The Whites

 Tuesday, August 4, 2020, 3:57 PM

Mile 1991, Spaulding Mountain Lean-to

Rain threatening all day, finally now opening up for the first time, fire getting soaked, warm (for now) and dry within lean-to, drops of rain dancing upon tin roof, smoke burning my eyes from the under-attack fire, resisting worthily, even beginning to spread some, rain calming, only eleven miles today, early quit to beat and ride out weather we're supposed to get from that tropical storm, quick and easy miles to boot

     The last time I posted here I was in...I'd have to check. Those days are distant, and I've grown even more than anticipated since you've last read my words here. Since May 29 I have walked 819 miles through the forests of eight states. If I quit now 819 miles would be a respectable distance to have walked, right? Especially given the difficulty of the terrain. It's not like I've been sauntering from town to town on lightly graded and yearly graveled back roads. The path I've followed since the top of Route 225 in PA has been up and down, up and down, up and down. Cheryl Strayed, the author of Wild, likens long-distance hiking on the Pacific Crest Trail to knitting a sweater (ascending), then pulling a loose thread to unravel the whole thing (descending). But quit? When I'm not even halfway done? I'd have to be dead or otherwise maimed before I quit. It's vaguely discouraging to reflect on the difficulty of the last 819 miles and know that I'm still less than 40% done with the trail, but I don't let such negative thoughts occupy cranial real estate. It's not, "I have 1,400 more miles to walk." It's "I'm closer to the finish with each step, the southern half is considerably easier, and what am I in such a hurry for anyhow?" I can't help thinking about the future, i.e. being done, throughout these ambling days, but despite how exhausting it is climbing these mountains, I wake up to a new adventure every day, one with trials and triumphs alike, and when I finish the trail, I'll look back on them with fondness and longing. Nobody should come out here unless they are resolved to finish, but the trail won't make it easy. 

     New Hampshire and Southern Maine, thru-hikers agree, are the most difficult parts of the trail. What makes the AT difficult is the elevation gain and loss. The last two states of the trail contain its most challenging climbs, and for northbounders (NOBOs) they start at Mount Moosilauke. 

     The night before I was cordially welcomed to The Whites, I bathed in a mountain stream, slept and ate well. The Moosilauke morning I was on the trail by 6:30 and visited a secret cemetery with gravestones dating back to the Mid-1850s. Then it was up--and up and up. The climb was long and gradual, but the descent was interminable and steep. It's four miles down the other side of God-forsaken Moosilauke. It took me two and a half hours to reach the bottom, and one of my trekking poles snapped on the way. At the bottom it felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my knees the entire time. Whites 1, Señor 0

     Next we descended into Lincoln, NH, and some of us stayed at The Notch--a clean, comfortable, and efficiently run hostel. They bummed me a bike, and I rode a few miles to a Mexican restaurant, El Charro. I was excited to practice my Spanish there, pero tuve un mesero que no habló español. I resupplied and rested well at the Notch. My friend Flipper and I made pancakes before getting shuttled back to the trail. I got in the car with my camp shoes on and changed into my boots on the way. A few miles in, I realized that I had forgotten my camp shoes in the shuttle. Without this extra pair of shoes, usually Crocs or flip-flops, hikers are left to wear either their boots or nothing at camp, making the entire experience simply less enjoyable. Whites 2, Señor 0. 

     In the midst of the Presidential Range, we descended into Pinkham Notch Visitor's Center where I bought an overpriced sandwich among other goodies. With a full tank I climbed up to Webster Cliffs. This climb, like many in the trail's top two states, was long--over two miles--and often technical, even vertical. My pack was laden with water because there was none up on the Cliffs. The view from the top was amazing, worth the effort as always. It rained overnight, and in the morning I discovered just how bowl-shaped my spot was. The tent floor was soaked along with everything in my bag which I left open under one of my tent's vestibules. My journal was also soaked, but I later salvaged the pages--which include some fiction--through the tedium of separating them, drying them in the sun, and scanning them as images into my phone. Later, I burned that handful of my life's pages. I left Webster Cliffs not knowing how ill-prepared I was for what would be my first night tenting in an alpine zone. Whites 3, Señor 0

     They call me Señor out here, but my name could easily be Late Start. I'm often the last one out of camp, average start being about 9 AM. Leaving Webster Cliffs I was even later than average, probably around 10 AM. This start time wouldn't give me the time I needed for a sixteen mile day that was mostly above the treeline and featured the presidential peaks. A meager four miles in I met my friend Hopper at a hut. The huts in the Whites are mountain lodges that house and feed thousands of tourists each year, well, each normal year. This year they aren't open for public overnight stay but do offer food, drinks, and key hiking supplies such as trekking poles. Hopper and I discussed how rain and high winds were forecasted for that night but agreed that 2 PM was unforgivably early to quit. I wanted to go twelve more miles, up and over the highest point in the Northeast (Mt. Washington, 6,280 feet) and had six hours before dark. As we thru-hikers often do when facing a formidable challenge, I decided to send it. I cranked the tunes and found a higher gear. My confidence didn't falter until I hustled up and over a windy, chilly, cloud-covered Washington. The highest peak I'd ever summitted on foot and the view it offered was one of bleak, impenetrable mist. With no reason to tarry up top, I strode down the mountain and roared toward the final six miles. With darkness quickly closing in and a sky threatening rain, I decreed the new plan aloud, as if to a team, "Conserve the water, hit the next stealth spot you see." The white flag was waved; the Whites had kept me from my destination. I found a rare alpine stealth spot and threw down my pack, exhausted and frustrated. My one and only pole had snapped but was still functional, just a little short and wrapped in duct tape. "All I wanna do is eat and go to bed." When I opened my tent pole bag, a dreadful realization dawned on me. I'd forgotten my cross pole at Webster Cliffs that morning. This pole is essential in keeping the tent stable and its inhabitants dry. I was above the treeline in rain, fog, and gusts up to 50 MPH, and I didn't have my cross pole. After a serious self-berating, I bundled up, ate dinner, and settled in for a cold, restless, damp, noisy night of listening to my loose rain fly flapping languidly in the wind. Whites 4, Señor 0. 

     After escaping the Whites I landed at Rattle River Hostel where I could lick my wounds. It was quite a restorative stay despite being stuck with a top bunk in a steaming hot room. In the hiker box I found a fine trekking pole which I still use today. After posting a comment on Guthook's (thru-hiker Facebook), someone found my tent pole and sent it up the trail. I got a free night by beating the hostel owner, Eric, at cornhole. An old trail friend that I hadn't seen since PA, John, showed up while I zeroed there. We ate and drank well. The Whites had knocked me down, but I'd staggered to my feet every time. And now they're in my rearview. In less than two weeks I'll be done with the top half of the AT. Conquering New Hampshire and Southern Maine was the hardest physical thing I've ever done. Now, not only the rest of the trail, but life's obstacles will be easier because they won't be the Whites. 

     Do something hard. You want to grab life by the ankles and swing it round in circles over your head? Or do you want life to merely happen to you and be no more than an audience member in your own production? Seek out challenges. Step out of your comfort zone and see what you're made of, see if you can climb the mountain that looks too high and too steep and too rocky. Challenge yourself and don't give up. If I don't finish the AT this year, it'll be because I'm maimed or dead. Notwithstanding any tragedy, I'll finish before winter settles its icy self into the Mid-Atlantic. I'll be starting in Georgia in early September and walking north to where I started, PA Route 225. I'm still victim to relentless thoughts of post-trail life, but for now I'm relishing the days spent in the forest, watching my patience level become a notch higher every day, and becoming physically stronger and mentally more resilient as the sun beats down on me and my feet beat against the unyielding earth.