Category: Hiking

  • Hiking the Trails of Mount Wachusett

    On every side, the eye ranged over successive circles of towns, rising one above another, like the terraces of a vineyard, till they were lost in the horizon. Wachusett is, in fact, the observatory of the State. There lay Massachusetts, spread out before us in its length and breadth, like a map. There was the level horizon, which told of the sea on the east and south, the well-known hills of New Hampshire on the north, and the misty summits of the Hoosac and Green Mountains, first made visible to us the evening before, blue and unsubstantial, like some bank of clouds which the morning wind would dissipate, on the northwest and west. These last distant ranges, on which the eye rests unwearied, commence with an abrupt boulder in the north, beyond the Connecticut, and travel southward, with three or four peaks dimly seen. But Monadnock, rearing its masculine front in the northwest, is the grandest feature.

    As we beheld it, we knew that it was the height of land between the two rivers, on this side the valley of the Merrimack, or that of the Connecticut, fluctuating with their blue seas of air,—these rival vales, already teeming with Yankee men along their respective streams, born to what destiny who shall tell? Watatic, and the neighboring hills in this State and in New Hampshire, are a continuation of the same elevated range on which we were standing. But that New Hampshire bluff,–that promontory of a State,—lowering day and night on this our State of Massachusetts, will longest haunt our dreams.
    ” — Henry David Thoreau, A Walk to Wachusett

    Mount Wachusett is a glaciated monadnock, standing 2006 feet tall. Like her neighbor to the northwest, Mount Monadnock in New Hampshire, Mount Wachusett stands watch over the landscape that bows before her. You can’t talk about one mountain without mentioning the other, for they are forever kindred spirits in the landscape. Both mountains are uniquely positioned so that their waters flow to the Merrimack River from one side and to the Connecticut River from the other. The waters from each river run in my blood, which made a hike to the summit a sort of homecoming for me. And yet, for all the hikes I’ve done on Monadnock, I’d never hiked Wachusett.

    This was a month where the weather continued to disappoint those who dream of deep snow drifts, while thrilling those who pine for a mild winter. Count me in the camp of the former: I wanted nothing more than to fly across snow plains this winter. A heavy snowfall the day before offered one last chance for the month. But it was quickly apparent that this was a micro spike hike, and the snow shoes were left behind yet again.

    From the Visitor’s Center, you can easily summit Mount Wachusett in under 30 minutes. But that wasn’t our goal. Instead we took the Bicentennial Trail around the eastern slope to High Meadow Trail, up through a stand of Hemlocks to the Pine Hill Trail. Fluffy snow over ice creates uncertain footing, and we slowed our pace to mitigate the risk of injury. For a time, the only break in the trail ahead was from a porcupine, who’s distinct tail marked the trail in footprints and swirly plows. It seems most people cut to the chase and scramble up the mountain. We were more inclined to linger with it, to get to know it better. To feel what Thoreau felt when he and Richard Fuller hiked here from Concord, set up their tent atop the lonely summit, and had the place to themselves for a night.

    Wachusett’s summit has changed since Thoreau’s time. There’s a ski slope on one side, there’s a mountain road you can drive up in the warmer months to see the view without earning it, and there’s ample parking for those cars. A few towers, including an observation tower, complete the scene. I wonder, reading Thoreau’s account, where did they pitch their tent and read Virgil by the light of a summer full moon?

    Winter snow obscures much of the impact of man, but you’re still clearly in a manmade world when you’re on the summit of Mount Wachusett. To return to nature you must seek the trails that criss-cross around the reservation. But the views are largely the same as they were for Thoreau’s 180 years ago. Just as it was for him, Monadnock stands prominently as the grandest feature of the 360 degree view.

    Inevitably we left with more to see, trails and old growth forest to explore another day. For this day I found what I was looking for. Time with an old friend hiking trails I’d always meant to get to one day. And a glimpse into a world Thoreau would find both foreign yet comfortably familiar. Wachusett is timelessly accessible, but somehow always felt apart from the mountains I sought out. We finally got acquainted with one another.

    Summit tower, Mount Wachusett
    Distinctive porcupine tracks mark the trail
    Plenty of exposed granite despite the snow
    Which way do we go? Plenty of choices.
  • Hemlocks in Snow

    “Do you know that even when you look at a tree and say, ‘That is an oak tree’, or ‘that is a banyan tree’, the naming of the tree, which is botanical knowledge, has so conditioned your mind that the word comes between you and actually seeing the tree? To come in contact with the tree you have to put your hand on it and the word will not help you to touch it.”
    ― Jiddu Krishnamurti, Freedom from the Known

    I encountered a stand of hemlock trees shading the path I walked. Combined with the crisp breeze I was quickly chilled. Not five minutes before I’d contemplated taking off layers and just like that the trees stole whatever warmth was radiating down from the sun and left me with nothing but cold. Yet the trees stood indifferently to my comfort.

    Walking through the hemlocks, feeling their silent majesty, I stopped focusing on myself and appreciated the stoic beauty of the trees. These trees touched me, even as I felt their indifference. And I wanted to linger even with the cold wind relentlessly driving me to find a sunny spot on the trail. Now mind you, I don’t go around hugging trees. But I do exhibit what might be considered by some to be an unusual fondness for them. And these trees, red bark and green needles, are survivors. It’s not easy growing on a mountain, and my moment of cold discomfort was a good reminder of their toughness. For even now they stand together in the dark of a winter night, while I retreat to the comfort of home.

    It’s funny, you can leave a stand of trees, yet they stay with you still.

  • The Crunch of Now on an Icy Trail

    Friday offered heavy rain that turned to sleet and finally snow. With temperatures plummeting, this quickly turned into a frozen mess on the roads. And temperatures stayed well below freezing, guaranteeing that anything frozen was likely to stay that way for a few days. The snow was transformed to rock-hard ice, with a light frosting of granular snow atop it. It was perfect for slipping on boots and micro spikes and heading for the trails.

    The same conditions that make roads miserable transform trails into magic carpet rides. Most of the sins of the trail are locked below the frozen hard pack, and with the right gear the trail is a joyful peregrinate through the wonders of the forest. Streams and waterfalls become sculpture. Granite recedes from primary feature to delightful accent locked in the ice blanket. The trail itself offers an entirely different experience than it did just days before when snowshoes were the kit of choice. In winter every day brings something new, should you go out to find it.

    Much like the landscape around you, walking alone through the woods on a frozen but brilliant sunny day you become intensely embedded in the moment. You don’t walk with purpose to a destination, the walk is your destination. Every step becomes the point of your being here. With micro spikes announcing their grip on the ice, every step becomes a cry of Now! Here! Now!

    I visit a frozen waterfall. I only seem to visit it in winter, when it’s locked away in ice, and each visit I tell myself I ought to stop by in spring when the water is running angry. We all feel locked away ourselves in winter, I suppose the waterfall and I are kindred spirits in this way. My visit becomes a vote of solidarity with the falls behind the ice. I promise once again that I’ll be back, and believe I mean it this time. The frozen waterfall is indifferent to my promises. All that matters is the present for a waterfall. The future lies upstream, waiting for its moment. Whether I’m here for it doesn’t matter to the waterfall.

    I come across a few people along the way, couples and dog walkers and snowshoers gamely giving it a go on the ice. Read the room, folks. The trail betrays all who have come before me: fat tire tracks, boots, paw prints and snowshoe tracks. We believe we’re the only people on earth when we’re alone in the frozen woods, yet here was proof of all who came before, with all that you chance upon. You aren’t really alone in the woods, you’re alone in the moment. And there’s a measure of delight that washes over you as you make your way towards your own future.

    Waterfall, locked in the moment
    Frozen granite
  • January is Waiting

    “I wonder how long it would take you to notice the regular recurrence of the seasons if you were the first man on earth. What would it be like to live in open-ended time broken only by days and nights? You could say, “it’s cold again; it was cold before,” but you couldn’t make the key connection and say, “it was cold this time last year,” because the notion of “year” is precisely the one you lack. Assuming that you hadn’t yet noticed any orderly progression of heavenly bodies, how long would you have to live on earth before you could feel with any assurance that any one particular long period of cold would, in fact, end?” — Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

    Lately I’ve been watching some Lonewolf 902 YouTube videos of winter camping with a hot tent. I’ve done a bit of winter camping in my time, with an old sleeping bag sprinkled with ember burns to prove it, but not recently. I don’t see myself hauling a titanium stove through the woods of New Hampshire and cutting up dead standing timber for firewood anytime soon. But his adventures northeast of me in Nova Scotia and Cape Breton Island are stirring the imagination once again. It’s time to get back out there.

    You might feel the cold, and might even experience the snow when you stay put in your nest. But you just don’t become a part of the season without being immersed in it. January, by all rites, offers cold, short days. I’ve noticed that I don’t notice as much when I don’t get out in it. Without a dog to walk in the cold night, I don’t watch the celestial dance across the sky. Without gathering my hiking gear and heading north, I don’t feel the sting of winter or the snow blindness of brilliant sun on frigid snow. What fun is January if you aren’t out in it?

    “Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather. ” — John Ruskin

    January is the month when you begin to go stir crazy if you aren’t active enough. The best remedy is right in front of us—bundle up and get your ass out there. The magic of snow and ice and crisp air won’t last for long. You must go to it, prepared, if you want to experience the exhilaration of winter. Melancholy is for those who would shelter indefinitely. Nothing breaks the hold of the winter blues faster than embracing winter. So get out and experience all winter offers! How many more do you expect to have? Appreciate the gift that this season represents.

    January is waiting… but it’s slipping away.

  • The Forest Knows

    Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
    Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
    And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
    Must ask permission to know it and be known.
    The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
    I have made this place around you.
    If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
    No two trees are the same to Raven.
    No two branches are the same to Wren.
    If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
    You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
    Where you are. You must let it find you.

    David Wagoner, Lost

    Walk out into the woods in silence, listening to the trees around you, and you’ll know the truth. Climb up high into the mountains, well above the trees, and hear the whisper in the wind. You’ll hear it up there too. Sail out beyond the sight of land, out where the swells make you feel small and inadequate. Hear the swish of water under the hull, the waves curl and splash away in salty celebration as you see your place in this world. The answers are out there, waiting for you to listen.

    We surround ourselves with the buzz of distraction, the white noise of modern life, to avoid hearing the silent call that urges us to follow. It’s a tempting mistress, this Siren, and drives so many to the rocks of conformity. Fall in line! Do your job! Stay on point! Bide your time!

    Time is irrelevant in the universe. Trees and mountains and the sea don’t mark time, they dance with infinity. Don’t you think, should we be so bold, that we should too?

  • Layers

    You might say that winter brings simplicity, laying bare and naked the world outside. Living things have two choices in winter; to fatten up and sleep it off or to hunt for food to keep the furnace burning. Hibernate or keep moving. Survival, simplified.

    In warmer climates, or warmer seasons, you might get away with a single layer or even less. When it gets cold you add layers until you reach a level of comfort. Proper layering is an acquired skill, and there’s a special joy that comes with getting out of a warm bed or sleeping bag and scurrying to add enough layers to reach comfort before the lingering warmth dissipates. You essentially trade one cocoon for another.

    Hikers know the layering dance all too well. Start slightly overdressed and begin to shed layers as your core warms. Reach colder, windier summits and the layers come back on again. The layers ebb and flow like the surf as you cool and warm with motion and micro climates. And in this ritual an underlying celebration for each layer as it comes and goes.

    We celebrate the complexity of layers in other ways. A story is always more interesting if there are layers of complexity built into it. Conversation that is simplistic is boring. The most interesting people we meet have many interests, can hang with you on many topics, and raise the bar to a level you seek to clear yourself. You think back on conversations like this and marvel at where they took you.

    Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a warm day with the sun on my skin as much as anyone. But I’m not sure I could live that way all the time. Give me the chill of early morning, or when the sun drops down below the horizon. Give me frosty window panes and seeing your breath in the crisp air. The simplicity of winter is deceptive. There’s more going on than meets the eye. The beauty of the season lies in its layers. It will kill you just as easily as it will awe you with its stark beauty.

    So it goes with life. We go deeper for meaning in our lives, for lives at the surface are shallow and inconsequential. When we wrap ourselves in layers of interests we might thrive in even the coldest of days. A layered life is a resilient life. We’ve all learned the value of that, haven’t we?

  • This Will Be Our Year

    Now we’re there and we’ve only just begun
    This will be our year
    Took a long time to come
    — The Zombies, This Will Be Our Year

    Normally I take time to assess the best memories or the favorite stuff accumulated to wrap up a previous year in the final days leading into the new year. This year, other than listing a collection of books read, I am far more inclined to put 2021 to rest and get on with living. I imagine I’m not the only one in that respect.

    So how do you set the table for a great year? We’ve covered some of this already, deciding what to be and go be it is a good attitude to begin with. To realize it, you’ve got to act on it. Book the trip, block off the vacation time, commit to the athletic event, reserve the campsite or the trail hut and you’re halfway there. In some ways you’re forcing your own hand. Or you can look at it as making a commitment to your future self. It’s a high agency way of taking your life in your own hands and not just going with the flow of random events.

    Booking it naturally starts a countdown to arriving at the moment you do it. A to-do list immediately accumulates. Want to run a marathon or hike the Presidential Traverse in the White Mountains? You’d best get in shape before you set off, buddy. The world doesn’t need another unprepared fanatic hitting the starting line. Commit and begin the incremental climb to fitness so you can actually finish what you most want to start.

    Is it that simple? Of course not, but you’re far more likely to do it if you place a financial and time stake in the ground and then give yourself just enough runway to take off. You can’t commit to something so far off that you lose focus on the goal, but it can’t be so short that you aren’t ready when you arrive. Plan, then execute on that plan in a carefully measured number of workouts, vacation days, or paychecks. Use time and money to help you arrive, not as an excuse for not going at all. We become what we prioritize.

    The big moments await your commitment. Put a stake in the ground at the end of the runway and gather some momentum. It’s time to soar.

  • Now I Saunter

    “I don’t like either the word [hike] or the thing. People ought to saunter in the mountains – not ‘hike!’ Do you know the origin of that word saunter? It’s a beautiful word. Away back in the middle ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going they would reply, ‘A la sainte terre’, ‘To the Holy Land.’ And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not ‘hike’ through them.” — John Muir

    I’ve been absent from the mountains for a long stretch now. A heel injury nags and before that an ankle injury right above it and really, what’s it all but excuses and reluctance to push onward through a bit of pain? I’d been saving this quote for my next saunter up the mountains—to the Holy Land—but I’m done waiting for the moment. For all my enduring love for the mountains, my pilgrimage is with life itself.

    John Muir turned the act of hiking to where it belonged; towards reverence. For who doesn’t encounter reverence deep in the mountains? And what of life? Life can be an unfair grind, filled with misery and pain and setbacks, and maybe we feel a bit of reluctance to be reverent about the slog we feel we’re on. There’s immense suffering in this world, serious challenges to our collective future, and I don’t turn a blind eye to it writing about sauntering merrily through life. But shouldn’t we meet each moment for the ripe potential it offers? Shouldn’t we seek a path that brings us to a better place?

    Once I plodded through life, grinding it out in jobs I didn’t love, invested in relationships that didn’t matter all that much in the end, wasting time on the inconsequential. Humans are very good at frivolously consuming away our time like so many empty calories, until our fingers reach the bottom of the bag and we realize we’re left with emptiness and greasy fingers. I’m not so much like that now. Now I celebrate moments. Now I saunter.

    The world continues to assault our senses. Sauntering is an embrace of the world as it is, taking it on the chin but greeting life as it comes. A move away from consumption in the present towards the mission of the future potential in all of us. Staying on the path with a spirit of aliveness despite the worst hardships life throws at us. Living with reverence for the gift of the pilgrimage.

  • Visiting the Cascades of Attica

    You’ve got to know when to hold ’em
    Know when to fold ’em
    Know when to walk away
    And know when to run


    Every gambler knows
    That the secret to survivin’
    Is knowin’ what to throw away
    And knowin’ what to keep
    ‘Cause every hand’s a winner
    And every hand’s a loser
    And the best that you can hope for
    Is to die in your sleep

    —Kenny Rogers, The Gambler

    When you find a few minutes in your day, googling “waterfalls near me” can net some great micro adventures. Today’s search brought me to a pristine 60 foot waterfall just five minutes down the road from a famous prison that looks like a castle in the cornfields. The waterfall felt like you were in another universe. And it was just where I needed to be between my second and third meetings on a busy day in Upstate New York.

    There are a few web sites that describe the cascades. I found this one helpful for understanding what I was walking into. Private property, three cascades within a few hundred meters of the road, well defined path… got it. Of course, it didn’t mention the slippery layer cake hazard of fresh snow on wet leaves on gooey mud that a visitor in December might confront, but things change and we must adjust to whatever we’re presented with. I attempted to reach the 60 foot plunge from both shores, recognizing both offered potential views but also potential for an untimely end to my time on this earth. There was no one to hear me scream as I slipped down the path, over the cliff and down the ice cold river. So why tempt fate? The secret to survivin’ is knowin’ what to throw away. And knowin’ what to keep.

    But I couldn’t walk away without getting a “close enough” picture. I slipped on the micro spikes, grabbed hold of the rope someone generously left for just such foolhardy acts and made my way down to the top of the falls. Not the dangerous part, mind you, but the part some folks in my life would question my sanity for getting anywhere near. Daring, but not reckless… Hey that’s me!. Maybe someday I’ll be back and conditions will be perfect for a walk downstream and then up the river bed for that classic waterfall shot. This wasn’t that day. But it was still an adventure. If only a small one.

    Cascades from as close as I could safely get
    The other shore was even more daunting
  • Towards Empty Spaces

    “Hiking is not for everyone. Notice the wilderness is mostly empty.” – Sonja Yoerg

    It seems counterintuitive that an otherwise social being would be so quick to seek out solitude and empty spaces. But that’s generally where you’ll find me when the opportunity arises. Let the record show that I love interacting with people. I just don’t want to have them encroaching on me all the time. And so it is that you’ll find me in places others might think of as desolate and wild.

    My favorite destinations have the fewest people in them. You can have your hippest restaurants and trendy neighborhoods, I’ll stick with wide open places, thank you. I’m happy to visit the world’s big cities, I just don’t want to live in them.

    I think nothing of it when I lose cellular coverage. In fact, I celebrate it! To be off the grid is increasingly difficult, and it may one day be impossible. But for now, I dance with my zero bars when I get ‘em.

    If all of this seems like a diatribe against population growth or humanity in general, well, that’s not the point at all. No, this is a celebration of elbow room and quiet hikes in hard to reach places. May we always have them, for I surely can’t be the only one seeking them out.