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.

 
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The Only Plan Is...There Is No Plan

The constituency has been clamoring for another blog post, so here goes. 

The weekend in the woods ended before it even began.

No, not in the sense that time flies when you're having fun, but in that my hiking partner for a three day backcountry trip bagged out two days before departure.  Not unexpected, but the turn of events left me adrift for a way to dispense with a free weekend.  What transpired was a Woods Hippie wandering of the finest sort - an adventure of motorcycles, tempests, summits and spirit that was rampant in spontaneity yet rooted in familiar terrain.

Rowell's Bridge spans the Contoocook River in Hopkinton, New Hampshire.

At the urging of Mrs. Hippie, who was anxious to rid herself of a moody husband, I packed the motorcycle with a kit of essential camping and hiking gear.  With tent, bedroll, stove, and clothing in the saddlebags and gasoline in the tank, I struck out in search of new roads.  I would like to brag that I was unencumbered with preconceptions and expectations and set out on an adventure of pure whim, but the reality was that the trip didn't immediately take a form because of paralytic indecision on my behalf.

Brooding.  Where should I go?  Irritable.  How about here (points a finger to a random place on the map)?  Frustrated.  No, I don't really want to go there.  Resigned.  But why not?  In the end, I settled on riding north into New Hampshire to camp at a Forest Service campground in Waterville Valley where I would stage hike of the Tripyramids.  Okay, fine, fair enough, it was enough to motivate me to put up the kickstand and hit the starter switch.  Friday morning arrived and I bid the family adieu, two- and four-legged alike.  The ride, all 260 miles of it, passed pleasantly if not unremarkably, highlighted by the waning colors of summer's passing days.  The spring and summer flowers have long wilted, leaving behind weedy hedgerows of goldenrod and aster to hue the fields, and the maples and beeches have taken on a tired grey-green tone to their foliage - perhaps the earliest signaling of the resplendent carnival of color to come.

As the bike carried me to the southern gateway of the White Mountains, mere minutes from my intended bivouac, more changes.  I was a mere 45 minutes from my family's mountain retreat, complete with a hot tub, soft bed, and a bottle of cheap whiskey.  That, and twenty miles of the sweetest sweepers and twisties in New England.  (Not familiar with sweepers and twisties?  Buy a motorcycle, immediately!)  The aches in my shoulders and posterior that had been building all day suddenly diminished and I nudged the black Suzuki on a northwesterly tack alongside the Wild Ammonoosuc River, an unrecognized foreshadowing of the following morn when I would hike to her headwaters high on a mountainside.

Settled with drink in hand and music pulsing form the stereo, I opened the hiker's guidebook to peruse some trail options and unleashed rolling, unstoppable changes to the plan, this time not at the hand of indecision but rather as necessary reactions to impending weather - a powerful cold front that was forecast to be the turbulent arrival of fall in the White Mountains.  All at once the wide open day was framed by very real considerations - squalls in the high mountains are significant threats and riding motorcycles in the rain is just plain misery.

The plan...those rolling changes...which mountain to climb?  The necessities - a short ride from camp, quick hike to a tall summit, off the mountain before the storm hits, majestic scenery, and superlative physical challenge.

Anyone want to donate to the Buy the Woods Hippie a Better Camera Fund?

My mind wasn't fully made until I awoke in the pre-dawn hour.  Clouds streamed above at altitude and the lowlands were crowded with fog.  Fools stay in the hills in such weather, so this foolish boy climbed Mt. Moosilauke via the Beaver Brook Trail, a short, steep, and physical footpath.  The trail and brook are synonymous - often occupying the same space.  Primal cascades slide down a laceration in the woodland that has exposed the bedrock heart of the mountain.  Vivacious, tumbling, medieval.  After a steady, meticulous climb on slick rocks, I emerged from the ravine and ascended into the summit meadow.  The unrelenting fog sparked thoughts of the delicate dance of water and life.  Having just returned from the desert canyonlands of Utah, I was acutely aware of the biotic struggles to acquire this essential fluid.  And here, surrounded by billions of somehow perceivable vapor droplets suspended on the wind, I could almost sense the summit vegetation opening their stomata and drawing deeply of the moisture-laden air, obtaining from thin air the lifeblood long denied by the hot and dry summer season.  On this grassy peak the hydrologic cycle began, or ended, or simply was.  All this vapor condensing on rock, soil, and plant alike, with the smallest volumes merging in the subterranean pores to create a saturated body sufficient to supply the cascade deep into summer.  Rivers from clouds.  The swirling womb of the Wild Ammonoosuc River.

The view from the summit meadow.  I wouldn't have it any other way!

My early departure, eagerness to climb hard, and trepidation regarding the approaching storm found me on the summit at 10am.  Plenty of time to enjoy the rockpile, or so I thought.  Food, water, and added layers of clothing kept the moist, cooling winds at bay for a half hour at best until a chill crept into my bones and beckoned me to retreat below treeline.  The descent had worried me on the ascent; the trail was quite steep and is notoriously wet even in dry weather.  However, the boot rubber did its job and ushered me safety down the mountain to the dew-streaked Suzuki.  I suited up in riding gear and ripped down Route 112 from the hikers' parking lot at the height-of-land of Kinsman Notch, again enjoying the curvy pavement that had treated me so well the previous evening.  Cool to think that half of that parking lot drains to the Wild Ammonoosuc and onward to the Connecticut River and Long Island Sound, and the other half drains to the Lost River and the Gulf of Maine.

Lest you think I take this too seriously, let me say this.  Despite all the bullshit prose I drop on this blog from time to time, I'm really just a goofball kid that likes to hike in the mountains.  The rest is just gravy.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent alongside the swimming hole on the Wild Ammonoosuc - a marvelous sequence of small waterfalls over polished rock - the view governed by the historic Swiftwater Covered Bridge.  Baptism in the vapors which had coalesced in my presence at 4,802 feet above sea level just that morning.  (I hope my post-hike pee was on the Gulf of Maine side of that parking lot...)  Bands of light rain showers rolled through and offered me the delightful interlude of temporarily abandoning my swim for the shelter of the underside of the bridge to write in my journal (waterproof geologist's field book, in case you're wondering).  Returning to the cabin, I briefly flirted with the idea of riding to a nearby forest service campground, but a check of the weather radar indicated a whole lot of red, so I instead spent an enjoyable evening weathering the storm with my cousin and her boyfriend who had also journeyed north for some rejuvenation in the pines.  Thanks, guys, for tolerating your vagabond hippie cousin on your weekend getaway.  Sorry about that.

Isn't it amazing what nature provides?  Steps in the rock!

And the storm, for all my worries and insistent media forecasts, was five minutes of fury and then gentle rain.  As a wild man once said, the earth refuses to be tidy.

Morning again - this time with sunshine sparkling and winds absent.  The night prior I had hatched a plan to tackle Kings Ravine on Mt. Adams in the Presidential Range, but I slept in and then realized the folly of trying (or wanting) to rush a hike that should be savored.  I mean, this ravine has hidden ice year-round and a crazy jumble of boulders among thousands of feet of vertical gain that beg for a day-long exploration.  Not suitable fodder for the day when I have to ride home.  So, I picked another local favorite, Black Mountain via the Chippewa Trail.  A short little mountain with a two mile ascent that packs a mighty punch.  Steep!  This mountain has one serious Napoleon complex.

The steepness of portions of the trail drew comparisons to the prior day's hike up Moosilauke.  My legs certainly took a while to warm up to the experience.  The fledgling autumn weather was a stark contrast to the meteorological witchcraft summoned on the Beaver Brook Trail.  The interesting thing was that these two hikes were unique in their details but I ultimately perceived them both as a continuum of thought and experience over the two days.

The coolest part of the hike was the lime kilns.

These kilns were operated in the mid to late 1800's to produce lime (the stuff you put on your lawn) from a low-grade marble that was quarried from the flanks of Black Mountain.  Alternating layers of marble and charcoal were piled in the kiln and were fired below from the brick fireboxes that were undoubtedly fueled by wood from the surrounding forest.  I can only imaging that the dense woodland surrounding me on this hike was a barren hillside during the kiln days, stripped of burnable materials to feed the kiln.

The figurative and literal foundations of our modern society.

I was struck by the primitive technology that was in use little more than a hundred years ago, during the lifetime of my great-grandmother who I knew well into my teenage years.  The moss-covered rocks of this early industrial structure brought forth memories(?), no, perhaps a shared ancestral experience(?) of some medieval forge on a Welsh hinterland.  Looking at the kiln and pondering the way of life that accompanied its operation, the inevitability of technological progression dawned on me.  We as humans are committed to technology at this point, regardless of the impacts it may have on the earth.  Through natural selection of our own device, we as a species are no longer fit for life in the wilderness.  And all this change happened so suddenly, within a few generations prior to my birth.  In my great-grandmother's time we went from stone kilns to space travel and the instantaneous global sharing human knowledge...an unprecedented rate of change. Why?  Think!  Energy.  Petroleum!  Man's endeavors prior to the discovery of oil were limited by the availability of energy - the amount of firewood that could be cut to fuel the kiln or the acres of hay that could be grown to feed the oxen to pull marble from the quarry .  Energy was tedium.  Oil changed all of that.  Energy was suddenly readily available and non-perishable, thus freeing our bodies from the physical act of procuring energy (read Joel Salatin's Folks, This Ain't Normal for more on this topic).  And the tidal wave of innovation that surrounds us today, this most massive application of our evolutionary intellectual advantage, is the direct result of this liberation.  As a self-described environmentalist, this thought resonated like an electric shock.  Is there any turning back?  Should we? Could we if we wanted to?  Are we destined for the confines(?) liberation(?) of pure mechanism, or will we find a harmonious balance of the wild and technological?  I hope for the latter...

I don't want to know a world where these wonders are paved over...

 Whew!  Some time alone in the woods can make a man think...

So, just as quickly as the little black motorcycle whisked me away to the northlands, it brought me back home. Ostensibly, a bit disappointing, until I got to experience the little guy enjoying a ripe tomato from the garden...

...which put the whole thing into perspective.  


Safe travels,

Woods Hippie

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

A Day's Hike into the Clouds

Moist breezes swirl through the intricate spruce forest, carrying a sweet, delicate fragrance to my nose...a fragrance that is not pine, not mist, not soil, but a gentle concoction of all earthly pheromones that strike deep into some primordial nerve center, and a sense of home washes over me.  Momentarily bound in a cosmic plane, I shift my focus back to my physical reality and resume picking a slow and methodical path through the jumble of schist and granite boulders that dot the mountainside.  The path, and the surrounding forests, are constant sentinels of a medieval world that we, as travelers, struggle to comprehend on our recreational forays into the kingdom.  

There is magic afoot here, ancient powers that conspire to anchor trees in bare rock and send their woody antennae skyward in a silent quest for light.  Water, the lifeblood, the oil in the cylinder, seeps from every imaginable and unimaginable crevice from springs unseen, pulsing through beds of moss before submerging into the soil matrix, to emerge some months later in a river destined for the sea.  Meanwhile, secretive flowers advertise their genetic ribbons to a selective audience, perhaps to the one particular breed of insect that has evolved a quiet symbiosis with its floral brethren.

"Focus," I again remind myself, "or your tired feet will stumble and pitch you headlong into a rock!"  Oh, but for that intoxicating balsam perfume!  Onward we climb into a cloud, a literal ascent to the heavens.  Here, the weather has shaped trees into boreal statues crafted of gnarled fiber and resilient waxy needles; deformities, we might infer, but to the trees, all the better to withstand to ceaseless winds and brutal winter snows. 

Today, the bold rock and resolute statues of wood play second fiddle to the atmosphere, which, to the unaccustomed, at first appears to be a featureless sheet of white but, upon further inquisition, we find that the aether forms a vaporous canvas for the broad brush strokes of meteorological happenings.  Tendrils of cloud break free from the main body of fog filling the valley to whip past our faces and race through the trees, stripping us of the mountain views for which we came, but garnishing our climb with a much more surreal and contemplative vista.  What else but fog could free us from our preconceived expectations and usher us into an ego-less appreciation of the mountain as it presented itself to us?

It is only much later when, on the drive home, we see the entire ridge and solve the meteorological mystery that leaves our little mountain enshrouded in mist.  The ridge intercepts a moist northbound air mass that speeds through the valley.  The invisible freight train careens into the the ridge and climbs as did we, only much, much faster, compressing against the mountain then cooling in a flurry of instantaneous condensation which gives birth to a transient toupee of cloud over the barren rock.  On the summit, we surmise that the entire Presidential Range was enveloped, but our later observations show us that the clouds merely break over our mountain like an ocean wave before absolving themselves of existence in the lee of the rock, evaporating as uncountable numbers of water molecules warm imperceptibly and vanish.  

Mother Nature captures us again with her sorcery as she forms and destroys clouds at will in front of our eyes, but she graces us with benevolence today as neither rain nor sleet mar our passage; we journey home, tired as always, but ever more transfixed...

Spring is in Full Swing!

Another glorious New England spring is in full bloom in the wake of the best winter season I have ever experienced, and I couldn't be any happier.  A devout winter sports enthusiast to the core, I have no qualms hanging up the skis when the weather turns here in Connecticut.  Sure, the Greens and Whites may harbor pockets of rideable snow into June, but I'll leave those outings to the locals.  They don't have to drive too far at $4.20 a gallon to ski marginal backcountry routes.  

Cape Pogue...a poetic juxtaposition of sky, sea, and sand.

Anyways...spring!   I regard this season as our annual reward for enduring months of iced-over windshields and heating bill-induced heart palpitations.  Few complaints are lodged during these fleeting weeks of flowery transition between winter and summer; even the most curmudgeonly opponents of "weather" seem to embrace the live-affirming spring rains and silence their atmospheric grumblings, if only temporarily.  The days are warm, the nights encourage open windows for deep sleep, and the gentle rains and tumultuous clouds lend a dramatic backdrop as biology reestablishes seasonal dominance over the reticent geology.  I have found myself engaged in an endless fury of activity spurred by the abundant daylight, and as a result I have made good on some of the aimless goals which I presented in an earlier post.

Can you believe I lived with this salty dog for four years?

The warmer weather and emergent foliage bring out the travel bug in me, so I indulged my fancy with a weekend trip to Martha's Vineyard to visit some old friends and catch a few early season fish.  I am vastly fortunate to have roomed with Captain Roberto during my college days, and not only is he one helluva nice guy, but a skilled fisherman taboot.  The first order of business was to pursue some Morone saxatilis in one of the Vineyard's most scenic and secluded backwaters.  The shallow waters of the pond proved to be the perfect environment for the Gheenoe, the Vineyard boys' recent Florida-inspired small craft acquisition.  With a 15-hp outboard, shallow draft, stable casting deck, and ample beer storage, the Gheenou got us into the goods in the most stylish of redneck fashions.  Armed with a carbon-fiber pole, Roberto skillfully piloted the craft around the edge of the marsh where the stripers were feeding in various inlets.  We met success with a topwater Jumping Minnow and soft plastic baits.  The time spent in the salt pond was a highlight of the season so far...great conversation with a great friend, a fun boat, and good fishing all framed by the pristine coastal dune ecology.

Capt. Roberto at the helm.

To top off an already great outing, the following day found me in the company of the island's elite sportfishing charter guides, the boys of http://fishingthevineyard.com/ (minus "Carl", who was otherwise "engaged").  Captain WBC was eager to show off his new ship, a 22 Pathfinder outfitted with a custom poling platform.  Talk about a humbling experience, fishing with these guys!  All I could do was hang on tight and cast where they told me, with expected success, though  I'm sure I'm not the first amateur from Connecticut they have brought to sea.  Anyways, if you enjoy great fishing photography and well-written prose, you must check out their blog at http://fishingthevineyard.blogspot.com/.  And if you don't know what FTV are talking about in their posts, you must i.) meet Kevin and/or Hoagie, ii.) listen to more Grateful Dead than you currently do,  iii.) book a charter and find out what it's all about, or iv.) listen to Grateful Dead while on a charter.

If Ted Kennedy drove a Gheenoe on that fateful day on Chappaquiddick, he might have been president.

Though the weather surely looked like rain, we found the wads of birds and, between bouts of hurling insults at dejected Phocidae, hooked into some striped bass and entertaining bluefish before the schools of bait gave way to fruitless casts and a fine dockside lunch in Woods Hole.  After two days on a boat, I was thoroughly tired, sunburned, and dehydrated, but the spiritual well was replenished and the cosmic batteries were recharged.  

 Here are a few more from the weekend.  Enjoy.

The Woods Hippie gets one.

If the thunder don't get ya then the skull knob will...

Roberto finds fish in the strangest of places if you look at them right.

30 knots and no skipper to be seen...

The lawyer hooks up on his first cast of the season.

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 Art of Living Simply: A Backcountry Trip Report, Part I

"Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them."

-Thoreau

Perhaps this post should be titled, "The Art of Simply Living".  Either way, the message is the same.  I am pleased to report that the Woods Hippie ski tribe plucked the finest of fruits during a recent extended excursion into the wilds of northern Vermont's backcountry.  In a fitting tribute to Thoreau's notion of economy (please read Walden if you have not already), we resided in a simple cabin with Spartan accomodation and our souls were enriched by tending to our most basic physical needs of food and shelter while living for days on end on skis and snowshoes.  We lived and breathed the ski lifestyle for a few ephemeral days, and, with the cares of a grinding civilization temporarily behind us, our thoughts were able to circle around to the direction of the wind, the condition of the fire in the woodstove, the tilt of windblown icicles on the high-mountain spruce, the interplay of sunlight and shadow on freshly-fallen snow, and...so as not to sound too erudite...the level of beer in the keg.  Replace the Gore-Tex with leather, skis with muskets, and fresh powder stashes with bison and we could have just as easily been a band of spirited mountain men in the pre-colonial past...both scenarios boil down to men thriving in wild pursuit of adventure in equally wild places.

The cabin was at once an incongruity and an extension of the mountainside...an incongruity in that such a crude structure should not reside in Gaia's temple; an extension in that its simplicity somehow just fit in with the woods, a permissible excursion of man's modest need for shelter in a cold place.  In many ways our small cabin was a modern version of Thoreau's; a shelter that serves to grow the spirit of wilderness travelers without unduly imparting itself on the experience.  Except, as Thoreau ultimately discovered, the cabin was so magically simple that we couldn't help but make it the centerpiece of our excursion.

Thoreau harvested beans and we harvested powder.  Other than that, not much else differed.
Kindling still needed to be split in 2011 as in 1845.

The crew was mixed this year with two seasoned vets and two cabin rookies, though the cabin rookies were no strangers to the outdoor lifestyle.  Johnny G. jumped into the fray with a fierce head cold and shone through by tending the fire and providing some rich venison stew.  Jamie joined the party with a 5-gallon keg of Trapps Golden Lager (hauled over a mile from the trailhead by Marquis de Richmond, I must add) and a home-grown ham dinner.  Marquis and I toasted the third successful installment of the cabin trip and lamented the absence of one of the founding triumvirate.  Everyone found a sheer delight in the remarkable late season snow conditions; late season by calendar only...Mother Nature gripped us in the full force of mid-winter with below-zero nighttime lows and howling daytime winds choked with copious orographic snow.

The woodstove stood as the silent sentinel over the day's activities; a source of heat and purified water and a catalyst for conversation.

The day's explorations unfolded with minimal forethought; we suited up and stepped into our skis and snowshoes and struck off on the high mountain trails, guided by the occasional marker until our search for powder and trees found us navigating the woodlands by map, compass, and dead reckoning.  After two years of teasing us with variable snow conditions, Ullr finally blessed us with shin-deep pow on top of a gracious base.  Skis and 'shoes expedited travel, but the base was firm enough to prevent postholing on late night latrine runs...

Johnny G. gettin' his.

By late afternoon on the second day, all parties converged at the cabin.  With woodstove blazing and night falling, the temperatures on either side of the thin wooden walls made their respective shifts, and our attention turned from skis and trees to cold beer and hot food.  The non-campers and spouses out there might ask, "What do you do on those camping trips?"  Jamie succinctly offered, "Mostly burping and farting..."

In all reality, a ski cabin trip is an age-old tradition in the vein of deer camps and fishing lodges.  I won't even attempt an explanation.  Those who know, know.  Those who don't, don't.

Marquis gettin' his.

Then he got an idea.  An awful idea.  The Grinch got a wonderful, *awful* idea!
Looks like all the Whos in Whoville will get their presents this Christmas...

Stay tuned for Part II, hopefully I'll figure out how to embed Johnny's sick GoPro footage.