Date: 2014-07-12
From: Pike, New Hampshire

To: Mt. Moosilauke
Miles today: 0.0
Weather: light rain

Welcome to the Whites        ¢Caution!You are entering a place that is so ruggedly beautiful that itis hazardous to your health:Do not let your eyes stray from your feet.Give up on your trekking poles, they are just about worthless.If at all possible get a lung transplant from a sherpa in Nepal.Forget all your previous trail accomplishments. They are worth nothing here.Good luck.Don¢t die.¢        There should be a big old stone arch with this posted as a sign beneath it when you begin to walk along the path leading up Mt Moosilauke (pronounced Moose-ah-lawk).         My first day back on trail was like starting over from scratch. I planned for a ten mile day over Mt. Moosilauke and allotted a generous six hours to do it. Good heavens did I underestimate everything. I felt almost interchangeable with the gal that jumped onto the trail March 15th down in North Carolina¢ at least physically. After a month away from the constant grind of hiker life, and several weeks of not eating, my body had softened back into a kind of pretzel dough mass. Muscle definition had fled and all semblance of cardiovascular endurance was gone. I finally reached the bald top at 1:30 and realized that I still had six miles to go and I¢d been averaging just over a mile an hour!        There were rock scrambles and steps a foot and a half high. There were washed out gullies of mud you had to find a a way to the top of, and coming down the other side there were smooth, wet megaliths (I learned some new words from Ketchup) set at 45 degree angles that you could either slide down on your butt or cling desperately to the badly abused vegetation on either side of the rock slide. There were sometimes wooden triangles pounded into some of the rocks that you cold shimmy to or cautiously step down onto as a step. These gave me the willies.         I got done and was exhausted. I was invited to spend the night at my cousins¢ house in Pike after I finished the day¢s walk and I spent most of the evening hobbling around their house whimpering pathetically.        But for all this griping I must admit: I have rarely had so much fun hiking.         It was good to be back! Moosilauke is one of the most beautiful mountains on the entire trail. It is ranked 9th in New England¢s 50 Finest Peaks and looms in at 4,802 feet. You walk up through a subalpine forest until you reach it¢s bald top, which offers a 360 degree view which include the Franconian Ridge (also above tree line), Kinsman and the Presidential Range.         The other plus to the day was that I met up with an old friend. My cousin Jennifer dropped me off at the trailhead parking lot, but I couldn¢t find the blasted northbound trail! I asked a couple of section hikers and they pointed me up the road to a hostel a quarter mile away, claiming that the NOBO trail was beside it. I got there and who should be standing in the doorway but Ketchup!        How wonderfully fortuitous: He was there for my last day on trail and there for my first day back. I think he¢s good luck.        We exchanged enthusiastic hugs and decided to start out together... since he knew the way to the trail, which happened to be in the exact opposite direction than the section hikers had pointed me in. Seriously, never trust a section hiker (yes, yes... I know I sound stuck up...) because they always direct you wrong (...and I¢m stereotyping in the worst way... especially since I am one now).         We caught up over the first mile... and then, wouldn¢t you know it, but the twerp smoked me! The grade and terrain changed and I could no longer keep up. I waved him on ahead, panting that perhaps I¢d catch him again someday if my lungs didn¢t fail me first, and then pressed on solo, desperately trying, and failing, to catch my breath. Stupid oxygen dependency!        When I finally reached the edge of the tree line I met two other familiar faces: Big Tex and Rugby, an English father and son team that I hadn¢t seen since my disastrous stay at the Greasy Creek ¢Friendly¢ (Remember the that place? The one where a cat molested me in the dark hours of the night, and I thought it was the creepy dude sleeping in the bunk next to mine). They were slackpacking SOBO for the day and told me, with slightly crazed eyes, that they didn¢t envy my upcoming descent. We caught up for another 20 minutes and exchanged trail gossip and views about the final World Cup match to be played the following day, then we parted ways again with hopes that we would run across one another again soon.         I reached the top and there was Ketchup, with his boots off and grinning, waiting for me with a bag of Swedish Fish.         Now, here¢s something I have probably failed to mention: I have an extreme adoration for Swedish Fish. It boarders on obsessive love.        We ate lunch on top surrounded by hordes of weekend warriors and chatted. I left first. He had some rocks he wanted to check out and pictures to take and I needed to get a move on.        He caught me about a 2 miles into the descent as I surveyed with amazed fury yet another wet rock that I was required to cross. He bounded down it with nary a hesitation and called back that he¢d meet me at the trailhead.         Jennifer had left me her car at the bottom of the mountain so I could drive back home and had included some snackage in the front seat for me to share with any friends I might come across. Hot and sweaty, the pair of us reached the car and, upon finding the surprise goodies, each downed a cold root beer, bag of lays potato chips, and a ziplock baggie of homemade cookies before returning to the cooler for round two. I pressed a few beers and cookies onto him to brighten his evening camping experience and then drove back to Pike, overwhelmed with memories of a lovely day. It was good to be back.