Out There

by Chris Townsend

There are many paths in the Grand Canyon but only a few are maintained, the popular Corridor Trails that link the North and South Rims. Most paths are rough and narrow in places with scrambling required at times. Rockslides and dense vegetation may hide the paths in places too. The biggest problem in the canyon is the lack of water. There are only a few streams and some of these are seasonal. There is the Colorado River of course, but this can only be reached in a few places.

  I had twelve days to spend wandering in the Canyon. To make the most of them my plan was to descend the unmaintained but fairly popular Hermit Trail, walk for several days along the Tonto Platform, drop down for a night beside the Colorado, then cross the river by one of the only two bridges. I would then head up to the North Rim where I would spend a few days before returning to the South Rim via the North Kaibab and Bright Angel Trails, both Corridor Routes.

  After breakfasting on a litre of water and a muffin I set off down the Hermit Trail carrying three litres of liquid and feeling more nervous than normal at the start of a backpacking trip. This was a very strange place which didn’t relate in any way to my previous backpacking experience. ‘Everything so new I can’t judge it,’ I wrote in my journal. Steep switchbacks led down to tree dotted but waterless Hermit Basin where the trail levelled off. The Hermit Gorge is inaccessible at this point so I followed the trail on a long traverse high on the side of the canyon through the red Supai cliffs, a breathtaking walk along a series of narrow terraces. Below lay the major barrier of the Redwall, a very steep 150m-plus high limestone cliff stained red by seepage from the rocks above. A series of tight, steep switchbacks known as the Cathedral Stairs eventually cut down a break in the cliffs.

  This descent takes you to the Tonto Platform and as soon as you reach it all feelings of claustrophobia vanish. Dotted with pale green desert plants, this gently sloping terrace is wide enough to suggest space, almost like being on a high mountain plateau. Steep cliffs still rise all around, but rather than just two confining walls these form separate mountains and ridges split by deep side valleys. Beyond the farthest, highest tree-topped cliffs lay flat woodland, but such a landscape seemed incomprehensible down here. My emotions responded eagerly to the world before me, a complex, exciting and colourful mountain world, but my body was responding to the temperature. Although it was mid-October it was very, very hot.

  I spent four days wandering along the Tonto Platform from Boucher Creek to Lonetree Canyon, following its sinuous course in and out of innumerable side canyons, camping by the few trickling creeks in the shade of spiny catclaw acacia trees and thickets of tamarisk bushes. Far below, the winding green course of the Colorado River could occasionally be seen, walled by the steep cliffs of the Inner Gorge. There are a few breaks in this barrier and I followed one, the canyon of Monument Creek, down to the river where I camped on gravel banks beside the roaring surge of Granite Rapids. Down here, by the raging waters, you begin to understand the eroding powers of the river, carving out this great defile in the face of the earth.

  From the Tonto Platform I descended the lower part of the South Kaibab Trail, one of the Corridor Routes and therefore popular with mule trains and overnight hikers, who normally descend one day and climb out the next. The trail leads to one of the only two bridges across the Colorado, both of them close to the confluence with Bright Angel Creek. On the north side of the bridge there’s a campground, complete with picnic tables and with a bar and dining room nearby at Phantom Ranch. There’s a ranger station too and it was here that I collected my supplies for the second half of my walk.

  Two days took me from Phantom Ranch up the long North Kaibab Trail to the North Rim. At first the path winds through a narrow gorge called The Box, but then follows the wide valley of Bright Angel Creek to Roaring Springs Canyon. From here it climbs steadily, curving round the steep cliffs on narrow terraces before switchbacking tightly up to the forested rim. En route a side trip leads to pretty Ribbon Falls where the lime-rich waters of Ribbon Creek have built up a moss-covered cone of soft travertine rock below the cascade.

  The North Rim is little visited compared to the south and by late October all the facilities have closed for the season. My four nights here were spent alone. During the day I wandered along the rim watching the canyon below and enjoying the antics of the beautiful kaibab squirrels with their bushy white tails. On one day I descended the unmaintained and little used Old Bright Angel Trail and was surprised at how much bushwhacking was required to get through the dense, thorny bushes. These canyonlands might be classed as desert but there is a surprising amount of plant life. My last two days were spent crossing the canyon from rim to rim in dull, rainy weather, a sign of the winter to come. Although by now I felt comfortable in the canyon the feeling of wonder hadn’t dimmed. Even now, many years later, I still feel in awe of it. The Grand Canyon remains the most incredible place I have ever been.

  The White Mountains of New Hampshire

  ‘STOP. THE AREA AHEAD HAS THE WORST WEATHER IN AMERICA. Many have died there from exposure. Turn back now if the weather is bad’.

  Bold black lettering leapt out at me from a battered yellow sign that loomed out of the grey, snow-filled sky. The warning was a little late. I had already crossed the area of worst weather and was descending.

  The sign referred to Mount Washington, at 1,917m (6,288 ft) the highest peak in New England and notorious for stormy weather. Way back in 1934 the wind reached an unimaginable 231mph; still the highest speed ever recorded anywhere. Wind speeds of 100mph+ occur every month, snow can fall all year round and the summit is cloud-capped 75 percent of the time. Rain is common in the summer too. This isn’t a place for calm, clear weather or easy hiking.

  Mount Washington is the heart of the Presidential Range in New Hampshire, itself part of the larger Appalachian Mountain chain. The timberline lies at around 1500 metres and only a few areas rise above the trees that blanket most of the area. Washington is over 150 metres higher than the next highest summit, and like many peaks that tower over their neighbours catches the full force of the weather. Long ridges run north and south over four peaks of 5,000-plus feet and another two topping 4,000. This is the largest area above timberline in the White Mountains and there is a glorious traverse over all the summits which was my first aim on a two-week trip in the area.

  I set off from the Appalachian Mountain Club’s lodge at Pinkham Notch on a warm sunny day. Stripped to T-shirt and shorts I ambled through dense forest, past tumbling brooks and delicate waterfalls. Two moose crossed my path, odd, ungainly looking creatures that paused to stare at this undoubtedly equally odd looking humpbacked human.

  A trail sign — the White Mountains are full of trail signs — pointed steeply upwards to something called Lowe’s Bald Spot 0.2 miles away. A short, steep, rocky path led to a series of rock ledges rising above the forest and my first view of the mountains, the summits of Mounts Madison and Adams rising above vast waves of green and yellow trees that filled the Great Gulf, the deep valley lying between these peaks and the big rather hazy hump of Mount Washington itself.

  That night I encountered my first tent platforms at the Osgood Tentsite. These raised blocks of planks have their good points, providing flat sites on steep slopes and minimising the impact of campers, but pitching tents on them is difficult, especially with a single hoop model that requires pegging down just to stand up. Without the 15 metres of cord I’d bought at the last minute (on the advice of a friend in Boston) erecting the tent would have been impossible.

  Snowflakes started to fall in the strengthening wind and grey clouds swirled round the head of the Great Gulf as I reached the summit of Mount Madison the next day. Rocky slopes led down to the closed Madison Hut. Two walkers, the first I’d seen, were heading up. ‘Interesting weather’, said one.

  The mountains were jumbled piles of loose greasy rocks and scree dotted with patches of krumholz (wind-battered dwarf conifers), the trails just lines of cairns leading into the mist. Mount Adams, the second highest in the
range, was a struggle in the increasingly wild storm. Going on over Washington and all the other peaks seemed less and less attractive or even possible.

  At Pinkham Notch a ranger had told me there was a campsite called The Perch down in the forest below Adams, ‘there’s nowhere else to camp without descending a long way, it’s too steep’. I dropped down into the wet forest and into rain rather than snow to find a set of small tent platforms and a dry wooden lean-to. I had just settled into the empty shelter when a school party of eleven arrived - the lean-to held ten - who looked tired and damp. I moved out and set up the tent, to be rewarded with a share of their dinner of rice and spicy beans as the rain turned to wet, heavy snow.

  Stuffing a frozen tent into the mesh pocket of my pack the next day was awkward but not as painful as stuffing my feet into frozen trail shoes. The steep climb back up soon warmed my feet. Mount Jefferson, the next peak, was in cloud but it was breaking and I soon had a view of the great bulk of snow-streaked Mount Washington.

  A puff of black smoke rose from the flanks, a sign of the cog railway that has been in operation since 1869. There’s more than a railway on Mount Washington. There’s a road and a scattering of buildings, the main one holding a meteorological observatory, a visitor centre, a post office, gift shop, museum, café and more. In the past there have been hotels, a military research centre and even a daily summit paper. The first vehicle was driven up the road in 1899 and cows once grazed on the scanty pasture.

  Soot on the snow showed I was nearing the summit, then the railway line appeared and soon afterwards a surreal tangle of masts and buildings fading in and out of the drifting cloud and the intermittent snow showers. The temperature was —4C and the wind was gusting to 39 mph. I went inside, into warmth, bright artificial light and a cluster of car and train borne visitors, a bubble of urban life transported to an alien, hostile, mountain summit

  Within minutes of leaving this bizarre aberration the unreal vision evaporated and I was alone in the grey half-light of the mist and the soft pale snow. Briefly the clouds parted to give a dizzying view down to a small lake. I felt as though I could fall through the hole in the swirling whiteness but it soon closed again as the winds strengthened and the snow fell more thickly while I staggered over Mounts Monroe, Franklin and Eisenhower.

  Visibility in the blizzard was no more than ten yards and it was hard to tell if I was actually making progress. The first krumholz appeared and soon afterwards small trees as I crossed the last summit, Mount Pierce. Darkness came suddenly and the day ended with a slippery-slithery descent down a steep narrow trail of wet greasy rock slabs. Tired, storm battered, damp and hungry I arrived at the Mizpah Spring Hut and decided to stay, blundering into the dazzling light and warmth. ‘There’s two big school parties in, we could find a space on the floor’. I blundered out and pitched the still frozen tent on a platform in the nearby woods. Heavy snow continued to fall.

  By dawn all my wet gear had frozen. I set off down the Crawford Path, built in 1819 and the oldest continuously maintained trail in North America, into warm sunshine at Crawford Notch, where a highway and railway cross the mountains and the AMC has an environmentally friendly lodge called the Highland Centre where I was able to dry everything out.

  West of Crawford Notch is a large roadless area, the heart of which is preserved in the Pemigewasset Wilderness. Most of the area is covered by dense forest with just a few areas protruding above the trees, most notably Franconia Ridge. A network of trails links the summits and the main valleys. The hills are steep and rocky and the trails are often no more than strips of boulders and bare rock rising steeply. In some places easy scrambling is required, in others wooden steps and ladders are provided.

  My plan was to circle through this area over as many summits as possible (during the walk I climbed 22 of the 48 summits over 4,000 feet (1,220m) in New Hampshire).

  From Crawford Notch I took the Avalon and A-Z Trails (the last named because it links the Avalon and Zealand Trails) up into the mountain forest and a camp, a real camp on real ground, near Mount Field Brook. At 900 metres I was below the lying snow. The forest glowed wet with raindrops.

  The patter of leaves and pine needles hitting the tent woke me in the morning. High above the wind rushed through the trees. Rather than lightening, the sky was darkening as the next storm roared in. The temperatures were warmer and the clouds brought rain rather than snow, torrents of rain crashing down out of the blackness. The forest dripped and shook water in the wind like a wet dog. Swollen brooks rushed and tumbled over mossy rocks.

  I went above timberline on Mount Guyot into mist and a wind that had me staggering. By early afternoon I was camped on another plank platform on steep slopes, and in the heart of the Pemigewasset Wilderness. The rain poured on and winds shook the tent. During the afternoon other sodden walkers arrived. Each year thousands of people use these tent sites. It’s a busy wilderness.

  The storm blew out during the night, the temperature dropped and by dawn the tent was frozen inside and out. Squirrels chattered loudly, birds sang and patches of blue sky showed through racing white clouds. Leaving the tent and camping gear to air and, hopefully, start to dry I set off for West Bond, Mount Bond and Bondcliff, three of the remotest summits in the White Mountains. The most interesting summit was Bondcliff, a thin rocky ridge with ravens hanging in the wind above it.

  Collecting the tent I then followed steep rocky trails past the wonderfully situated Galehead Hut to camp on yet another tent platform 150 metres below the summit of Mount Garfield. The sun shone in between short, sharp hail and snow showers. By dawn the clouds had closed in again and were brushing the tops of the trees above camp.

  Beyond Mount Garfield the trail rose slowly to timberline. Once out of the trees there were large patches of snow and the rocks were covered with ice. The wind was strong and cold, the mist thick. Slipping on steep slopes I wondered whether it was wise to continue when the summit of 1600 metre Mount Lafayette, the highest on the ridge, loomed up in front of me, its cluster of signs covered with rime ice. A day walker appeared. ‘Nothing to see’, he said glumly and was gone into the cloud. A chipmunk popped out of a hole in the rocks and ran round on the snow, searching for any food scraps dropped by walkers.

  Franconia Ridge ran for five miles to the south, undulating over four more summits, three of which were cloud free. On the south ridge of Mount Lincoln the shattered cliffs and pinnacles were white with rime ice. To the west the ridge dropped precipitately to Franconia Notch, to the east the line of the Bond range rose above the deep forested Lincoln Brook valley. From the last summit, Mount Flume, a series of wooden ladders led down steep slopes to flat ground where I camped.

  Forest trails led me north as I completed my circular walk. Placid ponds dotted the flat marshy woods and there were many moose tracks. I climbed three final peaks, camping near the summit of the last one, Mount Torn, from where I watched as the sun set to leave a delicate pink wash over the sky. As the last sunlight faded the full moon rose and I made my way back to camp by its cool eerie light, the shadows black and impenetrable.

  At dawn a pale pink glow appeared above Mount Jackson, just across Crawford Notch, and deepened to a richer red. A thin curve of fiery orange appeared above the mountain followed by the first edge of the sun and I headed down the trail, my journey in the White Mountains over.

  Through the Uinta Mountains in Utah

  Ragged black clouds crashed, swirled and rolled around the cliffs and ridges. Thunder rumbled and roared. Lightning lashed across the sky, briefly illuminating the trees and the mountains with ghastly yellow light. Torrential rain hammered down, bouncing off the ground, at times turning to hail and whitening the landscape.

  Our high camp, above 3,350 metres on the edge of the last cluster of trees, felt very exposed. Huddling in the protection of a dense thicket we watched the storm circle the wide basin, waiting for it to fade and move away. ‘Maybe someone should stand further away so they can resuscitate the rest of u
s if lightning strikes,’ someone joked.

  Out in the open our dinner was cooking, steam emerging from a black pan perched on a little stove and every so often someone would pull their hood over their head and dash out to see how the meal was doing. After a long day high in the mountains we wanted that food.

  The day had begun many, many hours earlier when we’d set off in the dark for Utah’s highest mountain, 4,125m (13,528 ft) King’s Peak. The predawn start meant we could be off the summit before any afternoon thunderstorms, common here due to the hot air from the deserts that lie below the mountains rising and meeting the cool air above the peaks. Watching the lightning bounce round the valley and thinking of those we’d met still heading up as we descended I was glad of that dark start to the day though at the time, stumbling round half-asleep in the cold, I’d resented it. There’d been a storm the previous night too, with torrential rain, distant flickers of lightning and very strong winds. None of us had slept undisturbed.

  To climb King’s Peak was why we were there so sleeping in, while desirable, seemed rather pointless. King’s Peak lies in the heart of the Uinta Mountains, a western spur of the Rocky Mountains in north-east Utah, just south of the border with Wyoming. Utah usually conjures up images of desert canyons and red slick rock but the Uinta are alpine mountains, snow-covered for more than half the year and with a myriad lakes and streams. Forests rise to around 11,000 feet (3,350m). Above the trees are vast open grassy bowls dotted with lakes, above which rise long, steep, rocky ridges. Most of the area is protected in the 460,000 acre High Uintas Wilderness, the largest wilderness area in Utah and a wonderful region for backpacking, hill-walking and scrambling.

  I had arrived in a ten-strong party with the aim of shrugging off the noise, tension and frenetic activity of a trade show by spending a few peaceful nights in the wilderness, taking in an ascent of King’s Peak. But the weather was disturbing the hoped-for tranquillity a little. The walk-in to base camp, through gradually-thinning conifer forest, had been pleasant, a gentle ascent into a magnificent bowl, but by the time we made camp it was raining heavily with thunder and lightning all around.