(HOST) The highest mountains in New England are New Hampshire’s Presidential Range. Commentator Tom Slayton recently spent a couple of nights and as well as one very long day on that range. Here’s his report.
(SLAYTON) > Above timberline in the Presidential Range of the White Mountains, weather rules. Absolutely.
And like any absolute monarch, this range’s high-altitude weather has absolute power. It can kill you. In fact, as signs at timberline all along the range remind hikers, many people have perished there, victims of the fierce weather, even in summer.
All of which goes to explain why I was somewhat apprehensive when I awoke at the edge of the Presidentials’ alpine zone recently to the sound of wind – and fogbound visibility of about 75 feet.
At that point, fortunately, I was warm and dry, yawning myself awake in the Lakes of the Clouds Hut. My plan was to spend the day hiking between this hut on the flank of Mount Washington and, eight miles away, Madison Springs Hut.
In between those two havens of shelter, food, and comradeship lie eight miles of the most rugged mountain terrain in New England, four immense peaks and a rocky, windswept wilderness that on clear days is exhilarating in its craggy beauty – and on bad days can wreck your plans and even take your life.
I could hear the wind roaring outside the hut as I prepared to launch myself into the weather. And once outside, I could barely see from one cairn to the next. "Well," I said to myself. "Ain’t nothin’ to it but to do it." And began picking my way through the fog, from cairn to cairn.
I had the usual quota of mishaps – a missed trail junction at one point and a full smashdown by the wind at another. Fortunately, a bent hiking pole was the only casualty.
And even more fortunately, by mid-day, the clouds began to rise and enormous alpine vistas began to appear. Suddenly I was a minute speck in a huge universe, enjoying a high-altitude ramble through one of the great mountain landscapes of the Northeast – or anywhere.
One long, last uphill stretch to the aptly named Thunderstorm Junction was pure slog, panting and sweating, pushing through the weight of fatigue..
And finally, there, at the bottom of the notch, it was: the hut! My refuge for the night! Food, my friends, and a sip of Irish whiskey beckoned. But my legs were shaky-tired, and I didn’t want to end the day with a sprained ankle or worse. One step at a time I pegged my way down the rocky slope.
I found my two old friends and a bunk at the hut. Dinner followed, served with the usual helping of college-bred hilarity by the hut’s sturdy young "croo." And then a night of blissful repose – amidst 40 other snoring, exhausted hikers.
It all seemed perfect in its harsh imperfections – a world apart, filled with alpine beauty, adventure, and the happily shared suffering of a rugged, outdoor life.
I made a vow – one I hope I am strong enough for awhile longer to keep – to return to this separate realm, and take my chances with the weather gods once again.
(TAG) You can find more commentaries by Tom Slayton at VPR-dot-net.