A Blast of Arctic Cold and A Leg of Lamb (instructive)
So began our plans to do some winter camping Thanksgiving Friday in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Karl and I are not really "plan oriented. When we've spare time to go hiking, we go, usually not with a destination in mind. In fact, we originally planned to revisit Zealand Falls and Ethan Pond. At the last moment, we decided to spend Thanksgiving Friday night at Gentian Pond Shelter, very close to the Maine border.
The National Weather Service and local television broadcasts painted a very dismal picture of rain on Thanksgiving Day as well as Friday, and probable clearing on Saturday. Undaunted by this outlook, we packed and went over our gear list together, along with our newest hiking partner, Linda Small. She was a gourmet chef during the summer months at an area restaurant. Linda's hiking experience was of the campground type with some day trips and light packs. Being the youngest at an energetic 29 years, I secretly hoped I'd be able to keep up with Linda and Karl when we would start our ascent.
Our drive from Maine in Linda's four-wheel drive sedan was filled with tales of past hiking experiences. Karl had much to share with us since his 15 years of hiking in the Whites surpassed my dreams. I didn't want Linda to become terrified out of her wits, so I steered the conversation to cooking.
Linda's father is from Maine, and her mother is from France. Both mother and daughter love to cook to the extent they have received formal training in the culinary arts. Karl interjected with his memories of spring lamb, the way his mother prepared it, while a youth in England. Linda shared her wealth of information on the correct way to cook lamb. Before long each of us could imagine the aroma of lamb roasting and the delicate taste of that sweet meat passing through our lips.
Karl hit the brakes just outside the town limits of Bethel. On our right was a pasture filled with pigs and sheep. Two mobile homes joined together at a common door occupied the lot, and a clutter of farm implements, bicycles, and general farm items adorned the muddy driveway. "Piglets for Sale" said the sign at the street.
"Maybe they sell lamb too." Karl said.
We drove in the yard and came to a stop. I was delegated to inquire whether or not we could purchase a leg of lamb. Knock, knock, knock. A black and white cat curled around my legs as another hissed at me atop his perch of protection on the freezer lid. Two children who reminded me of the two brats on the Adams family came to the door.
"Let me take your name and number, and I'll have my dad call you."
Again I asked if they could sell me a leg of lamb. They repeated their rehearsed response. I shrugged my shoulders and reported my findings to Karl and Linda. It was obvious we wouldn't get far with these folks. As we looked around the dumpy place, we questioned the sanitary conditions.
We stopped at a grocery store in Bethel to see what they had to offer. Mind you, I'd already prepared a feast of beef tenderloin tips, sautéed with peppers, onions, mushrooms, potatoes au gratin, to be mixed with some fresh celery, peppers, garlic, peapods, water chestnuts and hot pepper corns. But the more we talked about a leg of lamb, we had to stop and find one.
Linda presented us with a six-pound leg of lamb. On the way to the register, she picked up some crushed garlic and rosemary spices. Our short delay was of little consequence considering the reward we'd have later on that night. As we continued on Route 2 west into New Hampshire, we had to approach the best way we would cook the leg. Linda experience was limited to a stainless steel kitchen with an array of modern appliances. All she had at her disposal was two slow mules with little culinary experience.
I offered to rig up a spit from wood at the shelter. This was something I'd done many years ago with a beef shoulder. It meant skewering the leg of lamb with a green birch stick which had been "feathered" with a dozen or so barb fashioned with a knife. After the pointed stick was inserted, it would be withdrawn quickly, setting the feathered barbs in the flesh. Next a makeshift handle to turn the leg of lamb would be made from split green birch branches and nylon string. Smiles of approval beamed in my direction. Linda had made the purchase, Karl brought his appetite, and hopefully I could deliver the means to cook the leg of lamb.
In New Hampshire we turned onto North Road in Shelburne. We passed the white blazes of the Appalachian Trail in order to locate an access road to the blue blaze Austin Brook Trail. We located it directly opposite Meadow Road. Linda's vehicle negotiated the rutted dirt road rather well despite a recent two-inch snowfall. Karl dodged the holes and followed the road as it ascended rapidly. He stopped the car at Austin Brook.
"We'll have to park here and continue on foot, mates."
"Nonsense!" Linda said. She slid behind the wheel, put the car in gear and four-wheel drive and sped across the foot deep boulder strewn brook like a miniature hovercraft. Steam billowed from beneath the car as she proudly stood beside the driver's door back at Karl, still crossing the stream on foot. We all had a good laugh over her gutsy maneuver. We drove another half mile, stopped and parked near the Austin Brook Trail sign posted by the Appalachian Mountain Club.
Our map lacked detail of the area. We only knew the Austin Brook Trail connected with the main AT trail, but we didn't know how much further we'd have to hike before we reached the shelter. Normally we'd pick up the AT on North Road, three miles west of our position. Our objective was not, however, to ascend Mt. Hayes and Mt. Baldcap, but to take a blue-blaze trail to Gentian Shelter.
We made some load adjustments in consideration of our new menu item, donned our backpacks and headed up the trail. No other footprints were in the area. Nevertheless, each of us wore blaze orange as a precaution in case a hunter might have a "hair trigger". Karl took the lead with his plodding steady pace, and Linda, full of energy and enthusiasm, followed him. The terrain for the first half-mile was a mere five to ten degree grade. This gave each of us an opportunity to become accustomed to our pace and our loads. Soon we were venting our clothing as body temperatures rose. As we passed a loop trail the Austin Brook Trail took on a steeper character. We exercised caution on the snow covered bog pathways and made our turn at the double-blue blazes ahead.
A light mist filled the air mingled with wet snow. Strong and cold winds from the northeast threatened each step we took as we tried to negotiate our foothold on slippery rocks beneath. Snow cover was becoming deeper as we ascended one switchback after another. Our angle of ascent was more than 35 degrees and brought us to a step-rest-step-rest mode. Familiar hardwoods of ash, beech and oaks faded behind us as birch, fir and hemlock greeted us in the higher elevations. Each hemlock branch succumbed to the weight of wet snow; our steps became "hand and knees" only for several hundred feet as we ducked beneath tree arches looming before us. Blasts of cold wind bore upon our bodies sent bone-chilling reminders of who was boss of the Mohousics, noted as the most difficult range of mountains on the Appalachian Trail.
With each step our calf muscles burned and ached. Each chilling blast of cold wind heightened an awareness of our vulnerability. We jokingly spoke of building a debris shelter if trail conditions became worse. Facing the incline, we trudged ahead.
A half-hour passed. Wind speed increased and drifting snows continued to blast us. Now in the lead, I looked ahead at a jagged rock overhang. "Karl, you can sleep in there tonight." In the corner of my eye, I thought I was seeing a mirage. Gentian Shelter was just a mere 200 feet from us. Linda and Karl saw it too, and all three of us let out a cry of joy.
The shelter was empty except for some snow that had drifted in on the lower sleeping deck. Karl swept the snow while I scoured the area for some kindling wood. At this altitude only hemlock and birch could grow. So many trees were sheared by Ice Storm 98 but most wasn't dry enough to burn.
Linda and Karl came back with ice caked kindling that "snapped" when bent. By nature, hemlock is a poor fire starter since it loves to hold moisture. Some of the birch twigs they brought me worked well. I banked the fire pit with snow to block off any sources of wind. Then I laid some tinder in the form of shredded birch bark and snappy twigs. The wind was so strong it was difficult to keep a match lit. After a few attempts I was finally successful in lighting the tinder. Shielding the tiny flame as much as I could, larger and larger twigs were added to the fire. Within minutes larger wood could be added. Since the wood was ice coated I was careful to bank the precious little fire on all sides with this wood so the ice would have a chance to melt off. Pre-warming the wood would help it to ignite later when the fire was large enough. Naturally the smoke followed every move.
I found a heavy steel-cooking grate beneath the shelter. This would help me to save face, since I haven't made a spit and skewer to cook a roast or leg of anything in years. As the fire grew in intensity I was able to add heavier wood. My cook pots were still in my backpack. Karl and Linda continued to gather firewood as I set out my cook pots to prepare our dinner of sirloin tips and vegetables. It would be dark soon, so we'd have to have everything ready to conserve batteries in our flashlights.
Extra wood was cut from the blow-downs and brought to the shelter. Linda sat on each stick as Karl cut each piece with my fold-up bucksaw. We intended to cut extra and stow it under the shelter for other hikers passing through. We also put some kindling wood and birch bark beneath the front deck so it wouldn't be wetted by the weather.
Linda used my survival tool knife blade to slice deeply into the leg of lamb. Then she poked garlic and rosemary into each of the dozen slices. The lamb began to sear and slow cook on the cooler side of the grate. It would be two or three hours before it would be ready to eat. Meanwhile the tenderloin tips were simmering; I added the fresh veggies to the pot. I mixed up some biscuit mix with some water in order to make a thick batter. When the veggies had cooked for a couple of minutes, I stirred the pot, then added the batter to the simmering mixture. In a few minutes our dinner would be ready, complete with a large dumpling.
A clatter of spoons and bowls echoed in the shelter as we indulged ourselves in this creation. Not only was it simmering in the pot, but also the red pepper corns I'd added would assure it would stay hot for a very long time.
"Delicious, Ern!" said Linda. I took that as a compliment because of her profession as a gourmet chef. Karl was too busy eating, but he was smiling. It was amazing how a strenuous hike could produce such an appetite. Linda was so tiny, but she found a place for a second helping.
I turned the lamb a few more times on the grate. Linda took her knife and began to slice off slivers of her scrumptious delicacy. In short order we were enjoying the first helpings of lamb. My preference was well done, Karl enjoyed medium, and Linda took preference with rare. More than half of the lamb had been eaten. We enjoyed the pieces of lamb stuck between our teeth for several minutes, while Linda made some coffee, real coffee, in her lightweight French coffeepot. What an incredible ending to a beautiful day!
By eight o'clock we were changed and sitting in our sleeping bags. We enjoyed a good season of story telling and joking around. Karl got up one more time to talk to a man about a horse. Linda and I were content to stay warm in our bags.
The wind was blowing in several directions as we watched the flaming embers of the campfire. Howling and whistling winds drove snow to accumulate on the edge of the lower deck beneath the roofline. As the temperature dropped, we crept even deeper within our sleeping bags. The mean temperature was in the high teens, but with the wind-chill factor, temperatures fell below zero by early morning.
Morning greeted us with a clear skyline and a beautiful sunrise. Sun shone through a cloud opening, illuminating the mountains in Maine. From our vantagepoint, it was a beautiful picture. Snow laden firs and hemlocks bowed to the approaching sun, and the mountains of snow in our bedroom window reflected this grand sight. Linda sat up, still in her sleeping bag. I sat up next to her.
The fire was out, but I was able to find a small pocket of coals. I gathered some tinder and larger twigs and placed them carefully over the coals. Within a minute the fire came to life. A few more twigs, a few more larger branches, and we had a cheery "good morning" fire. It wasn't enough for Karl to get out of his sleeping bag, but he was at least awake. Linda gathered some wood for me while I kept a vigilant eye on the fire.
Linda prepared to make coffee while I set a pot of water over the fire to make oatmeal. Karl watched with interest and no intention of coming out of his cozy cocoon. She remarked she'd heard noises in the night. I looked at the edge of the top landing near my feet to see several sheets of shredded toilet paper.
"Oh no!" I said. "I wonder what else they got into?"
Just then Linda spotted a mouse peeking out of Karl's backpack. We chuckled together and I said, "They don't eat much." Karl was up in a minute, poking around in his pack. He held a bag of trail mix in his hand. It had a hole chewed in the side.
"They have good taste, Karl." I remarked.
The fire warmed our bodies with a delicious sensation. Our hands gripped cups of coffee with eagerness, our lips sipped the liquid elixir, and our eyes looked out over the thousands of acres of God's handiwork with His snow paintbrush.
We broke camp with regret. The fire was out, our packs were ready, and we said "good-bye" to our haven of rest. If we'd had enough food, we might have been inclined to stay an extra day. We could have hiked south to Mt. Hayes or north to Mt. Success as a day hike.
Slippery footing entreated us to be very careful as we descended Austin Brook Trail. In places it was fun to slide down on our bottoms. As we passed beneath the arches of trees, our packs could barely fit through. Snow dropped down our neck and wedged between our backs and packs as countless branches dumped their snow harvest upon us. Our tracks from the hike in had been almost obliterated by the winds and snow during the night. We saw no animal tracks save those of a small squirrel.
As the trail leveled off in the vicinity of the bog bridges, a pair of boot prints joined the trail. They weren't deep enough to be those of a hiker with a pack, so I had to assume they were those of a hunter. We were wearing blaze orange clothing again, so we should be conspicuous. The hunter entered the trail from a loop, since his tracks were going in the same direction as we were travelling. I kept a watchful eye for him, nevertheless.
As we approached Linda's car, Karl and I stopped to wait for her. She took the lead, so we can honestly say "Linda led us down the trail and got back first."
Congratulations Linda! As a side note, she wants to do some more hiking with us in the future.
"Sweeter Rain" a.k.a. Ern Grover
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