Out of the Fog

Out of the Fog

Strange moments and encounters in the White Mountains of New Hampshire

I possess many warm and wonderful memories of the time I spent in New Hampshire; especially of my adventures in and around the White Mountains, and of the many people that I shared a trail with during those years of discovery. There were, of course, incongruous moments as well, and plenty of strange sights and encounters along the way. Here are a few; these moments return and slowly come into view before my eyes, as would a shape looming up out of the fog on the Presidential Range.

One afternoon I arrived on the remote summit of Mt Bond to find a hiker sitting on a hard-sided suitcase. He told me he was waiting for his friends, he had just come up from Boston and the suitcase was the only thing he had in which he could carry food and clothes. I left him sitting on the suitcase, the sun getting low in the west, waiting dutifully for his friends to arrive.
 
On another occasion, one fine and sunny summer day, I came onto the rocky and open summit of Mt Garfield to find a hiker had packed up a golf driver, a mat with a rubber golf tee attached, and two baskets of range-quality golf balls. He stood at the apex, the tee at his feet, driver in hand, and a semi-circle of spectators gathered behind him. He whacked ball after ball out into the Pemigewasset towards the Owl’s Head, the appreciative crowd “oo-ing” and “ah-ing” behind him as the balls arced out into the distance and disappeared below.
 
On Chocorua, a friend and I left the summit in the late afternoon and headed for our car down on the Kancamaugus Highway. We stopped on an open ledge and looked back at the rocky summit cone of Chocorua just before the Champney Falls Trail dropped down into the woods on its way to the road, some three miles below. A group of four, two young couples carrying sweaters and water bottles, came up from below and out onto the rock beside us to gaze at the summit, still about a half-mile distant. The summit stood bathed in the soft golden light of the late afternoon sun. One girl wore dress-style shorts with a pair of tight-looking leather-soled pumps on her feet. She wore no socks, and she looked pained. I told them to keep an eye on the daylight; we would barely reach our car without headlamps from where we were. The leader was determined to reach the top, however, and they all followed him as he went on towards the Chocorua summit. I thought about those feet; they would reach the summit all right, but wait until they had three hours of plodding downhill on them, perhaps over roots and stones in the dark, then they would know pain.
 
Once on a cold day in October, I had ascended alone the Falling Waters Trail to Little Haystack, and then traversed the exposed heart of the Franconia Ridge in worsening conditions. I came down the long mile from the summit of Mt Lafayette buffeted by the northwest gale, and took a break from the wind in the lee of Greenleaf Hut, already closed for the season. Up from below came a hiker on the Old Bridle Path. He carried a small pack and he was wearing dress brown leather wing-tip shoes. He asked me if I had been up on the ridge, and when I nodded, he asked what the weather was like. I told him it was cold and windy, and would be dark soon as well. I left him alone to ponder his decision, and headed down into the trees.
 
On one fine hike in the Presidential Range, I had gone up the Ridge of the Caps from Jefferson Notch. The trail reaches treeline below the Little Cap, and follows the cairns over the exposed summit of Upper Cap and eventually reaches the barren and rocky summit of Mt Jefferson (5715’). After a long rest on the summit, I continued down to Edmands Col and worked my way across the mass of Jefferson to join the Castles Trail, where I turned north and followed the trail to the Castellated Ridge, the sharp and narrow ridge formation so unique in the White Mountains. After enjoying the view from the top of the most prominent Castle (4455'), I continued north on the Castle Trail, moving steeply down to where the Link Trail crossed over the ridge. The Link came up from the right and Castle Ravine, and headed off to the left for the Caps Ridge Trail, joining it about a half mile above my car parked at the trailhead in Jefferson Notch. Halfway across the Link, I came upon three couples, all over forty years of age. One woman sat crying, she had reached some personal breaking point and had quit walking; she would go no farther. I stayed for a while as everyone pleaded with her to hike on to the car at Jefferson Notch, that she should look at her options and understand what the decision to quit meant for herself and all of them. All the protestations voiced by those present fell on her deaf ears. I finally left and continued down the trail towards my car. As night fell, I wondered where they were. So it is in the mountains; we live with the decisions we make. Experience is a dear teacher, and the mountains teach that lesson in a classroom open to all, where everyone can see.
 
I can remember meeting my own breaking points, and I look back on my one ascent of Huntington Ravine, one of the steepest trails in the Whites. High up on the headwall, Frank Goetz and I had stopped for a break on a small flat area, one of the few non-vertical places around us. The feeling of exposure was total, and I could barely look out into the ravine. I was committed now, going back down was out of the question, the steepness made descent no longer an option. My legs were like rubber, my heart was racing, and the taste of fear was in my mouth. I remembered how grateful I was for the presence of Frank, thankful I was not going up alone. Eventually, we came up out of the ravine to stand on the wonderful expanse of the Alpine Garden, high above treeline. We continued across the Alpine Garden and made our descent down through Tuckerman Ravine. The Huntington Ravine Trail was one trail I never returned to for a second go, once was enough.  
 
I experienced another special moment on Mount Jefferson while making the same loop over the Caps Ridge, Castles, and Link trails. Dave Mainville and I had gone up the Ridge of the Caps in October, and we were enjoying a sunny and cool rest on the summit. October is a transition month in the Whites, and preparation is important, especially in the Presidential Range. Other hikers came to the summit, including one with a dog. He wore lightweight clothing and had no pack; he had no warm clothing or protection from the elements, no food or water, no hat or gloves. We wondered what the story was behind this strange apparition that was standing before us here on the top of Jefferson; there was something out of place about him, furtive. Dave called him “Biff”. Biff started asking everyone at the summit if they could spare some water or food. Some aspect to his attitude and manner made me ill at ease, alert and cautious. He huddled behind some rocks at the summit to escape the wind, which was now picking up. Another hiker came up to join the group now gathered at the summit; he dropped his pack and put on a sweater and a windbreaker. He looked around and asked if anyone owned the maroon Chevy Malibu parked at the trailhead at Jefferson Notch. Biff raised his hand and acknowledged that the Chevy was indeed his car. “Your lights are on,” came the reply.  
 
During a wet May blizzard, Bob Herman and I sought relief at Garfield Shelter, a small open-faced shelter located by a spring on a shoulder beneath the summit of Mt Garfield. Other groups of hikers arrived at the lean-to seeking shelter from the snow and howling winds. That night we had nineteen people and all of their wet gear crammed inside, as well as one wet dog. The scene was reminiscent of the ship’s cabin in the Marx Brother’s movie ‘A Night at the Opera’. We were all grateful to be there, though, as we lay jammed within the relative comfort of a crowded shelter while the storm lashed at the mountains outside.

One autumn day, three of us hiked through a dreary rain into Ethan Pond Shelter to camp for a few days and explore the area around Zealand Notch. We came up to the shelter to find a group of four huddled in the cold rain around the fire ring. A pile of wet sticks stood in the fire pit, there was no flame, heat or coals, just one forlorn column of smoke emanating from the depths. The four sat in a circle in the rain, each holding a stick with a cold hot dog impaled on the end.

On one cold day in May in the mid 1970s, Dan Quigley and I, along with my dog, had climbed Mt Moosilauke (4810'). We went up Gorge Brook Trail to the Gorge Brook Slide Trail, on which we climbed steeply up to reach the old and abandoned carriage road and, shortly beyond, treeline. It was cold and windy as we left the shelter of the trees, with occasional mixed precipitation adding to the excitement of the climb to the summit in the fog and clouds with virtually no visibility. We followed the cairns across the exposed ridge to the summit, a mile beyond. We took pictures and rested at the summit, and descended to the car by the Gorge Brook Trail. We then made our way back to the campsite in Franconia Notch. We got a fire going and, after feeding the dog, we got down to some dinner and drinks for ourselves. A car pulled into the campsite next to us. They put up a tent in the darkness, and came over to say hello and to warm themselves by our sizeable fire. We offered them a drink, which they gladly accepted. We chatted for a while, and we found them good company, warm and affable. We told them to make dinner here at our site and enjoy the fire. The offer sounded good to them, and they went to get their supplies. They returned with a well-stocked cooler, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of Scotch. After eating, one of them said he was going to get the “harps”. He returned with a thin wooden case. Inside the case were harmonicas of every size and description, lovingly stored in individual slots lined with velvet. We enjoyed the remainder of this magic encounter with music and song. Danny and I kept the fire going strong as the two of them sang the blues and played the harmonicas late into the night.
 
I made my second ascent of Mt Bondcliff on a cold day in May with Bob Herman. We had hiked in five miles the previous night on the Wilderness Trail with a candle lantern to pitch our tent at Camp 16. In the morning, we came up the Bondcliff Trail and, in three and a half miles, finally emerged out on the cold and windy summit (4265'). We came upon a group of five who had passed us earlier on the trail, four men and a shapely woman. They stood in a circle, laughing and drinking. I walked over and asked if they would mind if Bob and I joined them. “Of course,” came the reply in unison, and we joined their circle. I found a beautiful heavy shot glass pressed into my hand, and quickly filled with Metaxa Ouzo. I will never forget my first taste of that smooth anise-flavored drink. I pulled out my stove and, in a few minutes, I had a plastic tumbler of hot lemonade laced with Scotch making its way around the circle in appreciation of their hospitality. We lit smokes, passed them around, and told stories. Two hours went by in this manner, and then they left the summit to hike to their distant campsite. After another thirty minutes or so on the summit, Bob and I descended to our camp to build a fire and make dinner. Over the years, when I see a bottle of Metaxa Ouzo, or enjoy its taste, I find myself immediately transported back to that magic circle, as the seven of us enjoyed those two hours on the summit of Bondcliff.

I have also encountered naked hikers, those with the sensibility to hike sans clothes in the wilderness, naked but for socks and hiking boots. What more can be said? They were mostly men, but one girl, in particular, who I met on a sultry summer day high on the Carter Range, who was the epitome of youth, beauty, and athleticism. Looking back, I think those days of such a personal expression of freedom are gone forever, lost to a world no longer so innocent or playful. I wonder where she is today, and if she realized then how long the memories of that encounter would last within the mind of another?

I once spent a night at Zealand Falls Hut after hiking over from Mizpah Springs Hut during the day. I came across Mt Jackson and down the Webster Cliff Trail, and then followed the Ethan Pond Trail towards Zealand, a trip much longer and more arduous than a cursory glance at a map might reveal. Later that night, as I slept exhausted in my bunk, I felt a hand on my arm and someone shaking me. Was there a fire, an emergency? I turned and opened my eyes to see the outline of a person in the dark, and then heard a woman’s voice tell me I was snoring loudly. “What makes your sleep more important than mine?” I asked her, and followed with a quick, “Don’t bother me again, please.” It takes a lot of hubris to feel it is within one’s boundaries to do such a thing to an exhausted stranger, that you will decide the rules and be the grand arbiter as well. I had no patience with such an act of self-importance.

After breakfast one morning at Lakes of the Clouds, I sat outside the hut and witnessed a gray-white mist roll over the col between Mt Washington and Mt Clay, and pour down the western side of the mountain like liquid nitrogen. The scene only lasted for two or three minutes, but it was a sight to behold.

One night around 1:30 in the morning, Bob and I were hiking on the Wilderness Trail and came across two hikers sitting on an enormous cooler in the middle of the trail with a flashlight shining on the ground. The cooler was about 4 feet long, and was deep and wide. A group might bring such a cooler on a weekend fishing expedition. The two sat exhausted on the top; a long wooden pole with loops of rope lay on the ground beside them. Each had a can of beer clutched in a hand. They thought it would be easy to carry the cooler suspended below a pole carried on their shoulders. It wasn't. They were taking a break and reducing the load by having a beer. They stood up and opened the top; food, beverages and ice filled the cooler to the brim. Bob and I sat down and joined them for a beer, if for no other reason than to assist them in their quest to lighten the load.

In 1986, I was at Galehead when the hut closed for the season. That year Columbus Day fell on Monday, October 13, and the hut would close on the holiday, weather permitting. I made the outing into a three-day adventure, staying at the hut for the last two open nights. Late in the afternoon of Sunday, October 12, I returned from a memorable day of hiking up on the Twin Mountains to find a group of people gathered in the kitchen. The group, including the hut master, stood listening to a baseball game on a small radio set by a window in the kitchen of the hut, the only place where it could receive the channel. They listened to the Red Sox and Angels as they met in Game 5 of the ALCS playoffs. Losing to the Angels, and down to their final strike, the Red Sox rallied as Dave Henderson hit a dramatic home run to put the Bosox ahead in the top of the ninth. In a flash, a variety of liquors and wines, cheeses and appetizers appeared on the kitchen counter, a veritable bounty pulled from the backpacks of the assembled guests. Incredibly, the Angels tied the game in the bottom of the ninth, and the game went into extra innings. We had no scout groups with kids present, no families with fussy children to contend with or cater to, just the right group of adults thrown together at the right time. Although we were in a high hut in the White Mountains, for a brief while, we were as loud and raucous (men and women alike) as any sports bar in the city of Boston, and this mood continued into the night after Boston finally sealed the victory. 

I hope you have enjoyed this small collection of keepsakes gathered during my years in the White Mountains. They are what stories of the mountains are all about: people and moments in time.

Laudizen King
(In Memory of Dan Quigley 2007)