07/16/2016
Mt. Washington, the tallest mountain in the Northeastern United States, and sits 6,228 miles above sea level, and is home to some of the most changeable and vicious weather on the planet. The highest wind speed on this planet occurred here, a gust of 231 mph on April 12, 1934. The temperature in the winter is regularly -30° F, and with the wind chill it can dip to -100° F. The
When I set out on this trip I didn't plan to climb Mt. Washington. I hadn't ever thought about this mountain. I had seen the bumper stickers adorning lifted Jeeps and battered Subarus, but I had no idea what the mountain really was. When I was in Maine I searched around for me next adventure, and saw that it was close. I did a brief Google search, and saw that it could be hiked. I had read that it was a dangerous climb, but I knew I was in good shape, so I set out for the three hour journey, planning to arrive at the base of the mountain, sleep there overnight, and then hike the next morning.
The drive to the base of the mountain was mesmerizing. As I neared my destination, large mountains began to rise into view. Those mountains of course blocked any cell signal, so I was truly alone. My constant text-message companion on this trip was no longer available, and I was a bit saddened that I wouldn't be able to share this leg of the journey in real time, but I knew once I got service back I would be able to share some of the most stunning pictures I had ever experienced. As I cruised down the road I marveled at these amazing mountains that rose and fell like a great ocean, endless waves of green and blue, topped with brilliant clouds that were beginning to glow orange with the setting sun. I stopped at a pull off and climbed out of my car to take a few pictures, and was immediately greeted by a blast of cold air. When I left the shores of Maine it was around 80°, and in these mountains it was hovering in the mid 50's.
I arrived at the Pinkham's Notch Visitor center, the starting point for most of the trips up the mountain. They had cabins and a store, and generally operated as the base camp for the mountain. It was late; about 9 p.m. I wandered into the visitor center, and made my way into the store. I had a few jackets in my car, and had brought most of my hiking gear, but I didn't have any gloves. Whenever I'm in a cold environment my hands are always the most adversely affected, so I knew I needed a pair. A woman was working behind the counter, idly counting down the minutes until she could close up shop and head out to a party with her friends. I struck up a conversation with her as I rifled through the racks. I asked her a few questions about the trek, and what to expect. She told me that it was always winter at the top of that mountain, and to be prepared. She talked about how she had come to this mountain on a vacation from her home state of Rhode Island, and had never left. The mountain meant so much to her that she decide to call it home. She said that she loved the climb up the mountain, and she had done it seven or eight times, but that it wasn't her absolute favorite, she liked the isolation of some of the other hikes in those mountain chains. She had wanted to work in the huts, the small shelters up the mountain that hikers can stay in along the trail, but she confessed that she didn't mind working the radios in the front office because she got to tell the huts what to do. As we chatted the radio squawked to life, sensing that it was being discussed. She excused herself and answered the radio. It seemed a worried mother hadn't yet heard from her children, and they were supposed to have arrived hours earlier. After a few minutes and several radio calls the wayward adventurers were located, and the mother was reassured that all was well. By this time I had selected my expensive but warm gloves, and I paid and thanked her for the advice. She smiled, and wished me luck on the journey. "Stop in after and tell me how it was!" she called as I walked through the door and back into the chilly night air.
I walked back to my car, and prepared for the night. I slept in my car on this entire journey; it was a little uncomfortable but saved me time and money, and lent to the adventure and feeling of freedom. I was beholden to no schedule. As I laid and looked up into the sky full of stars I thought about the trek ahead. I knew little about what to expect, aside from the changeable weather. I usually only do basic research on this hikes. I prefer to learn as I go, but I had heard that this was a challenging and dangerous trek. The distance was about four and a half miles up, and then roughly the same back. I had determined that I would take a slightly different route than most. I chose to take the Lion Head trail up, because I heard it was harder and that the views were more spectacular, since I would be trekking on the spine of the mountain instead of in the Ravine. Before I lost signal on the way in I had mentioned to one of my hiking friends and he had been rather concerned about my preparation, asking if I had enough food and water. I did, I had stopped off at a store to stock up and was going to be sure to bring more water and food than I'd thought I'd need. Of course I lost signal before I could reassure him that I was ready for a long and arduous ascent. I closed my eyes, shutting out the stars, and went to sleep, with dreams of the mountain that dominated the sky.
I woke up at 5:30, as soon as the sun poked through the trees. It had been a cold night, and the morning temperature hovered in the 30's. I crawled out of the car, stretched my stiff joints and warmed up against the cold. I pulled by gear together, and put on all my layers against the cold. By 6 a.m. I was ready to go, and made my way towards the beginning of the trail, and prepared to climb the largest and tallest mountain I had ever seen. I was giddy and excited, and a bit cold and tired, but I didn't let any of that deter me even in the slightest. I was here, I was ready, and I was going to stand amongst the clouds shortly.
The first two and a half miles of the Tuckerman Ravine trail are considered easy and little challenge, and for that area they might have been easy, but they were clearly as steep as the steepest parts of any of the trails in New Jersey. The path was full of large rocks that had to be carefully navigated, and the it was at a consistent angle. The trail climbed roughly 1,800 ft. over those two and a half miles. In comparison, Mt. Tammany, the biggest mountain I had climbed to this point, and a hike that nearly defeated me a year ago, climbs 1,200 ft. over 1.5 miles. Tammany climbs 800 feet for every mile. The beginning of Mt. Washington, the noted "easy" part, climbs 770 feet every mile. If this was the easy part, than the steep and difficult parts must be near vertical. I soldier on though, getting lost and taking a few detours along the way. The path has almost no markers or blazes, and there are dozens of trails all over the mountains. I read that the main trail is wide, so I stayed on the widest part and hoped that I wasn't walking miles in the wrong direction. I didn't see anybody out on the trail yet, owing to the early hour and the cold. I found a large waterfall, and a weak cell signal, enough to let friends know I had started my journey and that I was alright and prepared. I also removed my jackets, since now that I was moving and the sun was coming up I was starting to get warm.
After the waterfall I came to a large fork, and I was unsure where to go. A man come up quickly behind me, and greeted me with a cheerful hello, asking how my trek was going. I told him it would be better if I knew where the hell I was going, and he laughed agreeing that it wasn't marked very well. I said I had read that it was the wider path, and he pointed at what looked like the wider path. "This looks right," he said. "I'm sure we'll see a sign soon!" We started chatting as we walked, and the man turned to face me, extending his hand. "Hi, I'm Jim!" he said warmly as he smiled while we shook hands. I introduced myself and we began our long run up the mountain together. Jim was a marathon runner, and was up in New Hampshire for a race. He was from Massachusetts, and we talked about all the different adventures we'd been on. He told me about his favorite mountains, and about a place in Maine that is the first spot in the United States to see the sunrise. I told him about how a year ago I had struggle to climb Mt. Tammany in New Jersey, and that I had lost over 100lbs since that day, and he marveled at that, and at the fact that I was keeping up with him. He was a marathon runner, and I stayed right with him the entire time. We talked about a great many things as we raced up that mountain, passing several other hikers. He wasn't climbing the mountain today, his only goal was to make it to the cabins that serve as the starting point of the difficult part of the climb. He kept talking about how the woman at the information center had told him that people generally move at about a mile an hour up there; so by her estimate most would make it to the cabins in two and a half hours. Jim was extremely friendly, and spending the first part of the hike with him was a great way to start the journey. After a time we saw a sign that read "Tuckerman Ravine", and we both laughed and said it was good to finally see we were heading in the right direction. Jim kept saying he wished he knew how much further the cabins were. He wanted them to serve as his endpoint on his jaunt. We eventually reached a trail sign that marked the beginning of Lion Head. The sign said that the cabins were just ahead, but the sign gave no indication on how close they were. He looked at his watch. "We made it up in 48 minutes, I have time to go a bit further!" He started to head up the trail, but then quickly gave up. "I don't know how much further, and we've got to be at breakfast in two hours, I'm already tight on time, and I don't know how far they are! I wanted a solid endpoint, but ah, it's alright!" We exchanged goodbyes, and I thanked him for the company and the stories, and he said "No problem, I'm glad we ran into each other! Good luck on your journey!" I watched him as he bounded back down the hill and out of sight. I learned later that the cabins were just around the bend. He had been so close to his goal, and didn't know it.
I turned off the main trail, and plunged into the woods and began to climb the Lion Head trail, and to began the real part of this climb. The path was narrow, and littered with large boulders that had to be climbed over. I spotted a bright blue tent just off the trail; campers that still had yet to stir on this chilly day. The Lion Head trail climbs about 1.6 miles, along the spine of the mountain. It is steeper than Tuckerman Ravine, but slightly shorter. It's also exposed to the mountain wind for most of the climb because it has no windbreak, and can be very harsh. It climbs through several rocky sections and switchbacks, and this particular route is modified in Winter due to avalanche conditions. As I climbed up higher I started to catch glimpses of the sea of mountains rising through the trees. A vast endless ocean, with rolling waves of blue, unmoving and permanent. The tip of the other mountain top that creates the Tuckerman Ravine also rose above the trees, draped in thick fog and cloud. When I saw that sight, of mountain covered in white wispy clouds, looking like the spine of some great sleeping dragon, I knew I had made the correct choice on my route. The rocks were slick in places, and it was sometimes a challenge to climb with my cameras, but it was an amazing climb through the trees as the forest slowly woke up. I heard birds chirping and squirrels chattering away through the tree tops. I quickly broke through the trees, and climbed still higher. The path became a large boulder field, near vertical in spots, with large cairns placed along the way to guide me on the path.
At times I would stop, and look around me, and just stare in utter awe. The sun was at my back, and I could turn and see forever. The mountains across the way, with their ski slopes carved out, seemed so tiny now. I had passed that mountain on my way in, and it towered over me, but now I stood above it. The wind was a constant companion, intermittently whispering into my year and then bellowing it's unparalleled fury, like some great angry beast, roaring and snapping and tearing, ripping around me and through me. I stood there for a long time, looking out at this world that laid before me, massive and endless, a vast world on a scale that was almost staggering. I was so small in this place, a tiny little speck on this breathing and living mountain. I was more physically alone at that moment than I had ever been in my entire life. A nine hour drive and a two hour hike from my home and my friends and everyone I had ever known, no other hikers in sight, and none on the horizon, completely and utterly alone, on the spine of that mountain, with only the fury of the wind and this ocean of mountains as my companions. And it was one of the most beautiful moments of my entire life. I felt a peace I can't adequately describe; a serenity that I will never forget, and will hold onto forever. I stood there for a long time, listening to the wind.
When I reached the top of the Lion Head trail, I found a small patch of rock off the side of the trail, and I made my first cairn. My first symbol upon the trail; my first semi-permanent marker that I was here, in this place, and I left my mark. The day before, I stood at the edge of the ocean along the shores of Maine, in the shadow of the Portland Head Lighthouse, bathing in the intense light of the rising sun as it warmed me to my core. The waves crashed over my feet, tumbling the black rocks below, creating a sound like a thousand fireworks going off at once as the rocks cracked and bounced off each other with a furious clatter. I bent down and plucked out two black rocks from the salty sea, and I intended to keep them forever, to hold them and feel them in my hands to remind me forever of this moment, and of this place, at the edge of this black beach.
But I did not end up keeping them. When I climbed to the top of the Lion Head trail I decided that I didn't need a physical reminder of my time on that beach. I did not need a stone to remind me of what I saw and experienced and what I felt while looking out on that sea. I took those two smooth stones from my pack, and built this cairn of black rock at the edge of the clouds. My hope is that someday, someone will find themselves in this exact spot, on this exact mountain, and they will see these two black rocks; these two outliers in this grey and green world, and they will wonder what brought them here. I hope they will pick them up, feeling the smooth black rock between their fingers and in the palm of their hands, and the slight saltiness on the surface, and I hope that they will feel the same thing that I felt, when I placed these two rocks here. I hope some of my journey as imprinted on those rocks, and that the person that picks them up will be forever connected to me in a way that neither of us will ever truly know.
Two black stones, plucked from the sea, now forever to reside in the clouds atop Mt. Washington.
I can think of nothing better as my first cairn.
As I continued on I climbed into the very clouds themselves. The temperature dropped precipitously, and I stopped to throw my layers back on. The top of this mountain is almost always cold. The highest ever record temperature at the summit is 72° F. I knew the mountain top had to be near because I had climbed so far. I walked along the top of this smaller mountain for a long time, going ever up and up, eventually rejoining the Tuckerman Ravine Trail, and into the hardest part of the trek. Until that point the path had been somewhat defined, but now in front of me was a never ending rock field that climbed steeply uphill. It was only roughly a half mile to the top, but it climbed nearly 1,000 feet in that small time. There was no path, and footing had to be picked wisely. It was a large boulder field, with sharp jagged builders. Most of the boulders were waist high or higher, requiring a good amount of flexibility to climb to the next boulder. The wind at this point was so strong that an ill timed gust nearly sent me tumbling down the mountain on more than one occasion. I was fighting the altitude and the rocks and the angle of the ascent and the wind itself. The dense fog obscured anything further away than twenty feet, and it deadened sound, but the wind would carry snatches of conversation from miles away. I wouldn't hear the people nearby, but I would hear voices carried on the wind from afar. I would hear a conversation that sounded like it was right in front of me, and then I would reach that spot and no one was there. The mountain was alive with echoes of those all over the mountain. I began to see other hikers; wraith-like beings that would break through the swirling and dancing mist on occasions. We would share brief conversation; a hello here and there, or a query about how far was left to go. I would continue on my way, and turn quickly to watch them go, but the mountain would swallow up these figures in a swirl of fog and a bellow of wind. At times I would see someone heading towards me, and I would look down to check my footing, and when I looked up a half second later they would be gone. It made me wonder at times if the figures in the mist had ever been there at all, or if it was the mountain conjuring encouragement during the hardest part of the climb. Since 1849 over 150 people have died on this mountain, and perhaps one or two of these apparitions were members of the Lost, forever guiding and helping others to the summit they themselves could never reach again. The clouds and mist swirled and transformed from moment to moment. The entire landscape was ever shifting and changing, obscuring and uncovering a different world at every blink of the eye. Perhaps it was the altitude, or the exhaustion from the long climb, but I felt like I had crossed into a different plane and was in an altogether magical and mystical world. This place was hauntingly beautiful, and this spectral scene had entirely transformed during my trek down. The phantasmal and ethereal landscape was replaced with blue skies and throngs of hikers, leading me to wonder if the ghostly world I had found myself in had ever really been there at all.
I was near the top now, and I began to see signs that claimed the summit was close, just within reach. I began to hear odd sounds; singing and conversations and children laughing and yelling, and a train whistle. I crested the top of the last hill, and stepped into a parking lot, and immediately lost my hat. After scrambling to grab it I walked through the lot, careful not to get hit by the cars that could see nothing in the thick fog. This is the reason that the woman at the store didn't like the hike; the top is a tourist trap. People can drive to the top, or take a shuttle, or even an old railway line. The parking lot was full, and the swirling mist and fog only added to the surreal experience. People were walking by in shorts and flip flops, obviously cold and ill prepared for the wintery conditions. They looked at me strangely. My face was red and wind burned, I was haggard and bleary eyed, and my face was swollen from the altitude and the ascent. I looked like I had just climbed a mountain, because I had. I made my way to the summit point, and waited patiently in line behind the people that had driven up there. They had to have their selfies, you see. I finally got my turn, and snapped a few shots while a crowd waited impatiently just out of frame.
6,288 feet. The highest point in the Northeastern United States. Home to the most changeable and erratic weather on earth, and the hardest climb I have ever done, over 4,000 feet of elevation change in four miles. But there I am, at the top, having reached the summit in about four and a half hours. Less than one year ago, July 12, I tried to climb a small mountain named Tammany. It almost beat me. On this day, July 3rd, 2016 I reached the top of the highest mountain in the Northeast. What a year it's been.
I walked over to the Tip Top House, an old hotel that now serves as a museum at the top. It's the oldest building currently on the summit, and a many people were disappointed to find it closed. I sat on the front stoop, using the building as a wind break and taking a moment to eat some food. A couple walked up, and began readying to take pictures of the hotel. I apologized and began to move out of their way, but they stopped me. "Oh no, stay! You add to the shot!" I didn't put up a fight, and now they can excitedly tell their friends how they went to Mt. Washington and found a real-life mountain man, and 'oh, look, we've got pictures to prove it!' A line had started to form, so I figured it was best to move on.
I wandered into the gift shop at the top. This building is held down with large heavy chains so that a strong wind doesn't blow it off the mountain. The chains would rattle and clank in the wind, and that faint sound could be heard throughout most of the summit. I couldn't see inside when I walked up, the windows were fogged from the heat inside condensing on the cold glass of the windows. I opened the door, careful to keep it from being blown off the hinges in the wind. Inside it smelled like wood and cotton, and it was warm. I walked around, looking at the different wares. I picked up shot glasses and pint glasses that all said something about conquering Mt. Washington. I think drinking from a glass with those words painted on the side in dishwasher safe enamel would be a bit of a disconnect, but I suppose they weren't really for me. My cold and slightly swollen fingers played lightly through the racks of sweatshirts, wishing I had one of those on earlier. I made my way to the corner, and found a Lucite bin near a window, with various stickers inside. I flipped through them idly, while looking out the window at the cold grey world outside, watching as other hikers crested the hill and wandered in a slight daze through the opaque world. I picked two stickers that I liked, and walked up to the counter to purchase my mementos. I got up to the counter, reached for my wallet, and realized I didn't have it. When I hike, I don't like to carry anything unnecessary. Wallet, the bulk of my keys, pens, notebooks, anything that I don't need I leave in the car. Usually that presents no problem, because on most hikes I don't encounter a gift shop at the top. I told the man behind the register that I had forgotten my wallet, and that if he'd give me a few minutes I could run to my car and be back. He chuckled, knowing that I was full of s**t. I put the stickers back, and wandered back into the cold grey wind.
By this time the magnitude of what was ahead of me was starting to dawn on me. I had completed the climb, but now I had to go back the way I came, and I always dislike the decent. As I walked around wide eyed visitors would ask me where the summit was, and I would point at a spot in the fog. They would look at me like they weren't sure I was telling the truth, and I'd assure them that it was just through the grey. I stopped into the visitor center at the top, and searched for cell signal. I tried to sweet talk the guy at the post office up there into letting me borrow their wifi password, but with no luck. He'd hear it all before. I signed the hiker log book, and looked out the windows that spanned the cafeteria. All I could see was a wall of white beyond the windows that were slick with condensation. I armored myself back up against the cold, and went back into the clouds.
Before leaving I walked over to the observation deck. On a clear day, from that point, the entire valley can be seen stretching off for over sixty miles. A man stood there, alone, looking out over that landscape that was entirely shrouded in fog. The wind here seemed to be at its most ferocious, blowing me backwards. I had to brace against the gale, as it again tore my hat off and sent it whisking away. I gave pursuit, snatching it at the last second before it was blown into the valley below. The man stood motionless throughout all of this, unperturbed by the roaring and unending whirlwind. I made my way over to the rail, and stared into the nothingness with him. The clouds and fog created a opaque wall in front of us, blocking out all the valley below. Miles and miles of mountains and peaks and valley sat before us, but all that was visible was the cloud that had wrapped around us and covered everything on this mountaintop. I knew now why that man stood so still, and for so long; he was drinking in and savoring every moment. For many, and probably for this man, it would be the only time in their entire lives that they would stand in this spot, on this magical mountaintop. He didn't want this moment to end, and neither did I. The only difference between this man and myself is that I will stand on this mountain again. I am sure of that. It has wound itself too deeply within my very being, sewing itself into the very fabric of who I am and what I have always wanted to be; an adventurer.
I reluctantly walked from the rail, and prepared for the climb back down. The climb down physically hurts, from my ankles to my knees and my hips. Physically painful, and dangerous. A misstep on the way up, and in most cases the worst that will happen is a slight stumble forward. A misstep coming down, and the results could de disastrous. Broken ankles, or a long tumble down the sharp and jagged rocks. Footing has to be picked carefully, and often a rock may look secure, only to give way as soon as I place my full weight onto it. The climb down is usually far longer than the climb up as well. I had made the ascent in good time, the decent would take much longer. And I'd be leaving this mountain. I walked back out of the parking lot, back to the jagged and steep rock field. I plunged back into the booming wind, and began the decent.
Something interesting had happened now that I had reached the top and began the climb back; I became Legend to those who had not yet reached the pinnacle. I was imbued with knowledge. I knew where the top was, and I knew how far the weary climbers had to go. As people resolved from the mist in front of me I was peppered with questions: "How far to the top?" "How cold is it up there?" "Am I almost there?" "Can I make it?" "What does it look like up there?" "How long did it take you?" "What's up there?" I offered encouragement, pointing off into the fog and telling them that just beyond that ridge was the prize they had been seeking for so long. Their faces would brighten up, and they would smile from ear to ear, thankful that their long journey was almost at the end. It was a good feeling to offer that little bit of encouragement.
It was at this point that I fell, and hard. I was stepping carefully, but my mind wasn't quite working properly. The altitude and fatigue conspired to make me a bit less cautious than I should have been. I stepped down about four feet onto a rock pile that I knew in my mind wasn't stable. I saw it in slow motion, and I scolded myself as I committed my weight to the stones. They shifted, and I went down hard on my knee, right onto a large sharp rock, and at the same time smacked my chest hard off another larger boulder. An explosion of pain, and my vision went spotty. I knew I didn't break anything, but I seriously thought I was in trouble. I roared in aggravation at myself, and tried to walk it off, but my knee wouldn't bend. I was angry at myself, and furious that my momentary mental slipup might mean I had to be rescued off this mountain. It throbbed, and was already starting to swell. I took a moment, calmed down, gathered myself, and continued on, ignoring the pain, and forcing it to bend. The next twenty minutes were excruciating, and I moved slow, and each step with that leg was painful. I knew I could make it, but at the rate I was moving it was going to be a long and painful climb back down. After a bit the pain lessened, and eventually went away all together. If I stopped for any length of time it would start to tighten up, but I had been lucky. I was able to continue, and my slight mental lapse became nothing more than another part of the story.
The phantom zone that I had been enveloped in for so long had at this point almost disappeared. As the sun rose higher in the sky it began to burn off the fog, and the blue sky began to poke through. More and more hikers were visible on the trail, and unending stream of bright colors that stretched off into the distance. I could see off for miles, and many of these hikers were nothing more than tiny specks. It was during the hike down that I realized more fully the colossal size of this place. I would see a tiny line in the distance with a few dots, and when I realized that that those dots were people I would be staggered at the scale. With the lessening fog I could look back down to Lion Head and just catch the smallest glimpse of movement of the hikers in a spot that hours ago I had assumed was near the top. The fog had reduced down what I was able to see on the way up, but now as it was lessening I was afforded the massive views that had been at my back and hidden. The mountaintop itself still swirled in the clouds, as if hiding its mystery and majesty for the last moment.
I had decided to take an alternate route back down. Lion Head was very steep and wet in certain sections, and climbing back down those parts would be more difficult than going up. I also wanted to see a different landscape going back down. I decided to go back the way that most go up; Tuckerman's Ravine. This also led to far more encounters and interactions with other hikers that were making their way up the mountain. The train whistle from the cog railway would periodically echo through the valley, and was greeted by many confused looks and questions. I told them that it was the train, and most weren't even aware there was a train at the top. I would still field questions about how far the top was, and as I continued further down it became less and less of a happy interaction. I would attempt to be encouraging, but when I told them that the peak was further than they thought many would visibly slump. The climb is a brutal and long one, and an unrelenting steepness that many aren't prepared for. It turns legs and muscles to mush and the end is literally never in sight. Based on the late hour most of these hikers wouldn't have time for the return trek back unless they were taking the train or shuttle or driving back down from the top. The landscape was simply too large to begin the hike so late.
The trail going down was difficult and slow going. Loose rocks littered the ground, and that same unrelenting steepness. I had to use all my flexibility and height to scramble down on many occasions. Little streams crisscrossed the path in many places, making the rocks slick and dangerous. The trail was also buzzing with an endless throng of hikers, and I had to dodge around them or wait for them on many occasions when the trail narrowed. I took several breaks on the way down to fully drink in the majesty of this place. Now that I was back out of the clouds and onto a different trail I was introduced to an entirely different perspective. I was in a lush valley, with intermittent waterfalls and a view of the mountain walls as they towered overhead while I went further down into that valley. If I sat too long my knee would become stiff, but once I moved again everything was fine. I had several people ask me questions about my climb and the route I had taken on the way up. It was odd at times talking about the climb up; it already felt like it happened a lifetime ago. There were only a handful of hikers going back down the way I was, and occasionally we'd spent a few minutes bounding down the trail together, all lamenting how this part of the journey wasn't nearly as fun as the journey up. I encountered a man along the trail that was hiking in a utili-kilt, and I was a bit flabbergasted. I took a picture of that, because it was just too random not to.
This hike down seemed never ending. I could see the valley below, but it always seemed out of reach. I would think I was near the bottom, only to realize I had far more to go. Getting to the cabins at the base of the ravine wasn't even the endpoint. I would still have the two and a half miles left to the Pinkham Notch visitor center. I saw a small waterfall, and when I reached it two hours later I realized it scaled halfway up the mountainside and was a raging torrent of water cascading down from the top. I now knew why most of the hikers towards to top seemed so burnt out; trekking up this path must have seemed like an eternity. I was again glad that I had chosen a different route up and that most of my way was obscured in fog. I never looked ahead during the most brutal part of the climb because I couldn't. I just kept moving without any thought of how far I had to go. If I had come this way on my climb up, and the landscape had been visible the entire time, it would have seemed like I could never reach that point in the distance. I think it would've been a much tougher climb. I was amazed at how many people were still on the trail. It was getting later in the day, and at the pace some of these people were moving they might not even make the summit before nightfall. Based on the erratic weather and the cold I would not want to be up there at that point. Many were hiking in shorts and had no packs with them. No warmer clothes, no food, no water. I suppose not everyone on that trail was planning to summit, and I hoped that those that were had plans in place for alternate ways of coming back down.
After what seemed like an eternity, I reached the cabins at the base of the Ravine. I still had a long trek ahead of me, but this was the place that Jim had wanted to reach earlier. It was the staging point for many of the hikers, and had a small store and visitor center. I found a small picnic table off to the side, and tossed off my gear and sat down. I stripped off my jackets and sweaty layers, glad to be back into the warmth. I munched on a granola bar as I looked through my cameras at some of the shots I had taken. While I was sitting there a young girl came over to the table, and sat down across from me. I looked up and smiled at her, and went back to my pictures. She kept staring at me, so I looked up and said hello. She responded in German, and pointed at my camera. I turned it to face her, and started thumbing through the pictures. She came around and sat next to me, and I showed her some of my shots. She nodded intermittently, and on some of the shots her eyes would go wide. I explained some of my shots to her, even though I was fairly certain she didn't understand me. I offered her a granola bar, and she accepted it and sat next to me munching on it. After a few minutes her mom called her over, and the little girl got up and walked over to her mother. She looked back and waved, before sitting down with her family. I stood and got my gear back together, and set off to finish this long journey.
The path back down seemed far longer than when me and Jim had practically run up it a lifetime ago. It was brighter and more crowded, and seemed far longer. There were small squirrels all over the trail, miniature versions of the ones I see back home, and very bold. They would race out of the woods and up onto my shoe, begging for a morsel or two, before darting back into the tree to chitter and yell at me loudly. I assume it was different ones all along the trail, but it could have been the same one pacing me the whole way.
At roughly 5p.m. I reached the Pinkham Notch Visitor center. After seven long hours I had finished the hike down, and ended my eleven hour epic. There were people out walking their dogs and lounging in the grass, chatting idly about the day. It was peaceful and beautiful. I walked back into the store, and up to the counter. The woman that I had talked to the night before was sitting there, with her nose in a book. She looked up and saw me, and smiled, and asked me how it was. I made a few odd noises as my brain sputtered, trying to encapsulate what I had just experienced. She laughed, and said "Now you know why I never left."
This mountain, this colossal and otherworldly beast. The sheer scale of this place was something that I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around. I would see a small portion of rock in the distance, and it would take me an hour to reach it, and when I did I would realize it was not a small rock outcropping, but a massive boulder the size of a house. I would look over onto the other rim of the mountain, and see tiny specks that were people. Little dots against the sky. I would see a tiny path cut through the rock, and when I reached it I would discover it was a gigantic chasm. Scale that my mind nearly couldn't come to terms with. Climbing into the clouds, and trudging through those endless rock fields was one of the absolute best moments of my life. I'm sorry, but I have failed each and every one of you. My words, and my pictures, even my wide eyed and amazed in person verbal retellings of this place cannot do it justice. This place is so utterly and completely beyond me, I can only scratch the surface. Because this place isn't just pictures and words, it's a feeling. I felt this mountain. I breathed it in and lived it and experienced it and it dug into me and lodged itself deep within my bones and in mind and in my soul. I dream about this place every night, about that howling wind and that beautiful landscape and the ghosts and the fog and soreness in my limbs and the feeling of utter joy when I reached the top and that sense of undeniable accomplishment. I learned later, that this mountain has been known by many names. It was named Mt. Washington in 1784, but for hundreds of years before that it had a different name. The Native American tribes called this mountain "Agiochook", which means "The place of the Great Spirit", and after climbing this mountain, and standing at its peak, I believe that no better name could ever have been given a place. I felt that Great Spirit as truly as I have ever felt anything in my entire life. And I will never be the same ever again.
Climbing this mountain is the most beautiful thing I have ever done.
