Date: 2021-07-14
From: Pinkham Notch (mile 319.4)

To: Madison Spring Hut (mile 327.2)
Miles today: 9.4
Weather: scattered clouds

The beds are closely spaced in the Barn's hayloft, but surprisingly hikers are so quiet getting up that I was unaware most had already gone downstairs. For some reason I felt tired enough to want to sleep in, but I couldn't miss the 7:30 shuttle. Pinkham Notch would be a long hitch.Prepack's ankle was swollen and purple, wrapped with an ankle brace gifted by another hiker. Although it felt better than yesterday, he wisely decided to rest another day, even though it meant falling behind. With Bait having taken off yesterday and likely hiking big miles, our six person tramily was only four when we set off for the trailhead.The visitor center at Pinkham has a sculpted display of the Presidential range. It is at once intimidating to see the terrain, and reassuring to see the trail follow what appears to be a reasonable route up a ridge. Not as reassuring is a comprehensive list along one side of the display of all the hikers who have died in this range since the early nineteenth century. Message received!We started as a foursome chatting excitably up the Old Jackson Road, also known as the AT. Since these trails predate the AT, they are first labeled with their traditional names. More recent signs append AT in parentheses to help map-challenged thruhikers. White blazes are rare. Northbounders were already passing us at eight in the morning, headed to the road and a nero into town. Telling the thruhikers from the weekenders is generally easy, even without smelling them. You occasionally get thrown off by the weekend warrior with dialed-in gear and a full beard, or the thruhiker, typically female, that looks too clean or carries too large a pack to have come 1800 miles. But mostly thruhikers fit the stereotype of gaunt, dirty, scruffy, lightweight machines. If nothing else, they seem to walk with a sense of confidence, even ownership. It's hard to describe without seeing it. Their glance is casual yet penetrating, judgmental yet uncaring. Some barrel through while others politely step aside, but always it's clear they are playing by their own rules. From their viewpoint, there is little difference between southbounders and weekend backpackers. We are both woefully inexperienced, a bit of a nuisance, and perhaps a danger to ourselves. The trail rose gently (for the Whites) to Lowe's Bald, a viewpoint up to the high peaks. Clouds swirled through, threatening to engulf the landscape before opening up slightly again. Alias fell behind. At the Peabody River, under a swaying suspension footbridge, Joseph and I jumped into the refreshingly cold and clear waters. A strong current from the cascades buffeted me as I submerged. From Osgood campsite the trail, now the Osgood Trail, turned sharply upwards. I quickly fell into a steady plodding pace, stepping from rock to rock at a sustainable heart rate. For the next mile or so I climbed 1800 feet with barely a breather. Not at all easy, but I recall the descent feeling much steeper as a NOBO. Once I broke above treeline the breeze picked up and I became less aware of the climb, steep as ever, because the scenery grabbed my full attention. The trail turned completely to rocks. Wind pushed across the ridge we were climbing, turning back clouds like they were hitting a wall. The view ran across the Great Gulf, a huge glacial cirque carved by an old ice age, from Mt. Madison past Adams and Clay to Washington. Only Washington's summit was threatened by cloud cover. It was so clear I was tempted to push across the ridge to Lakes of the Clouds hut today. But even better weather was promised for tomorrow.Several backpackers heading down Madison looked and sounded quite unhappy, even exasperated. It is a frightening descent. Climbing it is far safer, and more fun. Beach Day and I leapfrogged and scrambled up the boulders like little kids. The gusts on Madison's peak had me second-guessing any idea of pushing to Washington today. I almost toppled over more than once. From the summit I followed Whitman in sounding my barbaric Yawp o'er the rooftops of the world, shouting into the wind with equal intensity, matching nature's raw fury with joy and exhilaration.A short but careful rocky descent brought us to Madison Spring hut, where we found only Joseph. Emily, the sole croo on duty, gave me some leftover chicken and mushroom casserole from last night's dinner, which I supplemented with blueberry cake and lemonade. Being two in the afternoon, it was too late to push across the twelve miles of alpine where no camping is allowed. And too early to retire to the Valley Way campsite below treeline nearby. So we dropped our packs at the hut and hiked up Mt. Adams in the clear under partly sunny skies. The trail was mostly a suggested route marked by cairns. Joseph and I took a steeper, more technical route directly to the summit just for fun. Class 2 bouldering but nothing too sketchy. The 1.6 mile loop took an hour and a half. By now several groups had come through the hut, some staying for the night. A northbounder with a large white beard stopped in for soup. He looked very tired. I tried to make conversation but he brushed me off. Later, perhaps after seeing the tags on our packs, he came in to ask if we were thruhiking and to apologize for his gruffness. It was a nice gesture. Though it made me wonder whether he would have apologized if we were just out for the night. None of us sport much of a beard after I cleaned myself up in Gorham. And we look a bit too clean. It would be easy to mistake us for short section hikers or even dayhikers unless you looked at our pathetically worn-out shoes. Despite the pleasant weather a thunderstorm was forecast for this evening. Alias decided to pay to stay at the hut. Beach Day and Joseph made for Valley Way campsite. I was torn. I've never stayed at a hut as a guest, only as hiker trash doing work-for-stay. In fact my son and I crashed in the dining room of this very hut three years ago. I wasn't excited about paying through the nose for a wooden bunk and a couple meals I could probably score leftovers from anyway. But then, with a storm forecasted and the tent sites being far down the mountain and not very pleasant, I wasn't excited about my other options. Novelty won out, so I bought into a hut bunk and joined the tourist set for the night. Except for Alias, all were families or couples out for a few days walking hut to hut. The huts make this experience far more accessible than it would otherwise be. Without them, far fewer people would attempt any extended ascent to the alpine zone. Emily was joined by four other croo members. Each arrived carrying a wooden frame backpack laden with 65 pounds of vegetables and other food. An exceedingly uncomfortable load to carry over the 3.8 miles from the nearest trailhead.Dinner was pulled pork BBQ, roasted corn, mashed potatoes and peach cobbler. I wasn't hungry enough to do much damage. I've been hiking ten miles a day on average and eating like twenty miles. My body has long since adapted to hiking and seems to require less food than it did when I started. Alias, on the other hand, single-handedly ate half the table's supply of pulled pork. A croo girl from Downingtown, PA, minutes from my home, gave an interesting lecture on alpine plants, showing us several of the rare species found only in the 13 square miles of alpine in the Northeast. Some species are even more limited, like a plant that grows only on Mt. Washington.The sun set over the valley as I chatted with a guest who runs a publishing business. He published Jennifer Pharr Davis' book Becoming Odessa. When he learned I keep a detailed journal he asked if I ever considered writing a book. I've considered that from time to time. Perhaps I will someday if I feel I have something meaningful to share beyond trip reports. My personal journey is somewhat unusual, yet grows from some yearnings and struggles common among the millions who share my circumstances. And while I feel I've grown significantly from these experiences, even gained a bit of wisdom - at least enough to know what I don't know - it's also taught me humility enough to wonder how applicable or interesting any of this is to anyone else.As always, I write primarily for my future self, and to help me process and learn from each experience. These are initial reactions that, on rereading, may help me draw some lessons I can use to improve how I adapt and respond to life's opportunities. It's not the circumstances that make the man, it's how he reacts.