Date: 2003-08-09
From: Glencliff

To: Kinsman Notch
Miles today: 9.5
Weather: light rain

Two words today: Moosilauke and MOOSE!From the beginning: Susan nosed her truck into The Happy Hiker hostel at 6:30 am, bearing hot coffees, melon, cheese, milk.We loaded our gear and set off for Kinsman Notch - the base of Mt. Moosilauke, which the locals pronounce "moose-a-lock." Today is the first time on the AT we go above natural treeline. We have been in high, thin spots, and balds and humps and patches, but no true alpine tundra as of yet.As we drive, we pass a sign saying "Moose Crossing." Susan tells us that moose collisions are not unusual in this state. "Because they're tall, a car takes them off at the knees and they come sliding over the hood. It's usually a fatality - for both moose and driver," she explains.No sooner had she said that then a young bull moose stepped out of the woods. He left the White Mountain national forest, crossed the road in front of us, and disappeared back down an overgrown road. Susan is slamming on brakes as Chief and I squawk and grab for our cameras, tumbling out of the truck before it's practically stopped. The young fellow stops obligingly, and looks back over his shoulders as we snap a few shots, then lumbers off.What I remember most is the hair on its withers bristling, standing up like a dog's as he crossed in front of the truck. I was also struck by the suspended grace of the moose's gait. I'd heard them described as ungainly, but as a dressage judge, I'd have to give this one at least a 9 for suspension. Chief and I clamber back in, chattering excitedly. I check my photos and - sure enough - blown up, you can see the moose. Ha! Just wait till Long Trail Clyde gets an eyeful of this baby! I've seen a MOOSE and I have the pictures to PROVE it!A few bends in the road later, we are still exclaiming when - bam! - ANOTHER moose, this one even more mature steps across the road. Again, we pile out of the car to take pictures, and again I am struck by the "good shocks" of this large beast.We can't believe our good fortune. Though this one was too far away by the time we exited, I got to observe their "get away, then pause and freeze and look back" habit, so I believe I might spot them now in the wild.Later on that day, on the Trail, we are babbling about our sighting and a thru-hiker tells us our moose sightings "didn't count" because they weren't on the AT!!! I really don't get this anal kind of thinking. I spend my entire life without seeing a natural-born moose, and when I finally DO see one in all its wild glory, it doesn't "count?" What kind of reasoning is that? "Count" for what? Some people will always try to invalidate your excitements and glees. Man! It's important to remain vigilant and not buy into it. Because there will ALWAYS be invalidators."Illigitimati Non Carborundum" my older brother Jay, with a Latin-student's waggish humor, used to say. Translation: "Don't let the bastards grind you down." Because most invalidators are not even fully aware enough that they're doing it, I've found; they're just on "automatic pattern" mode.We bade Susan good-bye and thanked her for her kindness. We started up the steep north side of Moosilauke, and it was a honey. Rock slabs so steep in places that wooden steps were affixed to the rock and rebar handles to help drag oneself up over a tricky spot. Many times I had to draw my knee up to my chest at an extreme angle in order to heave myself up a few more feet.It was tiring, hard work and I was loving it. An enormous waterfall ran beside the ascent for a long, long ways. I would pause periodically in my labors and stop to admire it, crashing far below into the mists. Very dramatic.The trail was wet, the wooden steps were wet, everything was slippery. I can imagine that descending this side would be a nightmare. There was one time I had a stab of fear, crossing a slick rock face with water sheeting over it, a long gap between steps or handholds or anything, really, to grab in the event of a fall. I swallowed my fear (a blind man has done this, I told myself!), got my self really organized, and made one sharp effort - and caught on to the next grab spot. Phew! Eventually the hard climbing swung into an easier grade, and we stopped at Beaver Brook shelter so I could use the privy. And - I couldn't do it! I went in, and swarms of huge black flies swarmed out. Oh, gross! A whole wall full still waited behind the john too. Then, I opened the lid of the john, and it was nearly full to the top with sewage. More giant flies swarmed out of there. I just couldn't put my bare bottom on that seat. Could not do it.Those flies were an inch or more long, and fat! As Chief said later, "They didn't get that big eating bunchberries."We trudged on through forests as hardwoods gave way to conifers, then got smaller and smaller. Finally, we broke out of treeline and it looked like pictures of Scotland - bare and grassy and rocky and open.We hiked on toward the summit, which ended in a pile of rubble - the remains of an old 19th century hotel. Good thing, as folks had made half-round walls to protect themselves from the winds which blow at hurricane force here 2/3rds of the winter, according to the summit steward. The grass was not a grass at all but a highland rush, also found on the Arctic tundra. Moose don't like it much, and rarely venture above treeline.A very few stunted trees stood a few hundred feet below the summit. These trees were actually 60-80 years old, but they lived a zero-sum life: most of their meager growth over the short alpine summer was cut down by the howling wind-chill frosts of winter. Perfect miniatures, some of the perfect little Christmas trees were only knee- or waist- high.We met the usual cast of characters, Cobra and Splash, Amble and Nick the Brit at the summit. It was a grey day, but we were fortunate to have some visibility.As we walked off the summit, we looked back up the rocky path and saw a cloud crawling over the area. Just like that, Moosilauke summit was gone from our sight.It was warmer immediately at treeline, and we shed clothes as we walked down. The walk down was uneventful, longer but thankfully not as steep as the ascent.We hit the highway and started walking, when who should come trucking down the road than my old buddy Art. He hauled us off for lobster bisque (mmm, real cream, butter and sherry!) and clam strips, then took us to see where The Old Man Of The Mountain rock formation used to be. I believe it is more of a tourist attraction now. Art lives on lovely Crystal Lake, nestled into its mountain view. He and his wife operate a small, charming resort, and it was here they took us. I'd been feeling a bit punk on the descent, and my energy was flagging.Art and his long-suffering wife Sue made us welcome, offered showers, laundry, then tucked us into comfortable bunks. Aaaah!Moose and Moosilauke... A great day in the "Live Free Or Die" state