AWOL on the Appalachian Trail (27 page)

When the owner returns me to Kinsman Notch, I look up at Mount Moosilauke towering over the road to the south, and more mountains tower above the road to the north. The peaks are beautifully outlined by Windex-blue skies. The setting evokes spontaneous elation, a sudden feeling of overwhelming goodness, rightness, optimism, happiness, and eagerness for being where I am, involved in what I am doing. Partway up the first climb I pass southbound hikers who ask how far I am going.

"I'm a thru-hiker," I say, recalling the hesitancy with which I would have given that answer back in Georgia. This
is
what I am now; I belong.

Mount Kinsman is the main feature of the day. There is a long and steep incline up the mountain, so steep in places that trail builders have installed wooden ladders. The mountain has two peaks, and from the south peak, I can see that the north peak is the steeper of the two. The north peak looks so pointed that it is hard to imagine that there could be a walking path to its pinnacle. The sight makes me eager to go there. I have fun working my way up the second peak, using my hands nearly as much as my feet. Rain falls and makes the trail slick and muddy. The descent is every bit as steep, and much less fun.

A section-hiking family (a mom, a dad, an unwilling pre-teen daughter, and a reluctant dog) is headed up Kinsman. All are carrying full packs, and the dad is dragging the dog on a leash and yelling at it for nearly causing him to fall on this dangerous slope. The daughter is asking if they can turn around. They say they are headed for a shelter I had passed on the other side of the mountain, and gauging by the time it took me, they would arrive about an hour after dark. They are irritated, dispirited, and headed for a night hike on a wet trail on one of the most dangerous sections of the AT.

Lonesome Lake Hut, the first of the AMC huts on the AT, sits serenely next to Lonesome Lake, and Franconia Ridge rises like a wall on the far shore. My sixteen-mile day has been work, even though I slack-packed with less than twenty pounds. I hitch back to North Woodstock, satisfied with my two sorties into the White Mountains. Tomorrow I will take on the bulk of the Whites with a full pack, spending four nights before my next resupply.

I wake up sore and worried that I am getting sick. My soreness is status quo, and a big breakfast in town eliminates my malaise. Conditions, crisply cold around sixty degrees with clear skies, are perfect for a foray into the mountains. I'm eager to go, but I have a newspaper article to finish before leaving town.

When I finally leave North Woodstock, I walk toward the north end of town so I can hitch near the front of a convenience store. It looks like an easy spot for cars traveling down Main Street to pull over. Instead, my ride comes from a man who is leaving the store. His purchase, a twelve-pack of beer, is in the front seat between us. One is missing, because he's got it in his hand. "You want a beer?"

"No thanks." It is before 11:00 a.m., but there's no need to point that out to him. It is obvious he's the kind of guy who starts drinking even earlier than this osome days. Like today, for example. His eyes are squinty, and his tongue gets in the way of his words. His driving is erratic, and I wish we weren't talking because he looks at me and not the road when he talks. I've told him about my long-distance hike, and he figures I must be living off the land.

"You must have a nice hunting knife."

"No," I answer, "I haven't been hunting."

"You ain't carrying a fucking hunting knife?" he asks again. "What if you get attacked by a fucking bear? Fuck! You'd be fucked!" His cursing is not angry; "fucking" is just an all-purpose adjective, and sometimes a sentence.

"Here it is," I say, pointing to the trailhead where I've asked him to take me. "Thanks a lot for the ride."

"Okay, man. Good luck. Git yerself a fucking knife."

The trail begins a long ramp up Mount Lincoln. Most of the six miles I walk today will be uphill since I will end my day about four thousand feet higher than where I started. The bulk of the climb is uniformly inclined at the angle of an escalator. The terrain is rocky, and the trees are evergreens. Thru-hiker Sparky is on the path ahead of me, moving slowly, not feeling well. I stop and let her pick from a few over-the-counter medicines I carry, and then I walk with her for about a mile before feeling like I need to move on. We are headed above tree line, so I hope she is fairly judging her capabilities.

A couple of AMC workers are at Liberty Springs Campsite. I inquire about staying at Greenleaf Hut. The hut workers (they call themselves "croo") have some flexibility in how they implement the work-for-stay policy. They can turn anyone away, but usually their discretion works in favor of thru-hikers. Still, uncertainty about hut openings is unsettling, especially since Greenleaf is a mile off the trail. One of the AMC employees is a croo member at Greenleaf. "We hardly ever get more than two thru-hikers coming down to Greenleaf. And usually we'll take all that come, since it's such a long walk down."

The trail begins to level, trees become sparser, and again I hike out above the timberline. The AT stays above the trees for the next three miles. The upper slopes of the mountains are still green with ground-hugging alpine vegetation. Hikers are asked not to stray from the trail because of the fragile nature of growth at this elevation. Gray and rust-colored granite bulges out along the ridgeline, like the spine of an exoskeletal beast. When I summit Mount Lincoln, I can see the next mile of trail along the rocky spine of Franconia Ridge. It is an awesome site. It doesn't look like a mile to the next peak, Mount Lafayette, but moving specks--hikers on the trail--give scale to the scene that is before me.

From the top of Lafayette, views in all directions are bounded only by the limits of my vision. The enormous expanse of land evokes a powerful feeling of liberation. We spend an inordinate amount of time indoors, and the physical confinement limits the metaphorical bubble of our aspirations. Large rooms, like the vaulted interior of a church, are uplifting. Outdoors, we are free to reach for the sky.

Franconia Ridge leading to Mount Layfayette.

I lave the AT to take the path down to the hut. The trail is steep and rocky. Although it is only a mile long, it takes me forty minutes to traverse. Greenleaf Hut is on a flat shelf of land on the shoulder of the mountain. Beyond the hut, the mountain falls off steeply to Franconia Notch. From where I stand, I cannot see down into the notch, but I can see across the gap to Cannon Mountain. New Hampshire's state emblem is a facelike rock formation that was on the side of Cannon Mountain. A week after I started my hike, the Old Man of the Mountain broke loose and tumbled into Franconia Notch. Before his fall, he was staring at Greenleaf Hut.

Thru-hikers Dirty Bird and Fido are at the hut before me, but the croo allows me to do work-for-stay as well. Later Sparky arrives, and she is granted a spot in the hut, too. My task for the night is to organize a bookshelf full of books that they have available to guests. Dirty Bird and Fido get the somewhat less appealing task of turning the compost. We are treated to leftovers for dinner, and there is plenty of everything: ham, mashed potatoes, peas, and apple pie.

The AMC huts implement a number of environment-friendly features. They are lit by 24-volt battery systems charged by solar, wind, or hydro generators. Stoves run off propane. Food waste is composted. There are no napkins, and there are no paper towels in the bathrooms. There are no showers. The bathrooms have composting toilets, and they are as odorless as any public restroom I've ever used. Guests are expected to pack out their own trash. Twice a week the croos pack out garbage and return loaded with supplies. There is no road access.

In the morning, the last chore for us work-for-stay hikers is to sweep the rooms. It is not much of a task for four people, and the croo needs no help cooking. For breakfast, we again get leftovers. The only downside to the arrangement is waiting for the croo to finish with the guests before we can eat. After guests have eaten, the croo gives them a brief presentation, and one croo member offers to take all willing guests for a guided hike. We gather up the dishes, and the croo does the washing. Only then do we get to eat. I am accustomed to starting my hike around 7:00 a.m., but I would never leave the huts before 9:00. It is a setback that I gladly suffer for the meals and accommodations.

The trail in the White Mountains is everything I ever heard it would be. Here I see the most spectacular views of anywhere on the trail. And it is also as difficult as I have been warned. The terrain is as rocky as Pennsylvania, and the steepness of the climbs is unparalleled. Imagine a mountain range sculpted using beach sand, with mountains as tall and steep as the sand will allow. Wind and time would erode and soften the sculpture. The mountains would melt down; the peaks would become less pointed and the slopes more gradual. A week-old sculpture might be representative of the shape of the majority of the Appalachian Mountain Range. The White Mountains would be like the sculpture the moment it was completed, with the sharpness and steepness still intact. No other mountains on the AT are this austere. Only the Great Smoky Mountains come close; they may be equated to one- or two-day-old mountains of sand.

I've been doing less than two miles per hour on the days in the Whites, and fourteen miles is a full day. Most everywhere else on the trail I would plan to hike about twenty miles a day, and in a pinch I could hike faster than three miles per hour. My feet hurt with renewed intensity now that there is more rock walking and steep, toe-jamming descents.

There are a number of section hikers on this strenuous trail. Many take multiday vacations to hike hut to hut through the Whites. Three of them are coming uphill, and I watch them labor through the chaos of rock. We meet at the intersection of the AT and another side trail. One of the hikers points to the side trail and says, "That way is the campsite," and then, pointing down the trail he just climbed, "and that way is hell." I see no other thru-hikers northbound or southbound while I hike, which may be a good thing since we are vying for work-for-stay at the huts.

Near Galehead Hut, there is a respite of somewhat level and wooded trail. A furry brown animal scurries along the ground and then up a spruce tree. It is a marten, an animal looking somewhat like a cross between a fox and a squirrel. Martens are elusive, and rare in New Hampshire, so I feel fortunate to see him.

I am the first thru-hiker to arrive at Zealand Falls Hut. Biscuit arrives shortly after I do, and we both do work-for-stay. This croo takes a more literal view of work-for-stay, so we wash windows, sweep, and set tables. This hut, like all the rest, is fully booked with paying guests.

Pine marten.

The hut is situated on the side of a mountain, facing downhill. The waterfall after which the hut is named is only twenty yards away. After dinner it is dark and I sit out front looking across the valley. The sky is cobalt blue above the undulating black silhouette of the mountains. Mars is shining brightly, more prominent than any star. The red planet is closer than it has been to Earth in sixty thousand years.

The first five miles north from Zealand Falls Hut are excellent, easy and level, so I walk faster than I have in days. From the right a bear and cub are on a collision course with me, all of us moving too fast and getting ourselves too close to each other. I stop and the mother bear retreats, but the dummy cub trees itself so the mom has to come back and stand guard; it is approximately the same scenario I've had with all momma bears. The cub is in a tree close to the trail, and the mother bear is standing
on
the trail. I wait for a minute, impatient for them to allow me to proceed. The trailside vegetation is too dense for me to walk around. Will they run off if I get closer? That is an approach I've yet to try on bears. I advance a few cautious steps. The bear raises her head, extends her neck, and trains her ears on me. She is not intimidated. I think better of pushing her further. If I get mauled, surely the news team will interview the man who gave me a ride back in North Woodstock: "I told him to get a (bleeping) hunting knife."