Barefoot Sisters: Southbound

by Lucy Letcher;Susan Letcher

  "Well, actually .."Isis said.

  "You're going to camp at Zeta Pass, aren't you? We discourage people from doing that"

  "Why? Is it an ecologically sensitive area?"

  "Not really. You actually can stay there, as long as you're two hundred feet from the trail and the water source. We just don't like people to camp right by the trail." She surveyed us for a moment, taking in our sweat-stained clothing and grimy packs. "It doesn't look good"

  We camped that night at Zeta Pass, in a clearing well under two hundred feet from the trail. It was almost dusk when we arrived, and all of us were sore and tired. My hip throbbed from the relentless steep uphills and downhills. Nobody felt like tramping off in the darkening spruce woods, full of fallen limbs and thick brush, to look for an approved campsite.

  I was a little discouraged when we looked at the map. Traveling from shortly after dawn to the edge of twilight, we had hiked just over ten miles. On the Maine maps, with their larger scale, this would have corresponded to a respectable eight inches. On the New Hampshire map, it covered barely four. The rest of the map stretched out, miles upon miles of punishing terrain. Every few inches, the elevation profile dipped down into a U-shaped valley with almost vertical sides: a notch. Each inch on the neap would mean hours and hours of hard hiking, I reminded myself. We had been on the Trail for more than a month, hiking every day but one, and I felt like I was in good shape. But was I in good enough shape for this?

  Isis was still fuming about the Imp caretaker. "It doesn't look good," she grumbled. "What are we, L.L. Bean models?"

  "I think they prob'ly don't want people gettin' the idea they can camp just anywhere," Waterfall said.

  "Why, so they can charge them more money?"

  "No," I said. "I think it's ... well, thru-hikers tend to be responsible with our, you know, waste. They just don't want inexperienced campers fouling the water source.

  Isis was not convinced. "Hmph. But two hundred feet off the trail? It's not like we take a crap right where we pitch the tent anyway! I still think it's all about appearances. Thru-hikers just don't look good. We don't come up to the mountains for a weekend in our SUVs, with our hair and makeup perfect, wearing the latest in outdoor styles .. "

  "Maybe we need to change the public perception of thru-hikers," I said. "Sure, we don't look good by AMC standards. Maybe instead of trying to blend in with other humans, we should style ourselves after the wildlife. What we need is an informational sign, here at Zeta Pass, about thru-hikers. It could have, you know, our feeding habits, our migratory path, how to spot us in the wild .. "

  "Right!" Waterfall joined in. "With one of those seventies-style line drawings, like a park brochure, with people in ratty tank-tops settin' up tents, fil- terin' water ... '

  I put on my best David Attenborough voice. "The southbound thruhiker, somewhat less common than the northbound subtype, can be spotted in the White Mountains in July and August. Look for their distinctive bug bite scars ..

  Isis took out her flashlight and read a chapter of Harry Potter while I stirred our pot of polenta and beans. The contrast between wizards and mug- gles seemed to mirror our situation on the Trail-we thru-hikers were a cadre with secret esoteric knowledge: how to stealth camp without leaving a trace, how to hike for hours without tiring, how to subsist for days at a time on ramen and Little 1)ebbie snacks. The rest of the world, just outside this corridor of woods, had no inkling of our ways and traditions and probably would be frightened to find out about them. I felt my spirits lifting as the story swept me away. Already the book had proved worth its weight.

  A fiery sunset lit up the gaps between the trees. As it faded, wisps of high clouds along the western horizon caught the failing light and a few stars appeared between the shaggy branches overhead.

  At noon the next day, we came down the steep, boulder-strewn side of Carter Notch. It was as bad as it had looked on the map. My hip ached constantly on the way down. I tried to focus on the trail in front of nie and ignore the fact that beyond Carter Notch, with its 1,500-foot drop, we would have to climb up the other side, and then descend into Pinkham Notch, more than 2,000 feet deep. I was beginning to dread the word "notch" on the map, even more than I had dreaded the word "bog" in the Hundred Mile Wilderness.

  At last we reached the bottom of the valley. I had to admit that the view was splendid, no matter how sadistic the approach had seemed. The wall of the notch loomed over us. Looking back, we could see a jumble of huge white boulders dotting the hillside, dwarfing the spruce trees around them. A small tarn in the bottom of the notch reflected the steep walls on either side. Isis stopped to take a picture of water lilies by the shore.

  just then the sun went behind clouds. "You guys go ahead," Isis said. "I'll meet you at the but for lunch. I just want to wait for the sun to come back out so I can get a good picture."

  The hut, a squat brown wooden building nestled among trees, was perhaps a five-minute walk from the pond. It was practically deserted at midday. A few people sat at the picnic tables inside. Waterfall and I sat on the steps of the porch. I tried to ration out my share of the crackers, waiting for Isis.

  She caught up in about twenty minutes, looking grumpy. "The sun didn't conie back," she said. "I waited there forever, and it didn't come out." We looked up. The sky, which had been blue with tiny wisps of cloud when we entered the notch, was now a mass of swirling gray. The clouds descended rapidly as we watched, and soon the mountains towering above us were hidden in fog.

  "I've got a had feeling about this," Isis said.

  The trail over Wildcat Mountain was a series of steep ups and downs, and the thick, clammy mist that gathered around us obscured everything but a marrow strip of trees on either side. Isis went ahead, Waterfall in the middle, and I took up the rear, as we painstakingly maneuvered up and down small cliff faces.

  Waterfall leaned heavily on her trekking poles. "What peak is this?"

  Isis said, "I think it's Peak C"

  "No, I'm sure this is the fourth one. It's got to he Peak I)."

  "Whoever thought of namin' peaks after the letters of the alphabet, anyway?" Waterfall said. "'Cause what if there's an extra one, like between Third Mountain and Fourth Mountain in the Wilderness? You just can't have a peak called 13-and-a-half Kickin'-ass!"

  We entertained each other with stories and jokes, trying to ignore the wet weather, until we came to the edge of Pinkham Notch. The clouds swirled and cleared below us for a moment, revealing the road at the bottom. Cars were small as beetles, whizzing past. Then the clouds closed in again. We looked at each other. I knew my face mirrored the worry and exhaustion I saw in Isis and Waterfall's eyes. The wind was rising, moaning in the trees around us.

  We took the descent slowly, sometimes turning around to scranible backwards over a particularly steep section. Waiting for Isis and Waterfall to get down the tough pitches, I shivered inside my Gore-Tex and jumped from foot to foot to stay warm. My knees hurt from the long downhill grade. Little drops of water built up like silver beads on my hair.

  Everything went well until the last set of rock steps. My attention wavered for an instant, just as a gust of wind threw me off balance. I slipped, sliding perhaps three feet down the mountain and landing hard on a small rock ledge below. I took almost all the impact on the ball of my right foot. Even with the huge doses of ibuprofen I was taking for my hip, I could tell I had done some damage. I cursed vehemently and leaned back against the rock to examine my foot. I wasn't bleeding, and nothing seemed to be broken-gingerly poking the foot, I couldn't find any spots of excruciating pain. But a dark bruise was blossoming as I watched.

  "Jackrabbit, are you okay?" Waterfall and Isis were clambering back up the trail toward me.

  "Yeah-shit!-I just slipped, but I'm okay." I found I was able to walk. I edged back to the trail along the ledge, trying not to look down. I put my right foot down carefully, balancing most of the weight on my heel and the outer edge of the foot. It was painful when a stone poked d
irectly into the bruise, but I was skillful enough at walking barefoot that this seldom happened. I popped another ibuprofen and we kept walking-scrambling, really-downward into the darkening mist.

  Inwardly, I was cursing myself for that moment of inattention. I didn't want anyone to know how badly my foot hurt, not even Isis. When we had started hiking barefoot, I had never meant to prove anything. As the miles went by, though, people's incredulous reactions had fueled my desire to stay barefoot. In the back of my mind, I remembered all the people who had called us crazy, or dismissed us as some kind of freaks, or told us we would never make it through the Whites. Like a Greek chorus, their images had stayed with me, commenting on the action. Sometimes I pictured their surprise and chagrin as I skillfully navigated a rough section of trail or clambered up bare rock. Every step I took was a victory over their disbelief. Now I felt them gathering close, leaning in to inspect the damage, and pronouncing their collective smug, self-satisfied "I told you so"

  Isis

  .e had planned to get through the Whites by stealth camping, or "stealthing," hiker slang for tenting in an unofficial spot. The White Mountains in New Hampshire are one of the few places on the Trail where stealthing is prohibited, presumably due to overuse and erosion. (After our run-in with the Imp caretaker, I felt rather cynical about this rationale.) In any case, I was confident that Waterfall, jackrabbit, and I had enough outdoor experience to camp in relatively non-sensitive areas and leave no trace of our tent sites in the morning. Nerve-wracking at first, the uncertainty about where we'd sleep and find water became a challenge for us, a shared trial that cemented our friendship and bolstered our confidence as hikers.

  On the way up Mount Madison, though, our plans for stealth and self-sufficiency fell apart. Near treeline, Waterfall started feeling ill. We considered turning around and hiking the few miles back to Osgood Tentsite, one of the few official campsites in the Presidentials, but Madison Hut was Much closer. I wanted to get Waterfall to a place where she could rest as soon as possible.

  A bitter wind drove cold mist over the ridges; by the time we reached the hut, Waterfall was wet and shivering as well as nauseated. She and jackrabbit and I crowded through the hut's doorway, pulled the door shut behind us, and looked around in astonishment. Only moments before, in the howling wind and drizzle, we'd been stumbling down slick rocks, fighting hypothermia, struggling to get Waterfall to safety. Now, inside the hut, we huddled in the corner of a bright room, ignored by the clean, well-dressed people who stood around sipping mugs of tea or playing card games at the varnished pine tables along the walls. I was used to crowding into an eight-person shelter with nine other hikers or sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder with jackrabbit in our tent. This room seemed far too calm, spacious, and well-lit to exist on the top of a mountain.

  We were trying to dry Waterfall's hair with our tiny pack towel when a member of the hut crew came bustling over. She glanced at our stained, ragged clothing, and our pack covers patched with duct tape.

  "1)o you have reservations?" she asked.

  "We're thru-hikers," I answered. "We were hoping to work for stay."

  "There are three of you," she said. "We only take two thru-hikers per night "

  "Our friend is sick ..

  "I'll get the Hut Master," the worker said. "Maybe she can help you out"

  The Hut Master was friendly but brusque. No, she was sorry, she couldn't possibly let an extra thru-hiker spend the night; they were overbooked with paying guests already. That said, we were welcome to stay long enough to dry ourselves off, and she'd have someone bring a cup of tea for Waterfall.

  I looked around the room in which we stood. It was as big as six shelters. Two doors at the back of it led to bunkrooMs; surely, none of the paying guests would be spending the night in the dining room. Outside, the drizzle had turned to rain, which lashed against the windows violently as the wind rose higher.

  "Please," I said. "We could sleep under the tables; we don't take up much space. "

  "You can't do that unless you're in the work-for-stay program. Like I said, there are too many of you"

  As she walked away, a man who was standing nearby turned toward us. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation," he said. "I have a spare bunk; I reserved it for a friend of mine, who wasn't able to join me ..

  Thank, goodness, I thought, a trail angel.

  . . so, you could buy it from me," he finished.

  We weren't in any position to bargain, and he knew it. We pulled out the plastic bags we used as wallets and scraped together enough cash to pay him. With one of us taken care of, the Hut Master agreed to let the other two work for stay. Jackrabbit and I made sure that Waterfall was comfortable, then asked if there was some work we could do.

  "No," said the Hut Master, "not at the moment. You can help us serve the guests' supper, and you can wash dishes afterwards, but most of the work you'll be doing is in the morning"

  I explained that we hiked very slowly, and asked if there was anything we could do that evening, so that we wouldn't get too late a start the next day.

  "Oh, don't worry about that," she said. "If you're up at six, you can be out of here by nine. You just have to help us serve breakfast and clean the hut afterwards."

  Jackrabbit, Waterfall, and I were up promptly at six, but no one else was. Waterfall felt much better after a good night's sleep; she was sure she could hike the thirteen miles we needed to cover that day, as long as we got an early enough start. We packed our gear quietly, then stepped outside to see if the weather had improved since the previous day.

  I'd thought the white sky I saw through the windows was overcast, but when I stepped through the door, I realized that it was the eggshell color of predawn. Already a rosy glow illumined the east. When I looked in that direction, I caught my breath; an ocean of clouds filled the valley, its slow surf swirling and eddying around the cliffs of Mount Madison. A lower mountain range, cloaked in dark spruce forest, formed a series of islands in the milky sea. As the sun rose, its beams glazed the cloud--crests red, then bathed the whole valley in a radiant gold light in which the clouds dissolved. The morning sky stretched from east to west, a solid canopy of dazzling blue. Perhaps the White Mountains would be good to us after all.

  Around seven, we heard the hut crew stirring, so we went back inside. I told the Hut Master about the sea of clouds, but she didn't seem too impressed.

  "Yeah, we get that a lot up here," she told me.

  "What can we do to help y'all?" Waterfall asked.

  "Um ... you could serve the food when it's ready," the Hut Master offered. "All the cooking chores are assigned to the crew."

  I got out our Harry Potter book and read aloud to pass the time. Things weren't going very well for our hero. "Harry's spirits descended several notches," I read.

  Jackrabbit and Waterfall groaned at this image, then we all started to laugh. Two days before, as we lowered ourselves down the steep ledges of our second notch, our knees aching, we had decided that the term "notch" deserved to be used as an expletive.

  Breakfast was served around 8:15, and we had another long wait while the paying guests ate. After we helped the crew clear the tables, they ate, then offered us their leftovers: half a serving bowl of congealed oatmeal and two pancakes. It was well past nine, and we were getting frustrated with all the delays.

  "Notch this!" exclaimed jackrabbit. "They told you we could leave by nine, didn't they? Let's just go. They can't stop us."

  "We've hardly done any work yet," I answered. "I feel like I should fulfill my part of this bargain, even if I didn't know what I was in for."

  "I'll help y'all," said Waterfall. "With all of us workin', it won't take long to clean this place up!"

  It was almost 10:30 by the time we left. In spite of the clear dawn, the day was rapidly degenerating into a repeat of the past few days' weather. By the time we reached the slopes of Mount Washington, clouds scudded over the ridges, opening every once in a while to reveal a hundred-foot dr
op-off beside the trail, then coalescing again, obscuring everything more than ten feet away. Suddenly, a long, screechy hoot sounded in the fog beside us.

  "The Cog!" cried jackrabbit. "Ladies, it's now or never!"

  "They won't see us through this fog," said Waterfall.

  "Then we'll have to get closer. Follow me!"

  A northbounder in Gorham had told us that mooning the Cog Railway was a thru-hiker tradition. The trains, he told us, use one ton of coal for each ascent of the mountain. Mooning them was a way for hikers, who'd gotten up the mountain with the strength of their own legs, to protest such a waste of resources. He warned us that the conductor would throw coal at us-this was, apparently, the conductors' way of demonstrating their power to waste as much coal as they wanted to.

  We'd been debating whether to do it for the past few days. Jackrabbit was all for it. I had some serious reservations. I'd never mooned strangers before, and I wasn't entirely convinced by the nobo's story. What if he'd been playing a practical joke on us? Why hadn't anyone else told us about this "tradition"? Waterfall, who had never mooned anyone, tended to side with me, though she did say, "If y'all decide to do it, I guess I will."

  When push came to shove, we were both caught up in jackrabbit's enthusiasm. The clouds parted at just the right moment; we all turned around and dropped trou as the train went past. If there was any aspect of protest in our performance, it was lost on the passengers; they leaned out the windows cheering and snapping photos. ("I'm sure my ass is somewhere on the Inter- net-www.mycogexperience.com," jackrabbit later commented.) The conductor played his role in the drama with more zeal than we'd anticipated, and we had to scramble up a talus slope, away from the tracks, amid a veritable hail of coal chunks. One of them hit Waterfall's hand hard enough to give her a bruise. On the whole, however, we agreed that our raid on the tracks had been a success. Skipping along the trail, congratulating each other on our membership in "the other AMC-the Association of Mooners of the Cog," we felt more lighthearted than we had since entering the Whites. Even the weather seemed to respond to our cheer; the clouds drew back, exposing a dramatic granite ridgeline, edged with cliffs and rockslides. Far below us, in a wooded valley, a tiny patch of sun gilded the treetops.