[at-l] Trail Stories posted on Hikenet

[Tom Caggiano <hikenet@interactive.net>]

Hi Ern, can I post this under http://members.aol.com/hikenet  trail stories
section :)

Also if anyone has a trail story I can post there, please just include
hikenet@interactive.net in the cc field.  That will be taken as permission and
I'll return the note once posted. Going hiking now :) back later.. taa

Tom Bear Bells Caggiano




----




At 8:27 PM -0700 10/12/98, Ern Grover wrote:
>"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 standbyÖmacaroni 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
>discoveryÖthey 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.  CottonÖdead 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 shellÖone 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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