The Difference a Day Makes: An Overnight on the Twin Range

Johnny G. on the Bondcliff Trail hiking south to camp.

A few months ago, I was working on a project in the basement and glanced at my backpacking and camping gear sitting unused in a musty storage bin. "Geez, I haven't been on a proper backpacking trip in about three years, what a shame," I lamented to myself. Backpacking, you see, is one of my absolute favorite outdoor activities. Of all the outdoor sports, I consider backpacking to be the most "pure" because of the inherent simplicity of walking in the woods, the self-reliance of carrying your life necessities on your back, and the enhanced situational awareness of navigation, weather, body, and trail conditions. Of course, backpacking trips are the hardest to come by these days precisely because of the time needed to pull one off (such are the compromises of being a parent). That, and there are few people out there who are willing to subject themselves to such "recreation".

Johnny G. near the summit of Mt. Guyot.

So, much to my delight, a planned family day hike in the White Mountains of New Hampshire morphed into an overnight excursion with my cousin Johnny G, a participant in one of the famed Bolton backcountry ski trips. The plan was simple; the family, Johnny, and I hiked the 2.8 miles to the Appalachian Mountain Club's Zealand Hut via the Zealand Trail. For those of you hiking with small children or, ahem, older folks, the hike to Zealand Hut is moderately difficult with rewarding views of mountain marshes, streams, waterfalls, and Zealand Notch. Not to mention, you can buy hot food and drink at the Zealand Hut and have yourself a proper sit-down potty break if the occasion calls for it. After lunch at the hut, Johnny and I parted ways with the family and continued another 5 miles along the Twin Range to the Guyot campsite on the southeast flank of Mt. Guyot.

I love hiking in the fog. I estimate that two out of three White Mountain hikes I've done in the last 3 years have been shrouded in mist…a testament to the stormy temperament of these mountains. Day 1 of the Twin Range expedition kept the foggy streak alive. The fog obscures the obvious vistas and forces us to look elsewhere for inspiration…those intricacies that go unseen on clear days when sweeping mountain views capture our attention. The movement of the wind, normally invisible to the human eye, is portrayed in swirling droplets that pass through the trees with a whisper. The scent of pine pitch, strangely resembling cotton candy, is somehow amplified by the mist. These sensations haunt and excite me, and they are worthy reasons to hit the trail on less than perfect weather days. I reflected on similar sentiments in my blog post about a hike on Mt. Moosilauke almost exactly one year ago.

Pemigewasset Wilderness.

As the family hiked back to the car for a comfortable evening of hot-tubbing and Web TV, Johnny and I forged through the fog, passing by the cloud-choked Zeacliff view, the imminently forgettable forested summit of Mt. Zealand (but one of New Hampshire's 48 peaks over 4,000 feet above sea level), and the rocky moonscape of Mt. Guyot. The trail gave us a nice blend of rocky, heart-thumping climbs and mellow ridge traverses, perfect for conversation, observation, and photography. And then there was the nerve-jangling rush of flight from a disturbed spruce grouse! As the day grew long in tooth and our legs weary, the trail brought us to the Guyot campsite. The friendly (half stoned) caretaker informed us that the tent platforms were full and offered us space in a crowded lean-to or an overflow tent site that was in the path of a water diversion ditch. Thanks, but no thanks. We elected to try our luck at a tent site on the ridge between Mounts Guyot and Bond…windier, but without the human commotion of the main campsites. After a quick dinner and beverage, we retired to the tent as daylight faded. That evening, the ridge was host to the tumultuous arrival of a cold front that evicted the fog from the mountains. The winds raced down the ridge from Guyot to Bond and onward, sounding like automobiles on a highway overpass. Our tent, sheltered by the thick evergreens, was not affected by the wind and offered us a unique vantage to the readjusting pressure gradients above us. 

Zeacliff, Day 1

We awoke just prior to sunrise over the Willard Range to the east. The clear, dry air of the cold front had swept the Whites free of the mists that defined the previous day. What a difference a day makes! We struck camp after a quick breakfast and gained the summit of Mt. Guyot around 8AM. We were gifted with sweeping views at every point of the compass…North and South Twin to the northwest, Mt. Lafayette and the Franconia Range to the west, Bond and West Bond to the south, and Mt. Washington and the Presidential Range to the east. Just as impressive was the sweeping view of the vast forested Pemigewasset Wilderness. And to top it all off, the valleys were filled with morning fog that hid any evidence of humanity, save for the towers on the summit of Mt. Washington! Wild!

Zeacliff, same vantage point, 24 hours later.

A few short hours of pleasant hiking brought us to Zeacliff, where our view of Zealand Notch had been rebuked by fog just 24 hours earlier. The Pemi Wilderness sprawled out beneath us, framed to the east by the rock walls and talus slopes of Whitewall Mountain and to the south by the imposing massif of Mt. Carrigain. We watched a raven ride a thermal, gaining thousands of feet of altitude in less than a minute with nary a wing flap. We stood on the cliff, spellbound by the panorama, too engaged in our surroundings to remember to take off our packs for a brief rest. The utter solitude was punctuated only by the distant roar of the many cascades that drain the steep mountainsides. Zeacliff was the exclamation point to a great hike and a fitting reward for our fogbound travels.

The Twin Range expedition was a quick hit of wilderness that stoked the flames of passion for outdoor adventure. I once again shouldered a pack of trusted camping gear and wandered into the woods in search of… 

Absolutely Nothing. 

Low tide?

That's right!  Nothing!  An interesting development in my outdoor experiences! In years past I put a lot of emphasis on these adventures to somehow find or define myself, or prove something to myself and others. I think that even the Moosilauke hike a year ago was in a similar vein…the tumultuous account of that trip was a reflection of a transitional time in my life. But now that parenthood has settled in and my perspectives have changed, I find myself asking far less of my outdoor trips. I simply want to get out and enjoy them. By stripping away such expectations of "meaning", I leave myself more receptive to serendipity, and I come out of the woods feeling refreshed, and CALM.  Calm - there's a term I would never use to describe myself when I was in my 20s!

So, despite my lack of expectation (or maybe because of it), the woods once again taught me a lesson. 

Thanks for a great hike, Johnny.

 

Safe travels, all!

 

 
Backpacking Resources
 
The essential White Mountain hiking guide:


Thinking about getting into backpacking? Great! Read this book first before you head to REI or EMS and spend a fortune to outfit yourself with the newest backpacking gear. (Better yet, click on the Amazon and eBay links to buy gear and support the Woods Hippie!) The authors take a humorous, yet no-nonsense approach to backpacking equipment and techniques. Even experienced trampers will find some useful nuggets of wisdom.

 
Search for backpacking gear on eBay:

Easy Ridin', Northeast-Stylie

Left to Right: Hippie's bike, IIA, Hippie, IIA's bike.

This past weekend, my cousin and I decided to skip out of Connecticut on the bikes and get lost in the Pennsylvania and New York countryside.  Or, as my new-found Irish relative P. K. would say, "We're gonna fuck off to PA for a bit?!"  With a half-day of work on Friday locked, loaded, and time sheet submitted by noon, I kissed the wife, dog, and son-to-be goodbye and threw a leg over the saddle and spun over to my cousin's place where we took a look at the map to confirm his route for the day.  My cousin, to whom I shall refer only as the Irish Italian American (IIA) in deference to his internet privacy, was visibly giddy at the outset of his first motorcycle camping adventure (though by no means his first motorcycle adventure).  And I, as the Self-Proclaimed Motorcycle Adventurer (SPMA), was more than eager to show him the ropes (and my stash of cool camping gear).  Also, sometimes it's healthful to sack up and drop the whole hippie thing and expand my carbon footprint every now and again.  Gas is cheaper than Zoloft, eh?

The IIA on the shore of the Delaware River.

Well, I should back up a minute here and explain things.  I felt as if I owed the IIA an adventure of some sort as a result of his ill-fated experience with the glorious backcountry cabin ski trip which I gushed over here and here.  Those dedicated readers of this blog may have noticed that the IIA was not mentioned in that trip report, but alas, he played a brief, albeit spectacular, role in that trip.  The IIA joined his brother Johnny G and I on the first day of the trip with every intention of enjoying a weekend of snowboarding and backcountry shenanigans but, to his chagrin, he fell victim to an unfortunate case of food poisoning at the hands of a D'Angelo's grinder in West Lebanon, NH on the ride north.  Halfway up the trail to the cabin, the tainted bacon or chicken or whatever gained the upper hand in the gastrointestinal battle for digestive dominance and the rest was in the history books.  Johnny G. and I escorted him to the base lodge, booked him a hotel room for the night, and left him to dance the porcelain two-step as we reascended the mountain to keep our date with a cabin in the woods.  So, in the end, I did feel bad for abandoning him in his hour of need, but every skier knows and accepts the one hard and fast rule of the slopes - there are no friends on a powder day...

50 mpg and cooler than your Prius.

So, after stashing the last of the gear on the bikes, we roared off towards the New York line in a fury of partially-burnt hydrocarbons and hot rubber.  Well, perhaps the IIA's bike roared westward whereas my steed probably purred along with mild flatulence...while we both rock V-twin engines, his has a few more cubic inches and a hell of a lot less muffler than mine!  The whole MoCo vs. Japan thing...such distinctions are pretty worthless once you get on the road.  In my book, it doesn't matter what you ride as long as you ride.  At any rate, the IIA's bike is the type that provokes either love or hate in the ears of the pedestrian subjected to the raw explosions of the straight-piped Twin Cam 88 engine as it passes through some quiet hillcountry town.  On the one hand, the midnight purple Softail Night Train inspires moist panties and envious looks from, respectively, twenty-something females in tight blue-jeans and pussy-whipped males driving automatic transmission Toyota Corolla sedans with tan interiors.  (alright Dad, that's not too "Thoreau" for you, is it?)  On the other hand, the bike probably has the capability of drawing the ire of anyone who works third shift and sleeps in the daytime.  At any rate, I think his bike is straight up rad (yup, child of the 90's here), and, having had the opportunity to swap bikes and ride it, I can totally appreciate the whole Harley-Davidson thing.

Diners, bikes, and Jeeps.   This is America, bitches!

Alright, so back to the ride.  Throwing myself to the whims of the weekend, I totally entrusted the first day's route finding to the IIA, which, according to his father (my uncle), was akin to handing him the keys to my as-of-yet unborn first child.  I could not have been more pleasantly surprised, as his route brought us through pastoral New York farm country and a magnificent traverse of the Shawangunk mountain range outside of New Paltz, complete with conglomerate/sandstone cliffs, 180-degree hairpin turns, and mountain laurel in full bloom.  Breathtaking, I assure you, especially atop a motorcycle.  Port Jervis, NY served us our first taste of adventure as a cloudburst tested our riding mettle mere minutes after we donned our raingear in response to a light shower.  We kept on trucking despite fogging helmet visors and were rewarded with spectacular scenery along the raging Delaware River and some technical (if not gravel-strewn) riding once across the PA border.  As the day grew long in tooth and our odometers climbed towards 200 miles on the day, we pulled into a dive bar in Hawley, PA for a well-deserved burger and pint (just one, Mom, don't fret) of Juengling.  And, much to our delight, the bar also sold 12 packs of High Life to-go, so we were able to fulfill our needs for dinner and camp beer rations in one convenient stop.  Thank you, Pennsylvania!  The last half-hour of the day found us winding around the shores of Lake Wallenpaupack, PA's largest man-made lake, in search of a campground, which we discovered at the motorcycle-friendly Ironwood Point Recreation Area.  A modest expenditure of twenty-five dollars bought us a chill campsite and ample firewood for the night.

'Nuff said.  Either you're on the bus, or you're off.

We slept well, which I find is always a boon on the first night of a camping trip when the body is not really accustomed to outdoor life.  Awaking on the late side of 8 AM, we jumped into the welcoming waters of Lake Wallenpaupack before striking camp and aiming the bikes toward the nearest greasy spoon for corned beef hash and pancakes.  After the obligatory and much welcomed deuce, we struck out toward the Catskills on the most obscure and winding back roads that we could find on our maps.  We had three sets of maps - my Rand McNally set and the IIA's H-D guide and an anonymous atlas page for NY state.  The funny thing was that these maps could not agree on what roads existed in this part of the United States.  Here we were, no more than 50 miles from NYC, one of the largest cities in the world, and we were left to navigate by dead reckoning, the positioning of celestial bodies, and a wet thumb stuck into the breeze.  

Once again, take that, Utah!  Although, this looks pretty steazy, too.

Okay, so I may be prone to hyperbole, but we were in the country for sure, which I fully enjoyed.  The IIA later commented that there were no chain restaurants to be seen for almost two full days.  Windy side roads brought us to the gateway of the Catskills in Liberty, NY where we faced our only stretch of interstate riding in no less than a veritable downpour.  The remainder of Day Two was destiny unbound motorcycle heaven - 60 mph sweepers alongside a mountain reservoir with views of high peaks and tumbling mountain streams to either side of the handlebars.  In true carefree road trip style, we pulled into a secluded roadside rest area and snoozed under a maple tree as hazy afternoon sunshine gave way to a brief shower.  An hour or so later, we pulled into the ski town of Hunter, NY to stock up on grinders (sandwiches, to the uninitiated) and beer before throttling southward to the evening's destination of Devil's Tombstone Campground.  (We had to pick a badass-sounding destination for our bike trip, ya dig?) 

The Delware in raging flood stage.

After a night of wet firewood (the IIA truly impressed me with his dedication to getting the fire started), we struck towards home, but not before ripping some RIDICULOUSLY FUN twisties right out of camp.  In true Woods Hippie fashion, I navigated this circus right into Woodstock, NY (yes, that Woodstock) for breakfast amongst some real granola/hemp/crunchy/tie-dyed folks in the one organic, vegan, don't-eat-anything-that-casts-a-shadow coffee/artisinal bakery shop in a town that boasts more yoga studios than gasoline stations.  And all I was really jonesin' for was a fucking sausage-egg-and cheese sandwich!  Well, at any rate, we supported local agriculture and independently owned businesses and all that jazz, and, with bellies full of low-glycemic-index complex carbohydrates and fair trade joe, we pointed this show east, crossed the Hudson, and made our triumphant return to the Nutmeg State.  After winding through Connecticut's gentrified western hills, I deposited the IIA and his gear at his domicile and sped towards home on the last ten miles of an absolutely fabulous weekend spent on two wheels...

Have a great Independence Day weekend, everyone.  Play safe, and think deeply and honestly about what liberty means to you...

-Hippie

The Art of Living Simply: A Backcountry Trip Report, Part II

My cousin Johnny G. was cool to share his photos from the backcountry trip.  Rather than typing some overly-worded essay on the ethereal nature of backcountry skiing (did I really write "Gaia's temple" in the last post?  Note to self, cut back on drinking and blogging), I'll simply post up the pictures and let them speak for themselves (well, plus some captions; blogging is by definition narcissistic so I can't help but impart some Woods Hippie flavor).  Enjoy.

Yup.

Dreamscape.

Camping and skiing here is one of the coolest things you can do without involving a 9-iron, pack of condoms, and some illegal fireworks.

We're, like, totally hardcore and all, but you can't argue with chowda' bread bowls and cold pints!

Long distance runner, what you holdin' out for?
Caught in slow motion in a dash for the door.
The flame from your stage has now spread to the floor
You gave all you had, why you wanna give more?
The more that you give, the more it will take
To the thin line beyond which you really can't fake.

Fire! Fire on the mountain!

Saturday was a tryst between orographic snowsqualls and an emergent spring sun.  While the cosmos had yet to declare winter or spring as victor , we as riders won big.

Dear couch potatoes.  It's okay, we understand that you didn't want to miss the next episode of Idol.  We made sure all this powder got skied.  And by the way, while you were letting the television rob you of your mind and an actual life, we were thriving in the woods and continuing the great survivalist tradition.  It's cool though, but don't get mad at us and those like us when this society goes to shit and we procreate with your girlfriend and inhabit the woodlands while you sit uselessly on the couch, trying in vain to click a remote control at a blank TV screen while wondering what the hell to do with yourself...

I should have waited one more week to shave the beard.  It was friggin' cold out.

Winter is but a distant memory here in CT, and Johnny G. is onto the next thing, along with the rest of us.  Marquis nailed a top-10 finish in his first MTB race of the season, and my running shoes have been hitting the trails on the reg.

The Evolution of a Backcountry Skier

If you've had anything more than a passing interest in New England skiing or snowboarding in recent years, you've undoubtedly noticed the blossoming of the backcountry riding scene.  It seems that every internet ski forum has elegantly photographed homages to the skin track and the accompanying backcountry lifestyle, and such popular tomes as Goodman's guide provide the roadmap to the better known off-resort stashes in the North Country.  Now, I realize that the backcountry tradition is strong and longstanding in New England but there seems have been a definite larger-scale acceptance in ski circles of late.  I can only speculate as to the reasons why, but I suspect that outrageous lift ticket prices, crowds, and homogenized resort experiences are contributing to the backcountry migration.  I say "migration" with tongue-in-cheek because in all reality, the masses will continue to ride the resorts with a select enlightened few making the transition the backwoods, so we need not fret about our pristine mountain escapes being overrun by hordes of greenhorns seeking freedom from resort monotony.  I have some confidence in that statement since the average skier, in my estimation, finds his or her way into the backcountry after a long apprenticeship on the groomers and chairlift.  I'm not trying to sound elitist by saying that the backcountry folks are the creme de la creme, but they have almost always sharpened their teeth over years, if not decades, of plying the manicured slopes.  The progression to the backcountry, at least in my case, was the direct result of that apprenticeship.

What is it about Tuckerman Ravine that makes
shorts and long tights socially acceptable?

The ski history of the Woods Hippie began circa 1988 by all accounts, at the tender age of 7 or 8.  Hell, I can't remember that far back but my mother claims to have had me out on the slopes at that point, and who am I to question my mother?  I do remember Mom riding some vintage '70's gear, which wasn't really all that out of date at the time.  Anyways, by the early 1990's my brother was old enough to ski and the three of us graduated from our local slope in central Connecticut to Loon and Cannon in New Hampshire, where I continued my two-plank education in earnest.  As my father reinvigorated his interest in skiing and my cousins came of age, the entire family clan took up the ski cause on the mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont.  Indeed, those pre-teen ski trips remain among my finest memories of youth.  As the 1990's progressed, my cousins and I, one by one, grew bored of skiing and made the switch to snowboarding, which is still my snow technology of choice!  At this point we were still shreddin' the ski areas but began exploring the gladed runs and all manner of trailside booters as if it were our job.  When I was a senior in high school, my parents treated my brother and me to a week-long ski trip to Utah where I was greeted with my first experience with deep...ridiculously deep...powder.  My brother, who was still on skis at that point, struggled in the deep pow while I figured out how to surf the shit on my snowboard.  He lives in Salt Lake now, so I guess he got the last laugh there...

Those crazy bastards sledded down Mansfield's Teardrop Trail!
(Photo by Marquis de Richmond)

The college years proved to be a hiatus of sorts from the scene; I would ride when the occasion presented itself but my passions were, understandably, consumed by the college lifestyle and all that entails.  The catalyst for making the hyperspace jump to a backcountry junkie came at an unlikely place - work.  Soon after joining the career world fresh out of college, I encountered two like-minded outdoorsmen in the company with predilections for the snowy season, and the rest is history.  With various backgrounds in snowboarding, alpine, and nordic skiing, we made an instant bonds and immediately began scheming up unforgettable adventures.  All of us had done some winter camping in various capacities (I hadn't since Boy Scouts a decade earlier), but our common interest sparked a fury of gear purchasing, and our individual campcraft congealed into a proficiency that allowed us to forge into the woods unencumbered by trepidation or inexperience.  Together, we pushed deep into the wilds of Vermont and New Hampshire, first on snowshoes with snowboards strapped to our packs, then on waxless backcountry nordic gear.  We made notably stupid descents of such classics as Teardrop and the Mt. Moosilauke Carriage Road on cross country skis, but we also killed it on snowboards at the Birthday Bowls at Smuggs and elsewhere in the Mansfield BC.  Each trip added to our catalogue of backcountry knowledge and ski ability.

Setting camp near Sterling Pond, VT.

Ever on the path of personal growth as snow sliders, we quickly turned to telemark skiing, which gave us the ability to climb and descend on the same gear.  Tele blew the whole thing wide open.  With our discovery of the telemark turn, free-pivot bindings, and climbing skins, we were no longer held back by the technical limitations of nordic equipment or the weight of traveling with snowshoes and snowboards.  And there's no stopping here; no reason to be held fast by a dogmatic attachment to one style of turn (no offense, TTipsters).  Tele is fun as hell and I've finally nailed it after five years of getting schooled by sore quadriceps and wobbly rear skis, but the future is aglow with visions of alpine touring gear and...*behold*...splitboards!  Ah yes, nothing quickens my heart like the thought of ripping turns and wild powder wheelies on a board and then breakin' it down and skinning up to do it all over again.

Morning life at camp on a four-day outing.

Though telemark is here to stay in the Woods Hippie repertoire for the time being, the clan's preference in backcountry accommodations has changed drastically.  The tent, that fabric enclave which sheltered us on many an excursion, has fallen by the wayside in favor of our latest discovery, cabin camping!  Unbeknownst to many, there are numerous backcountry cabins and shelters in the North Country that are available for a nominal or nonexistent fee.  Our latest digs affords us the opportunity to sled in Coleman stoves, lanterns, mini-kegs, and pots of stew and relax in the radiance of a woodstove and some tasteful iPod selections after a sick day of backcountry adventure.  Other than those concessions to comfort, we still have to melt snow and poop in the woods while wearing skis, but the bitter endurance of below-zero nights and cooking on a Whisperlite in a tent vestibule is a thing of the past for now, but not forever!  Consider it a temporary transition from Type II fun to pure unadulterated Type I fun.  The New England backcountry is so diverse that before long, we will shoulder overnight packs once again and strike out in search of the untracked line somewhere just beyond that next ridgeline...

Whisperlite at night.

The rich backwoods traditions do not end with us, the current generation.  Though the apprenticeship never truly ends, the next round of greenhorns always comes up behind us, thirsting for adventure and an escape from the rigors of their complex lives.  My cousin, an experienced snowboarder in his own right, will join the clan this winter on his first backcountry expedition into the wilds of Vermont.  With any hope, the tribal knowledge will pass once again; those little tips such as how to keep warm at night by placing a Nalgene full of hot water at your feet or between your thighs (which, by the way, means you don't have to melt snow in the morning), or how to prime a white gas stove, or how to strip skins without taking off the skis, or how to pack down the snow with skis before pitching a tent, or how to use snowballs in lieu of toilet paper (yup), or how the slope aspect can be the key to a fresh powder stash, or any other of the infinite bits of wisdom that have been accumulated over the years.  To circle back, the great P-tex riding hordes will not move into the backcountry en masse, but there will always be those willing few who love cold nights, spruce-flavored meltwater, hair-raising descents on sketchy snow, and grand fun in the company of great friends.  And that, folks, is the spirit of the backcountry.