Tag Archives: hiking

Giving up on Isolation

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When we set out from Kittery at 6 a.m., I knew we had a grueling day ahead of us: two+ hours to the trailhead, 11.5+ miles of hiking, 5,000+ feet of elevation gain. Mount Isolation is one of the “shortest” mountains on the list of the 48 New Hampshire “4,000 footers,” but, as its name suggestions, reaching its summit is not easy, as Isolation is located on a ridge south of Mount Washington, six to nine miles from the nearest road.

After more than 30 years of White Mountains hiking,  this climb to Isolation would be my final 4,000-footer.  I had planned for this day, opting to hike on July 1, when we are still enjoying the longest days of the year, so we didn’t have to worry about walking out in the dark. We brought plenty of food, as I knew we might be hiking well past the dinner hour. For days, the forecast showed clear skies and no storms.  I knew the hike was going to be challenging, with all of that elevation gain, mostly from going uphill, then downhill, then uphill again. But hiking is all about putting one foot in front of the other.  I could do that, with stops for rest, for hours and hours.

It took us longer than expected to get to Pinkham Notch, where we met my friend Louisa, used the bathrooms, and then left one car there before backtracking .7 miles south to the Glen Boulder trailhead. Optimistically, I thought that if we had the energy, we might complete the hike as a loop down Boott Spur, which would land us at Pinkham Notch.

I had read that the Glen Boulder trail was steep and tough, but I didn’t find it any worse than most White Mountain trails. However, as our teenaged companions Jen and Kiara hiked on ahead of us,  I noted that the trail seemed too flat for the steep uphill I was prepared for. Was this the Avalanche Brook Ski Trail mentioned in the guidebook?  After about a half-mile of walking on this flat stretch, I took out the pages photocopied from Steven Smith and Mike Dickerman’s book, The 4,000-Footers of the White Mountains, and confirmed that we had definitely taken a wrong turn onto the ski trail. As we backtracked to Glen Boulder, we ran into two young women who had made the same mistake, and, like us, had missed the glaringly obvious signs on the trail.  We were able to confirm by phone that our teenaged companions were on the right trail, and agreed to meet up at Glen Boulder.

Photo near Glen Boulder

My friend Louisa and I face the blustery winds just above the treeline. A downhill hiker warned us that the wind — forecast to blow at 20-40 mph with 60 mph gusts — could reduce us to crawling on our hands and knees, but the heaviest winds had diminished as we climbed towards Glen Boulder. All in all, a good reminder of how rapidly conditions change above treeline in the White Mountains.

High above us, we could see Jen and Kiara picking their way towards Glen Boulder, and we soon caught up, where we rested rested in the lee of the boulder and enjoy a  snack out of the wind.

Glen Boulder, dumped on the edge of a mountain by a glacier 10,000 or so years ago. Up close, the boulder seems like an ordinary huge boulder, but later, as we hiked down Boott Spur, the far-away boulder looked like it could topple at any moment off the mountain and into Pinkham Notch.

After our rest stop, we continued upward as an ominous gray cloud rolled in over Mount Washington.  By now, the wind had subsided — probably a front had blown through and brought the cloud — and the air had chilled, but the temperature remained comfortable. Still, we weren’t sure whether the cloud would just sit there hanging out or evolve into a thunderstorm. We reached the junction with the Davis Path around 2 p.m. and contemplated our options.  

Looking over the Gulf of Slides, where snow still lingered in July.  We could still feel the wind, and, more significantly, what the wind had delivered: a massive gray cloud.

The trail descending towards Isolation looked open and beautiful — but I knew we would also have to hike back up.

At the junction of Glen Boulder and the Davis Path, we take a selfie while weighing options. Note that everyone has pulled on their fleece on what began as a beautiful summer day down in the valley below.

I could tell that Jen and Kiara were tired. I WAS tired. It might thunder. I knew that we could do the hike and get out before darkness fell, but then we had the two+hour drive back to Kittery. Yes, it was too much.  Isolation would have to wait for another day.  But the Boott Spur cut-off trail was only another .4 mile up the Davis Path and the cloud wasn’t making any noise.  We headed uphill towards Mount Washington.

The Davis Path, heading towards Boott Spur and Mt. Washington. This historic path, which extends 9 miles south on the Montalban Ridge, was first built in 1844-1845  as a bridle path for tourists visiting Mt. Washington. It felt into disuse in the 1850s, and was rebuilt as a hiking trail in the early 20th century. Someday, I want to hike the entire path (much of it at a lower elevation, and in the woods).

We enjoyed a beautiful rugged hike above treeline, and then down the Boott Spur and into the woods.

Hiking along the Boott Spurr, we had terrific views of Turckerman’s Ravine, and could still see the tracks in the snow left by the skiers who flocked here in May and early June.

The downhill hike was relentlessly tough and included a steep ladder, but we reached Pinkham about 5:15 p.m., as predicted, where we cooled off with sweet drinks and recovered on a bench. Louisa dropped us off at my car and we headed into North Conway for pizza at Flatbread, where I fueled up for the ride home with Diet Coke.  Two hours later, filthy, sweaty, and smelly, we landed back in Kittery.

I didn’t complete the 4K list but we lived for another day of hiking in the White Mountains, the best and worst training grounds for other hikes. 

In hindsight, I think my brain and body understood that the climb to Isolation, plus the five hours of driving, was too much for me to do in one day.  I had felt anxious about the hike rather than excited about reaching my goal. I didn’t sleep well the night before, and began the day feeling tired.

But I have a plan for next time: instead of making the hike a one-day event, I will stay for a night or two at Lake of the Clouds hut below Mount Washington and hike to Isolation from there. The hike down and then back up to the hut will still be long and grueling. But the day will be all about the hike, rather than the travel. And if I stay at the hut, I just might have a small bottle of champagne — or a can of beer — waiting for me to crack open and celebrate my 4K quest.

Notes and resources

The two most-often used routes to Isolation include the long 7-mile (14 mile RT) trek on the Rocky Branch Trail, which follows an old railroad bed, then a couple of other trails to the summit, or the Glen Boulder route that we followed.  The Rocky Branch route is longer often muddy, and requires several river crossings (usually fine, except after a storm), and the other is shorter, steeper and more scenic. My sense is that I would find both equally challenging for different reasons. However, other hikers complete these routes in one day all the time.

Hiking to the sun on Mount Fuji

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On August 10-11, 2015, I climbed Mount Fuji on Japan’s first annual Mountain Day holiday. My article about this sunrise hike has just been published in the summer 2019 issue of Appalachia, with an excerpt here, along with more many more photos.

cover of Appalachia magazine

I was thrilled to get my summer/fall issue in the mail with my Mount Fuji piece.

Outside, the wind shrieked, as if a massive gale had taken hold of the mountain. Inside the hut, the sounds of other hikers waking up – soft voices, the rustle of sleeping bags, the ripping of Velcro – rose around me in the darkness. On the sleeping platform, zipped into my bag and nestled in between my 15-year-old daughter Jen and a petite Japanese woman, I tried to rest a bit longer in my 16 inches of space.  

The hutmaster had suggested rising at one a.m., but I thought we needed more rest, so I planned on a 2:30 a.m. wake-up.  But now I couldn’t sleep.  Although I didn’t want to wake Jen just yet, I squeezed out of my bag to get up for the bathroom.

I stepped into my hut slippers and outside into a thick mist and a dense crowd of humanity shuffling past the hut. Where had all these people come from? The wind had died down to a quiet whistle. Except for the crunch-crunch of boot-clad footsteps, the hikers moved quietly.

Looking up above the hut, I could see a line of white lights zig-zagging up the switchbacks of Mount Fuji’s cone.  The line was continuous and unbroken, as if someone had strung a length of holiday lights up and across the dark mountain. The lights bobbed and shifted as invisible hikers climbed up the trail.

For several minutes, I waited to use the all-gender bathroom, where men urinated in the urinals while women, eyes averted, waited to use the stalls.  In one stall, a hiker was vomiting, probably from the onset of altitude sickness.

After returning to our sleeping nest, I tried to rest, but soon realized that our host was right. With so many people crowding the trail, we had to start hiking if we wanted to reach the Mount Fuji summit in time for the sunrise. I woke up Jen. After dressing in the dark, we went downstairs to drink coffee and hot chocolate and eat a foil-packaged breakfast of rice and sardines. Not very appetizing, especially on a few hours rest, but we needed nourishment to power us up the mountain.

When we set out at 2:30 a.m., the air was still damp with mist, but the winds had dissipated. We stepped into the line of hikers with our small flashlights, although we didn’t need them because so many others had lights, creating a constant wave of low-level illumination. We began to hike with small steps, in sync with the others, a slow shuffle forward, the way the crowd moves as it exits Fenway Park after a ballgame.

The Big Dipper hung above us in the clear black sky. The temperature, by our New England standards, was mild, about 40 degrees F, perfect for hiking.  Most hikers were clad in heavy coats, head-to-toe wind gear, hats and gloves, but we were comfortable in our long pants, a couple of light layers, and windbreakers, and we warmed up as we moved along.

Hikers get organized at the “Fifth Station,” where most begin the hike to Fuji’s summit.

We didn’t have to hike very far to the summit, just two kilometers, but the going was slow, partly due to the throngs of people on the trail and partly to the altitude — especially the rapid change from the day before, from Tokyo’s sea level to the 11,000 feet at the hut. I didn’t mind the slow shuffle, because the pace matched my fatigue. In the darkness, no one spoke. The only sound was the crunch-crunch of boots on volcanic scree.  Moving with the crowd, I began to feel like we were part of something bigger than a hike.

When I planned this sunrise hike to Mount Fuji, I knew it would not be a wilderness experience. I knew that we would encounter many people and numerous food stalls on the trail, and that I would have to bring a hefty collection of 100 yen coins to use the bathroom (200 yen for each stop). But I accepted these conditions without complaining, because resenting the crowds could ruin the experience of climbing Mount Fuji.

What I didn’t know was that climbing a mountain with hordes of people offers its own rewards…..

Large groups of hikers set out to hike Mount Fuji on summer afternoons, leaving from the “5th Station” — about halfway up the mountain — and spending a few hours overnight in a mountain hut in order to reach the summit in time for sunrise.

A festive atmosphere prevails in the first kilometer of then hike. I have no idea what these figures represent — possibly Fuji bears? — but I’m guessing they are urging hikers to be safe.

Hiking uphill on Fuji’s slopes.

A bottleneck of people slows down hikers near Mount Fuji’s summit.

Waiting for the sunrise….

hiking downhill Mount Fuji

After the sunrise, we sloshed downhill through heaps of volcanic scree that filled our shoes.

At the end of our hike, covered with a thin film of volcanic dust, I fell asleep next to the parking lot for a few minutes before reviving enough to pay a short visit to the Komitake Shrine. Then we boarded the bus for the nearby resort town of Fujiyoshida,and dreamed of the soft beds awaiting us at our hotel.

To read more about my hike on Mount Fuji:

Subscribe to Appalachia, America’s longest-running journal of mountaineering and conserving, or order the summer issue at the Appalachia website. 

For more on Japan, see my post, “Travels in Japan: French fries, pancakes, and pickled plums.” I got really busy with work the fall after my trip to Japan, and didn’t finish all my posts, but I hope to publish more about my Japan travels in the coming months. I was anxious about visiting Japan because it seemed like traveling there would be difficult, but it was so easy and I loved it!

 

Exploring the streets of the mountains in the Onion Valley

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On the map, Onion Valley looks remote and inaccessible, an impression confirmed by the drive on a twisting mountain road from Independence, California.

After a 15-mile drive from Independence, the road ends at the Forest Service campground, at an elevation of 9,600 feet.

In town, we pass the home of  writer Mary Austin, best known for her 1903 essay collection, The Land of Little Rain, a short collection of quiet prose describing the natural and human world of the southern Sierra and Owens Valley.  I had packed the Dover Thrift edition (weight 3 oz) and was looking forward to becoming re-acquainted with Austin.

As a literary type, I was thrilled to suddenly come upon Mary Austin’s house after we turned off Route 395 to head up to Onion Valley.

My three friends and I were logistically prepared for a five-night backpacking trip in the southern Sierra, where, wrote Austin, “all streets of the mountains lead to citadels.”  However, an unlucky accident involving a slashed toe (not mine) meant we had to consider a plan B. We had a day or so to decide.

The Onion Valley Campground, tucked into a small glacial valley and surrounded by mountains, was definitely remote. But not inaccessible. On this summer weekend, the campground was full to bursting with campers and hikers, including many coming off or starting out on the John Muir Trail.  But the campground, populated by tired hikers, was quiet. That evening, as a sliver of moon rose in the sky, we shut the place down as we read Mary Austin around the picnic table.

In the morning, the toe looked gruesome, but its owner was up for a short hike to test it. We headed up a rough trail towards Robinson Lake.  The map showed a 1.5 mile hike, but we missed the actual trail and ended up following a series of herd paths that took us up a steeper and longer route.

Robinson Lake, a 1.5 mile hike from Onion Valley that was more challenging than I expected. The water was FREEZING! (And I’m from Maine, so I know cold).

We spent the afternoon relaxing and exploring around the lake.

Another view of Robinson Lake.

The grove of Jeffrey pines on the shore of Robinson Lake would make a great campsite. With a permit, camping is allowed, although the lake mostly attracts day hikers.

That evening, as we enjoyed our rehydrated Good-to-Go pad Thai meal, we decided to call off the backpack. Instead, three of us would set off on the 9-mile round-trip hike to Kearsarge Pass, elevation 11,700 feet.  Our injured friend would pack up the campsite (as we had to move to another site) and try to meet up with us later in the day, when she felt ready.

The trail to Kearsarge Pass travels a well-packed series of switchbacks. Right from the beginning, the hiking was easier than the day before. Maybe because it was a better trail, or maybe because we were hiking ON the trail, and not bushwhacking.  Or maybe our lungs had adjusted to the altitude. Regardless, the 4.7 hike up to the pass, with about 2,000 feet of elevation gain, did not feel difficult.

On the dusty trail towards Kearsarge Pass. The horses are from the Sequoia Kings Pack Outfit pack station, which resupplies hikers on the John Muir Trail.

View of Heart Lake, one of five mountain lakes that hikers pass en route to Kearsarge Pass.

As hikers approach the pass, steep slopes of Sierra scree rise above the trail. The trail itself is hard-packed dirt, and easy walking, at least if you are coming from the roots and rocks of New England.

At the pass, we enjoyed a cocktail-party like atmosphere with as  hikers stopped to rest and chat.   Below us stretched a basin with Kearsarge and Charlotte Lakes, where we had originally planned to camp.  The John Muir trail beckoned.  

We didn’t get to complete our five-day backpack, but I wasn’t really disappointed. I was in the company of three fabulous friends with whom I rarely get to spend time.  And we had learned so much about what we could do, many years after our first days of hiking together.  Like all hiking, the hike to Kearsarge pass was a process of putting one foot in front of the other, many times.  The 211-mile John Muir Trail — and any trail — remains within our reach.

Okay, we weren’t carrying heavy packs, and we’ll need to do some training if we want to enjoy rather than just endure a 200-mile hike. But we can do it.

As Mary Austin wrote, “There is always another year, and another.” Now, as summer turns to fall, it’s time to start planning.

All smiles at Kearsarge Pass.

The view from Kearsarge Pass, including Kearsarge and Bullfrog Lakes. Our original plan called for us to drop down into this basin and set up a lakeside campsite.

Sources and resources

The Inyo National Forest Onion Valley Campground site provides information about campground reservations and wilderness permits. The Forest Service accepts permit applications six months in advance, and limits the number of permits. We applied for ours back in February.

The excellent John Muir Trail planning site of the Pacific Crest Trail Association is a great place to begin planning for an extended JMT hike.

Walking with the mothers at Vaughan Woods, South Berwick

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South Berwick, Maine — On Mother’s Day this year, I went for a walk with the mothers in Vaughan Woods State Park.

Vaughan Woods is a popular local walking spot, as it includes, along with its three miles of trails, the imposing presence of the 1785 Georgian-style Hamilton House. Walking in Vaughan Woods was a wonderful Mother’s Day gift because I hadn’t been there in many years, and had forgotten the simple beauty of the woodland trail along the Salmon Falls River. After a cold April, everyone we encountered that sunny morning in May was happy to be outside, and we wished a good day to many mothers out strolling with children young and old.

Mothers have walked these 80+acres for centuries. Here are a few of pieces of their stories.

Walking along the trail beside the Salmon Falls River, we came upon the view of Hamilton House, built in 1785 by Colonel Jonathan Hamilton, an enterprising merchant and community leader. The Colonel married Mary Manning in 1771. Mary likely walked on this land with her two children, Betsey and Joseph, born a year apart. But Mary’s wealth couldn’t protect her family from the democratic afflictions common to all in the 18th century. Young Joseph died at age 15, and Betsey a few years later, at age 21, after giving birth to her first child, an infant who died a few months after her mother. When Mary Manning Hamilton died at age 50 in 1800, her obituary noted, among many other qualities, that she was “a peculiarly kind & tender Mother.”

One of the first European-American mothers to walk in this forest was Margaret Warren, mother of five, whose home was located on a high spot in the woods, and probably had a view of Cow Cove, since the site was likely soon cleared of most trees. Margaret, who hailed from Ireland and landed in Kittery, came here after marrying James Warren.

James was a Scotsman who had survived the 1650 Battle of Dunbar, where he was taken prisoner by Oliver Cromwell’s forces , then shipped out to the colonies and sold as an indentured servant.

James probably served the first part of his indenture at the Lynn Iron Works, but came with his master Richard Leader to Kittery – which then encompassed today’s town of South Berwick – around 1651 to build a saw mill at the falls of Great Works River (which enters the Salmon Falls River a short distance above Vaughan Woods). Somewhere along the way he met Margaret, and they married in 1654, by which time James had acquired his land.  They had their first child – or perhaps their first surviving child, Gilbert, by 1656.

The slight indention of a cellar hole mark the Warren homesite at Vaughan Woods.

The Warrens both had strong constitutions, with James dying in 1702, at age 81, and Margaret in 1713, who was probably in her 80s by then  (date of birth unknown).  Margaret and James lived in a time of sporadic but intense conflict between settlers and the Wabanaki. Her daughter Grizel Warren Otis, at age 24, and infant granddaughter Margaret — just a few months old — were taken as captives during the Wabanaki raid at Cocheco (Dover) in June 1689*.  I imagine that Margaret could see the smoke billowing in the distance as several houses burned across the river in New Hampshire.

As the crow flies, Cocheco was not far away — across the river and further inland. Word must have spread quickly, with Margaret soon learning of the death of her granddaughter, three-year-old Hannah, along with her daughter’s 64-year-old husband, the blacksmith Richard Otis.  She must have worried about Grizel and her fate.

Was Margaret hopeful when she eventually learned that Grizel had been taken to Montreal? Grizel, however, never returned home. She became a Catholic, took the name Madeleine, married a Frenchman, Philippe Robitaille, and started a new family. I’m guessing she was happier in Montreal, where she lived until her death at age 90. Unlike her old goat first husband, Grizel’s Frenchman Philippe was the same age, and together they had five children.

Margaret did not live to see the return of her granddaughter, Margaret, a remarkable woman known as Christine Otis Baker (Hotesse), who after many adventures landed back in Dover in 1734.  Christine-Margaret had married in Canada, but after seven years and three children, she became a young widow in 1714. Eventually she married Captain Thomas Baker of Deerfield, Massachusetts, whom she had met in Montreal, first in 1701 when he was a captive and then again in 1714 when he returned to Montreal on a negotiating mission.

French authorities would not allow her to leave Montreal with her property or her children, and she left her children behind to return to New England with Baker.  Although she later returned to Montreal to try to regain custody of her children, the authorities would not allow her to see them.  Christine soldiered on, had another son, and lived out her years, until her mid-80s, in Dover, New Hampshire, where she was well-known as a tavern keeper.

Almost 200 years after these events, another mother — a stepmother — served as indirect catalyst for reviving and remembering the stories of these earlier mothers.

Emily Tyson and Sarah Orne Jewett, in the garden at Hamilton House. Elise Tyson Vaughan, an accomplished photographer, was the photographer (Historic New England photo; citation below).

In 1898, Emily Tyson, the widow of railroad magnate George Tyson, and her stepdaughter Elise (Elizabeth) Tyson purchased the house on the recommendation of their writer friend Sarah One Jewett. The mother-daughter pair wanted to spend summers in Maine, away from the heat and pollution of Boston. By then, Hamilton House had fallen into disrepair, as the Hamilton fortune evaporated in the early 1800s (probably due in large part to Jefferson’s Embargo Act).  Several generations of the Goodwin family had tried to farm the property, but could not turn the tide on the steady decline of farming in 19th century Maine.

The two women restored the house to its former grandeur. Along with their York friend Elizabeth Perkins, they were leaders in the Colonial Revival movement** that led to a renewed interest in colonial-era history and the preservation of many colonial-era dwellings.

Elise Tyson married Henry Goodman Vaughan later in life, when she was in her mid-forties, and did not have children, but she nurtured artists and writers who frequented her home, as well as her own craft of photography.

Elise also was the mother of this park, donating the Hamilton House and the surrounding land to the state of Maine upon her death in 1949.  Now, on Mother’s Day and every other day of the year, we walk in her footsteps and those who came before.

The Warren home purportedly looked down upon Cow Cove, another historic location where, in 1634, the ship the Pied Cow anchored, and offloaded livestock and supplies to build the first sawmill at the Great Works falls. James Warren and other Scottish prisoners came 17 years later to work on rebuilding and expanding that first mill.

Notes and resources

Although you don’t really need a map to walk the trails of Vaughan Woods, the trail map here provides a good sense of the different locations described in my post.

Hamilton House, owned by Historic New England, is open for tours from June through October.  On summer Sundays, visitors enjoy concerts in the garden.

Thanks to the Old Berwick Historical Society for many specific dates and pieces of information from its information-rich website.

Sarah Orne Jewett’s romance novel, The Tory Lover, features Hamilton House as its setting, and features a cast of characters drawn from Maine-NH Seacoast history.

For more on the remarkable story of Christine Otis Baker, see Christine Otis Baker, Captured by Indians, Dover Public Library, Dover, N.H.

For more on James Warren and the Scottish prisoners of Dunbar, see “James Warren, #108 on ‘The Dunbar Prisoners’ List” at the website/blog, Scottish Prisoners of War.

Other sources for this post include www.geni.com, especially for Grizel Warren Otis Robitaille, and the Warren family genealogy at archive.org, especially for Margaret/Christine Otis Baker.

*On the Cocheco Raid: This raid was essentially a revenge attack upon Cocheco, in retaliation for an event near the end of King Philip’s War in which Major Richard Waldron of Cocheco invited hundreds of native people to his trading post for a peace parley. Instead, Waldron maneuvered the situation to capture 100s of native peoples, who were then executed or sold into slavery. The Cocheco Raid was one of the first events of “King William’s War,” or what many called the “Second IndianWar.” For more details, I highly recommend Our Beloved Kin: A New History of King Philip’s War by Lisa Brooks, which includes a companion website, especially Captivity at Cocheco.

**On the Colonial Revival Movement: I am aware that this movement also had its origins in the anti-immigration movement of the early 20th century, a time of peak immigration.  Tracing ancestry to the colonial era was a way of establishing legitimacy and superiority to the “hordes” flocking to America. That said, Colonial Revival resulted in the preservation of many buildings that might have been lost to the wrecking ball, as well as of documents, ephemera, and other clues that historians continue to unravel today to tell ever more interesting and complex histories of early America.

Vaughan, Elizabeth R. Full-length informal portrait of Emily Davis Tyson and Sarah Orne Jewett standing in the doorway of Hamilton House, South Berwick, Maine, undated. n.d. Web. 06 Jul 2018. <https://www.digitalcommonwealth.org/search/commonwealth-oai:bz60dd41p>.

Back on the trail to Mount Belknap with Windows to the Wild

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Click on the image to view the episode.

On a hot spring day in early May, I met up again with the crew from New Hampshire Public Television’s Windows to the Wild: host Willem Lange and producers Steve Giordani and Phil Vaughn. The resulting show, titled “Hiking with the Maniacal Traveler” was broadcast on NHPTV in May and now is available for online viewing here.

We had decided to do an episode focused on a hike to Guilford’s Mount Belknap, where a plane crashed in June of 1972 after vanishing shortly after take-off from Laconia Airport, in New Hampshire’s Lakes Region. My 2015 post, One hike, many discoveries: A plane crash, fire tower and stone-age couches,” describes this hike, which I did with my son several years ago.

Initially, we planned the hike for mid-April, which I thought might be too ambitious, given the huge snow dumps we’d had three weeks earlier. The crash site is located on a steep rocky incline, where I knew deep pockets of snow and patches of ice would linger.   So it was good news when producers Steve Giordani told me they had to reschedule for May.

What I didn’t know then was that long-time host Willem Lange lost his wife Ida in mid-April. I never met Ida, but she sounds like she was an amazing person  — another maniacal traveler — as explained in a recent Boston Globe story, “Ida Lange, at 78; from a fraught childhood she became a community leader and her husband’s muse,”and by Willem himself, “We were inextricably engaged, truly for better or for worse.”

I learned of Ida’s death when we met up on Carriage Mountain Road in Gilford on the morning of the hike. Willem expressed to me that he felt like he hadn’t fully processed his loss, and was going about his usual routines of taking Kiki for walks, and preparing for the upcoming show, which had already been scheduled for airing on May 23.

We set off on our hike on Carriage Mountain Road. The winter gate remained closed, and we had to walk a mile up the road to the trailhead.  The extra mile was our first travail; others followed.  I won’t reveal more except to say that the day reinforced all the key fundamentals of hiking: know your limits; use your map wisely; and carry more food and water than you think you will need. Also, spring days before the forest has burst into its canopy are sometimes the hottest of the season, even if the temperature is seasonable.

But travails make for good stories. And as my 19th century friend Henry Thoreau tells us, “I have climbed several higher mountains without guide or path, and have found, as might be expected, that it takes only more time and patience commonly than to travel the smoothest highway.”

Our short hike to Mount Belknap took more time and patience than expected, but at the fire tower, I remembered, as Thoreau tells us, that  “On tops of mountains, as everywhere to hopeful souls, it is always morning.”

A trail’s end selfie with Phil Vaughn (in back) and Steve Giordani, all of us still smiling at the end of our long day of hiking and filming on Mount Belknap. Steve and Phil are the producers for Windows to the Wild.

Sources and resources

“We were inextricably engaged, truly for better or for worse,” by Willem Lange. April 18, 2018, The Valley News. (West Lebanon, Vermont).

“Ida Lange, at 78; from a fraught childhood she became a community leader and her husband’s muse,” by Bryan Marquard. The Boston Globe, May 28, 2018.

In January 2017, I visited Orris Falls in South Berwick with Windows to the Wild, available here.  My blog post, Travels on the White Rose Road to Orris Falls, and featuring 19th century guest Sarah Orne Jewett (and others) inspired this episode.

Jurassic time-traveling in NH: A hike to Mount Shaw

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Up in the White Mountains,  winter hangs on long past its official ending date, especially this year, when most of the snow fell in March and April. Even as I write this post in mid-May, iced-covered trails and unstable snow bridges are the rule and not the exception. But this is a great time of year to hike in New Hampshire Lakes Region, when the snow is gone and the black files have yet to hatch.

For that first spring hike, I highly recommend 2,990-foot Mount Shaw, tallest of the Ossipee Mountains and part of the Castle in the Clouds Conservation Area (in which Mount Roberts also offers a great hike). Last October, I hiked Mt. Shaw with my husband a few days after a massive wind storm wiped out power to much of northern New England and wreaked havoc on many hiking trails. Some quick internet consulting revealed that Mount Shaw’s trails were passable, so we packed a lunch and headed north.

The 7.7-loop trail on Mount Shaw is definitely a hike, not a walk, but because of its relatively low elevation and its Tuftonboro location south of the White Mountains, Shaw is a great three-season hike in regular boots, and, in the winter, a nice option for a snowshoeing adventure (see trail map bottom of post).

Mount Shaw’s main reward are panoramic views of Mount Washington and the Presidentials.  Other rewards include views of Lake Winnipesaukee and the Ossipee Ring Dike, along with the joy of stepping off a rocky trail on to a grassy carriage road built by shoe magnate Thomas Gustave Plant, when he developed his Lucknow Estate in the early 20th century.  Also, Mount Shaw is on the “52 With a View List”, a fine collection of New Hampshire mountains offering great vistas and fewer weekend crowds compared to the 4ooo-footers in the White Mountains.

Mt. Shaw and its neighbors  are the remnants of the largest volcanic ring dike in New Hampshire, the Ossipee Ring Dike.

This geological map shows the Ossipee Ring Dike, the result of Jurassic-era volcanic activity.

According to the website NH Geology, a ring dike forms when the ceiling of an underground magna chamber collapses beneath a circular crack in the bedrock.  The magma erupts in blobs that tend to be rounded in shape, so a bulbous  circular dike emerges. These sorts of eruptions were typical of volcanic activity  in New Hampshire 150 million years ago, when Pangea was breaking up, with Pawtuckaway State Park providing another example.

The trailhead for the Mount Shaw loop, including a small parking lot, is located on NH Route 171, and NOT at Castle in the Clouds.

After hiking .4 miles into the forest from the trailhead, picking up the Italian Trail is a little tricky as several old woods roads diverge. At .4 miles, look for this old log, marked with red blazes, that someone has carefully place on a makeshift cairn. The general direction is away from the brook, to the right, and uphill.

The Italian Trail heads up through the forest towards the flat and open perch of Mount Tate (about 1.2 miles from the fork).

Views of Dan Hole Pond and beyond, from the open flank of Mount Tate, also known as Big Ball Mountain.  The pond is approximately in the middle of the ring dike. How amazing that we can view the remnants of the Jurassic-ear breakup of Pangea right here in New Hampshire!

From Mount Tate, we could see the ridge above us that included Black Snout and the summit of Mount Shaw.  Surprisingly, we saw little evidence of the windstorm  that left us in the dark a few days earlier. We picked up a couple of stray branches, but overall, the trail was in great shape.

From Mount Tate, we followed the blue-blazed Big Ball Mountain trail up towards the ridge of Mount Shaw.  Along the trail, the roots of a big old red maple tree (I think) sprawled across the trail like the tentacles of a comic-book monster.

When the Big Ball Mountain Trail reached the ridge, we stepped on to  the soft grassy path of the old carriage road, now part of the High Ridge Trail.

Thomas Plante built these carriage roads for sightseeing pleasure of his guests. The roads lace the Castle in the Clouds Conservation Area, and make for hiking that’s easy on the feet.

At the ridge, we turned left towards the Black Snout Spur Trail, because you can’t come all this way and not visit a mountain feature called Black Snout, where we took in views of Lake Winnipesaukee.

The view from Black Snout.

The top of the ridge is fairly open, suggesting either a fire or extensive logging to create a park-like environment. Although filling in with small trees, the open ridge provides  opportunity for winterberry to flourish.

Bright red winterberry, a relative of holly, stands out in the late fall after its leaves have dropped.  Birds feed on the berries but they are toxic for humans.

After backtracking from Black Snout, we continued on the easy walking of the High Ridge Trail and after a half-mile reached the summit of Mount Shaw.  The summit offers a sort of bench (as well as a literal log bench) for enjoying the panoramic view, almost like sitting in form of a big wide movie screen.

Northern views towards Mount Washington from Mount Shaw.

After enjoying the views, we backtracked on the High Ridge Trail, intending to return via the 2.5 mile Shaw Trail, a straight shoot downhill to the trailhead. At the junction, we

The Turtleback Mountain Trail follows one of the old carriage roads and eventually takes hikers back to Castle in the Clouds. 

studied the map, t0 make sure we should head right towards the Turtleback Mountain Trail. We soon found the Shaw Trail, a hard left  off the carriage road.

The Shaw Trail drops quickly from the ridge, with rough rocky footing, eventually reaching a mountain brook which the trail then follows for most of its length. On the downhill, we felt the  7.7 miles of the loop trail—i.e. “will we EVER get to the end of this trail?” (Again, this is a hike and not a walk).

Down, down, down the Shaw Trail, until we reached the brook, and hiked another 1.5 miles to the trailhead.

The Shaw Trail offers a pretty walk through the forest, but I definitely recommend going down via Shaw rather than up. Back at the car, we pulled off our boots, guzzled our water, and flipped a coin to see who got to nap first on the ride home. The best part: home, in Kittery, Maine, was only an hour and 15 minutes away, and Route 16 offered plenty of coffee opportunities.  The second best part: it will be easy to return.

Map of 7.7 mile Mount Shaw loop (New England Hiking, 4000footers.com)

Driving directions:  Get yourself to New Hampshire Route 171 in Tuftonboro.  If coming from the east, you’ll find the small parking area just before the bridge over Fields Brook.  If you pass Sodom Road on the left, you’ve gone too far.

If coming from the west, you’ll pass Sodom Road on the right, and then cross  the bridge over Fields Brook, and turn left into the small parking area.

I highly recommend buying the waterproof trail map to the Castle in the Clouds Conservation Area.

My other posts on hikes in the New Hampshire Lakes Region

Mount Roberts: The Legacy of a Bankrupt Millionaire

One hike, many discoveries: A plane crash, a fire tower, and stone-age couches

Exploring caves and climbing ladders in the New Hampshire Lakes Region

Wandering in the wilderness of Mount Paugus

Mountain Day on New Hampshire’s Mount Washington

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On August 11, 2016, Japan’s inaugural Mountain Day holiday, I was climbing Mount Fuji with my son and thousands of other hikers. We didn’t know it was Mountain Day, but later, when I learned about the holiday, aimed at getting people out of the office and into the mountains, I was pleased to know we had been part of this first celebration.

In 2017, with summer racing towards its conclusion, I asked my son if he wanted to go on a hike before fall sports practices invaded the calendar.

“Let’s go on Mountain Day,” he said. “Can we hike up Mount Washington?”

Although I’ve visited the summit of Mount Washington a couple of times in recent years (including a week-long January stay at the Observatory), I hadn’t climbed Mount Washington since 1998 or so, when my husband and I, along with a friend, hoisted ourselves up the granite blocks of the Huntington Ravine Trail.  Climbing Washington would be challenging, I knew, but well within our reach as a day hike. The hike would also be a birthday “celebration” of sorts, just as Mount Fuji had been, since my birthday falls on August 10. And I could even get a Diet Pepsi at the summit!

After driving to the Pinkham Notch Visitor Center, we set off on the Tuckerman Ravine Trail around 10 a.m., with plans to do a loop via the Lion’s Head Trail. The forecast looked good for Mount Washington: Probably no views, with the summit in and out of clouds, and maybe a thunder shower later, but no driving winds or freezing temperatures.

In my memory, the 2.4-mile trek up to Hermit Lake Shelters was a piece of cake, a highway packed on spring mornings with ski-toting hikers jazzed to test their skill on the steep slope of Tuckerman Ravine. In middle-aged reality, this stretch, with its 1,800 feet of elevation gain, was a relentless uphill trudge, interrupted by some flatter sections. Still, we made it to Hermit Lake with no complaints and enjoyed a quick lunch break on the porch.

At Hermit Lake, I peeked inside the main lodge at the counter where on spring days, skiers and spectators can buy candy bars and other treats. That made me think of the Diet Pepsi awaiting me on Washington….and then I remembered: I had left all my money in my car. At the last minute, I’d had a brain cramp and tucked my wallet into the console, because why would I need money on a mountain?

Hermit Lake, just past the Shelters, with the Tuckerman head wall looming above.

Thoughts of Diet Pepsi continued to plague me as I slowly made my way up the steep  trail that ascends Tuckerman Ravine. We had plenty of food, I reminded myself. Water is way better than Diet Pepsi. Artificial sweeteners aren’t healthy. Still, I cursed myself for leaving those dollars in the car.

In the meantime, my son scampered ahead, occasionally waiting for me to catch up. Lagging behind, I wondered if I might find a trail of M & Ms on the rocks, like the ones I used to leave for him as motivation to keep hiking.

We rested briefly at Lunch Rocks, the gallery where spectators gather to watch the drama of spring skiing:  the dramatic falls and wipeouts, the waving hand that signifies a fallen skier has survived.

A summer waterfall cascading in Tuckerman Ravine.

Along the trail, we met other hikers, but far fewer than I expected. Compared to Mount Fuji, the weekday crowds on  Mount Washington are just a sprinkle of people, even at the summit with its cog railway and auto road.

After a steady hour or so of hiking, we emerged from the scrub and hiked over the lip of the ravine, only to face the rock heap of the final ascent.

Hiking up the rock pile as clouds move in over Tuckerman Ravine.

A multi-generational family of hikers ranging in age from 8 to 70-ish climbed over the rocks around us.  “Where’s the trail?” a kid wondered. “Do you just go straight up?”

One of the adults said he’d heard about a train on top of the mountain. If that rumor was true, maybe they could take it down.

“There is a train,” I told him. “It’s been there for over a hundred years. And yes, you can take it down.”

The kid went crazy. “We can take the train, we can take the train!”

I also knew that he could probably take a hiker van shuttle down the auto road, but I didn’t want to get his hopes up too much. With my wallet in the car, those options were off the table for us, but I’d never seriously entertained an alternate route down.  I knew I could hike this mountain.

We continued on, up and over the piles of granite rock. In the distance, I could see a piece of a tower — one of the structures on the summit. And then we were there, landing on the Auto Road, and facing the wooden staircase that led to the summit.

In the clouds on Mount Washington. What the photo doesn’t show: the small line of other visitors, many of them shivering in shorts and flip-flops, waiting patiently for their turn at a photo.

Mount Washington’s summit hosts several buildings, including a weather observatory, gift shop and the multi-purpose state park building that houses a cafeteria, post office, and the Mount Washington Observatory’s “Extreme Weather” exhibit.  The cafeteria food didn’t look very appetizing — hot dogs and slabs of pizza — but I considered making an effort to set up Apple Pay on my cellphone to buy a treat. But then I saw the “Cash Only” sign. A relief, as I didn’t really want to fiddle with my phone on a mountaintop. We would get our treat in the valley below.

The “stagecoach” gift shop building for the Cog Railway originally was the weather observatory, where on April 12, 1937, weather observers recorded the world’s highest wind speed ever,  at 231 mph. That record was surpassed several years ago, but still stands as the highest speed manually recorded by a person.  If you think about hurricanes and what they do to wooden structures, it’s amazing that the observatory building was not torn apart. It is (and was) secured with chains.

By the time we began to hike down, the clouds were drizzling rain. We began the rocky descent on the Tuckerman Ravine Trail, aiming for the first left, to the Lion’s Head Trail. We wondered if we should stop and gear up with rain jackets and pants, or wait it out a bit in our damp fleece. Getting wet on Mount Washington can be lethal, but I wasn’t sure if we’d stay dry with the rain gear, given the humidity. We decided to push on through the drizzle.

Heading down the mountain towards Lion’s Head. The footing is rough and rocky as you make your away across the mountain, with little evidence of “trail” (but well-marked by cairns).

The Lion’s Head Trail travels above the northern edge of Tuckerman Ravine and then, after a short steep descent, links up with the Tuckerman Ravine Trail below Hermit Lake. I’m glad we took this route, as the descent didn’t feel overly steep, and the trail was mostly empty. We only encountered two other parties on Lion’s Head.

The Lion’s Head Trail heads down along the northern flank of Tuckerman Ravine,  offering great views into the Ravine.

By now, I was definitely feeling beat up. On Lion’s Head, I stopped to rest and take stock of my snack supply. I pulled out a Clif Bar I had tossed into my pack after reaching into the inner recesses of my kitchen cabinet. The expiration date read “16April13.”  Did that mean April 16, 2013 (which meant the bar was probably baked some time in 2012)? Or April 13, 2016? My son confirmed the former.  But the bar was sealed.  If I was waiting out a nuclear disaster, I would eat it. So I did (to no obvious ill effects).

After making our way down the Lion’s Head trail, including one ladder, we reconnected with the Tuckerman Ravine Trail around 5 p.m.  I knew my goal of getting to Pinkham Notch by 6:15 was well within reach. On the way down, we passed several parties hiking up to Hermit Lake Shelters, mostly Boy Scouts with middle-aged leaders carrying large backpacks. I felt for those guys, both for the heavy packs and the complaining kids.  As we closed in on Pinkham, one kid hiking uphill asked me if they were near the Hermit Lake shelters. I asked his leader if  we were almost to Pinkham Notch.

“Pretty close,” he said grimly, fully aware that our proximity to Pinkham meant his distance from Hermit Lake. But they were out there hiking and, in the end, would have a great time. Except that the forecast called for a hard rain in the morning. Still, the hike would become an epic tale. The boys would be proud of themselves, and the men, well, they would feel satisfied that the boys had learned they could do something hard.

We made it back down to Pinkham Notch by 6:30 and high-tailed it to Elvio’s Pizza in North Conway, a long-established pizza joint where I’m pretty sure I ate pizza after my first hike up Mount Washington, back on October 31, 1980. On that day, we had left my college campus at 4 a.m. and returned around 8 p.m., in time for Halloween parties. I got dressed up in a silver go-go girl dress with white boots that I’d found at Goodwill, danced until 2 a.m., then fell into bed. When the dorm fire alarm sounded some time later (a regular weekend occurrence), my roommates left me in my bed because they could not shake me awake.

This time, armed with a Diet Coke to keep me awake, I set off on Route 16, aiming for home. We arrive after 9 p.m., feasted on birthday cake, and then fell into bed without dancing.  An epic Mountain Day and a new tradition.  Although I could hard move the next day, we were already planning for next year. Somehow I need to work in the dancing.

Sources and resources

I planned on eight hours for this hike, because I know I am a slow uphill hiker, and I usually budget one mile per hour, including rest stops. Several sources I’ve read suggest planning on two miles per hour, with an extra half-hour for every 1,000-feet of elevation gain, which would make Mount Washington a six-hour hike.

The weather in the “higher summits” of the Presidentials can be very different from the valleys and other mountains. If you are planning on hiking Mount Washington, I recommend checking the higher summits forecast at the Mount Washington Observatory, where you also read a great article about the many who have died on the mountain, Surviving Mount Washington.

For a gripping account of the dangers on Mount Washington, I also recommend Nicholas Howe’s 1999 book, Not Without Peril.

Friends of Tuckerman’s Ravine offers many great photos, history and other information about this beautiful place on Mount Washington.

And finally, my posts from my week-long winter stay on Mount Washington:

The world’s worst weather: Bring it on!

Cat vs. Camel: An epic battle on Mount Washington provides an opportunity to write about Marty

Crisis on Mount Washington: The Empty Sugar Barrel

The wind howls, and we stir the pot

A September walk in the woods: Mount Cabot to Unknown Pond

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Mount Cabot or the Carters? As I drove up Pinkham Notch early on a lovely September Saturday, the many cars spilling from every parking lot cinched my decision: on to Mount Cabot.  I would escape the crowds on this gorgeous day, but also have some company on the lightly traveled Kilkenny Ridge–a good thing, as I was hiking solo.

As it turns out, while Mount Cabot is off the beaten path, it isn’t all that remote. Just outside of Berlin, New Hampshire, the York Pond-Bunnell Notch and Unknown Pond trails begin at the state fish hatchery on York Pond Road. When I arrived, I found about ten cars at the trailhead—enough hikers, but not too many.

Having come this far, I was aiming to complete the 11.5 mile loop up through Bunnell Notch to Mount Cabot and then over Kilkenny Ridge to Unknown Pond. However, feet problems have limited my hiking, so the 9.2 out-and-back to the Cabot peak was also an option.

My recommendation:  if you get yourself up to Mount Cabot, do the entire loop. The hiking is fairly easy, by White Mountains standards, beginning with the first mile of overgrown logging road and including lots of easy pine-needle walking on Kilkenny Ridge. The trek includes 3,00o feet of elevation gain, so it’s not a walk, but covering the miles with breaks at the Mount Cabot cabin, the Horn, and Unknown Pond makes for a great day in the woods.

First views come at Bunnell Rock, just off the Kilkenny Ridge trail. Skies were hazy, but I thought I could see Franconia Ridge in front of Mount Washington — an intriguing perspective that I hadn’t seen before (and later confirmed was correct).

The Mount Cabot cabin, about four miles in, was my first rest stop, where I enjoyed lunch on the porch. I had contemplated making this hike an overnight family trip, with a late start and sunset at the cabin, and had heard many opinions about the cabin, some declaring it a horrible, filthy hovel, and others finding it tolerable.

The old fire warden's cabin has sleeping platforms with 8 spots. It's definitely not fancy. The fire tower was dismantled in the mid-1960s, and it's a small miracle that the cabin still exists. Winter hikers take note: The Forest Service has removed the wood stove.

The old fire warden’s cabin has sleeping platforms with 8 spots. It’s definitely not fancy. The fire tower was dismantled in the mid-1960s, and it’s a small miracle that the cabin still exists. Winter hikers take note: The Forest Service has removed the wood stove.

My verdict: I would sleep in the cabin (although I wish the Boy Scout maintainers would rip up the padding on the sleeping platforms, as those pads tend to collect the mouse droppings for which the cabin is noted). However, I’m not sure that sleeping there would be noteworthy or interesting, unless doing so was part of a longer backpacking trip. The view is limited, through the trees, and  I’m glad I wasn’t hauling a full pack for 11.5 miles. I’ve read that a spring flows near the cabin, but didn’t look around for it; the cabin also has a rain barrel that contained a small puddle of water. (Bunnell Brook is also a potential water source if you can stock up before reaching the cabin).

Two gray jays at the clearing where the fire tower used to stand.

Gray jay in the fir trees just below the Mt. Cabot summit.

Finishing up lunch around 1 p.m., I decided to go for the entire loop. I was planning to power through the fire tower clearing after a short look at the hazy views, but I had to linger and visit with a couple of gray jays. They weren’t quite as bold as the jays on Mount Waumbek, who will eat out of your hand, but they were happy to steal a few bits of my granola bar.

And on to the summit, a half-mile from the cabin. The wooded Mount Cabot peak is peaceful but anticlimactic, and I pushed on. The trail descended, then climbed uphill, and before I knew it, I was at the junction for the side trail (.3 mile) to the Horn. I had already hiked over the Bulge without feeling the pain.

I scrambled up to the Horn and its 360-views. Confronting the large glacial erratic that caps off the Horn, at first I wondered if I could get up there. Exploring its perimeter, I found that the south-facing side works for a short person, and I pulled myself up via a large crack.

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The haze had cleared and I had great views from the Horn, including this south-facing view, with Mount Washington in the distance.

The friendly crack (from perspective above) that gave me leverage to pull myself up and scramble down the Horn.

The friendly crack (from perspective above) that gave me leverage to pull myself up and scramble down the Horn.

After my snack and rest on the Horn, I was off to Unknown Pond, where lots of vegetation restoration is underway. The Forest Service wants hikers to stay away from the shoreline (which of course is the best spot to hang out when visiting a pond). I rested briefly at a designated spot  to enjoy the view, and then checked out the campsites, just above the pond (a 2-minute walk). The campsites were empty on this full-moon Saturday (and I didn’t see a single person on the Unknown Pond trail, although I had met hikers on the Kilkenny Ridge).

View of the Horn from Unknown Pond (photo by John Compton of 1HappyHiker.com).

View of the Horn from Unknown Pond (photo by John Compton of 1HappyHiker.com).

I expected my last leg, a 3.3 mile walk on the Unknown Pond trail, to go quickly, but it was a trail, not a logging road, with lots of small rocks and a couple of stream crossings. Not difficult, just not a jogging path. But I made good time to the parking lot, where my lonely car was the only one waiting for its owner.

Although I’m happy that I finally checked Mount Cabot off my 4000-footer list, I’m even happier that I discovered this area north of the Notches. From the Horn, the Percy Peaks (featured image on header) called to me. Camping at Unknown Pond would be a great overnight on a northerly hike along the Cohos Trail. The deluxe shelter on Sugarloaf Arm sounds like a palace. Next September, when the Notch trails are packed with hikers, I’ll continue heading north.

Good-bye, Mount Cabot! I'll be back another time to explore on the Cohos Trail.

Good-bye, Mount Cabot! I’ll be back another time for more exploring on the Cohos Trail.

Notes and resources:

The York Pond-Bunnell Notch and Unknown Pond trailheads that complete the Mount Cabot loop are located at the end of York Pond Road off NH 110, just north of Berlin, NH. (Note that the northern end of the Unknown Pond Trail is located off Mill Brook Road , also off Route 110, in Stark, NH. You can’t do a loop hike from the northern end).

The gate closure sign at the New Hampshire State Fish Hatchery scares people off from doing the loop. I called the Fish Hatchery and learned that the gate is only pinned at 4 p.m., and not locked until 10 p.m. As it turns out, the gate wasn’t closed when I drove out around 5:45 p.m. However, to avoid an accidental car stranding, I recommend calling at 603-449-3412 to confirm that the policy remains the same.

If you want to explore far from the madding crowds, the Cohos Trail is a 165-mile trail that begins in the Crawford Notch area and ends at the Canadian border.

Read more of my 4000-footer posts here, including the trip to nearby Mount Waumbek.

Closing the door on Angel’s Landing

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This time, when I gave up on trying to climb to Angel’s Landing in Utah’s Zion National Park, I knew I wouldn’t be trying again. The third time won’t be a charm; I won’t cross the hike off my bucket list.

A view of the knife-edge abutment known as Angel's Landing (late-morning light). Yes, it is as skinny as it looks, at least in a few tricky spots.

A view of the knife-edge sandstone ridge known as Angel’s Landing (late-morning light). Yes, it is as skinny as it looks, at least in a few tricky spots.

Yes, I was disappointed as I descended the steep chained-covered sandstone to the line of hikers waiting to climb up. I knew that the view from  Angel’s Landing wasn’t 100% more magnificent than any other in the park.  But I had been primed to claim the hike as my own, after chickening out on a visit to Zion eight years earlier. And if I couldn’t do it now, eight years deeper into middle age, I never would.

The hike to Angel’s Landing is the most popular in Zion, despite being named by Outside magazine as one of the world’s most dangerous. The trail is a 1/2-mile long offshoot of the West Rim Trail (with a total distance of  2.5 miles from the bottom of Zion Canyon).

Climbing that last half-mile to the Landing requires scrambling up a steep sandstone face, using a set of chain ropes for support while navigating a constant stream of hikers coming and going. Once hikers surmount that first pitch, they move on to other challenges, including spots where the ridge narrows to a width of five feet, with 1,000-feet drop-offs on both sides.  Near the Landing, hikers step up a narrow stone staircase, where a chain railing offers the illusion of safety.

Eight years earlier, I’d known the risks and calculated them small – yes, five people (now six) had fallen to their deaths since 2004, but thousands made the trek each year. I had hiked steep trails all over the world. Piece of cake.

Looking down at the switchbacks known as Walter's Wiggles, first crafted by the Civilian Conservation Core in the 1930s. A bit of an incline, but pretty easy for seasoned hikers.

Looking down at the switchbacks known as Walter’s Wiggles, first crafted by the National Park Service in the 1920s.  A bit of an incline, but pretty easy for seasoned hikers.

On that end-of-March 2008 visit, the park was bustling with visitors eager to explore the canyon on the weekend before the road closed to cars for the season (from April to October, shuttle buses moves visitors in and out of Zion Canyon). My friends and I hiked towards Walter’s Wiggles in a stream of humanity, including several parents pushing strollers.

At Scouts Landing, where the Angel’s Landing trail shoots off from the West Rim Trail, my friend Natasha said she knew her limits; she was happy to relax on the rock slabs while three of us continued on.

Following behind my two friends, I began to scrabble up the sandstone slope, placing my feet in toeholds carved by thousands of hikers and grabbing the chains for support. About halfway up, I froze. This felt dangerous. If I slipped, I might tumble to my death, or severe injury. Yes, thousands had done it, and only a handful had died, but I was a mother. I had a young son waiting for me back at home. I couldn’t afford to die. I turned back.

Now, on this second attempt, the young son was a young man. Our family of three made it up the first pitch, but the climb was nerve-wracking and not much fun. When my husband announced, “I don’t need to do this,” my son agreed. After five seconds of thought, I concurred.

Carefully, we picked our way down the slope back to Scouts Landing, where a volunteer ranger was doing a talk on California Condors, whose numbers had once dwindled to fewer than 25. An active breeding-in-captivity program has resurrected the population, but these massive birds with a ten-foot wing span, the largest in North America, continue to die off, mostly due to lead poisoning from ingesting lead bullets. About 71 condors fly around Arizona and southern Utah, according to the U.S. Forest Service.

South of Zion, at the Vermillion Cliffs National Monument in Arizona,  condors are released into the wild every year and monitored for movement, with attempts made later in the season to recapture the birds to test for lead poisoning. If wildlife biologists are able to catch lead poisoning early, they can treat it. But sadly, every season, they find too many magnificent dead birds.

After listening to the talk for a few minutes, my husband suggested continuing on the West Rim Trail. From Scout’s Landing, we hike for ten minutes or so to an overlook with a good view of Angel’s Landing. Instead of the crowds congregating below us, we were alone, although eventually an older couple joined us. The man had a pair of serious binoculars. With the binoculars, we could make out figures standing at the far edge of Angel’s Landing. We could see other scrambling up another steep pitch that looked very perpendicular.

“Now that how did that hiker get on that pinnacle?” the mans asked, pointing to a narrow pinnacle jutting up from the canyon floor.  “He must have needed ropes and gear to get up that.”

Squinting, I could see something – a figure perched on the pinnacle’s edge, possibly a hiker sitting and dangling his legs. My husband asked for the binoculars.

“That’s not a person,” he said. “That’s a bird.”

California Condor in flight, with tracking tags. Photo via Wikipedia and Creative Commons.

California Condor in flight, with tracking tags. Photo via Wikipedia and Creative Commons.

And then, liftoff: a massive California Condor spread its wings and dove into the shadow created by Angel’s Landing, then began to soar upwards in slow circles.

As its circles became wider, the condor drew closer to our view-point. When its wings tipped at an angle, the condor almost looked like a drone coming in for a landing. And then the condor swooped low to the ground, preparing to land, about 20 feet in front of us.

At the last second, the bird picked up a thermal and soared upwards. We watched its ballet for several minutes, until the condor soared downriver through Zion Canyon.

On Angel’s Landing, the hikers were intent on the sandstone slope, clutching the chains, making sure to plant three points of the body on the ground at all times.  They had to focus; they couldn’t afford to let their eyes and minds wander. That’s what I love about hiking–how it demands my full presence in the moment. But at Angel’s Landing, I couldn’t have the hike and the condor.  Something to remember the next time I have to give up or turn back. Where will I see my next condor?

Twlight view of The Watchman, a warm-up hike we did upon arriving at Zion, with the trailhead right behind the Visitor's Center. On this February visit, we saw one other party here at the party -- the advantage of visiting Zion off-season. However, being President's Day weekend, the park was busy, and on Sunday, we were "gated out" of Zion Canyon because the canyon had reached its car capacity (we did get in later that afternoon).

Twilight view of The Watchman, a warm-up hike we did upon arriving at Zion; the trailhead begins behind the Visitor’s Center. On this February visit, we saw one other party on this late-afternoon hike — the advantage of visiting Zion off-season. However, this being President’s Day weekend, the park was busy, and on Sunday, we were “gated out” of Zion Canyon because the canyon had reached its car capacity (we did get in later that afternoon).

 

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After being turned away from the Zion Canyon gate, we drove through the Zion Tunnel to the East Entrance and explored a bit of that side of the park, including the Canyon Overlook  hike (at the East Entrance gate). Although this scene suggests solitude, this short trail was busy with hikers, including many families and young children.

One advantage of a Zion lock-out is that it required us to explore other areas on the eastern side of the Zion Tunnel. Not an official trail here, just a fun spot for climbing around. We did try to get to Observation Point trail from Zion Mountain Ranch, but the dirt road you to take to get to the trailhead was muddy and rutted and/or snow-covered and too much for our rental.

Not an official trail here, just a fun spot for climbing around on the eastern side of the park. We attempted to get to the East Mesa Trail, the easy route to Observation Point which starts out as a dirt road at Zion Mountain Ranch, but the road was muddy, rutted, and/or snow-covered and too much for our rental SUV. The hike to Observation Point, whether from the canyon floor, or via the back route we scouted, is a great alternative to Angel’s Landing.

Sources and resources

“Frequently Asked Questions” for Zion National Park. National Park Service.  Note that more people have died at the bucolic Emerald Pool (typically from slipping and falling) than at Angel’s Landing. Also, a map of Zion hiking trails (most useful as an overview and NOT a trail map).

Outside Magazine‘s list of the world’s 20 most dangerous hikes. Note that New Hampshire’s Mount Washington is on the list along with Angel’s Landing.

 

Gray jays, great day: A fall hike on Mount Waumbek

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Hiking on the Starr King Trail to 4,006-foot Mount Waumbek, it’s hard to believe that this off-the-beaten-path peak once was part of a proposal for a mega-ski resort stretching across several mountains.

On the beautiful Columbus Day weekend when we hiked to Mount Waumbek, cars spilled from every parking lot in Franconia Notch, where thousands of hikers and visitors had converged for the holiday weekend. But just 20 minutes further north, in Jefferson, New Hampshire, Mount Waumbek was lightly travelled by a few parties of a hikers and several resourceful gray jays.

Setting off on the Starr King Trail to Mount Waumbek, for a hike totaling 7.2 miles and about 2,650 vertical feet.

Setting off on the Starr King Trail to Mount Waumbek, for a hike totaling 7.2 miles and about 2,650 vertical feet. I like it when I arrive at parking lot on a holiday weekend and find plenty of empty spaces.

Back in 1962, the Lancaster Development Corporation proposed a massive 5,000-acre  resort, capped by a hotel on Mount Starr King, famous today among hikers for its chimney, the remnants of a small shelter that once stood on its summit.  The plan called for six lifts, including a tram, with northwest-facing slopes in the Willard basin on the north side of the Kilkenny Ridge, all accessed via a 2.5 mile road near Lancaster, NH.

1964 rendering of the hotel and tramway proposed for the summit of New Hampshire's Mount Starr King.

1964 rendering of the hotel and tramway proposed for the summit of New Hampshire’s Mount Starr King, which hikers cross en route to Mount Waumbek. Compare this image to the photo below, which shows the remnants of “development” on Starr King. The summit includes a nice flat granite slab  for picnicking, but  would feel crowded if more than a dozen hikers gathered there (Image from New England Ski History)

Looking around the ledgy summit of Mount Starr King, it’s hard to envision where or how a hotel would fit here. It just doesn’t seem that big. Today, the summit of Starr King (2.6 miles from the trailhead) offers wonderful views of the northern side of the Presidentials, including dramatic King Ravine on the back sides of Mounts Madison and Adams.

On Mount Starr King today, everyone take a photo of the chimney, the remnants of a shelter built in the 1940s and dismantled in the 1980s.

On Mount Starr King today, everyone takes a photo of the chimney, the remnants of a shelter built in the 1940s and dismantled in the 1980s.

From Mount Starr King, we continued on the Kilkenny Ridge trail to Mount Waumbek, which is often described as having no views. This assertion is technically correct, but not really true. Minutes from the summit, hikers can take in great views of the Presidentials at an open area caused by blowdowns just off the Kilkenny Ridge Trail. We ate lunch at this spot with two other parties, including a family of four whose two young kids already had hiked all 48 4,000 footers. Just 10 of us, sharing experiences and breathing in the mountains. Ah, Mount Waumbek. An added bonus: the friendly gray jay who eyed us from the spruce trees.

I was also enjoying the relatively ease of hiking to Mount Waumbek, especially after hiking the strenuous Baldface Circle Trail a couple of weeks earlier.  Don’t get me wrong — the hike is not a walk, but offers a nice steady climb upwards without steeps or significant up-and-downs. Mount Waumbek also offers opportunities for backpacking on the Kilkenny Ridge trail.  We were doing the out-and-back hike, so after lunch we headed back to Mount Starr King.

There, we took a break for more photos and noticed the gray jays again. Soon, they were eating out of our hands and off the tops of our heads, swooping in for landings from a variety of angles.

Gray jays are quite at ease with stealing food from humans. As part of their winter survival strategy, they will use sticky saliva to stick food to tree branches that sit above the snowpack line.

Gray jays are quite at ease with stealing food from humans. As part of their winter survival strategy, they will use sticky saliva to stick food to tree branches that sit above the snowpack line.

Jay grays need about 50 calories a day to survive, and will eat just about anything. Our bird buddy must have been stealing and storing, because he definitely grabbed more than 50 calories of granola bar.

Jay grays need about 50 calories a day to survive, and will eat just about anything. Our bird buddy must have been stealing and storing, because he definitely grabbed more than 50 calories of granola bar.

Gray jays are hardy birds that hikers often see throughout the winter. Where would they be, I wonder, if the Willard Basin ski resort had come to pass?

The peaceful Starr King trail in mid-October. Because of the warm fall, the foliage remained vibrant; usually, I'd expect fewer leaves on the maples trees in northern New Hampshire in mid-October.

The peaceful Starr King trail in mid-October. Because of the warm fall, the foliage remained vibrant; usually, I’d expect fewer leaves  in northern New Hampshire by mid-October.

Sources and resources

Information about gray jays comes from the Cornell Lab of Orthnothology.

Thornton, T.D. “Big ideas that never quite peaked.” Boston Globe, December 23, 2010.  Includes information about Willard Basin and the Borderline Ski Resort, which I wrote about in my Baldface Circle Trail post.

“Willard Basin.” New England cancelled ski areas. New England Ski History. More details about Willard Basin and other “cancelled” ski areas. One of the lodge renderings at this site reminds me of the lodge that was built at the now-defunct Evergreen Valley Ski Resort, another big dream New England ski resort that was built in the 1970s and lasted only a few years. See my post, White Elephant in a Green Valley.