More delighted than I can say that, introduced by Sandra Boynton, acclaimed by children, parents, grandparents, and right-thinking people everywhere as one of the giants of American literature, sweet B has become an enthusiastic, dancing, vocalizing fan of the great, great, supremely great, B.B.King.*
“One Shoe Blues”: hit it!
* In the early 1970s. I attended a concert at Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts, at which B.B. opened for Sha Na Na. He opened for a group that was doing ironic do-wop. A travesty. But in front of a young crowd that thought the blues was (were?) passé, not to mention déclassé, he (and his then-battered guitar, Lucille) brought down the house. We wouldn’t let him go. Sha Na Na? Take a hike. With B. B. in the house, really doing his thing, any other talent can take a hike.
So now sweet B and I are of one mind on this.
Thanks, Boynton.
Monday, October 12, 2009
AT in a Day
Well, we did our bit. Saturday was the Dartmouth Outing Club’s 100th Anniversary attempt to walk the entire Appalachian Trail in a single day. I had originally planned to take one of the sections here in Connecticut, but realized that there were others among the many Connecticut alums who would take care of that. I thought I would simply join A and H on their New Hampshire section. They had signed up for a short, B-friendly walk from Franconia notch to Lonesome Lake. The DOC, however, had other thoughts and requirements. Short, easy strolls were out. A and H were instead assigned the Wildcat Ridge traverse, just east across Pinkham Notch from Mt. Washington.
Much discussion about the best way to handle this with a baby. Simply bring her along? Take her up from the south as far as the ski gondola, with one of us riding her down while the others continue? Someone simply riding up with her at an appropriate time to meet the others crossing the ridge for a rest a a good look at the beautiful fall foliage likely to be at its peak? All of these, and several variations, were eventually rejected for a variety of reasons, and A and I headed for the mountains without H or B, who made their way south to Connecticut instead.
Sad choice.
Good choice.
Heading north to south, as we decided to do, requires a 3.6-mile walk in on the Nineteen-Mile Brook Trail to meet the AT. Counting that, we were looking at total of a little over 9 miles, with 3,949 feet of elevation gain, followed by the precipitous, slabby, loss of most of that back to the notch. We’d walked much of the ridge before, and knew it was challenging (attested to also by the standard guide-book time of 7:19), but we thought we’d probably finish it in six hours or so.
We started at about 9:30, in decent if chilly weather, predicted to become pretty good.
It didn’t, and at the junction of Nineteen-Mile Brook and the Wildcat Ridge Trail, we donned rain gear to head up the steep climb to Wildcat Mountain, crossing the slide, which usually offers terrific views, we were utterly socked in.
We topped Wildcat (a rock on a hump in a clump of underbrush at 4,422 ft, and scuffled along the narrow, rocky, brushy path laconically described in the White Mountain Guide as “fairly steep drops interspersed with level sections”—
—over Wildcats A, B, and C on our way to D, the southern anchor of the ridge at 4,062 ft.
We arrived there, just above the creaking machinery of the running but unused ski-lift gondola, to truly awful weather: rain, fog, and high winds that pushed the wind-chill well below freezing. I stopped in the lee of the ski-patrol shack for a quick exchange of wet base layer for dry. There was a trio of other hikers on the mountain, celebrating the fact that one of them had just—there and then on this nasty, viewless day—completed his full round of all 48 New Hampshire 4,000-footers. They obliged with a photo.
Shortly after we left the summit of D, we had our first views of the day, as the mist lifted and the sun peeked out.
The section down off the ridge’s south end is well-known as one of the roughest of the routinely rough White Mountain trails, pretty close to 2,000 ft., pretty much straight down over slabs, broken slabs, and rubble—
—including this short stretch of some artificial aid of a type neither A nor I had ever seen before.
Remember that six hours we thought it would take instead of the Guide’s 7:19? Not even close (though A would have been if he hadn’t had me as his sea-anchor). We finished in almost exactly...7:19.
Late afternoon in the notch, it was brighter than it had been most of the day, but it was still 43°F with a very stiff breeze. We’d had a great day despite the lousy weather and a few slips and dings, but the entire walk and every possible permutation we had considered to bring the baby along at least a part of it had proven to be absolutely not B-appropriate, or BA, as we started calling it.
So we’ve done our bit, and we are waiting to hear how other Dartmouth walkers, stretching from Georgia to Maine along the 2,175 miles of the Appalachian Trail, managed. We hope most of them had better weather.
Much discussion about the best way to handle this with a baby. Simply bring her along? Take her up from the south as far as the ski gondola, with one of us riding her down while the others continue? Someone simply riding up with her at an appropriate time to meet the others crossing the ridge for a rest a a good look at the beautiful fall foliage likely to be at its peak? All of these, and several variations, were eventually rejected for a variety of reasons, and A and I headed for the mountains without H or B, who made their way south to Connecticut instead.
Sad choice.
Good choice.
Heading north to south, as we decided to do, requires a 3.6-mile walk in on the Nineteen-Mile Brook Trail to meet the AT. Counting that, we were looking at total of a little over 9 miles, with 3,949 feet of elevation gain, followed by the precipitous, slabby, loss of most of that back to the notch. We’d walked much of the ridge before, and knew it was challenging (attested to also by the standard guide-book time of 7:19), but we thought we’d probably finish it in six hours or so.
We started at about 9:30, in decent if chilly weather, predicted to become pretty good.
It didn’t, and at the junction of Nineteen-Mile Brook and the Wildcat Ridge Trail, we donned rain gear to head up the steep climb to Wildcat Mountain, crossing the slide, which usually offers terrific views, we were utterly socked in.
We topped Wildcat (a rock on a hump in a clump of underbrush at 4,422 ft, and scuffled along the narrow, rocky, brushy path laconically described in the White Mountain Guide as “fairly steep drops interspersed with level sections”—
—over Wildcats A, B, and C on our way to D, the southern anchor of the ridge at 4,062 ft.
We arrived there, just above the creaking machinery of the running but unused ski-lift gondola, to truly awful weather: rain, fog, and high winds that pushed the wind-chill well below freezing. I stopped in the lee of the ski-patrol shack for a quick exchange of wet base layer for dry. There was a trio of other hikers on the mountain, celebrating the fact that one of them had just—there and then on this nasty, viewless day—completed his full round of all 48 New Hampshire 4,000-footers. They obliged with a photo.
Shortly after we left the summit of D, we had our first views of the day, as the mist lifted and the sun peeked out.
The section down off the ridge’s south end is well-known as one of the roughest of the routinely rough White Mountain trails, pretty close to 2,000 ft., pretty much straight down over slabs, broken slabs, and rubble—
—including this short stretch of some artificial aid of a type neither A nor I had ever seen before.
Remember that six hours we thought it would take instead of the Guide’s 7:19? Not even close (though A would have been if he hadn’t had me as his sea-anchor). We finished in almost exactly...7:19.
Late afternoon in the notch, it was brighter than it had been most of the day, but it was still 43°F with a very stiff breeze. We’d had a great day despite the lousy weather and a few slips and dings, but the entire walk and every possible permutation we had considered to bring the baby along at least a part of it had proven to be absolutely not B-appropriate, or BA, as we started calling it.
So we’ve done our bit, and we are waiting to hear how other Dartmouth walkers, stretching from Georgia to Maine along the 2,175 miles of the Appalachian Trail, managed. We hope most of them had better weather.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Galehead guest post
This is the guest post for the trip up Galehead Mountain that Mark mentioned a few days ago. My name is Paul and if you have read this blog over the months you will recognize my name. Mark and I have known each other for almost a half century and during the past few years, I have been his walking companion most mornings—rain, shine, snow, sleet. You have also seen my picture a few times including one from our hikes in the White Mountain two years ago. And 43 years ago we took a traverse across the Whites, staying at several of the huts that he has mentioned.
As you know from Mark’s post, I invited myself along when he decided to add to his list of 4,000-footers, especially when he blamed it on me that he couldn’t count our 1966 trip to Galehead. (Of course he could have kept notes himself but that’s another story.) Since I am not the expert, knowledgeable hiker that Mark is, I let him plan the event and provide me with some of the equipment that I lacked. For example, when I decided that my daypack was a little small for the trip, he said that he had eight packs (beside the Osprey that he took) from which to choose!*
I had been watching the weather forecasts and they were not very good: sunny for the morning as we drove north to the trailhead and then rain for the time we were to walk up and also for the following morning as we descended. Unfortunately, they were correct--although as Mark has indicated they underestimated the amount rainfall for the morning.
Paul at the sunny start.
This is not a trip to be undertaken for the great views. Except for a couple of places where we could look down upon the valley of the Gale River, there was nothing to be seen. Almost all of the trail is in the deep woods: fir, hemlock, birch and mountain ash. The “peak” of Galehead Mountain is totally wooded. (There is a cairn to mark the spot). The one outlook near the peak looking out over the Pemi Wilderness was completely fogged in!
Mark at the soggy summit.
So, what were the positive parts of hike? Obviously reaching the summit. (Incidentally we did this the following morning since it was getting dark and we were very wet by the time we reached the hut.) And more importantly, our time staying in the hut.
Galehead Hut
Galehead Hut was completely rebuilt less than a decade ago and is a very nice place to stay. It is most isolated of the huts but the accommodations are very good. They had a very friendly staff of three who provided great food and also a lecture on the “fir waves” of the White Mountains. There were six other hardy hikers staying there that night, along with a thru-hiker who arrived a couple hours after dark.
Galehead interior
I cannot end this post without mentioning the one really negative event on the hike. On the way down in the morning, it was raining quite hard. The trail was covered with large rounded rocks. As we descended into the deciduous forest, we found that the rocks were covered with wet leaves and about halfway down, my feet went out from under me and I ended up with a twisted ankle—along with a few other smaller complaints. Obviously, the last couple of miles went rather slowly. Perhaps if I had a pair of Mark’s Pacer Poles, I would have not had my problem!
* Paul used an early version of the Cold Cold World Chernobyl. Great, simple, tough pack...New Hampshire made!
* Paul used an early version of the Cold Cold World Chernobyl. Great, simple, tough pack...New Hampshire made!
Monday, October 5, 2009
I’m back in New Hampshire. H has the week off, and we’re planning to walk together in the mountains every day we can. Of course, this means sweet B, too, not to mention Jasper the Wonderdog.
This bright and gorgeous autumn morning, we headed north up I-93 from Concord to Franconia, then swung west up to Sugar Hill and breakfast at Polly’s Pancake Parlor. The high mountains to the east were still obscured by mist, so the stunning view was absent, but the food was as good as usual. I’m not sure, but I think B is saying, “Whoa, dude, Amazing pancakes!”:
Shortly after H snapped that photo, she noticed dark clouds quickly heading our way. We repacked baby and dog and made our way back down the slabs just in time to avoid one of those awful greasy descents. We got soaked, but only after we were down and safe.
Of course, when I say we, I mean H, J the W (who couldn’t have cared less), and me. The Queen of the May rode perfectly dry, mistress of all she surveyed. And why not?
This bright and gorgeous autumn morning, we headed north up I-93 from Concord to Franconia, then swung west up to Sugar Hill and breakfast at Polly’s Pancake Parlor. The high mountains to the east were still obscured by mist, so the stunning view was absent, but the food was as good as usual. I’m not sure, but I think B is saying, “Whoa, dude, Amazing pancakes!”:
At any rate, like us, she was a satisfied customer:
Our Monday walk was a short, sweet classic, Artists Bluff and Bald Mountain in Franconia Notch. H carried B in the Kelty and handled J the W, who really resents the indignity of being asked to carry his own water.
Artists Bluff is a sharpish but short climb to a ledge that offered the 19th Century painters who infested the White Mountains spectacular views of mountains, notch, and distant ridgelines. We, of course, carried a digital point-and-shoot, which another tourist was kind enough to point in our direction.
That’s Cannon Mountain ski area behind us, a typical rough and tough Eastern hill (much steeper than it looks—it’s a 4,000-footer), where you can be assured—it faces north—of finding more ice than powder. Gotta be good to ski smooth at Cannon.
After a woodsy traverse, reaching Bald’s peak requires negotiating some awkward slabs. The view opens up more to the north and west. I hope you can make out, right over H’s head, Mt. Mooselauke, Dartmouth’s mountain, eight miles away.
B also tolerated a grandfatherly hug, for which I was grateful.
After a woodsy traverse, reaching Bald’s peak requires negotiating some awkward slabs. The view opens up more to the north and west. I hope you can make out, right over H’s head, Mt. Mooselauke, Dartmouth’s mountain, eight miles away.
Of course, when I say we, I mean H, J the W (who couldn’t have cared less), and me. The Queen of the May rode perfectly dry, mistress of all she surveyed. And why not?
We were on the trail for just shy of two hours, and it was wonderful. More to come.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Dancin’ in the rain
Forty-three years ago, Paul and I walked across most of the Appalachian Mountain Club’s belt of huts in the White Mountains. Our favorite was Galehead, the most remote. Paul had never been back, and I hadn’t been there since a long, family-famous hike with the young H, 20 years ago. Recently, though, I’ve become semi-serious about climbing the New Hampshire 4,000-footers I haven’t more or less inadvertently tagged over the past 40-odd years.
On our original trip, Paul kept a journal. He neglected to note whether or not we climbed Galehead Mountain (4,024 ft.) near the hut. I don’t remember topping it out, and we might not have, since it has been added to the list since 1966. (What once was “the New Hampshire 46” is now the “New Hampshire 48”—Bondcliff has also been added).
Anyway, to make sure, I wanted to visit its uninteresting, wooded, viewless summit, for the admittedly pathetic reason of wanting to make a check mark on a piece of paper. Paul decided to come along for the stroll, and we walked in on Tuesday, spent the night at Galehead hut, and splashed up to the summit before swimming back out on Wednesday. (Memo to self: don’t just think about bringing a small umbrella on these wanders. Pack one. Then you can do your Gene Kelly imitation.)
Paul’s promised a guest post sometime soon, so I won’t go into the details I’m sure he’ll cover in greater and more interesting detail. But I do have two quick, entirely subjective, equipment reviews. This was the first chance I’d had to put my new Pacer Poles through their, er, paces, and I can report that I liked them very much. I’ve been strongly skeptical of poles, but I’ll probably be using these regularly from now on. They were comfortable and helpful on the steep, rocky trails, and stream crossings. I also finally had a chance to test the Osprey Stratos 32 I bought last year when they were being sold out cheap. The notorious “Osprey curve” that constricts the bag to accommodate the mesh anti-sweat backband makes the sack hard to pack, but once everything is stuffed and stowed (inside a waterproof liner!), the load rides very well. It’s an excellent day or day-and-a-half pack if you’re not carrying sleeping bag, tent, and much food or cooking kit...in other words, perfect for walks involving huts, refugios, or hostels.
On our original trip, Paul kept a journal. He neglected to note whether or not we climbed Galehead Mountain (4,024 ft.) near the hut. I don’t remember topping it out, and we might not have, since it has been added to the list since 1966. (What once was “the New Hampshire 46” is now the “New Hampshire 48”—Bondcliff has also been added).
Anyway, to make sure, I wanted to visit its uninteresting, wooded, viewless summit, for the admittedly pathetic reason of wanting to make a check mark on a piece of paper. Paul decided to come along for the stroll, and we walked in on Tuesday, spent the night at Galehead hut, and splashed up to the summit before swimming back out on Wednesday. (Memo to self: don’t just think about bringing a small umbrella on these wanders. Pack one. Then you can do your Gene Kelly imitation.)
Paul’s promised a guest post sometime soon, so I won’t go into the details I’m sure he’ll cover in greater and more interesting detail. But I do have two quick, entirely subjective, equipment reviews. This was the first chance I’d had to put my new Pacer Poles through their, er, paces, and I can report that I liked them very much. I’ve been strongly skeptical of poles, but I’ll probably be using these regularly from now on. They were comfortable and helpful on the steep, rocky trails, and stream crossings. I also finally had a chance to test the Osprey Stratos 32 I bought last year when they were being sold out cheap. The notorious “Osprey curve” that constricts the bag to accommodate the mesh anti-sweat backband makes the sack hard to pack, but once everything is stuffed and stowed (inside a waterproof liner!), the load rides very well. It’s an excellent day or day-and-a-half pack if you’re not carrying sleeping bag, tent, and much food or cooking kit...in other words, perfect for walks involving huts, refugios, or hostels.
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