“Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” – Marcel Proust
Spring in New England is a tricky thing. We pivot from beautiful warm days to snow squalls and bitter wind, often within a few minutes of each other. But the days grow longer and we quietly grow more confident about putting the lawn furniture back out and maybe planting some seeds in starter soil. Basil, cilantro and parsley are each growing in sunny windowsills as I write this, and I’m considering getting the dahlia bulbs going soon. Such is the mind of a gardener.
Proust writes of a different kind of gardener, of course, but they’re generally one and the same. The people who light us up in social interaction are quiet observers of humanity, readers of eyes and solicitors of smiles. In this particular time when social interaction has been elusive, we haven’t had as much interaction like this, and we’ve never needed it more.
Spring brings hope to the gardener, and vaccines bring hope for time with those people who make us happy. I’m as ready for a gathering of celebration with friends and family as I am for the smell of fresh cut grass and tomato vines. Confident hugs and hand squeezes and shoulder leans are just around the corner.
Imagine the days ahead, as a gardener imagines them – life blossoming anew, hope in the air, warm sun on our backs. Breathe in the fresh warm air, turn towards friends old and new, and smile. They could use it – and so could you.
There’s something uniquely foreign about the experience, akin to visiting an ice palace in a fantasy movie. Humans aren’t supposed to be in such places. At least that’s what we tell ourselves when we look at a waterfall from the front. And when it’s frozen in winter? Well, there’s something chillingly locked away in… there.
Now, in case you’re wondering, this isn’t the first time I’ve been behind a waterfall. Like countless thousands, I’ve walked behind Niagara Falls and for the price of admission seen the roaring waters dropping away from the safety of a dim, well-engineered if soulless tunnel. Interesting, to be sure. But not magical.
It’s clearly the ice. It forms a wall over the falls that announces, “sorry, closed for the season”. There’s beauty in the frozen stillness of a waterfall in winter, of course, but there’s a small part of you that feels betrayed by the ice. You hear the muted sound of water falling deep inside, and want for more.
Enter Beede Falls in Sandwich, New Hampshire. In warmer months it’s a 35 foot horsetail of falling water with a popular swimming hole. In winter it’s an ice bulge, beautiful but seemingly as inaccessible as other frozen waterfalls. But this one offers a secret for those who dare. You can duck and crawl in behind the falls on the left or right side, and even crawl all the way through if you wanted to. For some less tall than me standing up is even possible.
I wondered at the characters over the years who have crawled behind the falls in all seasons. I wasn’t the first on this day, and other hikers waited patiently for me to finish to have their own turn in the tight tunnel between granite, water and ice. How many humans have made this crawl over the thousands of years that this cave and waterfall have danced together? A lot, I suppose. But for a few minutes, there was only me and the ice and water.
That’s where I finally saw the magic locked away behind that frozen blue skin. Deep behind the water is indeed falling, forming icicles and frozen bubbles successively grown upon each other to form otherworldly sculptures. And through it all that shower of water penetrates the center, surrounded by its icy shield and backlit by the daylight beyond. An incredible wonderland so foreign to me, so delightful, that I felt I’d gone to another world. And indeed I had.
What good is livin’ a life you’ve been given If all you do is stand in one place – Lord Huron, Ends of the Earth
If snow transforms the landscape, then a walk in that snowy terrain transforms the winter walker. Add a new path and suddenly you’re seeing the world entirely differently than you had before. Add snowshoes and you’re suddenly set free to break off trail to see new places, explore animal tracks that run off into the woods, and to see what’s on top of a rise you might have walked by at another time of year.
There’s a popular pursuit in hiking called red-lining, in which hikers hike every bit of every trail on a map or guide. A popular red-lining pursuit in New England is hiking the AMC White Mountain Guide. The whole point of red-lining is to explore new paths – to get off the crowded hiking trails and try something new. To do it, and to belong to a small group of hardcore hikers who have also done it. And add a measure of accomplishment and camaraderie in the world of hiking. I don’t see myself hiking every trail in the AMC White Mountain Guide, but I’m fully onboard with hiking new trails and seeing the previously (for me) unseen.
On Valentine’s Day I explored trails previously unseen in a forest I’ve spent a lot of time in. Snowshoeing with friends, we walked a trail largely by ourselves to new places. When you’re on a new trail like that, every step is a discovery, every bend in the trail is a curiosity, and every trail junction is confirmation and validation of what the map was trying to tell you all along. There’s magic in taking that image on a map for a walk and making it real.
The day after a long walk on new trails you start thinking about the trails at those junctions that you didn’t take. You wonder at what you might have missed down that way and begin to realize the allure of red-lining. For how do you want to spend your time in this world? Sticking with the familiar or exploring new places and challenging yourself in new ways? There are other paths that warrant exploration. I’ve seen them out there, if only on a map.
A flurry of texts over the work week from two directions with questions about hiking led to a decision to join forces for a hike of Cannon Mountain. On the one hand were the Perry’s, increasingly famous in the White Mountains for years of summiting mountains and red-lining trails. I don’t recall a hike in the last couple of years where they didn’t know at least one person on the trails. And a text from my niece Kellyn offered a nice treat, with her deciding to hike with us as well.
Cannon Mountain is an old granite mound that’s famous for a sheer rock face that once held the Old Man of the Mountain until it collapsed in 2003, and for the tram built to promote tourism and skiing on the mountain in 1938, making it the first passenger tramway in the United States. The Old Man of the Mountain gave this granite mound its first name, Profile Mountain, but eventually its resemblance to a cannon from some vantage points let to what we’re familiar with now.
So the stage was set for four hikers to set out on a cold February 13th morning for a hike from Lafayette Campground. We chose the Lonesome Lake Trail, with three of us starting in micro spikes on the snow-packed trail. Our fourth hiker stuck with snowshoes the entire time. The conditions on the popular trail made either option fine. As with other hikes, you quickly know when it’s time to put on the snowshoes. For us that was when we took the largely unbroken Dodge Cutoff Trail over to Hi-Cannon for the hike up to the summit.
Lonesome Lake is a beautiful lake sitting in the bowl of Cannon and the neighboring mountains of the Kinsman Range. It’s a destination of its own, and plenty of people hike up to see it, walk on the frozen lake for the beautiful views it offers, and then hike back down. But you don’t summit mountains when you turn around halfway. We powered on, snowshoeing through a wonder of marshmallow trees up the steep trail. There’s one ice-caked ladder on Hi-Cannon that I’ll always remember for the limited footing options presented to us, but we all got past it with a little help and a dose of courage.
The thing about summits is they tend to be much colder when you’re exposed to the wind and you stop moving. Sweaty gloves quickly freeze up, making a change a requirement to keep your fingers working. We considered the observation tower for a few minutes and opted to just hike down to the ski resort’s Mountain Station, where I’m told you can buy a beer at 4080 feet. I opted for hot chili and hot chocolate, with extra hot, thank you. It’s a rare day when you can summit a mountain and have hot chili waiting for you. We quickly warmed up and reached a point where if we didn’t get going we might choose to close out the place. Onward.
Crossing a ski trail is akin to crossing a highway. You judge the oncoming traffic, decide whether your speed can overcome the approaching traffic’s speed and go. We quickly crossed over to the trail back to the summit observation deck, crowned the summit and began our descent using the Kinsman Ridge Snow Chute, er, Trail. On the map, 4/10’s of a mile of hiking, but a lot of squiggly elevation lines stacked up in a small space. We butt-slid down large sections, my snowshoes were more telemarking skis on other sections, and we all collected snowy memories that will make great tall tales someday.
On one of the butt-sliding sections I lost a water bottle. It wasn’t until we’d snowshoed across Lonesome Lake and I changed to micro spikes that I realized it. My disappointment at losing it turned to delight when we got to the trailhead and someone who’d found it and beaten us down the trail while we lingered at the lake had left it sitting on a post waiting for me. Good hiking karma right there. It was hard to come away with anything but positive vibes after hiking Cannon Mountain on a pristine winter day. A solar halo signaled goodwill to all. A very good day indeed.
Cannon Mountain from Lonesome LakeSolar halo through the frosty treesLonesome Lake with Franconia Ridge beyond
If you watch a commercial on television, or a reporter out on a city street, or even the cast intro on Saturday Night Live in February 2021, everyone is wearing masks. A year ago you’d have wondered at it, even as the pandemic rapidly descended on the world. Today it’s commonplace, and I’m more often surprised at the outliers walking into a store without one. I stood in a line for snowblower parts and a mechanic walked briskly through the store unmasked. In a crowded grocery store I saw an elderly woman(!) without a mask on. In both cases I had the same reaction I might have had two years ago to someone wearing a mask. Isn’t it funny how the world has changed our perceptions in such a brief turn of the calendar?
I chafe at restrictions, favoring wandering, crossing borders, friendly conversations with strangers and simply getting out there. But we all sense a light at the end of the tunnel, and we’ll reach a tipping point with vaccinations as we did with mask wearing. With more and more people I know joining the ranks of the vaccinated, a sense of optimism grows. Travel will soon be a reality again, even if a bit different from the travel of a few years ago. There’s plenty of travel available today, without worrying about the complexity of borders, just outside.
“My vicinity affords many good walks; and though for so many years I have walked almost every day, and sometimes for several days together, I have not yet exhausted them. An absolutely new prospect is a great happiness, and I can still get this any afternoon. Two or three hours’ walking will carry me to as strange a country as I expect ever to see. A single farmhouse which I had not seen before is sometimes as good as the dominions of the King of Dahomey. There is in fact a sort of harmony discoverable between the capabilities of the landscape within a circle of ten miles’ radius, or the limits of an afternoon walk, and the threescore years and ten of human life. It will never become quite familiar to you.” – Henry David Thoreau, Walking
Many times during the past year I’ve thought of Thoreau walking the landscape I know today. There’s plenty that’s changed since his time, but there’s also plenty that remains just as it was then. Much of it remains undisturbed, as if in a time warp, awaiting a visitor. I doubt he ever got up to the corner of New Hampshire where I walk, but I’ve walked in his woods near Walden and note the similarities.
“Walk until your day becomes interesting — even if this means wandering out of town and strolling the countryside. Eventually you’ll see a scene or meet a person that makes your walk worthwhile.” – Rolf Potts, Vagabonding
With a hint of the coming snow in the air, I took my snowshoes out to find new prospects. I quickly moved off the packed trail into virgin snow, crunching along on the snowdrifts through woods and fields. Cold hands soon warmed as I worked up a good pace past old stone walls and silent trees. Snowshoeing offers a slow burn, steady state workout similar to cross-country skiing. There’s a small thrill in hovering over the frozen land while blazing a new trail on snowshoes, and I felt a bit like I was flying as I crunched along.
Reconnecting with the blazed trail at a frozen stream crossing, I noted the collection of prints of those who had come before me. Snowshoes and fat tire mountain bikes, micro spikes and dog prints spiraling in circles from the trail in patterns of joyful exuberance and the freedom of the winter woods. It occurred to me that my own tracks were more similar to the dog prints than those of the trail walkers. Wandering spirits are rarely contains for very long on defined paths.
A simple walk in the woods, off trail, can change a person. In winter what was familiar ground becomes a voyage of discovery. Perception is how we frame the world around us, and I find it best to turn my perceptions upside down now and then. Every walk suggests something profoundly new, and winter transforms both the landscape and the visitor alike. Pausing a moment, I listened to the sound of silence. My snowshoes and I had walked our way to interesting, embracing the cold indifference of the woods to pandemics and masks and turns of the calendar.
Walking along on familiar trails transformed into strange country, I stopped worrying about the neglected collection of stamps in my passport. Feeling a million miles from anywhere I’d every been before, I came across a border marker deep in the woods indicating I’d crossed over from the town forest of my neighboring town into the undeveloped forest of my own town. I smiled and noted that not all borders are closed. And the unfamiliar isn’t very far at all from home.
Into the snowy woodsSnow blanket on an old stone fence
“What is left is what is.” – Wendell Berry, The Broken Ground
Lingering soreness from a long winter hike and tackling a foot of snow with a snowblower that quite halfway through the task, leaving only shovels to overcome mechanical obstinance. Fatigue, not all of it in muscles, wished me a good morning with a smirk.
Looking out the window, I saw the tip of a snow drift dropping down from the roof, as if a wave frozen in the middle of its break. This naturally lured me outside for a look, which led to a walkabout, which led to slipping on snowshoes for a walk in the deep snow out to the bird feeders at the edge of the woods. Silently carving my two foot path across the yard, nothing but the rubbing clumpy sound that cold snow makes when compressed. One foot in front of the other, out and back, feeders filled. Were the yard only longer, for I wasn’t quite ready to finish.
The feeders were wiped out by Starlings. Greedy, sloppy eaters who cast away seed by the shovelful to get at the dried fruit and other choice treats they favor. What’s left is an empty feeder and a mess on the snowy ground that is gobbled up by squirrels and Mourning Doves and other such ground feeders. The food is there for this purpose, so do I have a right to complain? Only at the waste and frenzied emptying. I can either pause feeding until they find somewhere else to ransack or tolerate the intrusion. But once you commit to feeding the birds you can’t very well stop after a heavy snowstorm.
For all the dry sameness of the inside of the house, outdoors offers something new at every turn. The second morning after a big snowfall lacks the drama of tackling the job at hand, but it makes up for it with time to have a look around. To see what’s changed. To assess the landscape and yourself. To see what’s left. What is.
The last day of January felt like it should throw up challenging hiking in New Hampshire. In fact the temperature read a solid -4 degrees at the start. But the truth is that if you aren’t breaking the trail it’s comparatively easy. The snow pack on popular trails covers up a lot of the erosion and exposed granite ankle biters that are a normal part of hiking in the White Mountains. You simply trade the pounding on your lower extremities for a different pair of challenges: traction and hours of walking with your toes pointing up.
Think about a groomed ski slope, all corduroy and pristine. Perfect for skiing down, but imagine walking to the summit straight up that slope. How do your feet grip? How does that angle feel on your ankles and calves after about an hour? That’s the dilemma of the hiker on a snow packed trail. Snowshoes and descending butt sliders press the snow down into a version of that groomed slope, albeit it two feet wide. Step six inches off trail and your foot plunges down two feet into the abyss.
Overcoming such challenges requires mechanical assistance. On the one hand you have micro spikes; one of the best inventions ever for handling winter traction issues. I’ve gushed about micro spikes before and generally they’re perfect for frozen packed snow. They become more challenging when the snow softens and begins to ball up under your feet. Walking on snowballs is just as enjoyable as it sounds. Another consideration is ice. I feel comfortable walking on ice with micro spikes on, but not walking up a slide with them. Trusting rubber bands with your general well being has limits. And this is where an upgrade is in order.
A step above micro spikes are crampons, which offer more traction with a deeper spike designed to linger in your nightmares. I see crampons and think about those times I accidentally kicked myself in the back of the leg hiking in tight terrain and shudder. But then I recall a story I read about a guy who stepped out of his tent to take a leak hiking Everest or some such place. He made the unfortunate decision to not put on his crampons and promptly slid down the mountain screaming to his death. Crampons are made for comfortable late night relief in such conditions. Truthfully, I tend to avoid most “icy slide nightmare” hiking, but sometimes you run into spots where it would be the better choice. On Mount Liberty a couple of days ago I wished I’d had them a few times as I kicked my micro spikes into frozen snow hoping for footing.
And then there are snowshoes, used by generations of people trying to get from point A to point B without post-holing every step along the way. Snowshoes have come a long way, and the best of them have crampon-like steel spikes protruding from them and a wonder for the sloped uphill hiking conditions: the heel lift. A heel lift is a metal hinge that flips up to offer welcome support for your heel. It effectively levels your foot on a slope, creating a more comfortable hiking angle. Snowshoes come in different sizes based on your weight and the type of snow you’re hiking it. I have a great set of Tubbs snowshoes that are perfect for fluffy powder walks in open terrain. Being a tall clydesdale my shoes are 36″ long, which makes them a challenge on tight trail hiking. And with the trail compacted it’s simply easier to stick with the micro spikes or crampons. Using shorter snowshoes for compacted snow would offer the best of both worlds.
There are times when you might put all three on in the same hike. I didn’t bring crampons on my last hike but wore the snowshoes for an hour during a steep ascent in packed powder. My hiking partner that day chose to stick with micro spikes on the ascent and flew up the hill with me gasping to keep up with the extra burn of snowshoes. When I conceded and switched back to micro spikes our hiking speed equalized again. He wore his crampons on the descent while I wore micro spikes. In softening snow broken down by many hikers at that time of the day it was a toss-up. Had it been frozen and compacted as it had been in the morning the crampons would have been better.
Ultimately accessories are successful when you start with a great pair of boots, pick the right accessory for the terrain, and are willing to switch on the fly when things change. Another truth is that if you don’t get out there in it, none of this matters. Winter is meant to be lived in fully. Being shut up in the warm house might be comforting, but don’t we spend way too much time in our houses now? Step out there. Just wear the appropriate gear.
Let the record show that on the last day of January, 2021 this author fell in love with a pile of granite atop a ridge in New Hampshire. Mount Liberty rises 4,459 feet with a prominence of 379 feet, making it one of the state’s 4000 footers. I’ve flirted with Liberty for years, but when I wiped the slate clean and re-started my pursuit of the 48 4K’s last year in the middle of a pandemic I decided to leave this very popular hike for a quieter day. How about first light on the last day of January?
Mount Liberty was named for George Washington, but since there was already a Mount Washington Liberty seemed appropriate. It seems when you look at the mountain from a certain angle it looks like George lying in state. And sure enough, from a certain angle you can see that.
While Liberty was the goal all along, the proximity of Mount Flume, itself a 4000 footer with the rather intriguing measurements of 4,327’/407′ prominence made it a no-brainer for a peak bagging day. Since we were hiking an out-and-back, we ended up summiting Liberty twice, making for a three summit, eleven mile hike. There’s a loop option that includes the Flume Slide Trail, but we just weren’t that ambitious (and a friend talked me out of it). Talking to a hiker with crampons who’d done it, he described it as “gnarly”. And not in a good gnarly way. Better to stick with the safer route, thank you. Mount Flume is the source of Flume Brook, which carved the spectacular gorge named, you guessed it, The Flume. It’s worth a visit on a quiet day in late spring, but best done mid-week and early to beat the crowds.
You know right away that most people turn around after some time on Mount Liberty by the condition of the trail. The Liberty Springs Trail was compacted snow the entire hike, and the summit was completely compacted. The trail between Liberty and Flume was defined but definitely not as well-travelled. Since we started early, we were contributing to the trail break, but it was just compacted enough to keep the snowshoes strapped to the pack (more on snowshoes in tomorrow’s post).
For this hike, I’d texted a college friend I’ve hiked with before. The two of us met at the Liberty Springs trailhead at 6:45, making us some of the first hikers to climb that morning. We saw a few people on the summit of Liberty and were soon joined by a few more. The crowd was even thinner on the summit of Flume, with just a few diehards when we arrived there. But the day was spectacular and the traffic was picking up. Our return hike to Liberty required a lot of passing maneuvers, which generally meant whoever was coming downhill to posthole into virgin snow off trail to allow someone to pass. In summer you don’t think anything of it. In deep snow you think about it every time.
Back on a now-crowded Liberty, we had a quick snack, drank some water and began our two-hour descent. Plenty of people passed us on this leg, suggesting the return hike can be much faster for those who like to jog or butt slide down the trail. We took our time, a concession of age or wisdom or experience. I’m just not going to jog down a mountain with a full pack with snowshoes strapped on the outside. With all the traffic and the sun warming the snow the trail was breaking down a bit. Our timing was just right.
Mount Liberty, seen from Mount Flume summitTrail between the summits was a winter wonderland USGS marker on Mount Liberty with Cannon Mountain in the background
Contingencies. I pack for contingencies. Most of it stays in the bag, bulging against the sides, weighing the pack down directly onto the hip belt, as designed, and a bit on the shoulders, as is the way. First aid kit, extra warm clothing, extra food, and, it turns out, just enough water for this eleven mile trip. Snow demands micro spikes, but also snowshoes. Mine spent most of the day strapped to my backpack, but I gave them a try for about an hour of hiking before strapping them back on the pack. The compressed snow and narrow trail made wearing them more hassle than salvation. Sometimes you try out your contingencies and realize that you were better off with the original plan. But I do love those heal lifts on steep inclines.
It was -4 degrees Fahrenheit at the start of my hike this morning. Most layers packed as contingencies went right on the body for the start of the hike. Snow has a way of being crispy and slippery when you dip below zero. And the trail we started hiking wasn’t the same trail we descended when the sun rose and warmed temperatures into the twenties. Having the right footwear and accessories is essential when you see swings in temperatures like that.
Still, for all the contingencies planned for, most everything stayed in the pack. Sleeping pad, extra layers, way too much food, all of it mocking me on the steepest parts of the incline and for most of the descent. But as soon as you don’t pack it you know what’s going to happen. Yeah, contingencies, especially in winter, must be a part of your kit. You’ve got to have a winter pack that can handle all the extra stuff, provide tie downs for the snowshoes, and remain an afterthought for the duration of the hike. For day hikes I’ve settled on an ULA Photon pack, which offers everything I need and the space for those extras.
Winter hiking in New Hampshire offers plenty of beautiful moments. Moments that serve as exclamation points on the trip and in your life. But winter can offer up stunning beauty and calamity quite rapidly in the White Mountains. Mother Nature doesn’t care about your feelings. You must be prepared for whatever she throws at you. And that’s what contingency packing is for. Sure it mocks you when it never gets used, but it also assures you that it will be there for you if you need it.
The next blog post will cover the actual hike. Memorable, incredibly clear, and two more 4000 footers checked off. Stay tuned, there’s a lot to cover.
“When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.” – Wendell Berry, The Peace of Wild Things
The iPhone is a blessing and a curse, for all that it brings. Sometimes you want to be away from the made up frenzy of short traders and politicians and debates about which quarterback is best (long since answered). Great for a picture and for safety in a pinch, but best left stowed away the rest of the time. I used to post pictures while I was still on the summit of a mountain, for that we’re here! moment. But the act of posting takes you out of the moment, and so I leave it be until later in the day locked in as a memory of what was. #saveitforlater
Walks outside in quiet places serve the body, but mostly the mind. Free from the frenzy we create for ourselves. One notification at a time, relentlessly poking a hole in your soul. What have we done to ourselves with all of these pings and vibrations? Pavlov couldn’t have dreamed up a more diabolical experiment in self-torture.
“To go out of your mind at least once a day is tremendously important. By going out of your mind, you come to your senses.”– Alan Watts
The wind shakes the house and reminds me to bundle up. January days are short in New Hampshire, so you’ve got to get creative with your time in the grace of the world. The edges of the day work, and sometimes, dog-less as I am at the moment, late night star-gazing walks with a flashlight or headlamp to fill in the blanks and keep stray cars at bay.
I’ve learned to pause longer. To fill the void with more silence. To quiet the mind and seek out small pockets of stillness. Time flies by anyway, but it feels like yours once again. Isn’t it, in the end? Step outside. Find the stillness. It’s out there waiting for you.
