by David Miller
At the foot of the mountain I see a porcupine. He is large with ungainly bristled armor, but he is agile enough to climb up a tree and cluck at me while I take his picture. The trail cuts through a dense forest of pines. Initially they are about twenty feet tall. As I go higher, they shrink down to perfect little three-foot-tall Christmas trees. Then they disappear altogether and the AT is above tree line for the first time. A naturalist is at the summit, speaking to a small group about the fragile nature of the alpine environment. Ken and Marcia are taking in the panorama. I say hello, but cannot linger in the cold breeze. I’m wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt, which were barely warm enough at the foot of the mountain. At the peak it is at least ten degrees colder, and the unimpeded breeze makes it seem more so. Since Arrow is helping me to slack-pack today, I’ve left most of my gear, including my jacket, with him.
The descent on the north face of Moosilauke is the steepest I’ve experienced on the trail. The trail has no switchbacks, and most of the soil is washed away by erosion. Tree roots and bedrock lie exposed. The trail descends so sharply that I often turn to face the mountain and climb down backward so I can grab roots as handholds. A waterfall runs parallel to the path for much of the way, spraying mist onto the trail and making footing even more uncertain.
In some places, wooden steps are implanted into the bedrock. A notch is cut into the stone, and a railroad-tie-sized chunk of lumber is set into the notch, secured by spikes of rebar. These improvised steps are not uniformly spaced, being separated by a distance equivalent to two or three steps that would be placed in a building’s stairwell. To get a feel for the difficulty, try taking stairwell steps two or three at a time without using the handrail. Spread some rocks and twigs on them, and then spray them down with water. If you still haven’t been kicked out of the building, try it carrying a pack. On Moosilauke, a misstep would send me tumbling into a waterfall. Some of the timbers are loose and wobble when I land. Some are missing, giving me the unnerving visualization of one popping loose underfoot.
The descent ends at Kinsman Notch, where there is a road crossing and a parking area. Arrow is here, grilling more hamburgers and hotdogs. Hikers Duff, Ken, and Marcia stop to chat and eat. Arrow drives me to North Woodstock, which is situated at the intersection of two roads, the road that we are on and another road that crosses the trail sixteen miles north of here. Tomorrow I will slack-pack those sixteen miles and hitch a ride back into North Woodstock. I will repeat this slack-packing technique in the similarly situated towns of Gorham, Andover, and Rangeley.
I stay at the Cascade Lodge in North Woodstock. There are only a handful of rooms, and they are all upstairs and in desperate need of repairs. Downstairs is cluttered and yellowed by smoke. There is old furniture, tables mounded with papers, and overflowing hiker boxes. A computer is tucked into the disarray at the rear of the room, and the owner’s teenage grandson is affixed to the screen, so immobile that I nearly overlook him. A hiker can feel at home here, and it is by far the cheapest lodging in town.
When the owner returns me to Kinsman Notch, I look up at Mount Moosilauke towering over the road to the south, and more mountains tower above the road to the north. The peaks are beautifully outlined by Windex-blue skies. The setting evokes spontaneous elation, a sudden feeling of overwhelming goodness, rightness, optimism, happiness, and eagerness for being where I am, involved in what I am doing. Partway up the first climb I pass southbound hikers who ask how far I am going.
“I’m a thru-hiker,” I say, recalling the hesitancy with which I would have given that answer back in Georgia. This is what I am now; I belong.
Mount Kinsman is the main feature of the day. There is a long and steep incline up the mountain, so steep in places that trail builders have installed wooden ladders. The mountain has two peaks, and from the south peak, I can see that the north peak is the steeper of the two. The north peak looks so pointed that it is hard to imagine that there could be a walking path to its pinnacle. The sight makes me eager to go there. I have fun working my way up the second peak, using my hands nearly as much as my feet. Rain falls and makes the trail slick and muddy. The descent is every bit as steep, and much less fun.
A section-hiking family (a mom, a dad, an unwilling pre-teen daughter, and a reluctant dog) is headed up Kinsman. All are carrying full packs, and the dad is dragging the dog on a leash and yelling at it for nearly causing him to fall on this dangerous slope. The daughter is asking if they can turn around. They say they are headed for a shelter I had passed on the other side of the mountain, and gauging by the time it took me, they would arrive about an hour after dark. They are irritated, dispirited, and headed for a night hike on a wet trail on one of the most dangerous sections of the AT.
Lonesome Lake Hut, the first of the AMC huts on the AT, sits serenely next to Lonesome Lake, and Franconia Ridge rises like a wall on the far shore. My sixteen-mile day has been work, even though I slack-packed with less than twenty pounds. I hitch back to North Woodstock, satisfied with my two sorties into the White Mountains. Tomorrow I will take on the bulk of the Whites with a full pack, spending four nights before my next resupply.
I wake up sore and worried that I am getting sick. My soreness is status quo, and a big breakfast in town eliminates my malaise. Conditions, crisply cold around sixty degrees with clear skies, are perfect for a foray into the mountains. I’m eager to go, but I have a newspaper article to finish before leaving town.
When I finally leave North Woodstock, I walk toward the north end of town so I can hitch near the front of a convenience store. It looks like an easy spot for cars traveling down Main Street to pull over. Instead, my ride comes from a man who is leaving the store. His purchase, a twelve-pack of beer, is in the front seat between us. One is missing, because he’s got it in his hand. “You want a beer?”
“No thanks.” It is before 11:00 a.m., but there’s no need to point that out to him. It is obvious he’s the kind of guy who starts drinking even earlier than this on some days. Like today, for example. His eyes are squinty, and his tongue gets in the way of his words. His driving is erratic, and I wish we weren’t talking because he looks at me and not the road when he talks. I’ve told him about my long-distance hike, and he figures I must be living off the land.
“You must have a nice hunting knife.”
“No,” I answer, “I haven’t been hunting.”
“You ain’t carrying a fucking hunting knife?” he asks again. “What if you get attacked by a fucking bear? Fuck! You’d be fucked!” His cursing is not angry; “fucking” is just an all-purpose adjective, and sometimes a sentence.
“Here it is,” I say, pointing to the trailhead where I’ve asked him to take me. “Thanks a lot for the ride.”
“Okay, man. Good luck. Git yerself a fucking knife.”
The trail begins a long ramp up Mount Lincoln. Most of the six miles I walk today will be uphill since I will end my day about four thousand feet higher than where I started. The bulk of the climb is uniformly inclined at the angle of an escalator. The terrain is rocky, and the trees are evergreens. Thru-hiker Sparky is on the path ahead of me, moving slowly, not feeling well. I stop and let her pick from a few over-the-counter medicines I carry, and then I walk with her for about a mile before feeling like I need to move on. We are headed above tree line, so I hope she is fairly judging her capabilities.
A couple of AMC workers are at Liberty Springs Campsite. I inquire about staying at Greenleaf Hut. The hut workers (they call themselves “croo”) have some flexibility in how they implement the work-for-stay policy. They can turn anyone away, but usually their discretion works in favor of thru-hikers. Still, uncertainty about hut openings is unsettling, especially since Greenleaf is a mile off the trail. One of the AMC employees is a croo member at Greenleaf. “We hardly ever get more than two thru-hikers coming down to Greenleaf. And usually we’ll take all that come, since it’s such a long walk down.”
The trail begins to level, trees become sparser, and again
I hike out above the timberline. The AT stays above the trees for the next three miles. The upper slopes of the mountains are still green with ground-hugging alpine vegetation. Hikers are asked not to stray from the trail because of the fragile nature of growth at this elevation. Gray and rust-colored granite bulges out along the ridgeline, like the spine of an exoskeletal beast. When I summit Mount Lincoln, I can see the next mile of trail along the rocky spine of Franconia Ridge. It is an awesome site. It doesn’t look like a mile to the next peak, Mount Lafayette, but moving specks—hikers on the trail—give scale to the scene that is before me.
From the top of Lafayette, views in all directions are bounded only by the limits of my vision. The enormous expanse of land evokes a powerful feeling of liberation. We spend an inordinate amount of time indoors, and the physical confinement limits the metaphorical bubble of our aspirations. Large rooms, like the vaulted interior of a church, are uplifting. Outdoors, we are free to reach for the sky.
Franconia Ridge leading to Mount Layfayette.
I leave the AT to take the path down to the hut. The trail is steep and rocky. Although it is only a mile long, it takes me forty minutes to traverse. Greenleaf Hut is on a flat shelf of land on the shoulder of the mountain. Beyond the hut, the mountain falls off steeply to Franconia Notch. From where I stand, I cannot see down into the notch, but I can see across the gap to Cannon Mountain. New Hampshire’s state emblem is a facelike rock formation that was on the side of Cannon Mountain. A week after I started my hike, the Old Man of the Mountain broke loose and tumbled into Franconia Notch. Before his fall, he was staring at Greenleaf Hut.
Thru-hikers Dirty Bird and Fido are at the hut before me, but the croo allows me to do work-for-stay as well. Later Sparky arrives, and she is granted a spot in the hut, too. My task for the night is to organize a bookshelf full of books that they have available to guests. Dirty Bird and Fido get the somewhat less appealing task of turning the compost. We are treated to leftovers for dinner, and there is plenty of everything: ham, mashed potatoes, peas, and apple pie.
The AMC huts implement a number of environment-friendly features. They are lit by 24-volt battery systems charged by solar, wind, or hydro generators. Stoves run off propane. Food waste is composted. There are no napkins, and there are no paper towels in the bathrooms. There are no showers. The bathrooms have composting toilets, and they are as odorless as any public restroom I’ve ever used. Guests are expected to pack out their own trash. Twice a week the croos pack out garbage and return loaded with supplies. There is no road access.
In the morning, the last chore for us work-for-stay hikers is to sweep the rooms. It is not much of a task for four people, and the croo needs no help cooking. For breakfast, we again get leftovers. The only downside to the arrangement is waiting for the croo to finish with the guests before we can eat. After guests have eaten, the croo gives them a brief presentation, and one croo member offers to take all willing guests for a guided hike. We gather up the dishes, and the croo does the washing. Only then do we get to eat. I am accustomed to starting my hike around 7:00 a.m., but I would never leave the huts before 9:00. It is a setback that I gladly suffer for the meals and accommodations.
The trail in the White Mountains is everything I ever heard it would be. Here I see the most spectacular views of anywhere on the trail. And it is also as difficult as I have been warned. The terrain is as rocky as Pennsylvania, and the steepness of the climbs is unparalleled. Imagine a mountain range sculpted using beach sand, with mountains as tall and steep as the sand will allow. Wind and time would erode and soften the sculpture. The mountains would melt down; the peaks would become less pointed and the slopes more gradual. A week-old sculpture might be representative of the shape of the majority of the Appalachian Mountain Range. The White Mountains would be like the sculpture the moment it was completed, with the sharpness and steepness still intact. No other mountains on the AT are this austere. Only the Great Smoky Mountains come close; they may be equated to one- or two-day-old mountains of sand.
I’ve been doing less than two miles per hour on the days in the Whites, and fourteen miles is a full day. Most everywhere else on the trail I would plan to hike about twenty miles a day, and in a pinch I could hike faster than three miles per hour. My feet hurt with renewed intensity now that there is more rock walking and steep, toe-jamming descents.
There are a number of section hikers on this strenuous trail. Many take multiday vacations to hike hut to hut through the Whites. Three of them are coming uphill, and I watch them labor through the chaos of rock. We meet at the intersection of the AT and another side trail. One of the hikers points to the side trail and says, “That way is the campsite,” and then, pointing down the trail he just climbed, “and that way is hell.” I see no other thru-hikers northbound or southbound while I hike, which may be a good thing since we are vying for work-for-stay at the huts.
Near Galehead Hut, there is a respite of somewhat level and wooded trail. A furry brown animal scurries along the ground and then up a spruce tree. It is a marten, an animal looking somewhat like a cross between a fox and a squirrel. Martens are elusive, and rare in New Hampshire, so I feel fortunate to see him.
I am the first thru-hiker to arrive at Zealand Falls Hut. Biscuit arrives shortly after I do, and we both do work-for-stay. This croo takes a more literal view of work-for-stay, so we wash windows, sweep, and set tables. This hut, like all the rest, is fully booked with paying guests.
Pine marten.
The hut is situated on the side of a mountain, facing downhill. The waterfall after which the hut is named is only twenty yards away. After dinner it is dark and I sit out front looking across the valley. The sky is cobalt blue above the undulating black silhouette of the mountains. Mars is shining brightly, more prominent than any star. The red planet is closer than it has been to Earth in sixty thousand years.
The first five miles north from Zealand Falls Hut are excellent, easy and level, so I walk faster than I have in days. From the right a bear and cub are on a collision course with me, all of us moving too fast and getting ourselves too close to each other. I stop and the mother bear retreats, but the dummy cub trees itself so the mom has to come back and stand guard; it is approximately the same scenario I’ve had with all momma bears. The cub is in a tree close to the trail, and the mother bear is standing on the trail. I wait for a minute, impatient for them to allow me to proceed. The trailside vegetation is too dense for me to walk around. Will they run off if I get closer? That is an approach I’ve yet to try on bears. I advance a few cautious steps. The bear raises her head, extends her neck, and trains her ears on me. She is not intimidated. I think better of pushing her further. If I get mauled, surely the news team will interview the man who gave me a ride back in North Woodstock: “I told him to get a (bleeping) hunting knife.”
I backtrack as far as I can, still keeping the bears in sight. Once I am at a distance, the cub climbs down, and they continue on their way across the trail. A half mile later I see hikers headed south, and I warn them of the bears. “That’s okay, I have pepper spray,” one of them replies, yanking loose a canister that was strapped to his shoulder pad. They hasten forward like a hunting party.
Eight miles of the trail pass quickly, mostly downhill to Crawford Notch where U.S. Route 302 passes through the White Mountains. Starting back into the woods, the forest is darkened by the dense trees and humidified by a stream. It is one of those places that I feel should be inhabited by a moose, but I don’t see one.
The trail is much steeper heading north from the notch. Trees block all wind, and I sweat heavily as I strain up the mountain. The trail seems to dead-end into a slab of bedrock rising nearly vertical. I think I must be off the trail, but I look back and see a white blaze on a tree behind me. There is no way around. On closer inspection of the slab, there is a fissure that allows me to get foot- and handholds and make my way up fifteen feet to the top of the rock wall. I repeat this process of hand-over-hand climbing up sh
ort walls ten times on this single ascent. I am in disbelief that eighty-year-olds and at least one blind hiker have come this way.
My difficult climb is rewarded with a wonderful view from Webster Cliffs. From the rocky, open shelf of the cliff, I look south across the gulf of air between the mountain that I descended in the morning and the one I just climbed. Down below in Crawford Notch, at the nadir of the V between the mountains, runs the road that I crossed just one hour ago. There is a parking area and a pond, and barely discernible people move about. The word “notch” is used in place of “gap” or “valley” in the White Mountains, and the word seems more appropriate. Notch sounds more descriptive of these chasms between mountains, where a giant might get his foot wedged.
The trail turns toward the northern front of the cliffs, still on rocky ground with weather-stunted trees. The temperature has dropped, and I can feel my sweat evaporating rapidly in the gentle breeze. From Mount Jackson I can see an expansive view of the Presidential Range, the subset of the White Mountains between Crawford Notch and Pinkham Notch. On the horizon, Mount Washington looms so bulking that it blocks from view all that lies beyond. A blanket of trees covers the saddle of land between the peaks. Among the trees down and to my left there is a dot of white that is Mizpah Hut, two miles away, my destination for the night.
At the hut, Biscuit says, “I saw a moose just after the road. He was young and didn’t seem scared of me. He stared right at me and wouldn’t go away. Moose don’t see well, so maybe he didn’t know what I was. Did you see him?”
Biscuit is a student at Boston College. She is slender but strong, and I like that she has not attached herself to a group, as young thru-hikers are more prone to do. We are doing work-for-stay again, and she is a good companion. Our tasks for the night and morning are simply to set the tables for dinner and breakfast.