67 in 67, Hike #6: Cannon Mountain, NH

Hike #6: Cannon Mountain

Elevation: 4,100 feet

Date: May 27, 2013

Location: Franconia, NH

Distance: 4.6 miles

Time: 4:30 (58:41/mile)

Now this is what everyone hopes Memorial Weekend will be like! Monday dawned sunny, with temps headed into the 60s, a departure from the rain, snow, floods, and chill of the last two days. At least we’d have a happy ending to the holiday weekend. We headed across the street for the complimentary and very hearty breakfast courtesy of the Woodstock Inn & Brewery (http://www.woodstockinnnh.com/) and finalized our plans for the day, amidst the smells and tastes of coffee, omelet and sunny side up eggs, hash, pancakes, bacon, toast... and anything else we could get our hands and mouths on.

We didn’t originally plan to hike today. We previously planned to spend Saturday and Sunday hiking, bookending a stay at AMC’s Galehead Hut. Sunday’s stay at the Woodstock Inn & Brewery was for après hike pampering to round out the weekend, before heading back to Massachusetts on Monday. But Armageddon weather and two shorter day hikes left us with neither the mileage nor total time we’d sought. Part of this trip was for its own experience, and part was as training for mid-June’s Presidential Traverse, covering seven peaks over 20 miles in a single day. So we decided to tackle Cannon Mountain, which was nearby and under five miles. Given that we are typically ahead of book pace, we thought we’d come in at around three-and-a-half hours and be back home just in time to pick Tedy up from the kennel.

 

I'm enjoying the view (and catching my breath). Little did I know, it would only get worse.



We set out from the parking lot of Cannon on the Kinsman Ridge Trail about 10:30. Our muscles were a bit sore and fatigued, but we were forced to contend with a trail that was immediately and often steep. We soon stripped off layers, heating up despite the dropping temperature as we gained elevation. The write-ups referenced this as a pretty intense hike and we began to understand why. When we hit a clearing, the view was great and the terrain turned from hardpack trail to quasi-rock scramble. The snowpack also was deeper than what we’d seen the day before at Mount Willey, on the eastern side of the whites. This meant that, instead of the temps quickly melting the snow, the snow was cooling off the temps while still creating enough runoff to make hiking and foot placement tricky. It seemed to also generate a silence, the chirping of birds and rustling of chipmunks left below the snowline, and the soaring hawks overhead generating only silence.

Our pace slowed as we sought handholds in some places, stepped carefully in others, hoping to remain both safe and dry. But as the trail transitioned back under evergreens we began ceding our comfort to the elements. The trail revealed puddles and slush in some spots that seemed largely impassable. Sara sucked it up and walked on. I was determined to use my alleged mountain goat-like nimbleness to hop, balance, and wend my way through while remaining mostly dry. It worked… at first. Then there was a foot slip on a rock, a mossy spot that sank more than it appeared it would, and a gap that an Olympic long jumper couldn’t cross. Next thing you know, my boots had gone from having a little snow on the reinforced tips to being officially damp, and the sticky palms from sap transferred from a tree trunk served as a temporary tattoo to memorialize my pointless caution. I felt compelled to be a baby about it, but mostly because I was nervous that the greater snow on Cannon and all the time in it would leave me more miserable than I ever expected for a day so gorgeous. It was a lesson for the newbie that there can be a lag between the weather improving and the conditions catching up.

But then I got over my mild case of the grumpies when we started coming out to some phenomenal views. We’d come to the ridge near where the Old Man of the Mountains was located before the disintegration (which is why Cannon’s also known as “Profile Mountain”). Over the aroma and immediately adjacent evergreens, we could see the peaks of the Franconia Ridge, and they were splendid with the snowcaps and exposed rock toward the summits, and greenery of spring nearer the bases, with enough snow covered trees closer by to make for views that would rival anything in leaf-peeping season. One of my daughters had made a picture for me, showing me hiking. I’d brought it with me, hoping to find a similar view and take a picture of me looking at her picture and the view, thinking she’d appreciate that. Finding a suitable lookout, Sara took some photos for me to send to her.



My daughter's drawing was close... she didn't know to draw snow.

With my spirit buoyed, we headed on, now leveling out temporarily as we continued toward the summit Then I quickly had a recurrence of the grumpies, this time longer and worse than before. We hadn’t expected to hike here so we didn’t have this part of the AMC’s White Mountain Guidebook with us. The online information we’d read had referenced a somewhat flat area near the summit prone to puddling. I guess that might be true during a once-in-a-hundred-years drought. But after a soaking rain and a half-foot of snow now melting under sun and 60-plus degree temps, it was essentially a shallow lake, soon to be bestowed a variety of nicknames, only some of which are suitable for print.

I didn’t bother with my “I can do this; I’m a mountain goat” crap. I just tried to find ways to keep my feet as dry as possible. Sara? She plodded on relentlessly, only being particular about her route in the absolute worst areas. Me? I’m bending over backwards as I’m clinging to trees, doing quick toe-taps across rotting trunks floating in the water, and doing the pelican pose from Karate Kid on tiny rocks jutting above the water. All while trying to be sure I don’t do a move to damage the landscape that I’m supposed to be enjoying and respecting. Predictably, it was a losing battle, with every errant step and sinking foot allowing more of my shoes and socks to be claimed by the freezing water. Sara could trace my progress behind her by the steady stream of expletives coming out of my potty mouth. At one point, I let loose a string of curses that even George Carlin would agree should never be uttered on television.   



Half-dozen of my 67 peaks in 67 months.
Note the sideways snow on the post behind me.

Finally, we were clear of Lake Cannon, and resumed the scramble to the top. It was odd when we emerged from the woods. Right by the true summit was the main ski lift that serviced Cannon Mountain’s skiers. But today, families in tee shirts and shorts were having snowball fights. They were dressed for the weather down below, and laughing at their brief stay in the snow. With bemused expressions, we moved on from the happy hordes to the observation tower where we could officially declare Cannon as bagged.



"He just saved my life... and someday I'll
let him cash those chips in... maybe."



The tower showed again weather worse than what we’d previously encountered in Crawford Notch. Not only was the snow deeper than on Willey or Hale, but the accumulated snow and ice on the metal of the tower had frozen into sideways icicles. The wind howled as we feigned nonchalance during the obligatory photo op. But we cut it short when the wind knocked large ice chunks free of the antenna nearby and they crashed close to us. The good news from the abbreviated stay is that when I heard ice beginning to fall close by, I instantly put myself between the danger and Sara, shielding her at my own expense. I say “good news” because I emerged unscathed and Sara saw my instinctive protection of her. I got mucho brownie points. Someday when I do something stupid and she’s understandably mad, I’m sure I’ll desperately throw out a “but, honey! Remember Cannon? The ice meteors!??!” In the meantime, I put the points in my mental piggybank, hoping they’d be redeemable, and we hustled back down. 

The initial descent wasn’t great. There wasn’t anything particularly bad, but I knew that I had to traverse the newest Great Lake again. And some safe spots were no longer safe, as they were one-time islands, now filled in with water. This time, when we got to the start of that stretch, instead of cursing I just stopped talking.

 

View of Franconia Ridge from Cannon Mountain, NH



But as a hiking newbie I realized I’m going to need to acclimate to this sort of situation. And even though our pace was going much slower than we’d expected, it wouldn’t be too awfully long before I was in my truck with dry clothes and feet. So I modified a running trick, just taking it one small section of lake at a time. I counted out loud the ones I’d traversed and focused on giving myself credit for the ones that I forded successfully. Surprisingly soon, I found myself on the other side. Yes, my shoes were now wet enough that there was a squishy sound every time I stepped. But I knew the rest of the descent wouldn’t be as miserable as this section, containing Lake Sonofa...

Soon after, we were back to the clearing partway down the Kinsman Ridge trail. The runoff had picked up, but more rock was also exposed and I could start to lose myself in the rock scramble. This is when I’m most immersed, losing track of time and maintaining my energy, and I found myself again in the pattern of moving further ahead, waiting for Sara, then bounding off again. Now mid-afternoon, we passed some people still ascending, and I was surprised they’d started this late in the day. Their challenges would be worse than mine, and I was done whining. I was again happy with our progress, as we moved back under the canopy for the final time. We weren’t quite done, and had long since abandoned the idea of getting back in time to pick up our dog from the kennel. But we could now talk happily about the hike in a nearly-past tense, lumping it in as part of the weekend’s three summits over three days.



What a hike! What a weekend!



I definitely learned a lot from the weekend’s hikes. I was proud that we both avoided tunnel vision on the first day, when we first set out for Galehead amidst a flood. I appreciated us finding a way to still get something out of that day. I realized that my strong suit is tackling ladders, scrambling across rocks, and confidently traversing spots possibly better characterized as rock climbing, with an element of danger. I learned I’m happiest in these sorts of riskier sections where I’m confident in my physical abilities but have a decision about whether to be excited or afraid by the task at hand. I prefer to be in good enough shape that the physical demands don’t worry me. Long grinds, conversely, just aren’t my thing, although Sara enjoys them. But over the weekend, my conditioning proved strong and my knee and ankle both held up, surprising me and giving me hope for endurance during the longer hikes ahead. Maybe this means I won’t be a total anchor dragging Sara down. And like other types of exercises I’ve done, when you hit a new personal best, you know the bar is forever raised, with an improved frame of reference. I had a chance to practice the ol’ self talk every day to either drag myself down or pick myself up. I won’t wipe the newbie label off myself yet. But I do feel more confident heading into June and the two long hikes it has in store.

See you on the trail,

Jay Bell, AKA Rock Hopper
@RockhopperHikes