Closing Galehead

Closing Galehead

October is a transition month in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, the mild days of early fall give way to the cold rain and winds of the approaching winter. Any long-range plans for hiking or camping require a bit of luck. Mild weather with a late foliage season means traffic choked roads, full campgrounds, and leaf peepers everywhere. On the other hand, it can be bleak and wet with temperatures to put a chill in your bones. With that thought in mind, I made reservations to stay at Galehead Hut for the final weekend of the season in 1986. The reservations, made early in the summer, came with the caveat that lodging for that weekend at Galehead was “weather permitting”, early winter storms could close the facility prematurely.
 
The High Huts of the White Mountains, modeled after the huts in the Alps, sit a day's hike apart along the Appalachian Trail (AT). These full service huts offer breakfast, dinner, and a bunk and blanket, in other words, the opportunity to hike without food and cooking gear, tents and sleeping bags. Lodging and bathrooms are unisex, and like everything else involving the public, what you see is what you get. Who is there and how it goes is like a deck of cards, you take whatever comes up in the shuffle. Galehead Hut sits at 3800 feet on the Garfield Ridge and the closest trailhead approach is a rough five miles away. The closest hut to the west on the AT is Greenleaf Hut, located on a shoulder of Mt. Lafayette above Franconia Notch; to the east on the AT, Zealand Falls Hut sits on its perch above Zealand Notch. Galehead Hut faces south over the Pemigewasset Wilderness; the summit of South Twin stands a steep mile by trail above and to the east. 
 
I had reservations for Saturday and Sunday night, October 11 and 12. Monday was Columbus Day and a work holiday for me. I thought about squeezing in an extra night on Friday, but the traffic would be heavy at the beginning of the holiday weekend, and bad weather would lead to a long slow drive. My plan was to get an early start on that Saturday and drive to the trailhead from southern New Hampshire.

For me, 1986 was a year of many fine excursions and adventures in and around the White Mountains. It was not so fine for others: on August 24 of that year, a hiker died from hypothermia on side of Mt Madison in the Presidential Range. Mt Washington Observatory recorded wind gusts in excess of 120 miles per hour during the time that the life and death drama was taking place a few miles away. Rescuers arrived too late, though what can one do in that kind of wind, in snow and fog, with temperatures hovering around freezing. As the summer drew down I began to look forward to the fall with an optimistic eye, October is a wonderful time to hike in the White Mountains.
 
The weekend finally did arrive and it came in grand style, the forecast was for cool days and crisp nights with little chance of rain. I was ecstatic. Friday night I put my daypack together: trail snacks for energy, a hooded parka for wind and rain, extra polypro clothing. I also carried shorts, wool pants, gaiters, wide brim hiking hat, 2 nalgene water containers of a liter each., and assorted personal necessities (toilet paper, aspirin, tums, sunglasses, flashlight, knife, Band-Aids, etc). Looking forward to a convivial dining room and a receptive and appreciative group, I also had some things to share: chunks of dark chocolate, and in plastic bottles, Pusser’s Navy rum and a fine blended port. I also had some decent small cigars in a plastic case.

Saturday morning arrived and I rose early and quickly had coffee brewing. I stepped out on the balcony of my apartment; the air was clear and brisk with a night sky full of stars. After a shower, I downed a quick breakfast, filled a thermos with coffee, and grabbed my gear; it was time to go. With stops, I took a little over three hours to drive to the trailhead from Hooksett. Stepping off around 7:30 on a chilly morning, I started out fast to generate some warmth and soon had a sweat going. In about 3 hours, I was at the hut. I checked in with the hut master and stashed some gear on the bunk of my choosing. I relaxed outside with some lemonade and trail snacks.
 
After a rest, I climbed the Frost Trail to the wooded summit of Galehead Mountain. Returning I continued on the Garfield Ridge towards Mt Garfield, the breast-like shape rising to the rocky nipple tip looming up before me. I stopped on the ridge trail at a promontory with some fine views and lay down in the sun out of the wind. I remembered the trip some years earlier when Bob and I left the 13 Falls campsite in a hard rain and climbed to the lean-to below the summit of Garfield in almost no visibility during a May blizzard. The steep trail up Garfield that day was a cold cascade of flowing water freezing our hands and feet. I remembered how I felt when the shape of the lean-to came into view through the driving snow.
 
I returned to the hut in plenty of time for dinner. I was tired now; it had been a long day. I met some people traveling on to Zealand Falls Hut, and others who were going on to Greenleaf. Dinner was quiet with little conversation and not a lot of camaraderie, or perhaps I was just too tired. Every night and every group is different. After dinner, I sat alone outside, washed down a couple of aspirin with a large hot rum and lemonade, and smoked a cigar. In the early darkness, I found the way to my bunk and soon felt the joy of being horizontal with my boots off and nothing left to do, nor any place left to go. I was soon asleep.
 
Breakfast was early and had a sense of business to it. This was the last trail day for hikers to move between huts, and tonight would be the last night for the season. Most people would head out tomorrow morning and make their way back to the daily grind. The breakfast tables soon emptied, and people were getting their gear together and making a last stop in the toilet. I did the same. I left some of my clothes and personal items on my bunk and made a light pack with water and snacks. Soon I was out in the coolness and climbing east towards South Twin.  
 
It was a steep climb to the summit, but I was in no rush. The view from the top is wonderful, one of the best in the Whites. The mountain itself seems nondescript from the distance, but the views west across the ridge to Garfield and Lafayette, south over Guyot to the Bonds, and east to Zealand and the Presidential Range beyond are superb. After taking the Twinway to Guyot, I returned to South Twin and took the spur trail over to North Twin. On the way, I found an incredible view down to the hut and across the Garfield Ridge. After taking photos, I took a long break and had some snacks and water. Later, I shouldered my pack and began the hike back to South Twin.
 
Arriving back on the summit, I met a group of eight hikers coming from Zealand, 4 men and 4 women (2 of the couples were married). We introduced ourselves warmly, and marveled over the fineness of the weather. One of them handed me a large flask of wine and I took a drink as I shared my story of driving to the trailhead yesterday. They drove up on Friday and left a car at the trailhead where I had my truck parked, and drove another vehicle over to Crawford Notch. They spent two nights at Zealand Falls Hut. On Saturday, the group hiked Tom, Field and Willey. They told me they had closed Galehead before, and liked the smaller group usually found there, as both Zealand and Greenleaf were close to major roads and parking areas and many people planned their trips to end at one or the other. I thought about that for a minute and it made sense; I was a loner with one vehicle so I was not making a circuit, and from what I could ascertain last night at dinner, not many of those people would be staying over. Many hikers enjoyed staying at a hut on closing night. After a little more wine, the friendly group continued down towards the hut to check-in and relax before dinner. I lingered awhile alone on the summit taking in the views before getting to my feet and shouldering my pack, and making my way back down the trail.
 
I arrived back at the hut and put on some dry underwear, camp shoes and light clothes as the hut was warm from bodies and cooking activities. A group in the kitchen was making some noise, so I went in to investigate. The hut master had a small portable radio propped up near a window and a group of six or seven people had gathered around it to listen to the Red Sox playoff game. I had met several of the men earlier on the summit of South Twin and I said hello. The spot by the window was the only place where the radio could receive the dim signal from the station broadcasting the game, and static and noise occasionally interrupted the action. It was Game 5 against the California Angels and the Red Sox were in danger of elimination. It was the ninth inning and the Angels were leading 5-2. Buckner led off with a single and this got an appreciative round of cheers from the small assembly. One out later Don Baylor hit one over the fence and the crowd in the kitchen erupted. Others now joined, and soon we had all the men and most of the women standing in the kitchen. After another out, a pitch hit Gedman and he went to first base. The Angels went to their closer, Donny Moore, to finish it off while, at the plate, Dave Henderson awaited the pitch. The count went to 2-2.
 
“Here’s the pitch, he swings ….scrch ….pop ….crackle ….foul ball” came the broken play-by-play and static from the radio. Everyone was quiet and on their toes, leaning in to the radio. The Sox were one strike away from the end of their season. “Moore is ready, here’s the pitch, Henderson swings AND IT’S A DEEP DRIVE ….scrchhh …..pop ….crackle …..BACK GOES …..pop ….. crackle  .....ITS GONE!” Now the kitchen really erupted as the Sox led 6 to 5.. After an out, the Angels came to bat in the bottom of the ninth. Incredibly, they scratched out a run to tie, the game was now going into extra innings.
 
After the ninth inning, a long commercial break followed, and a quick spurt of motion as people went for the bathrooms and their packs. A bottle of wine appeared on the counter, then another. I put down my plastic bottle of rum and set the lemonade made by the hut master next to it. A bottle of fine Bourbon and several more bottles of wine appeared on the counter as well. Someone distributed juice glasses to the crowd and a round of toasts soon followed. Plates piled high with assorted nuts, crackers, and cheeses dotted the counters, all the drinks and appetizers packed in and shared by the assembled guests. Soon the place was in a fine roar and the hut master was facing a dilemma: he was required to serve dinner at an appointed hour but was already late, and almost every guest was now jammed into the kitchen, standing or sitting on the counters, listening to the game on the small radio.
 
“I never served dinner late all year,” lamented the hut master sheepishly to the room as he quaffed a large glass of chardonnay.
 
“What’re they gonna do, fire yuh?” asked one, eliciting a roar of laughter from everyone gathered in the crowded kitchen before the last dinner on the last night of the season.
 
We may have been at a high hut in the White Mountains but at that moment, the hut was as fine a Boston sports bar as any near Fenway Park. I looked out into the dining area, two groups of women hikers sat on benches quietly talking as they waited for dinner. The hut master walked out to talk with them, and asked if they would be upset if dinner was late. A halo of faces followed the question from the kitchen doorway. In the spirit of the occasion, they deferred to those enjoying the game and said it was all right with them. We hailed their assent with a cheer and quickly had a glass of wine delivered to all. The guests that night included no scout groups with fickle leaders or families with children of various ages to cater to, just a group of hikers and Sox fans of the right mix, thrown together on a special day and at a special place, looking for a reason to party and let loose. And we did.  
 
The Sox won the game in the 11th inning; Henderson hit a sacrifice fly and the Boston bullpen preserved the win. After several rounds of toasts, the hut master pleaded with us to exit, and we finally left the kitchen for the dining room. We found seats on the long benches on each side of the four long dining room tables. More bottles of wine appeared on the tables, and everyone had another glass.

Dinner was great, and it was the whole nine yards: soup and salad, chicken and potato, vegetables, gravy, home made bread. We enjoyed a gala feast and the mood was loud and fun. The hut master had prepared a dessert as well, and I put out my dark chocolate break and bottle of port for general consumption. Someone else produced a plate of baklava. After clearing the plates from the tables, the conviviality and joy of the dining room continued into the evening. The bar and desserts were left in the center of one table as people relaxed, went for a walk, or out for a cigar in the darkness; all returned at one time or another for a nightcap and for cards or conversation.
 
In the morning came the last meal, a fine repast of pancakes and eggs, bacon and potatoes and pots of coffee and juice. We shared our final meal with the friends we had met the day before. People started to leave in small groups; some were heading to Franconia and Zealand parking areas as well. I did not linger long, I knew I would be tired and the drive a long one in the holiday weekend traffic. Almost everyone had something tied to their backpack for the hut master; things to carry down the mountain and leave in a pile at the parking area. And so it came to end, groups casually hiking down the trail and leaving a load on the pile at the trailhead. Reaching the cars, people said their good-byes and shook hands. I gave one fellow a lift to Franconia Notch; he felt he was too tired to hike over Garfield and Lafayette. I was glad to help; Franconia Notch was on my way.
 
I remember many things about that wonderful weekend. Often, it is baseball that brings me back to revisit that magic time spent crammed into the small kitchen in Galehead Hut. In 1986, Buckner made his infamous error against the Mets that cost the Red Sox the World Series. In years to come they usually start this sad story with the remarkable comeback that the Sox made against the Angels in the Championship Series, a comeback in which Buckner played an instrumental part. When they do, I am back in the mountains of New Hampshire with a special group of strangers reliving that night of Game 5, and the weekend around it. Laughing with new friends, enjoying the mountains, breaking the rules and laughing some more, sharing such a special moment in time.

The years go by.        

Laudizen King