Still Crazy After All These Years: Hiking in the White Mountains
By Michael Lanza
The sun beams down approvingly as Mark and I start hiking from Crawford Notch, the head-turning cleavage in the heart of New Hampshire’s White Mountains. The temperature sits in a perfect zone somewhere between warm and cool. Not a trace of humidity moistens the air, while an idyllic breeze stirs it enough to keep the ravenous mosquitoes and black flies at bay. Recognizing the rarity of this meteorological gift, the birds sound like they’re singing an enthusiastic ode to the morning.
This early-June day has launched so idyllically for these mountains that we instinctively wonder how long it can last. That concern looms particularly relevant, under the circumstances.
My good friend Mark Fenton, who lives in the Boston area, and I are setting out on a two-day, roughly 24-mile hike from Crawford Notch to Franconia Notch. We’ll spend tonight at the Appalachian Mountain Club’s Galehead Hut, perched on a ridge overlooking the tortured topography of the Pemigewasset Wilderness—“the Pemi”—in the remote interior of the Whites. Most of our trek follows the Appalachian Trail—including the high, exposed stretch across Garfield Ridge and Franconia Ridge, which we’ll hit tomorrow, when the forecast suggests that the skies may turn unwelcoming and rain hard on our party.
Our adventure has launched auspiciously enough. If you’ve hiked much in the Northeast and fail to recognize this morning’s perfect weather as evidence that Lady Luck is working your corner, you have bigger issues than a good hike can resolve.
But as we ascend the steep, rocky Avalon Trail, sweating hard despite the mild temperature, I’m reminded—as I am every time I revisit the Whites, which I have come to know intimately over many, many years—that hiking here is really hard.
It should come as no surprise to me by now. I’ve hiked more miles in these mountains than I could estimate; I even authored a hiking guidebook to New England for several years. Still, like jumping into an icy lake, the constant high-stepping and relentlessly arduous nature of these trails shocks me every time I come back.
Mark and I have a habit—our wives might describe it as an addictive behavior, or just plain stupid, accusations we make no attempt to refute—of packing in more miles of hiking than would seem reasonable for the amount of time we have allocated. That’s just how we roll.
Living on opposite sides of the country, we shoot for at least one hike together every year; in a good year, we get in two. And we like to go big, partly for the challenge, but mostly because we want to see as much beautiful backcountry as we can in what limited free time we have. We have shared some huge adventures, including dayhiking the Grand Canyon rim to rim to rim, hiking 50 miles across Zion National Park in a day, a one-day Death March of the Presidential Range, and thru-hiking the John Muir Trail in a week. Maybe we do it because we need to convince ourselves we still can hike those distances. It may also be that we partner for these hikes because we are both among the few people who can tolerate how much the other talks on the trail.
Several times now, we have taken big dayhikes in the Whites. The Whites are the most spectacular mountains in the Northeast, so we love coming here. Our outings here have ranged from just under 18 miles—a distance that can cause some hurt on these strenuous trails—to an extreme 32 miles with about 10,000 feet of elevation gain and loss.
This year, though, Mark and I have embraced the wisdom that has come to both of us slowly and reluctantly: We are bowing to certain realities. I’m nursing a three-day-old, deep bone bruise in my left foot, suffered in a short rock-climbing fall. (With perhaps just a little more wisdom, I might instead be resting it. But that’s a lesson for another day.) And Mark had been lobbying hard via e-mail over the past few weeks to lower our expectations for this get-together, complaining that his schedule hasn’t permitted much time for exercise lately. Although he’s one of the fastest and strongest hikers I know, he seems relieved that my foot has given us a viable excuse to temper our ambitions, spreading out over two days a hike that we would normally make in one.
Nonetheless, we’re excited about our plan. Mark will hike some trails and tag some summits he has not set foot on before, and I’ll see parts of the Whites I haven’t been to in years.
Zealand Notch to Galehead Hut
By early afternoon, from the Twinway west of Zealand Notch, Mark and I detour a few minutes down the Zeacliff Trail. Atop cliffs facing east, we look out over Zealand Notch, Mt. Carrigain, the Willey Range, and in the farther distance, the Presidential Range—surely one of the best views of the Pemi Wilderness.
A few hours later, conscious that the 6 p.m. dinnertime at Galehead Hut is rapidly approaching, we hustle up the rugged ascent to the 4,902-foot summit of South Twin Mountain, pausing only briefly to soak up a 360-degree panorama of the Whites. We had considered making the 2.6-mile, out-and-back trip over to North Twin—which I have not stood on in many years and Mark has never hiked. But that would definitely make us late for dinner. The depth of the hole between the two peaks only solidifies our resolve to hike that mountain another day.
So after the steep descent of nearly a mile off South Twin—a knee-pounder that I remember as brutal, and feels even more unforgiving than I remember—we step inside Galehead Hut at 5:50 p.m. We’re greeted by the hut “cru” of five college-age men and women, who let us know that we’re the only guests on this Wednesday night. The hut just opened for the season four days ago; by this Saturday, it will be full.
Rebuilt in 2000, with small, quieter bunkrooms and a bright dining room, Galehead isn’t the most popular of the AMC’s mountain huts. But it’s cozy and in a great location roughly midway between Crawford Notch and Franconia Notch.
Mark and I have arrived during the AMC’s yearlong celebration of the 125th anniversary of its immensely popular mountain huts. The eight backcountry structures that now comprise the system—stretching from Carter Notch across the Presidential Range, to Zealand Notch, the edge of the Pemi Wilderness, Franconia Ridge, and Lonesome Lake—host nearly 40,000 visitor nights every year. Untold numbers of future avid hikers, backpackers, and conservationists—including many children—received their introduction to the mountains through a stay at an AMC hut.
On my first Presidential Range traverse, in my twenties, two friends and I stayed at Lakes of the Clouds and Madison Springs huts. I’ve shared many great adventures with my mom, who started hiking in middle age: We’ve backpacked in the Grand Canyon, hiked in Zion and Glacier, and made three trips to Yosemite. But one of the most memorable was our traverse of the Presidentials, staying at Madison and Lakes.
Standing outside Galehead in the evening, listening to the familiar trill of the white-throated sparrow pierce the calm air, I think about how my personal history in the Whites, tracing back three decades, weaves together the many disparate threads of my life.
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