Date: 2021-07-18
From: Garfield Ridge Shelter (mile 362.8)

To: Franconia Notch (mile 373.0)
Miles today: 11.2
Weather: overcast clouds

Garfield shelter was bustling early, but no one was eager to head out into the rain. Wet clothes hung from dozens of hooks around the large open area in front of the sleeping platforms, no drier than last night. Only my rainjacket showed some improvement. It'd be great if it didn't wet out in the first place though. One middle-aged NOBO kept fiddling with his phone as he'd done all yesterday evening, apparently looking for the silver bullet that would turn this day into an easy one. Weather forecasts, hut locations, stealth sites, even the idea of just zeroing in the shelter, were bandied about by the northbounders. I can't blame them. They were facing at least several days to the next town and might not dry out until then. I, on the other hand, was headed to town today. It was still ten miles to the valley, however, and the overnight rain gave me no optimism that today's conditions would be better than yesterday's muckfest. I ran out to the bear box to get my nearly empty food bags, getting a taste of the rain. Even if I didn't need to catch a bus out of Lincoln tomorrow, I wouldn't have enough food to hang around here. Pappy left and I followed twenty or thirty minutes later. Garfield Ridge is a slow and tedious section below treeline even in good weather. Today was not good weather. Plenty of slick rocks, oddly angled boulders that invited me and my work shoes to slide off, and a sea of muddy water all around them. So it was slow and cautious rock-hopping to stay above the muck, with the inevitable slips or stumbles to frequently soak the shoes. I made the mistake of checking my progress by GPS, only to learn I was doing about one mile per hour. At that rate I would be in town for dinner instead of late breakfast.Caught up with Pappy taking off his wetted out rain pants as I began the climb up to Lafayette, highest peak in New Hampshire outside of the Presidentials. "A mile and a half to the summit," I told him, which was the last time I would check the GPS for hours. "I'm going to keep trudging on."The steady but light rain, more of a dripping shower from the saturated trees above, quickly grew heavier and more direct as the forest fell away. The calm air I'd taken for granted almost instantly whipped into a frenzy. Around me was nothing but whirling mist and the boulderly alpine trail. I was reminded of my ascent up Saddleback four summers ago when a crazed hiker coming down had warned me of the wild conditions above treeline, a warning I took too lightly and paid for with a brief bout of hypothermia. "Shelter in the krumholz!" he'd cried, before dashing further down to safety. Only there is no krumholz here. Just rocks and the alpine vegetation clinging to them for dear life.One false summit after another loomed through the mist, at least a half dozen in all. On a clear day I might be able to see along the ridgeline to Lafayette about a mile away. But visibility was only a few dozen yards so I had no idea how far it was. My GPS phone was sealed in a Ziploc and not coming out unless the situation was critical. I had to be patient, and just keep moving forward.I met just one hiker on this normally packed stretch of ridge, one of the most scenic in the eastern US. He was a trail runner going north, and as we met he yelled something completely lost to the wind. I merely smiled and gave a thumbs up. Whether he spoke a warning, advice, a question, or wry commentary on the weather hardly mattered. I was already in the thick of it and not going back. Gale force winds more suited to a tropical storm buffeted me whenever the trail wound to the eastern or southern sides of the rocky knobs. Rain pelted me sideways. My poncho wanted to fly off my body and leap a thousand feet in the air. I monitored myself for signs of hypothermia. Fingers not yet numb but dexterity fading. Toes alright. Dizzy? No. Confused? Not yet.  As I approached Lafayette I started to get a little silly, even punch drunk, laughing at the storm and reveling in its intensity. I was aware if I stopped and cooled down, even out of the wind, it might get worse. So I rushed ahead, hiking hard over the boulders and rubble, gliding over rocks and trying not to take any bad steps. Pappy was somewhere behind me, but I couldn't stop and wait. Hopefully he still had his wind pants.Lafayette's summit was peak wind intensity, and of course I found the highest point, clambored up, faced the wind full on, and yawped as loud as I ever have. No one could hear. From there, it was generally downhill to treeline, still two miles off, but with several legitimate peaks like Lincoln still to be scaled. I hiked quickly, the cold winds seemingly energizing me.Then, before I expected, I was descending back into the trees and swampy trail. I had practically run across the alpine zone. The wind died down to a breeze, the rain lessened to a steady drizzle. A young man with a small pack passed, heading up. I warned him of the conditions but he said it's not bad. Well, not right here, but up there! He waved it off, saying he works up here. Soon a second guy came along who looked like a thruhiker. He was much more open to the warning but proceeded cautiously. Again, normally I would be passing hundreds of people here, so many I'd practically have to elbow my way through. I passed the turnoff to Mounts Liberty and Flume and paused. I had made it across the worst of the exposed trail, but spending another two miles above or near treeline seemed foolhardy. There would be no unnecessary peakbagging today. Below the ridge the wind disappeared entirely. Then the rain. Steep but reasonable trail led past Liberty Springs Campsite where backpackers began to appear. It was late morning. I warned every group I encountered of the storm above. But as the sun came out and the birds began chirping, it began to seem ludicrous. I wondered if conditions could have improved so dramatically up on the ridge, or if I was simply descending out of it. This Liberty Springs Trail and the Crawford Path are the least technical descents I've encountered. They are also among the oldest and most popular. Steep, sure, but also well-maintained. Enough rocks to prevent erosion and make a safe ascent or descent in the rain, but not so much they slow you down with acrobatic contortions. Why there aren't more such trails in the Whites after 150 years of AMC trail-building is the question. At the bottom I scrambled under the footbridge over Cascade Brook, stripped down, and went for a swim in the madly rushing reddish whitewater. I was soaked anyway, and this was cleansing and refreshing. 32 out of 33 days for swims in this section.As I walked down a mile of paved bike path to the Flume visitors center it began to rain again. Well, so much for it improving up on the ridge I guess. At least they won't think I'm crazy.Teri, a local trail angel who thruhiked in 2016, picked me up in his new black F-150 along with three northbounders who had also come out of a wet mess. He had no room for them at his place, so made arrangements for them to go to another trail angel named Chet and dropped them at the McDonald's. He drove me a mile up the road to his ski resort condominium. He's hosting seven hikers in his two bedroom condo tonight. Alias, who arrived late yesterday after pushing over the ridge (and getting some nice views!), Billy Goat, who I met at the Barn in Gorham, and two northbound couples, all of them zeroing today. Teri sent me to Black Mountain Burger where their special is the Smitty, a half-pound of beef between two grilled cheese sandwiches. I polished it off and all the sweet potato fries and was still hungry. I'd had only a couple breakfast bars and crackers earlier today. Alias and Teri joined me in a beer.The condo resort is mostly absentee owners renting their places to vacationers. Teri is one of the few residents, though he is usually only here during the summer. The resort has two pools, two hot tubs, a game room and a gym available to all. Quite the luxury hiker spot. I can't call it a hostel because it's really operated as a trail angel opening his home to selected hikers. Teri has had to send some individuals packing who were being overly obnoxious to the others. Sometimes they aren't really hikers, but yellow-blazers looking for a party. It's hard to screen over the phone. Chet, the other trail angel in town - who is legally blind and in a wheelchair - used to quiz hikers, mostly in jest, as to which mountain they'd just come over or what was next to separate the poseurs from the real hikers.Alias and I hit the Mexican place for dinner. I tried to go light, ordering "only" a burrito. I devoured it and was still hungry. But I have to be good and get back to a normal diet now that I'm off trail. Everyone was asleep when we returned, but Teri had gone to meet some other southbounders called the Mountain Turtles at the Woodstock Brewery and returned even later. He and I ended up staying up even longer engrossed in conversation. Tomorrow, a few reflections on this hike.