Date: 2013-07-12
From: Eliza Brook Shelter, mi 1,804.0

To: Franconia Notch-Chet's in Lincoln, NH
Miles today: 8.8
Weather: broken clouds

I left the Eliza Brook shelter when the ground was barely visible. It was about 5:30am. No one was stirring in the shelter, including Fox Trot and Analog. I was about to enter the heart of the Whites, and I wanted to enjoy it without the tension felt by the presence of Fox Trot who had some affinity to Analog. I figured that I'd get perhaps an hour ahead leaving at 5:30am, though I knew in my mind this was not enough. A few tens of yards beyond the Eliza Brook Shelter, the AT crossed the brook. The AT climbed a moderate gradient roughly parallel to the channel floor and literally along the edge of the crystal clear water cascading over the black moss covered boulders. After a mile of following the edge of the brook up a moderate rocky grade, the AT crossed back over the brook, and climbed west-northwest abruptly out of the drainage towards the summit of Kinsman Mountain. The ascent became exponentially steeper, requiring scrambling up large boulders. Midway up the ridge, the ascent was interrupted by an alpine like bog called Harrington Pond, which the AT traversed the edge of, along partly submerged boardwalks. The final climb from Harington Pond became literally vertical in places, requiring all four limbs to push and pull my way up and over large slabs of rock. I made it to the south summit in the early morning around 8:30am in awe of the surrounding beauty and tranquility. After setting my camera on a stack of rocks for a couple of self portraits, I sat comfortably on the cool rock and enjoyed a more formal breakfast of tortillas and peanut butter. The AT continued upwards a short distance from the open slab where I had sat, through a narrow opening of dwarfed conifers, into a saddle and back up a second summit, before it plunged precipitously to Franconia Notch and Interstate 93. The descent seemed long, but in perspective, it was my pace that had been reduced at least to a third of my normal pace. There were many steeply inclined slabs which were enhanced with precarious wood block steps, doweled into the face. A loss of balance would have most certainly resulted in serious injury. By mid mooring, I arrived at the AMC Lonesome Lake Hut, upslope a few tens of vertical feet from the glassy reflective waters of Lonesome Lake. I peaked inside the hut for signs of free food. The Croo working there said they had nothing for free. Wood decking and stairs descended to the shores of Lonesome Lake and a small pier. The horizon across the lake was consumed by the loft Franconia Ridge. The AT dipped southward from the lake, down a moderate grade of what seemed to be a creek bed! There was no tread, not that there was in many places to the south. Rocks eventually lead to smoother terrain towards the notch. By early noon, I had made my way to a parking area off I-93. I stood at the road side with my thumb pointed towards North Woodstock, where Heart Rock had sent me a care package at the local Inn. After a good half hour of no luck finding a ride to town, I succumbed to paying a shuttle to take me to town. I picked up my food cache and sat down for a long needed lunch and beer. While sitting at the bar, Analog remembered my mentioning plans to re-supply here and found me! FoxTrot of course had followed. I offered Analog a side of potato skins, which he gladly devoured in front of Foxtrot. FoxTrot had planned to ahead into the adjacent town of Lincoln, to Chet's Hostel. Analog also ended up hiking ahead after we stopped by a McDonalds for shakes. Chet's Hostel, which is loved by so many hikers for some reason, seemed like a strange place to me. The garage of his house had been converted into the bunk room, which was littered with clothing and gear from hikers, some who were staying on the long term plan to meet up with friends who fell behind. The shower and bathroom were in the dark, dingy basement of his house. The basement was reminiscent of Hannibal Lector's lair. It was the type of basement you see in movies where the cereal killers tortured there victims. I've certainly been in cleaner hostels with more character than this place! And where was Chet himself? I had learned through a book kept in the bunk room off the garage, that Chet was a burn victim from a back pack stove accident. Somehow, his treatment of severe burns lead to a series of ailments, the final one, paralysis and confinement to a wheelchair. It was a bum-deal for someone who enjoyed the wilderness so much. Perhaps he was able to live vicariously through the many hikers that visited, but he was nowhere to be found. I set up tent on the damp lawn at dusk. The mosquitos were as thick as the black clouds overhead. I sorted out my food, while I cooked dinner. Afterwards, I squirted a few drops of Dr. Bronners in the lid of my titanium cooking pot, and then was distracted by the offer of a second dinner, BBQ'd by Analog. FoxTrot had purchased a chunk of top sirloin, offering me a slice along with a beer. I gladly accepted a small chunk of sirloin on my lid, which I had forgotten to rinse out. The first bite, needless to say, was alkaline. With out being noticed, I rinsed the plate and chunk of sirloin at the garden faucet on the side of Chet's house, but couldn't completely rid the steak of the alkaline mint flavored soap. I consumed it anyway, washing the soap flavor away with the beer. This nice gesture from FoxTrot was appreciated but for some reason did not resolve the bad vibes I felt from his presence. I thanked him and Analog, before I made final preparations for going to bed early. I slept for several hours before being woken by an argument on the back porch off the bunk room. I fell back to sleep in my groggy state.