Casualties of Fun

We had grand plans: a Winter traverse of the Presidential Range in the White Mountain National Forest. A little over eighteen miles (not a distance record for any of us). Nearly five days of food and fuel. Heavy packs filled with just-in-case gear to keep us alive and moderately comfortable in a place that proudly touts the world's worst weather. The kid behind the counter at the AMC where we sorted and packed our gear told us the trail wouldn't be broken. Bah. What do kids know?

It was past 7pm on Monday evening when we finally found the snow-covered trailhead behind a ten foot drift. This achievement was notable considering it took some time just to determine whether this was a parking lot or just a large snow drift. The wind was blowing hard and a moderate snow storm had descended on us. It had been dark for hours. I had flown into Manchester, NH that afternoon while Corey and Brett had been driving all day. We were eager to be on the trail - no snow storm could dampen our spirits.

We spent the next several minutes securing gear to our packs and strapping on our snow shoes. For whatever reason none of us were cold. We trudged over the drift and started breaking trail in knee-deep snow until the obvious trail ended in a large (snow covered) field that paralleled an impossibly wide tree line - especially given the thirty-ish foot visibility and the painfully blowing snow. We broke trail for the next hour in what can best be described as a poor attempt at a search pattern most likely to be mistaken as an attempt to throw off our track anyone trying to follow us. Finally, however, the trees parted and we ducked in for some much needed cover from the wind. Long since warmed up, our actual trek began.

It was obvious that someone had broken trail here a few days ago so we were treated to a snow level below our knees instead of mid-thigh. Helpful as that was, it wasn't allowing for a pace that was going to see us to the end of the traverse in five days. After a few hours of rotating the line and breaking through increasingly deep snow, we found a relatively flat area, pitched camp, got some water boiling and feasted on chicken and cheese wrapped in tortillas. Delicious.

Late to bed and late to rise, we broke down camp and continued our trek up the hill. Around mid-day, after several uneventful hours and a few creek crossings, the semi-broken trail became a completely unbroken trail and our impossibly slow pace quickly became thought of us a sprint - each step now requiring pulling your foot, boot, snowshoe and all out of its sunken hole in the snow and hefting it back on top, one step forward, only to repeat again - for twenty minutes, until you got to rotate to the back of the group and enjoy the "paved highway" of the slightly packed steps of the two saints in front of you.

Then it happened: the above-the-knee deep snow got to our waists. No obvious signs of anyone having been here before us. We slowed even more. Hours had passed. We changed our strategy as the snow level continued to rise: we dumped our packs and dawned a shovel. We took turns digging out the trail while the other two packed it down. After tiring of digging you handed the shovel off to the person behind you and ran back down the trail to retrieve your pack and fall back in line, packing down the freshly dug trail. In chest-deep snow it's slow going, but sans the sixty-five pound load on your back, it's surprisingly enjoyable.

Night was approaching, the trail was steep, the trees were thick, the snow was unrelenting and we needed a place to set up camp. I could see that the trail widened, slightly, some fifty feet in front of us and half an hour later we were standing there, packing down a level-ish area to call home. Night having long since come and sleeping bags finally unrolled we choked down freeze dried meals and ended day two.

Brett, lacking an understanding of how we could sleep past 7am so easily, rose, retrieved the shovel and set about digging out some trail ahead of us. After an unfulfilling oatmeal breakfast I continued work on our just-for-the-fun-of-it snow cave ("a modest two bedroom villa on the hill side", I described it) while Corey dug out more trail, finally achieving the long sought after ridge.

I grabbed a liter of water and supplies (a pack of swedish fish mostly) and we all met up at the ridge - a place that makes two days of trailing breaking seem worthwhile. Mountain peaks seemingly minutes away surround the plateau. No clouds in the sky. Completely still air. The intense sun had us strip off our jackets, gloves and hats. It was the best Summer day imaginable in a place known for its inhospitable weather, and it was the middle of Winter. Absolutely gorgeous.

We tromped around carelessly, satisfied with achieving a leisurely four hour hike in just two days of tromping and shoveling. Unsurprisingly, a near-by peak requiring some rock and ice scrambling became the object of some much needed reinforced satisfaction. Thankfully, we considered this possibility, bringing: harnesses, crampons, ice tools, screws and rope. Unfortunately, all of that gear was an hour away, safely stowed at camp. It's just a rock scramble. We don't need it.

Some time later and two-thirds of the way up, the snow-turned-ice started resisting our kicked-in foot holds and the rocks, glazed in ice, prevented any decent hand holds. We had climbed too far. Corey had already started to traverse away from our course, deeming it too crazy, and I was suggesting to Brett that he was successfully seeking out the most difficult ascent possible. A moment later he agreed, seeing no way to proceed, and admitting he had no safe way to return. I reassured myself of my footing, sought a small bit of friction with my left hand from the smooth ice covering the rock I was standing below, and having reached for and achieved a good grip of Brett's hand with my one free hand, he stepped, slipped, and swung across to my marginally less precarious position. It would seem that we weren't destined to become another statistic justifying the many warning signs along the trail after all. Sweet. We relished in this thought.

We down-climbed a ways and followed Corey's traverse, leapt to platforms across stretches of ice lacking any holds, and with victory in hand, we sat down and resorted to sliding down the final few tens of feet of ice instead of worrying about being graceful. No one else was dumb enough to be on this mountain and see us in the Winter anyway.

Safely back at camp, Corey and Brett set their sights on a sunset trip back to the ridge for some photos. I declined in favor of continuing some Ayn Rand. Corey objected to The Fountainhead, "No book should be six hundred pages." I wasn't sure how that argument could be best answered. Silence? Scoffing? I suggested, "You obviously haven't seen War and Peace." And off they ran to see the sunset while I continued to follow Roark in his efforts to sabotage his career by falling in with a has-been architect Great. Still, I can't help but love his character.

The next morning, I awake hearing the faint tromp of snow shoes burdened by a cumbersome load, working their way towards our precariously perched camp. And then the inevitable struggle as this climber with no strain of trail breaking, works his way around our tent with only a grunt uttered in response to Brett's greeting. Corey and I remained silent inside the tent. Some time later that same climber came back down our well packed trail, having had time to put some thought into his fuming speech, and commenced with a lecture to Brett on the illegality of placing our tent on the trail. Explaining that there really were no alternatives, Brett went on to point out that had we not broken the trail all this way, he would not have reached this point for another day. Likely longer. There was only one of him. And then he left. Physically. In our memories he remained for our downward climb back to the car, as we complained to tree branches and creeks of the illegality of their location on the trail. Whoever you are, for the entertainment, we thank you.

Two days to climb to the ridge. Two and a half hours to return to the car. And many calories in the form of wheat thins, pringles, oreos, snickers, swedish fish, protein bars, freeze dried goodness, spicy cajun trail mix, chicken-cheese-and-tortillas and ramen made the trip possible.

I've frequently touted that the justification for the seemingly ridiculous cost of mountaineering gear is the need for high quality. The need certainly exists. Although it seems that the price doesn't include it. The hip belt buckle on my Osprey pack broke - it probably got stepped on. The MSR fuel pump on my new stove doesn't function correctly. One of the straps on my MSR snow shoes (my second set) broke, just like the first set. And, while it's mostly my fault, my Mountain Hardwear gortex pants tore while I was sliding on my butt down a section of ice on our retreat from certain death. And for the first time ever, my therm-a-rest survived a trip.

The first four miles of the eighteen mile Presidential Traverse are great. You should try it.