Sweet B inspects packs and poles

Back in a day or two with more on this past week.

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!

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!”:

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.

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?

We were on the trail for just shy of two hours, and it was wonderful. More to come.

Guilt

I was supposed to go to an event this evening. I didn’t. We had a guest (well, it was Paul, but...), there was great, superb, transcendent cooking going on, the pre-dinner wine was excellent (we’ve become big Navarro fans), and it was raining (so wussy). I stayed home. So sue me.

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.

The grin

We had a terrific time with H, A, and sweet B this weekend. They continue gradually to move their belongings out of their apartment and into their new house. A colleague of H’s is organizing a “welcome to the neighborhood” party for them next Sunday, most of the painting, refinishing, and plasterwork has been finished, and the ultimate move is seemingly imminent. They will be what a friend of mine used to call “estatic” to be back in a house of their own.

Next week, H, sweet B, and I will be day-walking up in their neck of the woods, with, we all hope, at least a few days with A.

B is signing away like crazy, dancing whenever she gets a beat, naturally demonstrating stunning intellectual and creative powers, and, as you can see, is developing into a jolly gourmand.

Semiseptcentennial? Tricenquinquagenary?

Woodbury dates its founding to an initial purchase of land from its original inhabitants (who had no idea what they were letting themselves in for) in 1659. I remember vividly the massive celebration of the town’s 300th birthday in 1959. (Fifth graders are supposed to study American History. We did...Woodbury is in America, and we spent the whole year learning about our town. I’m actually very glad we did.) This weekend we celebrated its 350th. A half-mile of Main Street was blocked off on Saturday, and the party played itself out right in front of our house. Great weather, high spirits, lots of old friends back for the event. I got a sticker!


(This put me in the middle rank. One gent was wandering effortlessly around wearing one that had “90” on it, and our oldest resident, 98, father of an old baseball teammate, has lived here all his life.)

Sunday morning we attended an ecumenical service held at Bethel Rock, a spot the Puritan settlers used for worship because the massive outcrop provided safety and a spot upon which guards could stand. A drummer beat a tattoo from Drum Rock as a call to worship.


Later, I sat on the south green for a ceremony with a dozen or so other former selectmen. In this context, at least, superannuation suits me to a T.


We had the Revolution...


...and the Civil War.


And, of course, lots of patting ourselves on the back for our old town’s historic wonderfulness, in all its nostalgic, funny stories, school pranks, good-place-to-raise-a-family glory. I must admit I favor the tales of murder, arson, runaway wives, disgraced clergy, and ancient Town Meeting brawls over who should pay for weeding the cemetery and whether the town should come up with the $300 bounty to keep its sons out of the Union Army, or force the lads to pay it themselves. (The boys had to pay it themselves...this is Woodbury.)

The committee did a superb job. Great fun.