From the trail journals:
September 7-14, 1985. Applachian Trail. White Moutains, NH. A midnight flight out of Phoenix brings three sleepy Arizonans—Colleen Hilber, Greg Schulke and me—to Boston to tackle about 50 miles of the Appalachian Trail in New Hampshire. Bev Wilson suggested this trip during last year’s Sawtooth Wilderness hike in Idaho trip and here we are doing it. Bev is waiting for us at the airport, having arrived just ahead of us. We spill out across the baggage area and rig our packs. Dan, a friend from Boston, takes our end of trail gear and wishes us happy trails. We head north and meet two of Bev's friends, Joanne and Marsha, at the NH border. The drive to the trailhead is longer than we anticipated. Bev and I shuttle the rental car to our take out point at Glencliff. We stop in the town to buy some fruit. The store has a soda fountain which means: end of trail milkshake! By the time we return to Crawford Notch, it's well past dark. The rest of the group has set up camp and has dinner ready. It's OK with me even if we are starting out behind schedule.
Sunday morning is bright and sunny. We confidently pose for group photos at the Crawford Notch Trailhead and step out. Joanne and Marsha hike with us for a few miles before heading back. Lunch at Ethan Pond Shelter. Greg's hip belt is rubbing him badly so he cuts a chunk of his sleeping pad, lacing it into his belt for extra protection. Necessity is the mother of invention. The trail becomes steep and rocky--hard going. The forest is pretty; some trees are beginning to turn color. Many small intimate scenes delight the eye: moss covered rock, highlights of leaves and ferns along the trail. As the day wears on we slowly become aware that we may be hiking until well after dark. We break at Zeeland Falls Hut and clamber on to the falls to view Zeeland Notch, a huge glacial cut in the granite mountains. Returning to the trail, we climb to Zeeland Ridge with its grand views of a gentle valley backed by gentle green slopes. Late afternoon light accentuates their many folds and peaks. We watch the sunset from Mt Guyot. The sky is a deep, intense red band sandwiched between ridgeline and low clouds. The sunset seemingly goes on forever. We finally reach the side trail to Guyot Camp and wearily stumble down. Today has been a long 12 mile day over challenging trail. Welcome to New Hampshire.
Monday morning is slow. We're in no hurry to get out of camp. We eat a leisurely breakfast and chat with the camp caretaker. She tells us that we may encounter orientation groups from Dartmouth College along the trail this week. Guyot Camp is a series of wooden platforms located adjacent to a spring. Without the platforms there would be no place to camp on the steep rocky slope. We leave camp refreshed and ready for the day's walk. We climb back to Guyot summit to pick up the AT. Actually, we are walking on the Twinway Trail today which serves as the route for the AT in this section of the White Mountains. The trails in this area predate the AT and the locals are obviously reluctant to subsume their heritage to some latter day concept. The sky is cloudy. Rain is in the forecast but our spirits are high as we head toward Garfield Campsite. We stop at Galehead Hut and buy extra trail munchies. The hut is inviting, I am tempted to blow off the hike and just hang out. The temptation passes and we push on. Vegetation is sparse on the crest—stunted pines cling to small patches of soil where they can. Many have blown over, victims of strong winds and a tenuous foothold. We make Garfield Campsite in time to claim the shelter. It's a spacious affair, enclosed on four sides with an open entryway. A good port in case it rains tonight. Greg returns from the privy to report that it has toilet paper. We have time to clean up and eat a relaxed dinner. Colleen serves wine. A hiker from Boston joins us.
Rain falls during the night. Soft rain tapping against the shelter. Very pleasant and so unlike the violent rain I have come to know in Arizona. We awake to fog. No one really wants to roll out of their warm sleeping bags. But we do and begin the day's adventure. Today we are on the Garfield Ridge Trail which follows what will be the high point (literally) of our hike. We pass through an Alpine Zone at 5000 feet--dwarf plants and lichens clinging to shallow, rocky soil. It's a tough place to make a living. We climb the ridge, expecting each knob to be Mt. Lafayette Peak. Heavy fog limits our view and we are surprised over and over as we continue to climb after leaving each knob. Finally, a massive rock cairn tells us this is it. Out come the cameras for a series of documentary photos. We can hear the whine of traffic in Franconia Notch 4000 feet below us. The day is spectacular despite the absence of the grand view we would otherwise have. We enjoy the sparkle of water on leaves and blades of grass and see the looming silhouettes of knobs looming just ahead. We follow the trail from Mt. Lafayette to Mt Lincoln to Little Haystack before dropping steeply down the side of the ridge to Liberty Tentsite. Our two identical dome tents packed together on the platform look like some giant ladybug species about to mate. We cook dinner under a poncho strung between the tents. We're the only ones here tonight besides the caretaker. He says more rain is on the way. We don't care. We're having fun. The outhouse has toilet paper.
The night is punctuated with heavy rain and gusting winds, a wild night on the side of the mountain. The poncho collects water until the growing weight causes it to spill with a loud "sploosh!". The tent flexes violently in the wind, pushing down toward us and springing back. We are warm and dry inside. That's all that matters. Morning at Liberty is wet. The rain has stopped but mist hangs in the trees and the platform is slick with water and last night's mud. Breakfast is in bed as we reach out to boil water for coffee and cereal. We pack up wet and suit up in our rain gear for another wet day. The trail continues steeply down to Franconia Notch. Sun is poking through the clouds but not enough to convince us to bag the rain gear. We pick our way across the mud of the highway construction in the notch before heading up toward Kinsman Ridge. The day clears up so we finally emerge from our Gore-Tex cocoons. Feels good to be walking free. The day is cool with sunlight filtering through the trees. The rain and wind blew many early changing leaves off the trees, they make a colorful and sometimes slick carpet along our route. At Lonesome Lake Hut, we pull in for a coffee break and to buy more trail candies. Between the campsite fees and our constant resuppling at the huts, this trip is expensive. But it's so very civilized. I savor the relaxation, sipping my coffee while overlooking the lake. The hut is seductive but we push ourselves on to the Fishin' Jimmy Trail for the final climb to Kinsman Shelter.
The climb is steep, with some knee-to-jaw scrambling. As I pick my way up one ledge I look up and am startled to see a Black man standing on the next step. Before I can say anything he says in a very proper British-Caribbean accent, "I will stand aside. We in the Appalachian Trail community give the right of way to the climbing party." I scramble my way up and he introduces himself, "I am The Great Appalachian Athlete. Perhaps you have heard of me." I stammer, "Um... no. But I just got here from Arizona." The Great Appalachian Athlete is a sight to behold. He is wearing baggy red running shorts over long johns. His glasses are taped together. Plastic water jugs adorn his pack and a yellow plastic bag of fruit hangs from his sternum strap. He looks outlandish but his gear is serious. He tells me that he just finished cleaning up Kinsman Shelter after a night of partying by some hikers and advises that we sleep on the left side since the roof leaks on the other side. He warns me that the resident mice are agressive. I thank him and continue on but not before I hear him introducing himself to Greg who is coming up behind me. That night Bev tells us that she met him earlier this year in southwest Virginia. She thinks he is a Jamaican doctor.
Kinsman Shelter is a bit dilapidated but looks fine to these weary hikers. No toilet paper in the privy, though. We claim the left side and hang out our tents in the vain hope that the remaining sunlight will dry them. The shelter sits on the east side of Kinsman Pond with the entry facing away from the water. Too bad because the view across the pond to Kinsman Mt is impressive. The mountain looms over the lake and seems to dare us to challenge it. Northbound hikers have warned us about Kinsman. "Steep”, “rocky” and “rough" are the common descriptions. Right now it's just there, looking gorgeous with its silhouette lit by the day's last light. Tomorrow is plenty of time to worry about climbing it. The night is cold. I crawl into my bag wearing full winter gear, hoping it will be enough. Our packs, with all pockets and compartments open so the mice won't have to chew their way in, serve as our headboards. We hung our food under the shelter's eaves. Not particularly mouse proof but at least not readily accessible either. During the night I step outside to relieve myself. I revel at the star filled sky, a good omen for tomorrow. I shine my light on the food bags. A mouse tightrope walks across the line toward them and freezes in the light.
My star filled night sky gives way to a foggy morning. Kinsman Mt is no longer visible but we know it's there and start out with determination. The climb is indeed a scramble, long slabs of slick granite interspersed with rocky trail. Roots, trees, and cracks offer hand and foot holds. We reach North Kisman and fight our way through brush to the South Peak. The fog lifts during our climb so we are treated to some great views. Franconia Ridge dominates the eastern horizon, and I feel excited about having walked its knobby back. The countryside to the north consists of low rolling ridges, misty and gray on this wet day. And we can see Mt Moosilauke, our last peak on this amazing hike. The sky is dark and North Kinsman behind us is almost black. The trail across the ridge is brushy and slow going. For us, at least. Three Guys from New Jersey bolt past us like gazelles. We'd be left in their dust except that it's too wet. Picking our way down from the peak is especially difficult, all the more so because rain has started again, mixed with occasional snow flurries.
Once off the peak, walking is a bit easier. Rain is falling hard now but the forest canopy breaks it into a gentle downpour. We are following Eliza Brook Trail now. It cascades down a long, steep drainage and over many waterfalls, some more than 25 feet. The forest is lush and green. We reach Eliza Brook Shelter but it's full so we pitch our tents nearby. I am in reflective mood after five days on the trail. Looking back, I marvel at the adventures and experiences that have been this trip. Names, places, sights and sounds reel through my head--Zeeland, Guyot, Garfield, Franconia, Kinsman, caretakers, northbound through hikers, rushing water, camp stories. I have reached Long Trip Nirvana. All I am is right here with me on the trail. The rest of the world has ceased to exist. Bev, Colleen, Greg and the trail are all that I need or want right now. And I still have two more days to go!
Today--Friday, I think--is foggy and damp. We are still on Kinsman Ridge, climbing to Mt. Wolf. The fog gives the trail an otherworldly look and feel, cutting us off from the larger world, leaving us alone with our thoughts. We've been hiking for days now and the routine is comfortably familiar. Walk, eat, walk, eat, walk, camp, eat, sleep. I no longer have to think too much about the physical effort needed to move forward; my body just knows what to do and I am along for the ride. Colleen's hip belt rips loose from her pack frame. I repair it using the awl from my Swiss Army knife (for the first time) and bootlace from my collection (a habit from days in ‘Nam) and we are on our way. The day clears up somewhat during the afternoon. We reach the end of Kinsman Ridge and catch a few glimpses of Mt Moosilauke through the trees. But Moosilauke is for tomorrow. First comes the steep drop into Kinsman Notch and camp at the Lost River Shelter. I hesitate before starting down, not quite ready to enter the last leg of this trip.
The descent is quick. We cross the Lost River Road and disappear into the woods. The shelter is not far from the road and is in marginal condition. The Three Guys From New Jersey are in the shelter ahead of us so we find a good tent site along Beaver Brook behind the shelter. No toilet paper in the outhouse but it hexagonal design is interesting. Bev washes her hair using cold water from the stream. The rest of us settle for rinsing off obvious dirt with our bandanas. We cook our last dinner on the trail and wander down to the shelter to talk with the Three Guys From New Jersey. They arrived early enough to shuttle a car to Glencliff and buy steaks and beer. We join them for a beer and compare experiences. Only two of them live in New Jersey now; the other moved to Maine. The oldest is near 60 and is close to finishing the entire AT, segment by segment. I hope I am in as good shape as he is at that age. The youngest is in his mid 30's. They hiked Mahoosic Notch in Maine and had sufficient time to do this segment as well. Talking with them gives us the idea of climbing Moosilauke without packs. We can stash all but one pack in the woods and retrieve them on our way out after we reach the car. One pack with a day's supplies will serve us all and we can trade off carrying it. What a great idea. We crawl into the tents under a starry sky, excited and sad about coming off the trail tomorrow.
Our last day begins like so many others--fog. We are pretty much indifferent to it at this point. We will enjoy ourselves whatever the weather. I am carrying the pack for the first leg of the day's hike. Compared to the beast that I have shouldered for the past week, this feels like nothing. The trail climbs sharply, following Beaver Brook up Moosilauke's eastern flank. The trail work in this area is particularly impressive, especially the wooden timbers anchored firmly into what would be otherwise difficult to scale slabs of open rock. I hand off the pack about halfway up and feel like I am floating--how wonderful to be walking unencumbered on this damp New Hampshire morning. Once on the ridge the trail levels out, passing through saddle before a gently ascending to the peak. The fog lifts occasionally, sunlight streams through the break and we catch views of the area. Now we are on the summit, an alpine zone much like Franconia Ridge. The wind is screaming past us and is very cold. We find shelter among the rocks. Out of the wind, the day is quite pleasant. As we eat, the fog lifts completely--swept away by the wind. The summit is awash in sunlight. Now we can see forever and trace our progress for the past several days across the ridges in view. We laugh and giggle like kids newly released from school and pose for a series of photos at the sign marking the summit.
Other hikers are also on the mountain but we are far removed from them by our week long hike. Reluctantly, we begin our final descent. We cross the saddle to South Peak where the trail begins to drop. It is rocky and open but easy going. I turn around and look at the summit occasionally until it disappears from view as we re-enter the forest. A group of Dartmouth students rests along the trail as we pass, their faces showing the weariness of unacclimated hikers. Most look like they would rather be anywhere else. I, on the other hand, cannot think of any better place.
Descending From Moosilauke
After a sharp drop from the peaks, the descent becomes more gradual. I notice how much fall has advanced during our week on the trail. Full fall spendor is still a week or two away but the occasional colorful trees have multiplied. The trail follows what appears to be an old road, wide, clear and canopied. The trail is the most gentle of the trip and sunlight streams through the trees, reminders that New Hampshire hiking can be other than rock, rain and fog. I have never felt stronger than I do at this moment--I could continue walking forever along this lushly wooded lane, watching yellow and red leaves drift by in the wind. The forest smells fresh and clean (even if I don't). I don't want this to end. A gate allows us to enter the pasture adjacent to the Sanitorium Road where we left the car. I see the car and the cemetery beyond. A moose wanders nonchalantly among the gravestones. He turns his head toward us as we approach and disappears into the woodline in a few short bounds.
We find the store in Glencliff with the soda fountain. Greg orders a chocolate shake. The proprieter asks in a flinty Hampshire accent, "You want ice cream in that?" Greg, surprised, answers yes and the man replies, "Then what you want is a frappe." So we all order frappes. They are okay. Not high on my life list of perfect shakes but right tasty after a week of gorp, pasta, and freeze dry. We retrieve our packs at Lost River and shower at Franconia Notch State Park.
Next comes pizza, lots of it. Greg returns from the rest room to report that it has toilet paper. The drive back to Boston is long and we lurch through urban freeway construction in the dark, making our way to Dan's late in the evening. We are still high from the hike and probably will be for a long time to come. Greg returns from the bathroom and notes the presence of toilet paper. Dan and his wife exchange puzzled looks.
