[at-l] Hike in the Whites (Long)

["Ern Grover" <ern@cybertours.com>]

"Holed Up" at Ethan Pond

Friday, October 9, 1998

Having planned for several weeks to hike in the White
Mountains over Columbus Day weekend, we wouldn't be
undaunted by a drizzle.  A plan was a plan, after all.
Besides, hikers don't chicken out; our skin is too thick for
that.  Our gear was checked, double-checked, the food was
ready, the van was gassed up, and we were psyched up.  We
were prepared for rain, cold, and virtually any foul weather
this hike might throw at us.

Except for a brief stop for coffee, we entered the Breton
Woods area shadowed by Mt. Washington.  Fall foliage in the
White Mountain National Forest offered a magnificent display
of God's handiwork with a gigantic paintbrush.  The sides of
the mountains burned with hues of brilliant reds, oranges,
and shades of golden yellow, amid a splash of still green
leaves.  Contrasted against the backdrop of a sea blue sky
with some white to dark rain clouds, the view was
breathtaking.  An occasional burst of waterfalls cascading
down the granite faces of the surrounding hills was a
reminder these sleeping giants were yet alive.

As we entered the parking lot for the trail leading up to
Zealand Falls, light rain began to fall.  We donned our foul
weather clothing.  With each of us wearing undergarments,
pants, socks, and jackets of quick drying and wicking
synthetics, we had no concern about hiking in the rain.  Of
course, it would have been nicer if it was a sunny day, but
it wasn't.  Adding our rain pants, waterproof boots, and a
hat, we were all set for the trail.  One fool led the other
at around three in the afternoon.

The ascent to Zealand Hut was shy of three miles, with a
cut-off to Ethan Pond at 2.7 miles.  Our goal was to
overnight at Guyot Shelter, another 5.5 miles beyond Zealand
Hut.  We reached the cozy lights of Zealand Hut around five
o'clock.  A volunteer was setting plates on the three large
tables for the evening meal.  Whatever was cooking smelled
very good.  It was a cheery and welcoming atmosphere.  The
bunkhouse rooms on either side of the main foyer were filled
with laughter and confusion at the same time.  Several
children were sitting on the edge of their bunkbeds playing
cards, board games, and stirring up mischief in general.
Judging by the number of plates on the tables, likely forty
hikers would be staying overnight.  We filled our water
containers and paid a visit to the two-holer.

Turning the corner at the edge of the hut, we made our
ascent up the trail toward Zealand Ridge, westerly and at a
grade of 35 to 45 percent.  Hiking for around an hour,
cramping began to set in my legs.  Being overweight and 51
posed a problem as I struggled to clear boulder after
boulder.  Daylight would soon be gone, and we had to make a
decision whether to continue to Guyot shelter or turn back.
We had decided to leave our tent in the van to save pack
weight.  There wasn't a level spot on which to pitch the
tent anyway.  To continue at our present pace because of my
leg cramps meant we would be hiking past midnight.  The
risks of continuing to Guyot were overwhelming.

Descending back toward Zealand Hut was a sigh of relief.  I
could handle the discomfort in my knees, since this a normal
situation for me.  It took about 45-minutes for us to reach
the hut, with its gaslights inviting us to come in and
linger.  Our decision was to go to the next trail
intersection, about 0.2 miles from our present location,
turn south and pick up the Ethan Pond Trail.  Karl was well
experienced on this trail, being only 4.5 miles in length.

Level ground greeted us as darkness set in.  Karl estimated
we would be able to make the shelter at Ethan Pond in a few
hours.  Our concern was being able to reach our destination
safely.  Rain was pouring down as we picked up our pace on
this slight incline.  Most of the trail at this point had
previously been a railroad bed, but the mountains had taken
back what man had etched out of her sides by rolling
boulders of various sizes.  Sections of the trail narrowed,
obscured by small to large rocks, but in general, it was a
good trail.  Hiking through an open expanse through a
boulder field, we shined our lights on either side of the
trail.  Huge boulders reached heavenward through the thick
fog at a 50 to 60 degree angle, and the slope on the "no
step" side of the trail was equal to it.

Clearing the boulder field brought us through a couple miles
of slippery roots and uneven footing.  We kept our pace and
our wits, one foot in front of the other.  Soon we crossed
the river fed by North Fork and Whitehall Brook.  Because of
the heavy rains, whitewater was abundant.  A new bridge had
been constructed a couple of years ago with adequate
clearance to span the torrent of angry water.  We paused on
the bridge for a few moments to catch our breath, drink some
water, and regain our strength.  From this point onward,
we'd meet our greatest challenge.

As difficult as it was to crawl over New Hampshire's
boulders beyond Zealand Hut, crossing over two miles of
flooded swamps drained us of our strength.  Wood beam
walkways are great when it's daylight and the skies are
clear, but in the dark and in the rain, they become slippery
floating snakes.  Some stepping stones bridged many such
walkways.  Most of the stones, however, were below the
surface of the water.  Stepping on what appeared to be a
rock sometimes ended up being knee-deep mud, sucking our
legs and begging for more.  Midway through the swamps I lost
my footing, fell forward on the walkway with both arms in
the mud up to my elbows.  I spent the next few seconds
scolding myself for letting it happen, thanking the good
Lord for protecting me, and groping through the muck for my
flashlight.  Unharmed but gasping for air, it was
resurrected in short order.  I wiped it off, picked myself
up, then made a promise to myself not to be so cocky next
time on these walkways.

We soon reached a bridge that spanned a full brook.  It was
a great place to take a break, filter some water, and rest
our legs.  I had a theory about my blundering feet and legs.
We hadn't eaten since lunch, and during that interval we'd
only had one snack and some water.  As we leaned against a
tree next to the brook, sipping on some water, and downing a
couple handfuls of trail mix, we could feel the strength
entering our bodies.  We were warm because our clothing
afforded that protection, but we were wet from the knees
down.  Waterproof boots are great until the water goes over
the top.  We had more water hazards to cross; consequently,
it didn't make sense to change our socks.  We dozed
momentarily, enjoying the solitude and the weightlessness.

Within the hour we came to the Ethan Pond cut-off.  It was a
welcome sight.  Yes, we were tired, dog-tired from mud
sucking on our boots, but we were warm and confident we'd
soon be enjoying the shelter at Ethan Pond.  Karl was
bubbling over most of the hike, describing this trail, that
trail, every feature, as though it was broad daylight.
However, at this point, the only feature I wanted to see was
that monument at Ethan Pond, the shelter.  A short trail
from Ethan Pond stood between us and the structure above.
We knew it was late, very late, but we agreed to continue on
to reach our haven.

A lone flashlight shone down the trail in front of us.  We
were soon under the protection of the overhanging roof.
Turning around, we unbuckled our belly belts, releasing the
weight of our packs to the floor of the shelter.  Only one
hiker was at the shelter, a through-hiker, Robert, from New
Zealand.  Welcoming us to his abode, he gave us the bad
news.

"It's 11:30, mates, and it's raining."

He and Karl had a great exchange of stories and laughter.
Karl, who speaks with a strong British accent, felt at home
talking with the "Kiwi".  I supposed our host would have
preferred to go back to sleep, but he was graciously
sociable.  I cooked our meal consisting of lamb Parmesan
with noodles and mixed Chinese vegetables.  While our food
was cooking, I made some hot chocolate.

With a full belated meal in our stomachs, we changed into
dry clothes, set up our mattresses and sleeping bags.  Rain
battered the tin roof of the shelter with the rhythm of a
dozen snare drums.  Almost asleep, Karl made one last
parting remark.

"A couple of years ago two hikers spent the night on the
roof of this shelter while bears enjoyed their packs."  Good
night Karl.

Saturday, October 10, 1998

Rain commanded the skies through the night as we snuggled up
in our dry and cozy sleeping bags.  Grey and darkening skies
welcomed us as we rubbed the sleep from our eyes.  I don't
sleep well when camping, usually dreaming of sleeping.  Karl
claimed I snored through the night, and I made the same
claim of him.  He complained of having to take care of his
weak bladder throughout the night, barefooted, and returning
to his "clean, once-upon-a-time" sleeping bag.  His ability
to drop back to sleep as soon as his head hits the pillow
was phenomenal.

Karl handled this morning as he usually does, leaning
against the back wall of the shelter, half out of his
sleeping bag, sipping on some fresh coffee.  We made an
agreement before setting out as hiking partners, to wit:
"Karl, don't touch the food, I'll do the cooking." "Ern,
I'll do the dishes, won't complain about your cooking, and
I'll lead the way."  It's worked out so far.

Breakfast was simple and light, the way it should be if
you're on a long and strenuous hike.  I made some biscuits
from my universal recipe that is suitable for biscuits,
dumplings, and pancakes.  It's made up of Betty Crocker
biscuit mix, with some baking soda, baking powder, salt,
powdered egg, and powdered buttermilk.  Spreading some
peanut oil in the bottom of a cook pot, I dumped in the
biscuit mix that had been kneaded inside a "zipper-lock"
bag.  Karl had prepared a larger pot for me with some coarse
gravel.  This served to house the smaller cookpot with the
biscuit dough.  My little Peak-II pump up stove lit off with
a reassuring steady flame.  Soon it was burning with a
controlled blue flame.

Karl and Robert watched with interest as I placed the large
pot filled with wet gravel on top of the flame.  It wasn't a
look of "Oh, goody, I can't wait to sink my teeth into this
mudpie."  Next, I set the smaller cookpot with the biscuit
dough inside.  The small cover was fitted first.  Steam
poured from the wet sand, drying it out within a few
minutes.  All the while, the biscuit dough was being
incubated, swelling by the second.  After the steam has
ceased, I covered the large cookpot and reduced the flame a
little.  Breakfast was ready within a few minutes.  The
original six tablespoons of biscuit mix had swelled to one
large biscuit that half-filled the little pot.  We shared a
little "trail magic" with Robert, so the biscuit was enough
for three hungry hikers.

Each of us took a portion, adorning our treasure with
liberated individual servings of strawberry jam and maple
syrup.  I made a second cup of coffee for Karl and me.  We
sat together watching the rain sap away our aspirations of
hiking to the falls.  Karl intimated he had to do some
homework, having packed his Windows 95 textbook.  That
enthusiasm lasted for not more than five minutes as he and
Robert engaged in some light conversation about hiking in
New Zealand and other parts of the world.  I had packed a
collection of Jack London stories for the weekend hike, and
I managed to put on my reading glasses once for about two
minutes.

Nature called, and I left the security of the shelter for a
brief jaunt to the privy.  It was disgusting, but it had a
lock on the door.  My wish would be for someone to design
one of these things with dimensions big enough so you could
close the door with your boots on.  The privy was adequate,
of course, and I was grateful the caretaker had provided
some cedar chips to assist the composting process.  As I
exited the tiny structure, I gazed about for some wood to
start a campfire.  I had a little tinder in my backpack, but
I supplemented this with some semi-dry fragments of yellow
birch bark.  This area was heavily wooded with birch and
hemlock; a few oaks and maples shared this giant forest.
Ice Storm 98 made its mark in this area, shearing the tops
of the hardwood forest, so birch was in abundance.  The
caretaker of this shelter had cleaned up the blow-downs from
the camping areas.  It was simply a matter of retrieving a
few of these dry birch branches for the campfire.  Hemlock
was too abundant.  They really never dried to the point of
being used as fire tinder, so scraps of birch bark and twigs
were used instead.

Soon we had a beautiful fire in front of the shelter.  The
fire ring was about eight feet from the edge of the shelter
roof, and a large log took a front seat next to the fire.
Rain threatened, more than once, to drown the fire, but we
managed to keep it sufficiently hot.  In spite of the
drifting smoke, the warmth of the fire was welcomed.
Clothing hung from every available peg inside the shelter,
sharing the heated air, which held the promise of dry socks,
tops, bottoms, and raingear.  Aside from the practical
benefits, it warmed us on the inside.

Robert left mid-morning.  Within a few minutes, happy faces
appeared on the approach trail to the shelter.

"Smelled the smoke, so we knew someone was warm and dry."
Six men from Electric Boat had come in on the short trail
from Route 302.  They were only up for a day hike, having
committed only to the two-mile access.  They stayed for an
hour or so, as we shared our coffee with them.  Being a
noisy bunch, we were relieved that they finally left.  They
weren't really prepared for the hike, donning cotton jeans
and wet boots.

Next a building contractor arrived.  Rick was in his early
fifties; a little deaf like me, and a quiet individual, not
like me.  He, too, was thankful for the warm fire, and he
was helpful in scurrying the surrounding area to bring back
some storm-damaged birch for the fire.

"Saw a moose standing at the trail intersection on the way
in."

I wanted to ask Rick if he'd given the moose directions or a
cold shoulder, but I refrained.  We conversed with him for
the afternoon, all of us enjoying the warmth of the fire.
In the late afternoon, a couple with a Border Collie
arrived.  They prepared a meal for themselves under the
protection of the shelter roof.  We did likewise.  I'd
already hydrated some Spanish rice with lamb and stir-fry
veggies at breakfast time.  Our evening meal was also
hydrating in its pouch, since chicken takes much longer to
"grow back".  In short order, the shelter was filled with a
mixture of meals being prepared.  The couple from
Connecticut made the old standby…macaroni and cheese, I
forgot what Rick made, and we had our Spanish rice
concoction with a large dumpling on it.  Mingled with the
backdraft of smoke from the fire, it was a mixed bag of
aroma.  Instead of staying with us in the shelter, they
decided to set up their dome tent on one of the tent
platforms.  Perhaps they were being considerate to us since
they had their dog with them.

Chris, a student at Boston University, scrambled up the
pathway from Ethan Pond.  His California tan had disappeared
many weeks ago.  Carrying a light pack, and dressed in lousy
sneakers, he held the look of a miserable and uncomfortable
individual.  His boots had blown out, so he resorted to his
camp shoes.  Sometimes there were no other choices except to
do the right thing.  Planning to spend the night, he set up
his pad and sleeping bag.  Four of us sat at the edge of the
shelter now, wagging our legs back and forth in front of the
fire.  Our clothing steamed as it hung in the shelter
opening, adorning our abode, and daring the rain to make
them wet one more time.

Karl spotted a couple of Canadian Jays in the trees.  With a
handful of trail-mix, he stood at the edge of the clearing.
One by one, the birds swooped down to light upon his hand,
one eye on Karl and one eye on their treat.  A chipmunk
quickly retrieved whatever fell on the ground.  He'd fill
his cheeks, never missing a food tidbit either dropped
accidentally or intentionally cast in his direction.  I,
too, enjoyed treating these intelligent creatures, holding
out my hand, and offering my meager treats.  We made one
discovery…they don't appreciate M&M's.

Three more hikers came up the trail, a couple and another
woman.  They said few words, never lingered around but for a
few moments, and then they found a piece of platform on
which to set up camp.  We never saw them until the next day.
They did mention they'd spotted a group of Boy Scouts on the
trail.  Unwelcome glances filled the shelter, each of us
trying to imagine our peace and quite shattered by screaming
and rude teenagers.

Within the hour, twenty-five scouts arrived, each with his
own means of rain protection.  Each one walked up to the
fire as though it was a long lost friend, some lingering a
few moments to be blessed by the warmth of the ample fire.
We held no animosity toward them; they had a right to be
here.  It was terrible to see such young men so unprepared
for the heavy rains greeting them on their two-day hike.
Most of them showed up with enormous packs, wet jeans, and
cotton, cotton, cotton.  Cotton…dead man's clothing.

Overall, they were well behaved.  Only briefly was the log
unoccupied by the scouts.  Even though it was directly
beneath the drip line of the shelter, the log was better
than sitting in the mud.  One of the scouts brought a bag of
peanuts in the shell…one smart scout.  No one brought
marshmallows or hotdogs.

As the skies turned from dark gray to black, the flickering
campfire illuminated the falling raindrops.  Steady rains
brought little comfort to those in leaking tents and wet
boots.  In spite of the deafening noise of rain pelting the
roof of the shelter, we were relatively comfortable.  For a
few minutes, the rain seemed to stop, but that illusion was
short lived as the skies opened again.  Raindrops plunked to
the ground hard enough that little mud balls jumped out of
the mire.  All through the night the rain was steady.

In the early hours, I awoke to a noise of something hitting
the shelter.  Looking up in the direction of the dim fire, a
silhouette of a hunched figure was on the edge of the deck.
Instinctively I assumed a bear had come to raid our meager
foodstuffs.  I tried to focus on the form, when it began to
stand up, then a light appeared.  It was Rick with his
headlamp switched on.  He had tried to revive the fire.

Sunday, October 11, 1998

Dawn came early, too early, but with it came a dry sky.
Clouds still threatened us with their presence, but no rain
fell.  Voices in the background were mixed with moans and
groans.  The scouts were awake.  One of the leaders came by
the front of our shelter probably hoping to find a cheery
fire.  Someone in his tent had forgotten to zip up the
doorway flap during the night.  Through the night the tent
filled with four inches of water, soaking everything
including the leaders.  What started out as a two-day hike
became a "bed & breakfast" quickie.  The scouts broke came
right after breakfast.

As they filed past us, we received and took offers of milk,
bagels, and peanuts in the shell, stove fuel, and fruit.
Many of the scouts thanked us for letting them sit by the
fire.  When I heard the "thank you's" I felt ashamed for my
intolerance of their presence.

Rick was intent on reviving the fire, since he'd be staying
for the day.  We all pitched in to get it going from
firewood we'd put under the shelter.  Soon the shelter was
filled with smoke again, but the warmth on our backs was a
welcome relief from the morning chill.  Having eaten our
breakfast of assorted leftovers, we packed and broke camp.

Eight miles of overflowing streams and swamps were between
us and the parking lot.  In spite of the trail conditions,
we made good time across the bog bridges and washouts.  In
the daylight the trail was much easier to negotiate.
Sunlight streamed through the trees, not knowing whether or
not they would be dried or bathed.

As we approached the boulder fields we'd crossed two nights
before, I was panic stricken at the sharp angle of the
slope.  It was reminiscent of the three times I'd gone
across the Knife-edge at Katahdin.  My first and second
attempts were on foggy days.  My third attempt was on a
bright and sunny day.  One could see for miles in all
directions.  It was a terrifying experience to be so close
to the edge of a shear drop-off to death.

An unnamed north to south through-hiker greeted us.  Karl
offered him some directions and recommendations.  He'd
planned to finish the Whites, Vermont, and New York by
Thanksgiving.  That was ambition.  Vermont is the Green
Mountain State, to be sure, but by November it becomes white
in upper elevations.

In short order we arrived at the Zealand Trail intersection.
Taking in some nourishment and water, we were greeted by day
hikers going up to Zealand Hut for a visit, perhaps a meal.
Compared to the "city slicker" smell of those who walked by,
we smelled like dirty old goats.  You can change your
underwear as often as you wish, but if you don't scrape off
the crud, you're still a dirty old goat.  Nevertheless, Karl
and I were in like company, but then, now as I look back, we
did seem to distance ourselves from each other at times.

Within a mile from the parking lot, an elderly man stopped
Karl to ask how much further it was to the hut.  With an air
of nonchalance, Karl lied through his teeth, "about a
half-hour, mate."  We continued, passing by clean-shaven,
pretty booted, perfumed and groomed "walk-about" bed &
breakfast yuppies.

Within five minutes of the parking lot, I foolishly took my
eyes from the ground.  A damaged tree root snagged my pant
leg.  I catapulted head over heels and became mud from head
to toe.  Fortunately no one was around to witness my
stupidity.  With the parking lot in view, Karl sat on the
visitors bench by the "Rules & Regulations" of the trail and
said, "Ern, bring the van about, would you mate?"

With backpacks in the van, our feet sat idle while the trees
whirled by us.  Only a reminder of the past two days
lingered as we rubbed our sore joints and muscles.  It was a
wonderful experience to have spent ourselves physically and
mentally to meet our goal, and it was a wonderful experience
to be heading home as well.

Coming out of the woods onto route 302, we saw the traffic
congestion we'd have to endure on the trip home.  We met
with no traffic jams on the trail; only the tranquility of
God's creation and the natural elements that challenged us.

Ern Grover a.k.a. "Poor Writer"
Father & Son Clockworks, 26 Webster St., Springvale, Maine
04083
NAWCC 82038 / ICQ: 922536 / AOL: MaineMan47 / 207-490-3500
Website: http://www.cybertours.com/~ern/

"Trust everybody in the game,
But always cut the cards..."


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