Finishing New Hampshire (well, almost) 1987 Appalachian Trail hike

The wind picked up in the early morning hours of August 5^th. The door to the bunkroom kept creaking open and then slamming shut, keeping us awake. I got up and to attend to it. Stepping outside, I stepped into the middle of a cloud and couldn’t see but a few feet ahead. The wind was blowing so strong that I had difficulty standing upright. I went back inside and found some rope and tied the door shut and climbed back into my bag. I was staying at Lake of the Clouds, an Appalachian Mountain Club hut on the slope of Mount Washington. At this time in history, Mt. Washington had the record for the fastest wind speed ever recorded on the face of the earth, and I wondered if the mountain would set a new record.



The wind was still howling at daybreak, but it wasn’t nearly as strong and I could stand upright without feeling that I’d be blown off the mountain and into Canada. I got an early start on the climb to the top. At times, I was engulfed in clouds and couldn’t make out the cairn marking the trail. At other times, the clouds parted and it felt as if I could see forever. It was cold and I wore a long sleeve undershirt and a sweater under my rain jacket. I had on long pants and gloves. Coming up the ridge, I noticed puffs of dark smoke moving up from the other side, the first run of the clog railroad. I arrived on the top a little after 8 AM, and entered the visitor’s center where I got something to eat and waited for the postmaster to arrive. There is a post office on the top of the mountain which I had listed it as a mail drop for friends and family. I had also mailed two days worth of food here when I was in Hanover, as a way to lighten my pack a bit. Then I learned the postmaster wouldn’t arrive till the afternoon, so I made the best of the day. Changing into shorts, I explored the mountain top and then sat in the sun, behind boulders that blocked the wind, and read. I had 300 miles of hiking left, but reaching Mt. Washington was a milestone. From here on, barring a catastrophic accident or illness, I knew I would reach the northern terminus of the trail at Mount Katadhin.
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Although I had found the White Mountains difficult, I was enjoying the hike. On August 2^nd, I’d left Liberty Spring’s campsite. It was cold, but the views were terrific as I enjoyed my time above tree line. I spent much of the morning hiking with a law student from the University of Connecticut. He was hoping to practice in Alaska. We crossed Mt. Lincoln and Garfield. He stopped at the Galehead Hut, and I continued on another three miles to the Mt. Guyot Campsite. Along the last stretch, I came across a southbound hiker that looked like Sharon, a former girlfriend. I had to take a second look and it wasn’t until she spoke with a New England brogue that I realized that it wasn’t her. The encounter was spooky.
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I’d remembered Mt. Guyot from the Smoky Mountains (and a decade later I’d be on another Mt. Guyot in the Sierras). I was surprised to learn that there is also a crevasse in the ocean floor named for this nineteenth century explorer. The campsite was crowded and I took refugee in the shelter. It was looking like a rainy night and I’d hoped not to have to pack up a wet tarp in the morning. After dinner, a group of eight people from an Episcopal camp moved into the shelter. Michelle, the caretaker, took pity on me and invited me up to her wall tent for tea. We talked fairly late in the evening about life and goals and hiking the trail. She insisted that instead of having goals, she wanted her life to be a part of the flow of a river, enjoying the journey, a concept I questioned in my journal.
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I woke up at 6 AM on August 3, listening to the rain beat on the shelter and thinking, after my evening conversation with Michelle. This morning, I knew it was going to be hard to get into the flow, but that I just might be in the river today. I stayed in my bag and wrote in my journal, catching up on my thoughts. After nearly a thousand miles under my feet this summer, I realize more than ever how my thinking impacts my hiking. When I have “good thoughts,” I am freer and enjoy the hiking. But when I let bad thoughts invade my mind, thinking of things I’d like to redo or even of revenge, and then I find myself struggling. I’ve been reading Thomas Merton’s Contemplative Prayer.
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Realizing that I was going to have to hike in the rain, I pack up. I was hoping to see Michelle again, but she’s not around this morning. I hike four miles in the rain and stop at Zealand Hut, going inside to warm up and get out of the rain. One of the workers asked if I’d like some pancakes. She told me she wasn’t allowed to give them away, but I could have all I could eat for 25 cent. It sounded like a good deal and then she comes out of the kitchen with a platter with at least 25 whole wheat and strawberry pancakes and a container of syrup. I eat my full, enjoying the hot coffee, before setting out. Zealand Falls is running strong with the rain. I hike on to Ethan Pond, where I decide to stop early in the afternoon, instead of continuing on in the rain. The shelter is empty and I set up in one corner and take a nap. An hour or so later, a large church camp comes into the camp and also piles into the shelter. Some of the kids have sleeping bags that are soaking wet. One, that is a goose down bag, is so wet you can see through it. The shelter is crowded, but its too late to make an additional four miles to the next shelter. I start to look for a place to pitch a tarp, when Jim, the caretaker, invites me to move into his large wall tent. He even fixes me dinner and we spend the evening talking. He’s in his mid-20s and an electrical engineering student at Cleveland State. Before college, he’d spent time hiking in New Zealand and Australia. The next morning, before heading out, he offers me a bag of bagels, telling me that he’s going to be off a few days and won’t be eating them. They are a welcomed gift.
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I leave Ethan Pond at 7:30 AM. I take it easy, enjoying the day of hiking without rain. At the trailhead beside the railroad tracks in Crawford Notch, I’m surprised to find a logbook from Martha (Larry of Larry and Mo, who I’d met in Pennsylvania). She was asking about all of us, (Slim Jim, Daddy Long Legs, the Brits and me) and informs us that she’d gotten a job working at J. C. Penny’s. I’d been dreading the climb out of Crawford Notch, but find it is not as bad as its reputation. I arrive at the first of the Webster Cliffs, a very steep climb of 1.8 miles, in just over an hour. There were a number of places where it seemed the trail was going straight vertical and required all fours (hands and feet) to navigate. I stop by Mitzpah Hut and again, a Appalachian Mountain Club employee offers me a deal, three huge pieces of chocolate cake for a quarter. It becomes my lunch and is so rich that all I want to do is take a nap, but I hike on.

I arrive at Lake of the Clouds hut at 5 PM. They have a bunk area for backpackers and for those with reservations, a nicer area upstairs. They did have room for dinner--$9 for all you can eat, and I sign up, putting away the food. At dinner, I sit at the table with a naturalist who invites a group of us on a hike afterwards. We walk around the mountain, as he describes the geology and botany of the area. As we are above tree line, most of the plant life is Arctic. I am surprised to learn that the landscape is relatively new, that when the last glaciers retreated 6000 years ago, the mountains were much smoother, but the frost-cycles since the glacier retreat has caused the cracking and splitting of rock, creating the landscape we now have. It is also interesting that the north sides of the Whites are more gradual, as the glaciers smoothed out the rock as it pushed up and the south side steeper as the glacier pressure is downward. Throughout the mountains, on the south side under the steep cliffs, there are pools or small lakes, the remains glaciers. After our hike, we all watch the sun setting from above the lodge.
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The mailman finally arrives on Mount Washington at noon. In addition to a small package of food I’d mailed to myself, I have a letter from my mom and another from Debbie. Debbie doesn’t say too much. She tries to encourage me, referring to a letter of mine where she felt I was complaining, and tells me that “Christ often tests us.” I’m left to wonder what this means. Something has happened and I know that we are not going to pick up where we left off in the spring. My mother’s letter, on the other hand, is most encouraging. She tells me that she is proud of what I’m doing and that she’s glad I didn’t listen to her (she through the hike was a crazy idea). Mom also sends a photo of my new niece, Kristen.

I pack up my extra food and leave Mt. Washington and the crowds who’ve gathered there and head out across the ridges and over Jefferson, Adams and Monroe Peaks. On the summits, I can see clouds coming in from the northwest. They work their way up to the saddles between the peaks and disappear as they meet the warmer air on the other side. I’m also intrigued by the small flowers (sandwort?). They grow about five inches tall and produce white blooms. I feel good hiking and the walk across the top of the Presidents is too short. Late in the afternoon, I find myself descending along the Osgood Trail. It’s rocky and steep and my knees hurt as I make way back down toward tree line. Boulders are everywhere and it feels like I’m in Satan’s garden. I hear thunder, yet there are no thunderheads in the sky, and have a weird apparition of Satan abandoning me in this barren rock garden before the coming of the Lord. A coolness sweeps over me and in terror, I keep hiking as there is nothing else to do. There is no one around. This is strange too, as there have been so many hikers on the approach to Mt. Washington, but since leaving the summit, I’ve seen few people. The feeling of dread quickly passes, but I spend much of the rest of the afternoon questioning what I experienced. At 7 PM, I arrive at the Osgood tent site, fix dinner and crawl into my sleeping bag under my tarp as light fades from the sky.
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During the night, I wake up with painful spasms in my knees. My body has taken a beating during the descent down the Osgood Trail. In my bag, I try to stretch my legs out then pull my knees up to my chest, which gives me a little relief. Soon, I’m back asleep. I’m moving slower the next morning, but get on the trail in time to arrive at Pinkham Notch at 10:45 AM, a hike of a little over five miles. There are showers and I enjoy a hot one and decide to wait around for lunch, $4 for an all-you-can-eat buffet. While waiting, I meet the trail coordinator for the Appalachian Mountain Club and we talk for a few minutes about the trail and my experiences. I’m so full after lunch that I can’t get back into the grove of hiking. I climb back into the mountains, up to the lake below Carter Notch, where I stop to fix dinner. It’s 6:30 PM. I’m not sure where I’ll camp tonight as it is nearly seven miles to the next designated campsite. I move on and decide that I’ll bivouac below the summit of Carter Dome. I find a place a few hundred feet from the trail in a grove of firs, their needles making a soft bed. I lay out my bivy sack and leave the tarp next to me in case the 30% chance of showers materializes. It’s just a little after 8 PM and already almost dark. The summer is fading fast. I lay down for a fretful night of sleep. I know that in the White Mountains you are suppose to camp in designated campsites and this isn't one of them! I pray there are no rangers taking a night hike, but it’s unlikely they’ll find me this far from the trail even if they are out.
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Several times during the evening I wake up. The first dream I remember comes at 3:30 AM. I am living with a child in a house with my mother and grandmother and they kick us out because of something the kid has done. I wake up worried as where we are to go. Then I realize that I don’t have a kid and haven’t lived at home in ten years and have never lived with just my mom and grandmother. I assume it’s my conscience playing on the idea that I’m spending the night in a no-camping zone. My second dream takes place back at school. Jim, a friend of mine (the one that I spent time with in Duncannon, PA), is cleaning out his room and going home. He tells me that he’s not coming back to school and I’m sad, but then I wake up and realize that what I’d dreamed about had already happened as Jim, who was on academic probation, had decided to not to return to school.
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I’m up early the next morning and am on top of Carter Dome by 7:50 AM. It’s hazy and to the east, fog covers the valleys, leaving the mountains sticking up like islands. I can trace the Androscoggin River by the fog. There is only a light breeze and the only noise I hear is the buzzing of insects. I hike on and reach Imp Shelter at 11:45 AM and stop for lunch. Reading the log, I realize that Slim Jim had stayed there the night before and I wonder if I’ll catch him in Gorham later in the day. I fix couscous for lunch and then hike on. I reach U.S. 2 a little after 5 PM and hitch a ride into Gorham. I’m beat by the White Mountains and decide to splurge on a room at the Breckenridge Rooming House for $15 a night. The place is ran by an older woman and I’m her only guest. It’s comfortable and I soak in a warm tub of water before heading out for dinner and to do laundry. I find a place with a pizza buffet and stuff myself with salad (which I’ve been craving) and the pizza and beer. Next, in the laundrymat, I indulge myself with a pint of ice cream. While waiting on the clothes to wash, I meet a Catholic priest from Cannonsburg, PA, who has hike the entire length of the AT. We talk for a few minutes. Then I run into Slim Jim and he tells me that he’s staying in a barn with other hikers. After my clothes are dry, we head over to the barn. It’s been converted to a hiker hostel, with an open sleeping area. The price is right, $5 a night. They have showers, but the hikers must sleep in their own bags… I’m a little jealous of Jim when I see, among the half dozen hikers, a young woman in a bikini, splayed out on her sleeping bag reading a magazine. She’s Stephanie and I realize I’ve been I’ve been reading about her in the shelter registers ever since she started hiking at Port Clinton, PA. Jim and I agreed to meet up the next morning. After chatting for a few minutes, I go back to the rooming house and make an early night of it, enjoying sleeping in a nice bed with clean sheets. There is only fifteen more miles to go and I’ll be done with New Hampshire.
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The previous entry in my summer of 1987 hike on the Appalachian Trail