cache back just as he found it. The whole time he was just projecting happiness.
First cache
His appetite whetted, he begged for just one more. Now I had serious attic-cleaning duties to attend to. But when my child begs me to hike longer, um, it’s possible I don’t have as much willpower as it would take to be like “No, I need to go clean up the curtains I bought 10 years ago and never got around to hanging.” So we headed further into the Fells, finding ourselves on a trail I swear I’ve never seen before and as previously mentioned I’ve been hiking there for over a decade. The second cache we found ourselves at the base of an 80 foot cliff with the sinking realization that the cache was at the top of said cliff. I put my foot down on scaling the cliff (How old I have gotten! But I’ve seen first responders try to get into the Fells and I don’t want to do that again.) So we took the long way around.
And then it happened. He was twenty feet up the trail from me, with wings on his feet and light in his eyes, bouncing up rocky slopes like a gazelle. He called back over his shoulder “Can we pick up the pace? Like a light jog or something?” And I realized that my “someday” was in fact “today”. Today was the day when he was faster than me – when he would fly up trails and leave me to admire him from behind. Today was that day I’d dreamed about so many years.
Widow and widower maker
We didn’t find the second cache, despite much hunting and searching at the top of the hill. It must be lost. But we did find a third cache. With the winds on Friday, one needs to be careful in the forests. Many trees are down today that were standing on Thursday. The third cache was in the shadow of the most astonishing widow-maker I’ve ever seen. There’s a dead tree resting on a dead tree, lodged in what I sincerely hope is a living tree. It gave me the chance to tell him about his great-great grandfather who died from the unhappy fall of such a widow-maker.
The second cache
To cap off the weekend of being perfect, after dinner he went into the kitchen and made us a chocolate cake from scratch. It’s delicious – moist, light and airy. It’s some of the best chocolate cake I had. Then he posed for a picture, mimicing the exact picture from last year which I have on our calendar for this month. And then we watched some M*A*S*H episodes to honor the memory of David Ogden Spiers.
Evil cake genius
Parenting is hard work. So many nights checking homework, insisting on chores and fighting to make sure everyone does what needs to be done. So many days getting the call from the nurse that you kid needs to be picked up. There are a thousand and one hard things about being a parent. But then every so often you have an amazing weekend with your kid and you realize that wow. You really like your child. This was that moment for me.
This was a strange and difficult year in the life of the world. For good or for ill, I think we’ll remember 2017 in the history of the world. (I mean, assuming there is a history to be written and that the triumvirate of Trump/Putin/Kim Jong Il doesn’t end our species in a blast of radiation.) (These are the kinds of caveats 2017 has felt like it’s all about.) It’s been a terrifying and uncertain year for many in the wider world – especially immigrants, people of color, non-CIS folk, or anyone with pre-existing health conditions. But in the life of my family, it’s actually been an excellent year, despite the background fear, anxiety and attendance at protests.
Here are the big things that went on in my family this year.
Lastours
We went to Europe.
This was the kind of trip you fantasize about and remember your whole life. We spent time in Barcelona wandering the narrow alleys, we took the train to Carcassonne. We ate cassoulet in the cooling evening in the shadow of an impenetrable fortress built on Roman walls. We found a local guide who brought us to the fastness of Lastours and guided us across the narrow chasm into the ancient, tiny town of Minerve which we’d visited last in a fantastic Cthulu game run by my husband. It was exceptional – the whole thing. The kids were great. The weather was hot hot hot. The history was amazing. I loved every minute of it.
Eclipse The kids watched the eclipse.
As part of what must be one of the best summers of their lives, the kids did a cross country road trip with their grandparents and cousins and got to see an unobscured totality from the middle of Idaho. It was hard to fit it in between their weeks at Camp Wilmot (they want to go back for three weeks next summer!), tubing with friends, boating camp, and camping trips, but their sacrifices were duly noted. Truly, this summer was epic.
Our last night together We said goodbye and hello to friends and neighbors.
Looking through my year in pictures, I was struck at how so many in the spring and early summer included our dear and loved neighbors. (I think we had about 12 goodbye parties.) And then how empty the spot felt in the summer. We miss you folks every day, and twice on Saturdays. But our new neighbors, while not the same, are pretty awesome in their own rights. It’s been a sort of generational shift in our little street. I can’t help but feel lucky to have not one, but two generations of awesome neighbors!
Our 17th anniversary Adam and I had great years at work.
It was a very strong year, professionally. I had a huge (internal) project exceed all my expectations for success in March. It might be the most successful, amazing thing I’ve ever done at work. (And all the more so for being surprising in the process!) Adam made a huge difference in his job, and then was lucky enough to get a new role at a fantastic company where he’s getting to code more and learn a whole new programming language. In the waning hours of the year, I’ve also gotten great news about getting to transfer to a new team I’m super excited about within Alphabet. I do try to keep work and home life separate, but obviously work is a huge part of one’s actual life. For both of us, it’s been an intense year but with good results.
We hired a pastor
This was a huge part of my year. I spent so much time, effort, passion and energy on this search. I learned a lot. I prayed a lot. I felt a full range of human emotions. I got to know people very well. It’s not *quite* over yet, but we’re nearing the end. I’m very weary, so looking for how to recharge these batteries.
Dear friends on cold days It was a Francophone year
In addition to our time in France, we also visited friends in Quebec City and took a lovely long weekend trip to New Orleans. One of these was very cold and one of them was very hot. Both of them were very fun.
Victorious Views! I finally climbed Chocorua.
I’ve been passionately wanting to do this for a very long time, but it was a hard one to get done. This year was the year though! It was everything I’d been hoping. I had great company. I am not sure I’ve ever used my body that hard. The weather was excellent. The lodgings close and comfy. I loved it so much.
A few other highlights – We worked with Fealty Design to create a family crest, which I have been LOVING. I think I managed to include it four times on this year’s Christmas cards. We bought a new car We practiced civic engagement, on both a local and larger level I completed the two year project of listening to all of the Wheel of Time on audiobook
We went camping, but only twice. I’m still regretting bailing on the third time.
The children have both been thriving at school. It’s been an excellent year for both of them, with mental, physical and emotional health.
Carter Ledge Trail crosses a small brook and soon ascends a steep gravelly slope with poor footing, then turns sharply right and up at a gravelly slide with a view of Mt. Chocorua; this turn is easily missed, especially on the descent. Continuing to climb steeply… The trail passes through a sag then climbs, steeply at times, up the slope of Third Sister, with several excellent outlooks, but with some ledges that can be dangerous in wet or icy conditions. Higher up is a particularly tricky scramble across a potentially slippery, downward sloping ledge (especially difficult on the descent)…White Mountain Guide 30th edition p.385
If only I’d seen this
About the time we hit that gravelly slide bit (on the descent, of course), we’d already been on the trail for about 8 hours. I’d noticed the beautiful way the light slanted through the jack pines that we were just about to lose it behind Chocorua, on whose summit we’d so recently stood. I figured that it was probably a bad idea to point this out to Erin, who was clinging to the ragged edges of sanity after the “slippery, downward sloping ledge” bit. It had rained torrentially the night before and was very humid, turning all the granite rock faces to a slip-slide zone. But I picked up the pace just a bit anyway.
Note how ominously close that sun is to the horizon – that’s also where we’d been a few hours prior
My fears were justified. We reached the blessed safety of our car at just the tipping point between when ruining your night vision with a flashlight would’ve been worth it. Every muscle in our body screamed. Successive adrenaline jolts were wearing off, and we scarfed a bag of M&Ms by the fistful. Erin is an extremely polite and well mannered person. So when she turned to me to express feelings on the hike all she said was “I am NEVER hiking that mountain again.”
Not the steepest, scariest part of the trail
It’s possible I’d slightly undersold the experience. You see, I’ve wanted to hike to the top of Chocorua REALLY BADLY for about the last six years. I made an attempt six years ago (on a shredded knee, right before surgery) but had gotten turned back. It’s logistically challenging. It’s definitely a full day hike. The kids definitely aren’t up for it. And it’s several hours drive from my house. Also, you really really shouldn’t do it alone. This made it hard for me to “convince” my husband he wanted to do it, or to figure out how to do it at all. But this summer, a window opened. The kids were off at Camp Gramp chasing the eclipse. Adam was at Gencon. And I had a summer weekend all to myself. Sometime this spring Erin and I were talking about hiking and the high pressures of modern life and I said, “Hey, you wanna come on this hike with me? We’d get a hotel, make a weekend out of it, and really relax.”
My usual view of Chocorua from White Lake State Park
The last few times I’ve gazed at Chocorua’s lovely & taunting profile I’ve taunted back “This time I’m going to get you!” But for having been on my bucket list for years, I’d spent remarkably little time thinking through which trails I wanted to take. We’d been using a hike book the last 6 or 7 years, but Irene did a number on several off the local trails and we’d gotten in a bit of trouble, so I stopped at EMS to try to buy a new copy. They were fresh out! But hey, if I wanted a “Paddling the Ohio” copy no problem. I figured I’d stop at the Ranger Station to get a copy there. But traffic was awful and I hit the ranger station after 5 when it was closed. But hey, I had a recent map of Chocorua! Erin and I reviewed the route that night.
Not enough information
We had two cars and wanted to do a circle route. I picked one of the shortest loops that seemed to also include the most viewpoints. “So we’ll go up the Hammond Trail, pick up the Liberty Trail across the summit, and then come down the Carter Ledge Trail to White Ledge Campground, which has plenty of parking. It’s about 10 miles. Sound good?”
I mean, ten miles eeeeeeaaaaasssssy right? AHAHAHAHAHAH!
Chocorua is on the left here. We’d be coming down where the white cliffs are to the right.
Well, it was absolutely gorgeous. The pull up was long and hard and humid. The ground was steaming. The leaves were steaming. We were definitely steaming. It had rained so hard the night before, but it was still warm – touching 80. We’d brought lots of water – nearly 5 liters – as well as a UV water purifier that I’ve wanted for years but never splurged on. (See also: stop at EMS) But we were losing water at a great rate, which was ironic given that vast muddy puddles littered the trail. The rocks couldn’t dry off in the humidity, so stayed slick the whole day. And we needed to climb 3,200 feet. Then summit about three different peaks in a row. Then descend that 3,200 feet.
The wild blueberries were superb and I grazed continually as I hiked!
We ran out of water with about 3 miles to go. Fortunately, I did have my schmancy fancy new water purified and got us a critical additional liter for the last two fast miles out. Did I mention on that descending Carter Ledge Trail we saw not a single other human? We were definitely going the wrong direction, and were very likely the only people on that trail. We couldn’t call mountain rescue if we got in trouble, either, since Erin’s brother would’ve been the one to answer our call and that might’ve been mortally embarrassing.
The view of Chocorua from Middle Sister
This climb was one of the most physically challenging things I’ve ever done. Every single stabilization muscle was spent. The big muscles of my legs screamed. Bands of pain radiated across both knees with every step up and down. The next day, I could hardly walk up or down a staircase. The biggest surprise was how incredibly sore my arms and core muscles were. We did a LOT of climbing and used a lot of arm strength to get ourselves up and down. I’m not sure any part of my body didn’t hurt. Erin had some blisters she didn’t even know she had because their pain signals were hidden in the overall pain-signals from all other parts of her body.
But oh my friends, what a triumph it was. What a great blessing it is to push yourself to and past your limits, and emerge victorious from the battle. I live so much in my mind, that to spend 10 hours being very much within my body was a great gift. It was truly everything I wanted – and more. Now to figure out how to talk Erin into making this an annual event….
My Truant Pen 