Post by percypeaks on Jan 21, 2008 11:39:20 GMT -5
The mountains of Coos County, NH can take their toll on the hiking public. Here¹s a tale of the trials of one lone hiker who recently ascended Mount Washington early in the day in good weather only to spend 28 hours trying to get back to where he started.
Conversing over an evening meal at the AMC Highland Center in Crawford Notch, several of us at the table welcomed a stranger, who sat down with his meal tray and began to relay a story that had all of us riveted to his words.
The fellow was man of Chinese lineage, a research scientist employed in the Boston area who kept fit by running marathon races several times a year. The meal he was about to eat was the first full meal he would attempt to eat in more than 24 hours. He said he could not keep food down because of the hardships he had endured the day before trying to get down off of Mt. Washington.
The hiker told us that several days before he had started out early in the morning to climb the 6,288-footer. The weather was good, the wind calm and the temperature for November not terribly cold. He shouldered a day-pack full of trail grub, water, and a flashlight. He was dressed well for a climb, but did not have full winter gear with him.
His trek up the Crawford Path to the ridge of the southern Presidentials was uneventful. He reached the summit of Mt. Washington by noon and was feeling strong. Rather than descend after an hour or so, he began exploring other trails and nearby summits so that he could spend more time above timberline. It would still be light for some time, so he figured he had plenty of time to dally. In any case, he had a flashlight with him should he find himself on the trail after dark. What he did not figure on was the recent time change to Standard Time and the condition of the batteries in his flashlight.
Late in the afternoon, he decided it was time to retrace his steps down to Crawford Notch. But since he still had daylight to play with, he thought he would try a different route to the lowlands. So he trekked across the summit flat below the summit cone and made for the steep terrain of Oakes Gulf. He figured he would try for a Dry River Trail descent and walk the six miles out to Route 302, four miles south of the Highland Center. He was in top shape. Why not?
Of all trails in the Mt. Washington Region, the Dry River Trail is probably in the poorest condition, and it¹s closed now because of the deteriorated condition of the suspension bridge in its lower miles.
At the base of Oakes Gulf, nightfall came on quickly. He fired up the flashlight and followed the trail...for a while. But he lost the path at one point. Backtracking, he tried in vain to find his way. He couldn¹t. Now he was faced with a bushwhack in difficult terrain during the night hours, illuminated by a single flashlight.
Apparently, the man missed a turn where the trail slips across a branch of Dry River. Now he was on the opposite bank of the big stream from the trail and, of course, he¹d never find it. Still, he told himself, he was physically fit and fully capable of bushwhacking out of the woods, even in the dark.
Things proceded only a short time when his light failed him. Too cold out now to stop and sit tight overnight, he had no choice but to keep going in the dark to keep warm. For the next 10 hours, he struggled on steep slopes, in boulder fields, in spruce thickets, and in blowdown tangles, falling often, and ramming his legs again and again against objects down in the dark forest.
As the first photons of dawn lit the woods, he managed to reach Route 302. Exhausted and his legs in pain, he still had to walk four miles uphill through Crawford Notch to reach the Highland Center.
One of our group at the dinner table remarked that she saw him in the afternoon coming down the hotel stairs backwards. He said he had no choice, his legs bothered him so much. And he also remarked that he had tried to eat during the day but couldn¹t keep food down. He wanted to sleep, but anxiety kept his eyes wide.
The next morning, after taking a short hike, I met the man in the parking lot. He was about to leave and was packing his car. We chatted for five minutes. I told him I was more than a little happy that we were having this conversation, knowing how many people have been lost in the mountains over the past century and more. He told me he had slept well and was eating again, but he complained his legs still ached terribly. He showed me why. He hiked up his pants to expose his shins. The flesh appeared to have been lacerated, as if he had taken a hundred lashes with a whip.
The mountains have a way of making us humble, don¹t they? You would think these ancient rocks, these cores of long eroded mammoth peaks, would be rather placid folds that coddle their human visitors. But more often than we like to admit, these low forested and bony summits, so close to the beehive of megalopolis, are killers. Each year they extract their quota of the unfortunate. And each year, I have to remind myself to pay my respects to these peaks, least I make one wrong move too many.
Percy Peaks
Conversing over an evening meal at the AMC Highland Center in Crawford Notch, several of us at the table welcomed a stranger, who sat down with his meal tray and began to relay a story that had all of us riveted to his words.
The fellow was man of Chinese lineage, a research scientist employed in the Boston area who kept fit by running marathon races several times a year. The meal he was about to eat was the first full meal he would attempt to eat in more than 24 hours. He said he could not keep food down because of the hardships he had endured the day before trying to get down off of Mt. Washington.
The hiker told us that several days before he had started out early in the morning to climb the 6,288-footer. The weather was good, the wind calm and the temperature for November not terribly cold. He shouldered a day-pack full of trail grub, water, and a flashlight. He was dressed well for a climb, but did not have full winter gear with him.
His trek up the Crawford Path to the ridge of the southern Presidentials was uneventful. He reached the summit of Mt. Washington by noon and was feeling strong. Rather than descend after an hour or so, he began exploring other trails and nearby summits so that he could spend more time above timberline. It would still be light for some time, so he figured he had plenty of time to dally. In any case, he had a flashlight with him should he find himself on the trail after dark. What he did not figure on was the recent time change to Standard Time and the condition of the batteries in his flashlight.
Late in the afternoon, he decided it was time to retrace his steps down to Crawford Notch. But since he still had daylight to play with, he thought he would try a different route to the lowlands. So he trekked across the summit flat below the summit cone and made for the steep terrain of Oakes Gulf. He figured he would try for a Dry River Trail descent and walk the six miles out to Route 302, four miles south of the Highland Center. He was in top shape. Why not?
Of all trails in the Mt. Washington Region, the Dry River Trail is probably in the poorest condition, and it¹s closed now because of the deteriorated condition of the suspension bridge in its lower miles.
At the base of Oakes Gulf, nightfall came on quickly. He fired up the flashlight and followed the trail...for a while. But he lost the path at one point. Backtracking, he tried in vain to find his way. He couldn¹t. Now he was faced with a bushwhack in difficult terrain during the night hours, illuminated by a single flashlight.
Apparently, the man missed a turn where the trail slips across a branch of Dry River. Now he was on the opposite bank of the big stream from the trail and, of course, he¹d never find it. Still, he told himself, he was physically fit and fully capable of bushwhacking out of the woods, even in the dark.
Things proceded only a short time when his light failed him. Too cold out now to stop and sit tight overnight, he had no choice but to keep going in the dark to keep warm. For the next 10 hours, he struggled on steep slopes, in boulder fields, in spruce thickets, and in blowdown tangles, falling often, and ramming his legs again and again against objects down in the dark forest.
As the first photons of dawn lit the woods, he managed to reach Route 302. Exhausted and his legs in pain, he still had to walk four miles uphill through Crawford Notch to reach the Highland Center.
One of our group at the dinner table remarked that she saw him in the afternoon coming down the hotel stairs backwards. He said he had no choice, his legs bothered him so much. And he also remarked that he had tried to eat during the day but couldn¹t keep food down. He wanted to sleep, but anxiety kept his eyes wide.
The next morning, after taking a short hike, I met the man in the parking lot. He was about to leave and was packing his car. We chatted for five minutes. I told him I was more than a little happy that we were having this conversation, knowing how many people have been lost in the mountains over the past century and more. He told me he had slept well and was eating again, but he complained his legs still ached terribly. He showed me why. He hiked up his pants to expose his shins. The flesh appeared to have been lacerated, as if he had taken a hundred lashes with a whip.
The mountains have a way of making us humble, don¹t they? You would think these ancient rocks, these cores of long eroded mammoth peaks, would be rather placid folds that coddle their human visitors. But more often than we like to admit, these low forested and bony summits, so close to the beehive of megalopolis, are killers. Each year they extract their quota of the unfortunate. And each year, I have to remind myself to pay my respects to these peaks, least I make one wrong move too many.
Percy Peaks
