Mountain Pond and Carter Dome

Mountain Pond and Carter Dome

Mountain Pond was one of the favored destinations for those of us who worked together during my years in New Hampshire. The pond is near Jackson and Intervale, so the campsite is close to the creature comforts of the White Mountains. The trailhead was off a parking area on the Slippery Brook Road. From the parking lot, a trail led to the pond that was a short half-mile away. A trail junction sat just before the water, going left would take you around the north shore of the pond, turning right would take one along the south shore. The trail into the pond was flat and wide enough to allow a group to easily portage canoes in for the weekend.

Legend had it that Frank Corden first discovered the camping spot we would use and enjoy over the years, but it was Bill Haddad and Brock Anderson who made Mountain Pond famous in our circle of friends. To reach the magic spot, one would hike to the trail junction and turn right for the south shore of the pond. After following along the the western side of the pond, the trail crossed a brook over a small bridge, and eventually turned due east along the southern shore. Like all New Hampshire Trails, the going was rough and rocky in spots, and occasionally slippery, from either water or moss, or the angles formed by the jumbled rocks. The trail was rarely on the bank; usually it was ten or fifteen feet from the shore.

About a mile and a half from the car, the trail passed a small opening on the left that was close to the waterline. South Baldface Mountain was visible across the pond, three or four miles to the north. On the right was a hollow in which some trees had fallen during a storm. If you followed a small and nondescript trail through the fallen debris, you finally came to the remains of an old road on top of a gentle rise. It was about one hundred feet from the pond to the campsite, and in the verdant summer foliage, you could not see the camp from the shore (though you could sure hear it). Although now overgrown, the old roadbed was flat enough to string out tents in a line. In one large open area, we built a fire ring, and we designated the area downhill to the west as the latrine. Mountain Pond was a great place to party, the camp was private and did not receive a lot of foot traffic; it was the perfect place to both swim and canoe. At dusk the loons would come, their haunting cries echoing across the lake.
 
The easiest way to make camp was to portage the coolers, tents, cookware and personal gear to the lake, and then use canoes to ferry everything to the campsite. Each summer we would organize four or five Mountain Pond weekends. Some of these were large events, with fifteen or twenty people camping and partying for the weekend.
 
On one particularly hot summer weekend in 1987, a large group had gathered at the pond for a long weekend of water sports and late night campfires. I asked Dan and his wife Moe if they felt like taking a hike the next day, perhaps somewhere up near Mt Washington where the air might be cooler. Moe replied in the affirmative, and Dan agreed to make the trip as well. We soon had a carload willing to go.
 
I awoke early with a bit of a hangover and a dry mouth. The campfire had gone late into the night, and the sounds of sleepers came from the five or six tents set up along the flat. I made powdered lemonade and washed down a couple of aspirin. Moe and Dan were among the group that shared the large canvas tent; I woke them as quietly as possible. When everyone was up, we had coffee and made up our daypacks, and then set off by trail for the parking lot. Even now, the air was warm for this early in the morning. I worked up a bit of a sweat as we quickly hiked the mile and a half out to the car. I wore nylon shorts, the kind with a mesh lining similar to a bathing suit; you could swim in them and they dried quickly. I also had on a polypro T-shirt and hiking boots.
 
We stopped in town for coffee and a hot breakfast, and then drove up rte 16 to the north. Since we all were tired and had a bit of a hangover, we decided not to attempt a long arduous hike high into the Presidential Range. We also knew that, later in the day, we faced an additional hike back into our camp by the pond before dark. After discussing some options, we decided on Carter Dome. We would first hike up to Zeta Pass and then make our way to the 4830' summit. From there, we would continue south to Pulpit Rock. From the rock, the trail plunged steeply down into Carter Notch. This would give us the opportunity to see the notch and the ramparts from high above the floor. We had been to Carter Notch Hut in the winter, but had not gone through the notch together in the summer. We drove up rte 16 and passed through Pinkham Notch, where the AMC parking lots were full. We continued down rte 16 on the other side of Pinkham Notch and parked at the Nineteen Mile Brook trailhead.

We stretched and got our packs together. I carried an extra T-shirt, a light wind or rain parka, food and snacks, 2 cans of soda and a couple of quarts of water. We were soon ready and started out. We came to a spot where the trail passed below a small rock wall next to the brook, this was tame and pleasant compared to the icy obstacle that this stretch of trail represented in the winter. We reached the trail junction where the Carter Dome Trail diverged left, and we followed that up the side of the mountain. The trail quickly became steeper, and then followed some switchbacks up into the wild and windblown area called Zeta Pass, the low point between South Carter and Mt Hight, where it joined the Carter Moriah Trail.
 
Having climbed to about 3900’, we took a long break in the pass. Mountain cols and passes are always so wild and interesting; it is such a pleasure to spend time in them. The pass is wooded, but the conifers were small and oddly formed as the pass must surely be a savage place in the dead of winter. We had worked up a real sweat as well, and now was a good time to rest and have some refreshment. After lunch, we continued towards Carter Dome, leaving the Carter Moriah Trail when the Carter Dome Trail diverged on the right. The trail followed a long slab up towards the ridge leading to Carter Dome, and this approach was much easier than making the steep ascent of Mt Hight first, and then going across the ridge to Carter Dome. Through the trees on our right, we could barely see Mt Washington and the Northern Presidential Range through the hot summer haze. Eventually we gained the ridge and stood at the summit of Carter Dome.
 
Though trees partially obscured the rounded summit, plenty of rocks were available and, if you stood on them, they afforded an excellent view of the surrounding mountains. Even though we were above 4800’, the air was still and warm; I was soaked from sweat. We continued, now on the Carter Moriah Trail, towards Carter Notch, and we soon reached the point where the trail descended steeply into the notch itself. Pulpit Rock was on our left, a veritable giant when compared to how small the rock seemed when viewed from the floor of the notch far below. We could see the lakes and the AMC hut, and the bunkhouses as well. We continued down the steep trail into the notch.
 
By this time, due to the combination of the heat and sweat along with the nylon mesh in my shorts, I was hurting where the friction of the mesh was chafing the inside of my legs. I would have given anything to remove those offending shorts and put on a dry pair of polypro underwear. I had some foot powder that I used, but I was not sure if that helped or hurt. When we reached the floor of the notch, we took a brief respite, and then continued on the Nineteen Mile Brook Trail, up over the height of land and down towards the car, three and a half miles away.
 
We made steady progress down the steep upper portion of the trail. The parts of my legs that rubbed against the nylon mesh were on fire. I began to think of how nice it would feel to submerge myself in the cool water of the pond, strip off those shorts, and towel myself off before donning a pair of dry, soft, cotton underwear. We got closer with every step, but there was no relief until then. About halfway down, we passed the junction where the Carter Dome Trail, the trail we had taken to the summit earlier, diverged on our right. The trail became less steep, and we all plodded on in the hot and sticky air towards the car.
 
We made it to the parking lot and, with little formality, got the truck headed down rte 16 towards camp. Dan wanted to stop for a beer and a burger, but I wanted to get into camp before dark. Besides, we had everything we needed at the campsite to eat and drink well. A beer would have wiped me right out, and I knew I wanted to get that mile and a half hike into the campsite behind me before I had a beer or anything to eat.
 
When we finally pulled into the parking lot at the trailhead, the shadows were already long. We started out towards the pond and I got a nasty shock, walking now was much more uncomfortable and irritating after sitting and resting during the drive. With the impending sunset serving as our inspiration to push on with all deliberate speed, we walked on down the trail towards camp. We had hiked about eleven miles on our loop over Carter Dome, and the roundtrip of this trail would add three more miles to that total. All of this was happening on a hot and sticky summer day. We were all tired; it took us almost an hour to get to the campsite in the gloaming light of the pond.
 
We walked into camp to the warm greetings of our friends. I dropped my pack and ravaged a cold beer. The fire was high and roaring, and with the firelight in my eyes, the woods seemed black as pitch. I sat down on a log and took off my boots and hiking socks, and put on the pair of sneakers I had brought just to wear in the water. Someone passed me a cold rum and juice drink, and I took a long pull of the cold goodness. Another hand proffered some cheese and crackers. I enjoyed another cold beer while we related the adventures of the hike to those around us.

I went to my tent and grabbed a pair of cotton shorts and a T-shirt, and threw a towel around my neck. I grabbed another beer and my small flashlight and headed for the pond. A group was in the water when I arrived. I walked into the cold water until it was above my waist and then submerged myself by falling forward. Oh man, it was heaven, cold heaven. I stood up in the pond and shivered as I felt the chill of the water and wind shrink my skin two sizes around my body. I looked back to the light of the campfire and at the shadows moving around it.

There were rumblings at my back and I turned to face the north; lightning was illuminating the clouds and I could hear deep rumbles echoing through the mountains. The wind was beginning to rise and small waves began forming on the pond. The trees were beginning to dance in earnest; a summer storm was definitely on the way. A bolt of lightning shot out of the sky to strike above the northern shore, followed by an immediate blast of thunder. There was a rush in the dark as people made their way out of the water. I walked up out of the pond and grabbed my towel and clothes, and followed the trail back to camp, a snaking line of flashlight beams dancing in front of me. The wind was rising and more lightning and thunder was flashing and crashing behind us in rapid fire.
 
I toweled off my body, kicked off the wet sneakers, and got into my tent just as the storm hit. The rain was coming down in torrents and I could hear the yelling and shouting of the others as they sprang for cover, or tried to make their gear and tents secure for the oncoming storm. I took off the wet nylon shorts and sat naked on top of my sleeping bag. I had a six-sided dome tent that was plenty big for one person. It had a great rain-fly with its own pole for support, and the fly extended well over the door and rear window. The door was almost the size of one panel and had a large mesh screen in its center. Attached at the bottom of the mesh screen was a solid nylon storm flap. I could raise this over the screen by double zippers, one on each side, for privacy or protection from the elements. Raising the storm flap by pulling each zipper up six or eight inches on each side of the door usually provided enough protection to keep the inside dry during a rain. The rear window was about half the size of the door, but it too had a mesh screen and a zippered nylon storm flap. Because of the large and practical rain fly, I could leave the screen openings in the door and window mostly uncovered, this allowed cool air to flow through the tent without letting the rain come in, and allowed me to lie inside and look out at the storm.
 
From the other tents I heard cries of distress (“Oh shit, water”, “Oh no, my sleeping bag”, and “It’s leaking over here”) rise up above the level of the storm. I was dry, and for the first time that day, I felt pleasantly cool. It was so nice to have nothing but air against my body, especially where my shorts had caused so much discomfort earlier in the day. I lay down and watched the fire slowly lose its battle with the rain; eventually I drifted off to sleep.
 
Later, I awoke in the dark of my tent. The lightning and thunder had abated but the rain continued to come down hard. I could not hear any voices from out in the dark, just an occasional snore over the noise of the rain. I took a couple of antacids, and reached for the water bottle to wash down a couple of aspirin. The bottle was empty. I shone my light outside and the beam came to rest on a cooler. I knew what good things lay within the ice-chest that sat out before me in the rain. Lying in my tent naked, I weighed the pros and cons of going outside in the downpour. Finally, I put on my hooded parka and camp shoes, stepped out into the rain and relieved myself, the rain coming down cold against my legs. I grabbed two ice-cold beers from the cooler and tumbled back into the shelter. I propped my head on my pack and lay there, naked and chilled, as the wind went swirling through the tent.
 
In my life, I cannot remember enjoying the relief from a hot summer day more than what I felt that night in the darkness of my camp, listening to the rain outside as I lay atop my sleeping bag in the sweet chill of the wind, or a finer beer than the two I drank in the cool and private luxury of my tent. 
 

Laudizen King
12/07