There are some stories you don’t know how to tell...but that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to be told. This is one such tale.
It’s 2021, and I want to stand on mountaintops. Take in the mountain air, the altitude. To bag some peaks as the cool kids say. To smile, giddy, clutching a summit marker as though it will imprint upon me the token of my achievement while the elements of heat, cold, wind, rain or past heartache try to batter me down. I’m drenched in sweat with aching muscles and sore feet, knowing the summit is only the halfway point in my journey, and the descent carries its own challenges. The view might be breathtaking, or nonexistent up here in the clouds. But my mood couldn’t be brighter. The journey is the reward; and if I’m lucky, there are some pretty cool people here to do a victory dance with me.
It was peak summer in New England, on what should’ve been a dream one year anniversary trip with my “adventure twin” boyfriend. Only somehow, it wasn’t. Something had shifted, and like most things in 2020, I felt powerless to stop it. Much like the jet wash that stalled the engine separating Maverick and Goose, this felt just as invisible and unavoidable, as hard as I tried to correct the course (sorry, not sorry, for the shameless Top Gun comparison, it was our thing). So here I was, suffering the heartbreak of our impending, bewildering end, while climbing mountains on vacation. Not all things go as planned.
It’s Summit Day. Early morning in New Hampshire, at a campground tucked away in the White Mountains. We woke up, ready to attempt a mission that was sure to fail as we broke camp and drove toward Mt. Washington, the highest peak in New Hampshire with a reputation for the strongest winds and coldest temperatures. The task ahead called for EDM (electronic dance) hype music to accompany breakfast on the go. My mind flashed back to a mood memory from turkey hunting season, when we’d assembled in the hunting camp’s kitchen, dressed in pre-dawn camo and face paint, eating breakfast and waiting for the coffee to bring us to life. Hearing my boyfriend’s cousin’s deep voice, jovial and experienced proclaim, “It’s [Shootin'] Day! Hooah!” (it wasn’t), but it sure got us in the mood. Today, the vibe called out, “It’s Summit Day! Rawr!” ...even if it wasn’t.
The weather forecast for the famed mountain, highest in the Presidential Range, hadn’t been kind. Monday had been our planned date to summit, but with the weather reports calling for wind and rain we’d made the last minute decision to stay in the Green Mountains of Vermont where Mount Mansfield offered a better chance at a successful summit. We’d started the day with a sugar rush from maple cream pie, picked up from a unique self-serve pie shack on the other side of the mountain. That, and local beer from a gas station that we packed into our day packs along with leftover pizza, trail mix and rain gear.
We summited Mt. Mansfield via the Hellbrook Trail, not an easy route through the steep and rocky mountain forest where it was easy to stray off trail. Conditions declined as we gained elevation and the rain began, but by this point we were already wet from the sweat of the cardio stair climber of a trail. Now, the slabs of rock we navigated and climbed over, following blazes and GPS, became slick, increasingly technical, further taxing our tired legs.
Reaching the Long Trail (Vermont’s 272-mile trail stretching from the Massachusetts state line to the Canadian border) with a moment of flat terrain along a wet boardwalk, carried the feeling of victory. We identified the Taft Lodge as our post summit food break, since a snack and victory beer on the mountaintop in this weather was out of the question. We blazed on to the alpine zone, towards summits named “The Adam’s Apple” and “The Chin” - our goal. Here, our path was outlined in thin white string, meant to protect this fragile ecosystem. Each step was windy and wet, we were soaked to the bone but ecstatic as we reached the summit marker, a somewhat disappointing, easy to miss, small gold disk set into the rock. The highest point in Vermont at 4,380 feet.
The route down was frustrating and tedious, we took an alternative route called “Profanity,” and soon discovered why. The victory beer and pizza inside the warm, dry Taft Lodge was like the best I’ve ever tasted -- in one of the most incredibly epic places: an old cabin bunkhouse tucked high on the mountainside. I’m sure this place is reserved for thru-hikers and not day hikers’ beer and pizza breaks, but in the weather, we didn’t care. Sitting in that old cabin, seeing two other hikers waiting out the weather overnight, drying their gear over support beams made me want to hike the entire Long Trail and spend a night here.
We managed a “rescue,” before our descent was complete, a man that looked and sounded remarkably like Matt Damon (was it him?), and his dog Brewster were lost, having taken the Stowe Mountain gondola to the top, and on the phone with mountain rescue when we approached. “Do you know where you are?” he called up to us before coming into view. “Yes…” we called back, “Do you?”. We walked with them, all the way down to the road, following white blazes. At the car, after eight miles in five and a half hours of hiking, we changed into dry clothes, roadside, and set out for the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Tomorrow, we would attempt a second summit, one that seemed doomed to fail.
The best thing about a long day of any intense, physical sport is that it makes the food taste so much better, less guilt inducing, and the beer twice as refreshing. That night, before setting up camp, we had a great celebration meal with beers on the lawn of Moat Mountain Brewing Company. Even during COVID-times, and with the sad uncertainty of where our relationship stood, the glittering twinkle lights and mountain air cast this magical spell, and the night was lit with excitement and celebration...and one of just about everything on the menu.
Tuesday morning, we arrived at the Pinkham Notch Visitor Center parking area -- one that, even early in the morning on a good hiking day should be busy and full. Now, there were only a few dozen cars at 9am. My boyfriend had hiked Mt. Washington a handful of times before, and summited several times, so he had the lead today. He would be the one to call the inevitable turn back. I had never given it much thought, how a mountain of this size (on the east coast, in August!) makes the ability to summit uncertain beyond your own physical abilities. Out of all the places and things we’d planned for this big amazing trip, this mountain was the most personally important. I pulled on still damp boots from yesterday’s hike that even leaving fireside, stuffed with paper bags could not completely dry out overnight.
The volunteer at the Visitor Center came outside to make sure we knew the day’s forecast as he saw us approach with our packs. Thunderstorms and rain due to tropical storm Isaias , and winds up to 65 miles per hour in the afternoon. We knew. Passing the avalanche information kiosk at the trailhead, I smirked and thought, “at least this is one thing we don’t have to worry about today!”
We started up the Tuckerman Ravine Trail (Tuck’s), sipping coffee we’d perked back at camp, a morning stroll. It was less challenging than yesterday’s climb - to start, but more tedious, a wide, continuous sloping boulder field that forced you to pay attention to every step. It was easiest to step from rock to rock, rather than try to navigate the ups and downs of rock to trail surface. Picture the world’s longest game of “the floor is lava.” Honestly, the start to this famous hiking trail was...a little boring, with a wider path and less immersive feel than yesterday’s dense forested hike, and it continued this way in light rain for an hour or more until we reached the camping shelters, caretaker’s cabin, and bathrooms at 3,800 feet.
Here, we got a great view of the bowl shaped Tuckerman Ravine and Hermit Lake, half surrounded by the threshold of a pine forest. The cloudline hovered along the upper ridges and that became our new goal. The weather was holding - for now. We made our way through the pines - my favorite type of shrouded landscape, ominous and beautiful, just a bit otherworldly. Then came the climb.
Up and up, more and bigger boulders alongside a mountain stream that flowed from a waterfall that we had seen from our stop at the lake. My ankle had started rubbing in my damp boots, so we stopped for a snack beside the stream and a nice piece of red duct tape was applied to create a barrier for my skin. As we moved on, we saw the most hikers along this section, midway between the basecamp and the waterfall, resting or enjoying a day on the rocks. I was surprised at how many flowers were blooming, even as we followed yellow blazes and arrows up the rocky path. Yellow daisy-like blooms and vibrant green shrubs, even at this altitude.
Crossing over the top of the waterfall was like raising a small flag of victory as we continued onward into the haze. We reached the alpine zone, and shortly after, the blazed trail transformed to a seemingly endless boulder field marked with tall rock cairns. This was the way to the top. Make it to one cairn, scan and spot for another. If you can’t make out the next cairn through the clouds, in the distance, you may be forced to turn back.
The mile marker showed us that we had gone exactly one mile from the shelter at Hermit Lake. The summit was just eight-tenths of a mile away. That morning, we never imagined making it so far, or even past the lake. The boulders we leap frogged between looked wild, marked with lime green lichen that nearly glowed in the cloudy haze. The hike was grueling, even aside from hiking Mount Mansfield the day before. It’s hard to say if that hike had warmed us up, or if fresh legs would have been better. But we were doing it!
The weather started to deteriorate with winds and rain as we continued to climb. It was his call. I anticipated it, but pushed on in the lead. Up we went, past the .6 mile mark, and up. Stronger gusts battered down, with rain sheeting sideways as we climbed, crouched low, soaked, and boots sloshing in puddles to the .4 mile marker. He called it. This was it. So close but still so far away. I was crushed, but my spirit was on fire as I laughed into the rain and assumed what would be my “summit” pose for this attempt at conquering the mountain together.
As we tried to snap a few quick photos through blurred lenses, before starting our descent, the clouds, as if by magic, started to clear and the rain stopped! We caught the first glimpse from this altitude of the surrounding mountainscape since we had entered this world of cloud and cairn. At that moment, we agreed to continue upward - cautiously. The window of good weather was surely fleeting and could close at any moment. So up we climbed, with a fierce and tired urgency, each step taking us closer to what we had thought that morning was impossible. There were no other climbers on that part of the trail. Everyone else had turned back long before or had chosen to make camp and wait out the weather. But we only had one chance, one day.
At the top, we climbed up, breathing hard onto the flat concrete slab of the parking lot. It would have been more disappointing had I not been prepared for this. You can drive to the top, or take a train. I think this fact made it feel a bit more safe if we had suddenly needed another way out.
It was all fog and wind as we crossed the crosswalk and climbed the stairs, past the summit building for weather observers in residence. The final steps to the summit marker were difficult with tired legs, fighting wind gusts in the 30-40mph range. We grabbed the sign post and took pictures, smiling at 6,288 feet. Mount Washington: highest mountain in New Hampshire and one of the highest peaks east of the Mississippi. The victory was all the more sweet because we did it together, when we thought there was no chance of making it to the top. For that brief moment, surrounded by wind and rain, looking into his eyes it was just us, the hoods of our rain jackets like a protective bubble. We shared a kiss, said “I love you,” so bittersweet. A perfect celebration of our time together and the strength we shared, the magic we created. I believe you leave a sliver of your soul up there on the mountain, along with those that walked beside you, and that the mountain gives you something in return. Gifts of strength, fierceness, and wisdom to take with you on your way. Together...or apart.
The route down was not easy, as we retraced our steps, making our descent as quickly and carefully as we could through the wind, although the weather continued to hold for the most part. We took a long break once we reached the porch of the caretaker’s cabin and changed into dry clothes from our packs, sitting for awhile on picnic tables and talking to a couple that happened to also be from the Pittsburgh area, waiting their turn to summit Mount Washington in the morning. We ate leftover Thai pizza and trail mix with ravenous hunger, but shared one of our two victory beers with them as we swapped adventure stories.
The rain began again as we sat on the porch, and there was no waiting out this steady unending shower. We bid our friends farewell and good luck (they sent us a picture from the bright and sunny summit the next morning), and started the slow walk down the rocky path. Eight miles in eight hours with over 4,000 feet in elevation gain. From there, we drove through the storm to Portland, Maine where we devoured hot and creamy chowder, seafood dinners and drank Bissell Brothers beer at Becky’s Diner.
Because of what happened at the end of the trip, the heartbreak, I haven’t told the story of Mount Washington and the back to back summit days as freely as I normally would. It seemed to be dropped unceremoniously and unfairly, tarnished by association into the “do not mention” category. It is an achievement and experience that I’m extremely proud of, even in the midst of an emotional time of loss. Those mountains helped give me the strength to endure whatever would come my way, the thirst to return to climb and conquer high peaks, the connection to my voice to share my story, and the drive to travel the country as a confident solo adventure woman.
This is a story that was always meant to be told, and with this title, from words spoken that day on the mountain. I’m looking forward to the mountains I’ll stand on in 2021. New Hampshire's Presidential Traverse, several of New York’s 46’ers, Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah, and Mt. Mitchell in North Carolina are all on my radar. What mountains have you climbed? Got any recommendations? Let’s start a conversation. Until next time, Live Wildly!