Some people make it through in two hours. It took us more than four. I should have done push-ups for a year to strengthen my arms for hauling myself up and down those rocks. Coming out the other side of the Notch, Gardener and I stopped for lunch while Frank pushed on.
Knowing I was through the Notch, Gardener left before me. So tired from all the clambering over rock, I found it hard to walk the next mile and a half—even on easy trail. As I approached the shelter, Gardener played her penny whistle to cheer me up the hill. What a friendly gesture. Expending all my energy for the day, I’d gone a total of 2.9 miles.
I left camp early the next morning, trying to make up for my limitations with more hours on the trail. Going up East Goose Eye, I could see Gardener, Knitty, and Gritty coming behind and below me. I sang Oh What a Beautiful Morning for them, and Gardener played it back on her whistle.
After they caught up with me, Gardener helped me on some hairy ladders going straight down sizeable cliffs, and then they were off ahead of me. Uphill was hard because it was uphill. Downhill was difficult as I was afraid of falling down steep, wet, rock slabs. I did a lot of tree rappelling, hanging onto the trunks or limbs of trees backing down rock slabs of various steepness.
And then it rained. And hailed. I plugged on.
Coming to two rather horrid, short jumbles of rocks, I negotiated the first one by myself and met a couple of trail maintainers, who gave me water. By myself, the second jumble would have stymied me. I simply wasn’t tall enough to reach handholds on the rock.
After having taken a break at a side shelter, Gardener was again my rescuer. Coming up behind me, she carried a huge, monster-class pack, but she was tall and strong. She climbed ahead of me and sat on a rock ledge dangling her legs over the edge. I reached as far up as I could to grab her ankles and pulled myself up. This trail is not for the faint of heart. Or short people.
Following Gardener, I trudged onward. About 8:30 I spied a rare flat spot beside the trail with a big rock beside it. I sat and considered my situation, while eating the dinner I’d hydrated an hour before. It would take me at least another hour to reach the next shelter, and I could hear thunder.
The next storm approached rapidly. There had already been one shower from a passing thunderstorm, and I didn’t want to be walking in another in the dark. So I set up my tent in that little flat spot, took off my filthy clothes, put on my jammies, and crawled in. I hadn’t gone to bed so dirty since the Sierra. But I was dry and safe as the rain pelted down. I’d only come 6.8 miles.
I got up early thinking discouragingly that I couldn’t possibly make it 13 miles to Gorham in one day. But as I started down the trail, three NOBO hikers from the shelter said they’d heard about me. One said I was an amazing woman, which struck me as incredibly funny since I was the amazing woman, who couldn’t make it to the shelter the night before.
Onward I trudged. After a couple miles, here came Gardener behind me. Wow. I thought everyone would have been ahead of me. Gardener told me of a short cut on a blue-blazed trail that she, Knitty, and Gritty had decided to take. The only blue-blaze trail (not the white rectangular blazes of the AT) I’d taken was in New Jersey, and it was the AT in previous years. (Blue blazed trails are not the official AT.) But when Gardener said, "It cuts off 5 miles," and I realized I could get to town for my zero day AND BE CLEAN, the decision was made.
For a while Gardener was content to hike with me, and we had a nice time chatting. We took the Peabody Brook trail, a pleasant trail, although it was like walking on ice over some very slippery board puncheons. We nicknamed the board puncheons death boards, but they did keep us out of the bogs as we went by a lovely brook with little waterfalls.
Knitty, Gritty, and Gardener chose to camp outside of town. But I went on, walking down the North Road to the AT and then to the highway. I caught a hitch into town to The Barn, a hiker hostel, and picked up my food drop. A hot shower followed. Yay. And clean clothes. Double Yay. I ate a footlong at a Subway because it was close. Hearing the rain outside The Barn, I thought of my trail friends tenting in the rain. I was glad to be warm, clean, dry, and horizontal. Maine was done.
Chapter 29 New Hampshire
Sending my gravity-feed filter home from Gorham, I switched to iodine tablets. They were lighter, and I’d been having trouble with the filter. Meeting Gardener, Knitty, and Gritty at the White Mountain Lodge and Hostel, we made mountains of tacos for everyone that night at a hiker party.
The next day was a wet one; rain continued all day. I walked through many puddles, and my feet were soaked. Descending became a challenge with lots of Bald-Pate-type rock, mostly grippy, some slick, and all very wet.
In fact, the trail was usually a stream. I slipped and fell once—just on my behind so no damage done. That night the shelter had a nice group of hikers traveling together, glad to be under shelter as the rain poured outside.
Work for Stay
The climb up North Carter took me a lot longer than anticipated because I moved pathetically slowly over rough trail. That night at White Mountain Lodge, Geriatric—an older NOBO hiker—had suggested a strategy for the Wildcats, a series of peaks in the White Mountains creatively named A,B,C, and D: I could climb to the top and take the gondola down. Then I could climb up the other side and take the gondola down a second time, avoiding the treacherous downhill climb. It sounded like a good idea to consider.
Mt. Washington stuck its head above the clouds, and Bunch Berries along the trail were a cheery bright red, reminding me of Christmas Holly. Blue Bead Lilly added blue ornaments to the Christmas theme. The day went well until the last half mile down to Carter Hut, when I had to back down most of the trail. My knees were not good enough to go forward on deep steps and uncertain rock.
Reaching the bottom and discovering the lake had flooded the trail, I waded through water up to my knees, not in the lake, but on the trail, which had become an extension of the lake.
Traveling through the White Mountains, there were no shelters; there were nice huts for paying customers, posh touristy lodging. Thru and section hikers didn’t usually have the kind of cash to be paying customers. The hiker method for crossing the Whites was to show up at the huts and hope you could get a work for stay. After paying customers ate and had a program, thru hikers could eat the leftovers and wash dishes, clean something, or do some other chore for the privilege of sleeping on the tables or the floor.
I didn't know if this would be a good idea for me as I needed the hours on the trail, not washing dishes, but it was a trail tradition, and I needed a place to stay. Most thru hikers bypassed the flooded trail to Carter Hut, so I had no competition for a work for stay.
I didn’t have an entirely positive experience, partly because I was old and the Cru were young. (Staff at the huts are called Cru, a unique spelling of crew.) I also didn't like waiting outside like a second-class citizen. The Cru almost forgot I was there before calling me in to eat and wash dishes, pots, and pans and scrub a filthy drain rack with a toothbrush.
Although the only other hiker had finished his work and was lounging around, the Cru head was about to invent more jobs for me to do. Finally I said, “I have done enough.” I set up my stuff in a corner, but the partying of Cru went on well after 10. The other hiker knew one of the Cru, and they made love for about an hour and a half outside the open window.
Evidently he made her very happy as her moans were quite audible through my earplugs, as was their bouncing. Finally the Cru chief went out about 11:00 and told them to be quiet. I didn’t get a lot of sleep.
Before leaving the hut, I enjoyed chatting with one of the women—a paying guest. The rest of the day was spent getting over all the Wildcats. I did well until the descent between C and D. And the descent from D was known as the really bad one, so I didn’t descend it.
I followed Geriatric's advice and took the gondola down, walked the half mile to the Visitor's Center, left most of my gear there, and slack packed back up the mountain from the other side. It
was very steep, one section a 1000-foot elevation gain in a third of a mile, straight up some really nasty pieces of rock. I was very glad I’d gone up instead of down, and I made my gondola-ride connection, the last ride down to Pinkham Notch that night.
Dinner and breakfast came with the room at the Joe Dodge Lodge. The early 6:30 breakfast gave me a 7:00 start on the trail, which I needed.
Presidentials
Climbing up Mt. Madison, the first of the Presidentials, wasn’t all that bad. I actually felt like a hiker instead of a decrepit old lady. I even passed a group of four young people. A miracle.
The last mile and a half was all above tree line and absolutely beautiful. Negotiating the tread over large talus chunks, I summited Madison, and while I perched on a rock on the mountaintop, another hiker took my picture. Mt. Washington and the other Presidentials were beautiful against blue sky. The hard part was my pathetically slow descent down the last half- mile to Madison Spring Hut.
After my experience at Carter Hut, I chose to be a semi-paying customer, eating my own food, but getting a third-tier bunk for $35. Perfect. The rules and feelings for hikers were entirely different in this hut. They didn’t make the work for stay hikers wait outside. They waited in the dining room, freely moving around.
In the morning I arose as quietly as I could, using the red setting on the headlamp so as not to disturb other sleepers. Gathering up my breakfast, I ate in the dining room, and I was the only one up that early. As everyone else was awakened, I packed up, folded my blankets from the bed as instructed by hut personnel, and was ready for the day.
Outside the hut a very confused young lady moose had been hanging out each morning for several weeks, looking sort of lost standing there while everyone took her picture. The Cru were hoping she would be claimed by a studly male moose as rutting season began. Standing around looking lost wasn’t normal moose behavior.
A cairn-marked trail took me on a side trip up Mount Jefferson, though I saw no view from the inside of a cloud. However, I did see the team carrying up the Flag of Remembrance for 9/11. Every peak over 5,000 feet in New Hampshire had a flag flying on it that afternoon.
The slow old lady—which was me—finally reached the top of Mt. Washington and the Visitor Center. I was very tired and had a bowl of clam chowder and some hot chocolate from the snack bar, giving me enough energy to reach Lake Of The Clouds Hut.
It was closed for the season, and the Cru was doing end-of-year cleaning. I begged for the emergency shelter nicknamed The Dungeon. Hikers were only supposed to use it in an emergency, but I figured a 70-year-old lady with a knee replacement at the close of a long day was an emergency, or would be one, if I had to walk after dark.
Actually, I wanted to be there, though they said I could sleep above. I was looking forward to silence. That basement room was nicknamed the dungeon because it looked like one: a room about 9x9 feet with stone walls, one high window, a heavy steel door and two triple tier bunk shelves crammed on two walls. But it suited me perfectly. I was the only one there, sleeping in silence. Knitty and Gritty came later and slept upstairs.
The next day, 13.6 miles of trail took me over more mountains named for Presidents and eventually to Webster Cliff, a steep descent with some scary rock climbing near the top beside a drop off of a couple thousand feet.
I stowed my poles and back climbed down very carefully. The total descent was three miles and three-thousand feet, some parts of which were very steep. I didn’t finish in daylight. Darkness was coming earlier every night, and by 7:10 I had to use the headlamp.
Coming out at the road at 8:00, there was no traffic. The road had washed out to the east by the earlier hurricane. There was no cell reception, and Highland Center with my food drop and a bed were four miles to the west.
Although my knee was really hurting, I walked on, singing songs and talking to the moon to try to keep my mind off the pain. About half way to my westward destination, a car came by going east, but they were kind enough to turn around and take me west for the remaining two miles to Highland Center.
The girl at the front desk was Turkish, and I surprised her, using a little of my old Peace Corps Turkish. She took pity on an exhausted old lady, who happened to speak a little of her own language and checked me in and found me dinner. She told me not to tell anyone or she might get in trouble, but she gave me a very good impression of the Highland Center. I thought she deserved a bonus.
At 11:00 at night, after a long, hard day, I almost fell asleep while eating the huge and delicious plateful of leftover pork chops, potatoes, stuffed peppers and broccoli. I was exhausted. Ever since I’d stepped on the AT in 2011, the trail had been tough. The saying on the AT for NOBOs was that three-quarters of the miles of the AT are completed before reaching New Hampshire, but only one-quarter of the work.
Southern Maine was the most difficult, but the days in New Hampshire were hard, too, for an old lady with a knee replacement. The knee was better with a replacement than without one, but as a friend and colleague told me after her replacements, “It’s just not as good as the original equipment.” In addition, a 70-year-old does not hike like a 20-year-old.
Fortunately for me, the next day provided miles that were almost easy, and I really needed easy. I couldn’t have added four non-trail miles to my day after the grueling night before. Paul, with whom I’d breakfasted, had a car and gave me a ride back to the trail. From the road, the AT had a few rocky, rooty and boggy places but then, miraculously, miles of level trail. I’d not known New Hampshire had level trail.
I also saw my first real displays of fall color for the year, red maple trees. I found a soggy piece of real estate near the trail to Zee Pond, just big enough to put up my tent. My Cuban-fiber tent floor kept me dry, on soggy moss in a bog in a thunderstorm, and I was glad to be alone and horizontal.
Reboot
Feeling old, tired, and discouraged, I was so looking forward to my next zero day. The level trail long gone, I was really tired of crappy trail in the north woods. My idea of a reasonably good trail became simply one on which I could descend without having to turn around and go backwards or hang onto trees to keep from killing myself.
At Gale Hut, I learned the weather forecast: cold and rainy. I was further discouraged by stern written warnings to avoid Franconia Ridge in bad weather, though there were no good bypass trails on the map. The day after the rain, I would be on Franconia Ridge with miles of open and exposed trail above tree line. The forecast meant cold and frost, possibly ice, on all those rocks. My mood became even gloomier. What should I do?
While eating my lunch in a hut, in walked Reboot, a very nice, optimistic 26-year-old SOBO. He heard my woeful tale and said he was willing to do Franconia Notch with slow old me, though he normally hiked three times as fast.
What a boost. Just knowing someone would be hiking with me made all the difference. The moral support from a cheerful person brought back my own natural optimism, and I hiked on while Reboot ate. After he caught up, we hiked together to the tent-and-shelter site.
The next morning I left the campsite before 7:00, headed up and over Garfield, a 4,500-foot mountain, followed by Lafayette Peak, 5,200 feet. Knowing Reboot was going to come behind me later gave me encouragement as well as incentive to see how far along the trail I could be by the time he caught up.
Below me, a group descended into the foggy clouds to Greenleaf Hut, and a NOBO day hiker passed me and commented on the “totally nasty” day. Perversely, I liked seeing the wind-swirled clouds, valleys appearing and disappearing through the moving banks of gray. I sang into the teeth of the wind, and I reached the top of Lafayette with Reboot right behind me.
Briefly and barely seeing the next ridge, the clouds seriously descended, and the rain became more earnest. After that it was just a long, six-mile slog downhill. Reboot was pleasant company, and as we chatted, the miles went by. There were only a few tricky spots on smooth, slippery rocks, and most of the trail could be descended forwards, not backwa
rds.
Once down, we crossed under the bridge and stepped up to the highway. After watching the traffic zip by for fewer than five minutes, we caught a hitch from a woman hiker who drove us right to Chet's Place, the hiker hostel in town.
Reboot and I bundled up our laundry and headed to the laundromat and ate dinner in loaner clothes. We demolished a tasty pizza and came back to the hostel with clean, dry clothes. I was shortly tucked in a bunk, cozy and warm, fed and clean, ready for a lovely zero day of rest, though Reboot headed on the next morning. I was very grateful that this athletic young man took time in his thru hike to walk with me over Franconia Ridge. Graciousness comes in all ages of hiker.
My rest day was wonderfully filled with REST. Finishing all my little chores, I sat on a chair in the driveway giving my toes a manicure when Knitty and Gritty walked into town. (Retrieving their resupply box on an even longer road walk than mine, they’d dropped behind me.) It was very good to see old friends. I loved the camaraderie of hikers at hostels and shelters.
But, honestly, I couldn’t get good sleep with the young crowd. They had energy and stamina for a party into the night. I gladly absorbed their exuberant energy, but the peaceful nights I slept alone on the trail brought me better rest in the still quiet of the forest. One was good for my psyche. The other was needed for my aging body.
Knitty, Gritty, and I paid for a shuttle farther south, as that part of the trail would be easier NOBO than SOBO. They would get back to the road in a one-day slackpack; it would take me two. They sped ahead, and I trudged behind. The weather turned cold, no hiking in sports bra. The trail had its share of rocks, roots, and mud, but it was still a pleasant hiking day.
Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76 Page 24
