New Hampshire’s Little Giants
My pursuit of the 48, as they are known in the hiking community, began several years ago. Though I’ve been an avid hiker most of my life, living just a stone’s throw from the White Mountains of New Hampshire, I never intentionally set out to conquer all 48 four-thousand-foot peaks until I returned home from New York City. Incidentally, through various outdoor programs, weekend trips and friendly forays into the hills, I had actually bagged a few of the greater-known mountains, but it has fast become a goal-oriented exploration of my bigger backyard, especially now with the uncertainty of international travel and the more local focus of my social circle.
Last weekend, my hiking buddy Andy and I set off for Mountain Liberty and Flume in the Franconia Range of the Whites. This represents my 10th and 11th four-thousand-footer, whereas Andy is now somewhere in the 20s. This weekly hiking routine has become more and more common for me since the outbreak of Covid, mostly because I can’t get to the gym, but perhaps more profoundly because if I don’t get outside I begin to get a little weird. Neither Andy nor I seem particularly rushed to complete this challenge as we will often find ourselves learning of a great hike that is not on the list; the intention seems simply to spend our time away from work and connecting with a greater sense of ourselves, whatever that looks like.
Peak bagging is its own unique pursuit. It is made up of a diverse group of weekend warriors that live somewhere between the 9 to 5 and the hermetic life of Thoreau and Muir. Take my buddy Chris, a mild-mannered computer analyst by day with two kids and a house in Forest Lakes, New Jersey. But every year (sometimes multiple times a year) Chris makes the 7 hour drive up to the Whites to chip away at the 48. The guy is a beast on the trail and has turned half of his close circle of family and friends on to hiking. We’ve already booked our stay at the Crawford Notch Lodge in late August to bag Solitude, Carrigan and Moosilauke, Chris’ three final peaks before he gets his patch. For us peak-baggers, distance is less the factor than conquering obstacles, which makes us particularly adept at creative problem-solving and planning, though that skill is refined over time. We come from various walks of life but hold several traits in common. More on that in a minute.
I find this weekly reprieve not only centering, but essential for my mental health. I have a propensity to want to do everything and so I struggle with time management. Let me say, I truly love my work. Telling stories and creating media is something that satisfies me on both on a professional and spiritual level. The fact that I’m currently pursuing a project that unites so many of my passions, namely meeting people, food and the great outdoors, makes it easy to give myself away to work-weeks of 70-80 hours.
My parents, who are insanely supportive, if to a fault, always told my siblings and I, “find something you enjoy doing and you’ll never work a day in your life.” And while I agree with the spirit of that statement, those who truly love what they do can struggle with lack of balance and sometimes start to burn out. In fact, burnout has become a cornerstone of American life, especially in the last several decades. With the cost of living continuing to rise while income levels have completely stagnated, you often hear of people, even those who hate their jobs, working upwards of 60 hours a week. It is no wonder there is so much frustration in this country. We have lost our sense of play.
The funny thing about these weekly adventures is they make me more productive. It gives me a chance to relieve the stress that accumulates during the week as well as sweat out any toxins I’ve picked up from my unhealthy habits (too much caffeine). I also get a chance to be a bit more reflective and gain new perspective, both metaphorically and literally. Let me tell you: there is nothing that makes you feel as humble as a hot pursuit up a four-thousand-footer or satisfying as the 360-degree view from the top on clear day. And when you get the rare opportunity to have the summit to yourself, like we did on Friday, there is no better way to savor a stolen moment and feel removed from the fray of the stresses of modern life.
Danger…Rerouting
The trip to the Liberty Basin parking lot gave Andy and I enough time to plan our pursuit. Our original intention had been to traverse the Franconia Ridge, which includes a two mile stretch of exposed trail from Little Haystack to Mount Lafayette. However, mountain forecasts had shifted enough to include a chance of thunderstorms, leaving us in a precarious position: run the ridge and risk turning back, or alter the destination, and have a bailout plan below tree line. The last place you want to be if lightning hits is halfway across a two mile stretch of exposed trail.
Each year, many hikers fall victim to the folly of underestimating the high peaks in the Northeast. The Greens, Whites and Adirondacks all fall well below their cousins to the west, which gives hikers a false sense of security. It’s often forgotten that Mt. Washington, less than 20 miles from our current destination, has the highest recorded winds ever measured on the planet, that being an estimated 231 mph (this just being the last recorded speed before the anemometer was literally ripped off its stanchion at the observatory and carried off into the surrounding wilderness).
Northeasterners take great pride in the weather forecast each winter when temperatures atop Mt. Washington will sometimes dip lower than the surface of Mars. Since Washington reaches significantly higher than its neighboring peaks, it creates its own extreme weather systems, a little-known fact to tourists trundling out on a misadventure. Many hundreds of people have needed rescue from the mountain, and many hundreds more have suffered a much grimmer fate. Each year the stories from the mountain report another lost soul who miscalculated a fast-moving weather system or simply plummeted from the side of the peak. Mt. Washington is considered the deadliest peak in the lower 48. What we lack in height, we make up for in extremity. I always find this to be an apt analogy to our mentality concerning work, wearing it like a badge of honor, rather than a scarlet letter.
After much consternation, and a somewhat trepidatious trip up I-93 through the notch, the rolling grey clouds that hemmed in the two sides of the canyon got the better of us and, it still being early in the season, we made the safe choice and corrected our heading for Mount Liberty. The first mile in approach to the uphill section of the Liberty Brook Trail is a hiker’s paradise. Rolling hills along well-traveled forest floor provide soft footfalls and the lack of any significant obstacles lulls hikers into a false sense of confidence. Once you’ve gotten past the last stream crossing and your legs have warmed up, the trail makes a hard turn, pursuing an almost vertical path up the face of the Franconia Range, strewn with a densely congested loose-rock footbed. The next two miles tests both the physical and mental limits of even the most experienced hiker as all you can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other, needing lateral movement and precision to hold your balance.
Hiker-types
Despite the excruciating uphill climb, we were ushered on with the promise of an uninhibited view from the top as described by some of the early peak baggers that were already making their descent. Urging us on with positive (yet realistic) affirmation, they now merrily skipped down the trail, letting gravity do more of the work. That is one of the things I love about hiking. There is an immediate familiarity with those that have been doing it for a while. You can always tell who these people are by trail etiquette alone. Smiles on their faces as they round the corner to meet your gaze, yielding the uphill and anxious to engage, if only just briefly. Peak baggers are distinctive from both novice and thru-hikers in both demeanor and energy level. Novice hikers stick out in most cases, their aversion to interface and lack of etiquette makes them easily identifiable, as if they are thinking, if not openly saying, “What the hell am I doing out here?” Perhaps already mentally at the bar, with cold beer in hand, or filling their bathtub after the long day. If only their body would get them there faster. There is little sense of joy or wonder at the actual activity, at least after the first mile or so.
Thru-hikers conversely can seem quite distant for an entirely different reason. And rightly so. Most of them have been on the trail for months by the time they reach the Whites and are closing in on Katahdin, their final destination. They are distinctive in both physicality and pack size (I’m still unsure how a hundred-pound hiker can have a pack that looks to weigh as much as they do) and can oftentimes be accompanied by that earthy aroma that only a week on the trail can produce.
Don’t get me wrong, they are majestic creatures and should be admired, not admonished. Their commitment to their pursuit, steely demeanor and distant gaze has transformed them into a much deeper spiritual creature than us peak baggers. An offering of chocolate or animal protein can sometimes coax them out of their trance-like pilgrimage long enough to share some of their stories, which is always well worth it. You just have to know how to pick your opportunity.
Into the High Country
Conversation certainly becomes tricky as you gain altitude and enter the rocky minefields of the high country. Needing to focus all of your mental faculty on your footfalls becomes an active meditation, one that includes little room for much else, including the now trivial minutia of modern life. It all just melts away, along with the winter layer of insulation most northeasterners have picked up during the long winter. Direct ascent has a way of cleansing the mind and body, like the tempering of iron, until one is left in midsummer with the powerful stride of a racehorse and the mental clarity of a monk.
Before the last push to the tree line, and after a passing shower threatened the whole operation, we came upon a mountain spring and two young hikers taking a respite in the shade of the damp rock outcropping. Taking a much-needed water break and a chance to assess the situation, we found ourselves in a particularly magical setting. The Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) has constructed a scattered camp area nestling around the trail, festooned with wooden platforms that serve as level tent sites. Due to the slope of the surrounding area, some of these platforms soar high enough off the ground to give the illusion of an indigenous treetop village. Couple that with the hand-carved spruce spigot that acts as the site’s water source and it evokes images of an Ewok village or Robin Hood’s Sherwood hideaway. By this time, the dull roar of interstate 93 had evaporated and the only sounds outside our conversation were calls of the Bicknell’s Thrushand Pine Siskin that inhabit the hillside coupled with the gentle trickle of spring water emerging from the rock.
Not that we needed any more motivation to the summit, but the description of its beauty along with the report that it was unattended from the two young hikers, propelled us onto the last 3/10 of a mile. Crossing paths with a small group of twenty-somethings briefly descending from their journey around the Pemigawasset loop to refill their water, we forged ahead. A quick scramble up a rock-face burst us from the tree line, revealing a 360-degree view that brought us up short. The crowded foliage now lay beneath us like an earth-tone blanket as we stared out in wonder, scanning the area we had covered. I took the opportunity to retrieve my new toy, a GoPro Hero 8 camera I had received in the mail the previous day.Switching it on to record the last 500 feet of trail to the peak, we were welcomed by a lone soaring crow, enjoying the warm updrafts of thermal air rushing from the valley below.
We are not the only species in need of play. The bird’s intentions did not seem particularly objective driven. Rather, the simple enjoyment of his miraculous gift of flight was all he seemed interested in. By not fighting against the breeze, he was simply content to relinquish himself to it, holding for a few seconds, suspended in place and time. As we reached the apex, he gently disappeared behind a rock outcropping, as if yielding the uphill to allow us to enjoy the summit in solitude. He was obviously a veteran peak bagger. Had he been there only to enjoy the phenomenal view as well, or to share his story with us? Either way, the poetry of his presence gave way to a contemplative state for both Andy and me as we stood awestruck for many minutes without saying a word. Sometimes the greatest stories are told in vision and not language, reminding me once more how blessed I am in my pursuits.
Epilogue
Many of the great minds in conservation have taken to hiking as not only a means of connecting with a greater sense of the natural world but as a contemplative exercise that helps them remember where we come from and to what we belong. As Timmothy Goodwin said, “We do not own the woods, the woods own us.” In fact, hiking was such an essential act for the greatest environmental mind of this age, Henry David Thoreau, he actually wrote an entire treatise on the subject entitled “Walking,” a book I highly recommend to anyone interested in hiking and the outdoors. In it, he reminds us how the act of walking reconnects us with our own wildness and the spring of spiritual vitality that is stolen from us in our sedentary modern life.
It may help to remind ourselves of this fact before it is too late. Before we lose that deeper sense of our true selves and are completely overtaken by an automated and largely urbanized lifestyle. And nature is a perfect place to begin building a more humane and civilized discourse on so many fronts, be they economic, environmental or, dare I say, political. Whether we are seasoned veterans of the great outdoors or just enjoy the beauty from afar, nature speaks to us all on a biological level. We just need to be there to hear what it says.