Carter Notch in Winter, the First Trip

Carter Notch in Winter, the First Trip

My first trip to Carter Notch Hut in winter was a memorable one. Above all, there was the great unknown of hiking in the White Mountains in winter. The impetus for the trip was Martin Hughes, one of the British information technology consultants that I worked with in Manchester, New Hampshire. He had been doing some hiking in the Whites, and I had talked to him about some of the trails and areas that I had found memorable and enjoyable. I also mentioned that I was contemplating a stay at one of the two AMC huts that remained open through the winter. The hut would provide a common room with a fully equipped kitchen, and sleeping quarters would be in an unheated bunkhouse.  Around Halloween, in response to his urging, I made reservations for four people to spend a weekend at Carter Notch Hut in early December, 1985.
 
Martin would take his wife along. This was interesting in itself because they were in the process of getting divorced. I asked a friend from work to make the trip. With the participants now set, we began our preparations and looked forward to the day of the great adventure.
 
On the Wednesday before the trip, my friend had to drop out because of a personal matter. Then Martin told me that he and his wife would be staying in Gorham the night before the trip. Gorham was north of Mt Washington, as well as the Nineteen Mile Brook trailhead, our entryway for the four-mile hike up into Carter Notch. The plans now changed. Martin would be calling me on Friday night to give me the number of his motel. I would then call him on Saturday morning during my drive up; when I was in the White Mountains, I would call Martin to make final plans of when to meet them at the trailhead.
 
These events were distressing, and I wondered if the trip would happen at all. A storm was now forecast to hit the White Mountains on Saturday, and I would now have to negotiate a long solo drive in the storm as well. I had serious misgivings. Friday night came and, as promised, Martin called from Gorham and gave me the phone number of his motel. I asked him if this was really going to happen, because I did not want to make the long drive to the trailhead in a storm if he and his wife were going to cancel. He said that they were excited about the trip and committed to it. That was enough for me.
 
“Tomorrow, I’ll try to get out of the house before 5:30,” I said. “I’ll call you around 7:00 or 7:30 tomorrow morning when I am in the southern mountains, and then we’ll make our final arrangements.”  With that plan of attack agreed to, I set about performing the last preparations and packing.
 
Shortly after, the phone rang again; it was a friend of mine calling from Connecticut, Frank. “Hey!” he said. “What’s happening? My wife has gone to visit some friends so I was thinking of taking a ride up. How does that sound? Are you doing anything this weekend?”
 
“Man,” I said, “you’re timing is perfect. Grab your winter gear and your backpack and drive up here now, this instant.” I related the whole story to Frank, where we were going and with who, what to expect at the hut, the reservations and the cancellation of my friend. “I’ve got food all set, just bring something to drink and to share. You know the drill.” Frank did indeed know the drill; he was an experienced outdoorsman and an avid hunter.
 
“Okay,” he said. “I’m in.”
 
“Have you had dinner tonight?” I asked.
 
“No.”
 
“Well, just get your gear together and drive up. I’ll have dinner ready when you get here. And perhaps an ice cold Martini as well.”
 
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he replied. We said goodbye and I set the phone in the cradle.
 
What can one say about such friends? Anyone who would join in on a winter adventure like this with no advance notice was a good man indeed. A person could not have enough such friends in their life.
 
I knew it would take about three hours for Frank to show up. He was coming up from Connecticut, and it would take him a while to get his gear together. I took some spaghetti sauce out of the freezer and set about getting that defrosted, and then simmering slowly on the stovetop. I made a small salad and got some bread and butter out on the table, and opened a nice cabernet and set it on the counter to breathe. Then I made myself a nice crisp Martini with a lemon twist, and stepped out on my balcony and into the dark to check out the weather and relax.
 
Frank arrived about 11:00pm. I met him at the door and we shook hands. He had carried his backpack up into the apartment, now he slipped it off his back and set it against a wall. We then had a drink together. Both Frank and I appreciated a well-made Martini. I got dinner on the table and afterwards, I enjoyed a cigar and Frank smoked his pipe as we chatted about past adventures. It was after 1:00am when we turned off the light and tried to sleep, thinking about the big day to come.
 
The 4:45am alarm came dreadfully early. I put coffee on and looked outside. There was a light mix of precipitation. We had coffee and filled a thermos with some more for the drive. We put our packs in the back of my 4-wheel drive pickup and headed out for the highway. It was a little after 5:45am.
 
We made our way due north on the highway. When we approached Franconia Notch, we were both struck by the deep purple color pervading the notch, and we wondered what could be causing such a hue. We quickly found out. As we drove up through the famous landmark, we were engulfed by a storm that alternated between hail and a hail-laden sleet. I pulled over near a pay phone to call Martin; there was about three inches of slush on the ground. It was truly miserable. I looked back at Frank sitting in the dry comfort of the truck, laughing at me as I stood outside in the mixed deluge.
 
Martin and I quickly made arrangements to meet between 9:30 and 10:00 at the trailhead. Frank and I continued up through the notch. In Twin Mountain, we stopped for Danish and refilled the thermos with coffee. I told Frank that it should be colder up by Mt Washington so, with luck, we would not be hiking up in this terrible wet mess. We continued on to Crawford Notch and went through and down the other side. After Crawfords, we headed north on Rte 16. The sleet and hail was now a light snow. We pulled into the parking area to see Martin and his wife waiting in their car.
 
With no fanfare, we got our packs ready and hoisted them to our backs, and headed up the trail. There were no other cars parked here but ours, and there were no fresh tracks in the snow on the trail; it was a little past 10:00 am. We came to the icy wall above the partially frozen brook, and we gingerly went over the slick traverse one person at a time. We plodded through the snow and crossed a couple of log bridges. Up before us, almost in slow motion, a great dead tree trunk fell over on the hillside with a great crash and an explosion of snow.
 
We now labored up the steep section of the trail. On and on, foot in front of foot, we continued up through the snow and cold. We came to a spot where firewood was stacked near the trail; a sign said everyone heading to the hut was expected to bring at least one piece. We all obliged. A little farther on and we crossed the height of land, the lowest point of the narrow ridge that connected Wildcat A and Carter Dome, and the highest point reached by this trail. We continued down the other side and followed the trail that soon crossed the frozen lakes and rose up gently to the hut. It had taken us four hours to reach it.
 
We went inside the first door and kicked the snow off our boots over the grate in the floor provided for that purpose. We opened the second door and went inside the hut proper. It was primarily one large room; the kitchen was off to the right, and four picnic tables sat to the left. Above the tables hung empty drying racks, suspended by ropes tied to the walls. There was a closed door on the far side of the room; no one else was there. It was cold inside the hut. A wood stove stood near the center. We dropped our packs and placed our firewood in the pile next to the stove. Frank knelt at the stove and opened the door to reveal a cold and dark interior. He wadded up a piece of paper and put it inside, then another.
 
The door opened and in stepped a younger man, his long hair spread out in a fan from underneath his winter hat. Frank looked up from his knees. “Nice hair,” Frank said.
 
“Didn’t you see that sign?” the man said, pointing.
 
The sign above the stove said that no one was to touch the stove except the hut master, and no fires were to be lit before 3:00pm.
 
“It’s almost 2:30, and it’s cold,” said Frank, avoiding the answer.
 
“No one’s going to die,” said the longhaired stranger.
 
“Who’re you?” asked Frank.
 
“I’m the hut master, Tim.”
 
“Way to go, Frank,” I said.  “Way to make a good impression with management. That didn’t take you too long.”
 
Everyone laughed, and the situation was diffused. We introduced ourselves to Tim, who showed he was a good sport by sharing a laugh with us, and he signed us in. “Why don’t you guys go and change at the bunkhouse?” Tim asked. “Bring your wet clothes back down to hang ‘em in here. By the time you get back, it will be time to light a fire.” We showed our agreement by getting our packs on. “I’ve only got a few more reservations,” Tim said. “Take any room, separate rooms, if you want to.”
 
We went outside the door and turned left to follow the path up past the outhouse and up to the two unheated and un-insulated bunkhouses. The one on the left faced down the notch to the east, the one on the right faced the north towards the jumbled rocks of the Ramparts and Carter Dome. Each bunkhouse had four rooms and slept twenty people each, two rooms that slept six in three bunk beds, and two rooms with two bunk beds. There was a covered porch that ran the length of each building.
 
Frank and I took a room with two bunks, and took the bottom bed of each. It was cold, but we stripped down and put on dry clothes, and we put out our sleeping bags. I grabbed my food bag, plastic drink containers, and wet clothes. Frank grabbed his clothes and some supplies from his pack as well. We went down to the hut.
 
We hung our clothes on the racks, and raised them up into the rafters. Tim got the stove going, and we all soon had cocktails in front of us. We put out cheese and crackers, smoked oysters and sardines. Inside, the hut was never hot. But we had dry clothes on our bodies, and we were basking in the comfort of the evening with drinks and appetizers. Two other small groups arrived, and joined as at the communal tables.
 
Frank and I took our drinks and went outside for a smoke. Frank prepared his pipe with tobacco and we chatted as we smoked. There was a small birdfeeder outside the door, and chickadees were fluttering through the trees. Frank took some feed and put it on his fingers. He held out his hand, palm up. A chickadee flew down to land on the end of his finger and peck at the offered food. I did the same, and a small delicate thing alighted on the tip of my finger, the grasp of its small feet almost imperceptible on my skin. It was beautiful.
 
We had a large dinner of meatloaf stuffed with spinach, macaroni and cheese, and crusty bread and butter. There was fine wine to be had, as well. After dinner, we talked and told stories until the lids were heavy and the yawns more frequent. Eventually, only Frank and I were left at the table talking, everyone else had retired to their beds. We put our food bag on a shelf, and left the warmth of the hut and headed to our cold bunkhouse for some much needed sleep.
 
We entered our cold room and sat down on our beds facing each other. Frank lit a flashlight and reached into his pack, he pulled out a large can of beer that had been wrapped in wool to keep it from freezing. “Wanna split this?” he asked quietly.
 
“Why not,” I whispered back.
 
“How about a final bowl?” he asked, pulling out his pipe and his Carter Hall tobacco. He filled the bowl about half way. I opened the beer, the crack of the pop-top sounded like a rifle shot in the quiet night of the notch. Frank lit his pipe and the soft red glow grew in the bowl. He turned off the flashlight and handed me the pipe. I took a few puffs of the mild and aromatic mixture. Frank took a long pull on the beer and handed it back to me; the beer was ice cold. I passed the pipe back to Frank. I saw the inside of the bowl glow red as my eyelids slid slowly down over my eyes.
 
“WOOP, WOOP, WOOP, WOOP,” came the screeching wail of the smoke alarm. I sprang for the door and stood there rapidly opening and closing it, the alarm continuing to scream in the night. I could hear other voices in other rooms. Frank and I were laughing.
 
“What is it?” “Is there a fire?”  “What’s going on?” These and more came from the dark night around us.
 
“It’s all right, just me and Frank,” I said to the general darkness.
 
“No smoking in the bunkrooms, you assholes,” came one indignant voice in the dark.
 
“Sorry,” I said, laughing.
 
The offending noise finally abated, and quiet once again descended on the notch. In a few minutes, we were both asleep as well.
 
Soon, our trip was over and we went back to our workaday worlds. The hike out was uneventful and, after reaching the cars, Martin and his wife went their way, and Frank and I left for my apartment. In the future, there would be many more winter trips to Carter Notch. Now that I had seen the layout and knew what to expect, I could organize a trip that my friends would really enjoy.
 
But that first trip was so very special. There was the special appreciation that I felt for Frank, and how grateful I was that he so readily threw his lot in with me on that winter adventure. There will always be a special place in my heart for Frank in regards to that.
 
I have also related the smoke alarm story many times over the years, and it always gets a laugh. I start to chuckle just thinking about it, and I tell it with such relish and reverence for the setting.
 
There is one more special memory from that trip that I carry with me as well. That is the memory of that chickadee, of feeling those delicate little feet as they grasped the end of my finger to peck at the food in my hand, a soft and beautiful moment. I haven’t forgotten about that, either.

Laudizen King