Hike #5: Mount Willey
Elevation: 4,285 feet
Date: May 26, 2013
Location: Whitefield, NH
Distance: 6.00 miles
Time: 4:44 (47:20/mile)
I pulled open the drapes of the hotel window on Sunday of Memorial Weekend with a flourish, expecting to see an improvement in the weather. Instead, I found my truck covered in a few inches of snow and flakes still falling.
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| Snow? Seriously? Awww, come on! |
“You gotta be kidding me!” I declared to the room. This is snow far later than I can remember, even if we are in the mountains. This is ridiculous, and I took precautions with my gear, but not for this sort of weather. The last time I remember May snow in New England, aside of the Canadian border or Mount Washington, was in the ‘70s, with my mother talking about downed limbs and nothing like it in Massachusetts since then.
We’d committed to doing the Presidential Traverse near the summer solstice, about a twenty-mile hike across the seven Presidential summits linked together in the northern White Mountains. We wanted to get in some extra hikes before then, for training and confidence, so we were determined to make something out of today, since the weather seemed less than stellar, but not the flooding rain and snow of the day before.
Mentally cursing, I once again set about working with Sara to get ready, pack up, and check out of the hotel, which had been a great, low-cost solution to a chaotic Saturday that overhauled our weekend plans. (http://www.abovethenotch.com/). We’d decided to spend Sunday tackling Mount Willey, which offered a longer hike than the day before, and a bit out of the way. It also set up a two-peak day hike of Mount Field and Mount Tom for some point down the road. Part of the challenge of tackling 67 peaks in 67 months is hiking them in a way not forcing us to constantly retread the same routes. There may be some repeats, but new hikes are the primary focus.
We cruised along the Ethan Pond Trail in the beginning, enjoying outerwear that had dried from the prior day. I’d also brought a spare pair of boots which were nicely dry. The early trail wasn’t bad, which gave our muscles time to loosen up, and the rain and snow weren’t nearly as heavy as the day before. As we climbed, we also talked a bit about the history of Mount Willey.
It was named for the family of Samuel Willey, Jr., who had settled at the base of the mountain in 1825. They’d only been there for less than a year when there were severe rains. The family worried about a landslide and one night their fears materialized. Although they sought refuge, the family perished. Tragically, their house was below an outcropping that diverted debris away from it and remained unscathed. Today, the site is a tourist attraction, nestled on route 302 between the towering mountains. The stillness in the nearly claustrophobic notch matches the melancholic vibe that accompanies the tragic origins of the site.
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| The milder start of 11 ladders, each steeper than the prior one. |
As we turned off of the Ethan Pond Trail to begin the second half of the ascent on the Willey Range Trail, it began to get harder. We were going to be climbing 1,600 feet in 1.1 miles, which is a 28% grade. For comparison, the maximum interstate highway grade is 6%. In my hyperbolic mind, this means I’m being asked to work almost five times as hard as a tractor trailer. Our conversation slowed as we focused on the hike. Then we hit a great series of eleven ladders built from trees and secured to the rock. These are always fun for me, like a game, and I immediately started scooting up them, bee-bopping along. As each successive ladder became steeper, I got happier. Some spots required that I step off the end of one ladder, scoot to the side, and then mount the next. I used these as a chance to begin to look back and appreciate the height I’d gained from the first ladder. Sara, on the other hand, had her eyes locked on the stair in front of her, used all limbs to climb, and had a tension in her voice when she, uhhhh, requested that I not get too far ahead. The slush on the steps weren’t helping her confidence, either. So I tried to hover, subtly clear the snow off the steps as I went, and offer intermittent words of encouragement, hoping that would help.
Once above the ladders, the snow was deeper, and the pitch still steep. Some points required handholds and using our whole bodies to climb. The melting snow created runoff that added to the difficulty, especially as we sought to avoid soaked boots and hands. Once the climbing was over and it was just plain steep, I bonked big time at this point. I was completely dragging and cold, yet knew I was close to the summit. Sara was in front, and wearing down, too. But she knew she was keeping us both motivated and she kept grinding along. Combined with the ladders, it was a good example of us both working to support each other.
We passed the false summit and shortly after arrived at the true summit. It was snow covered, and if not for the cairn indicated as the landmark in AMC’s guidebook, I’d never have realized we’d topped out. We stopped, had a sandwich, indulged in the obligatory photo op, and had a painful swig of Sailor Jerry’s rum to warm the innards. Cold and wet, but a bit re-energized, we started back down.
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| Yep. A handful o' peaks to my credit. |
A brief detour to the lookout from the false summit showed an enormous fog bank. Unlike Mount Hale the day before, it was clear that this was a great view in good weather, but it was pretty useless for us. So with an “okay then, moving along now,” declaration, we soldiered on.
We definitely made better time going down. We did tread cautiously at the trickier spots, afraid of slipping in the snow. We’d never expected to need yak tracks to help our shoes grip in the snow, so we were being more cautious about footholds. I still had fun with it, establishing a pattern of getting a little ahead of Sara then waiting as she caught up before scooting off again like a kid. Surprisingly soon, we found ourselves back at the ladders. I again enjoyed it, wishing there were more of them. I cruised down them facing forward, like staircases. Then I saw Sara descending them like a ladder, always keeping three limbs in contact with them. I also learned that she’d prefer to focus, and finds it distracting if I start re-purposing some song to break the tension for her or to entertain myself. “Ain’t no ladder steep enough” will apparently not be a chart-topping remake of Marvin Gaye’s ‘60’s Motown classic. The good news is that it meant the couple on their way up didn’t hear my pitchy crooning. They had a dog with them, which made for stressful navigation, but he was a trooper and not as worried as they were.
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| What's that blue stuff? Haven't seen that in ages! |
After the ladders, we picked up the pace. Once we hit the roughly-halfway point and intersected the Ethan Pond Trail again, we knew it flattened out and were moving easily, without issue. We were feeling pretty good as we neared the bottom. The railroad crossing told us we were close to the end, and we took a detour to briefly explore an old foundation and some debris from what seemed to be some sort of small building related to the railroad or perhaps a Willey outbuilding. Left to the elements, the rusting equipment and crumbling foundation were reminders of a very different period of time, and we lingered in the peaceful quiet before finishing the hike.
Afterwards, we drove around the north side of the White Mountains back through Franconia Notch. We’d reserved a room at the Woodstock Inn & Brewery, near Loon Mountain (http://www.woodstockinnnh.com/). Hot showers warmed us up and took off the grime. The heated bathroom floor pampered our feet after two days of abuse. And, walking across the street, the barstools were the perfect place to indulge in microbrews and pub food, to peruse the day’s pictures, to process the hike and crazy weather, and talk about what would come next.
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| I think we earned this souvenir! |
Given the commitment to do the Presidential Traverse and not getting in the mileage or hours of hiking we’d sought, we pondered a hike on Monday, which we didn’t originally expect to do. We also spied a free weekend on the calendar before the target date. Whether the enthusiasm was aided by the Woodstock Brewery’s great ales or not, we sat on our barstools committing to two more hikes.
The night ended with us tired but happy, staying up surprisingly late. We’d survived the Armageddon weather, and the next day’s forecast was gorgeous. The weekend was about to end on a high note. Or so we thought.
See you on the trail,
Jay Bell, AKA Rock Hopper
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