Mount Monadnock
Where: Mt. Monadnock
When: 11/23/96
With: Solo
When: 11/23/96
With: Solo
It was a beautiful day on Mt. Monadnock. The late fall air was cool enough to keep the crowds away and make the hiking comfortable. Visibility was virtually unlimited, except for a slight haze that settled in as the day progressed. Mt. Washington's snow-covered mass was clearly evident to the northeast, as was Boston's skyline to the southeast. To the west and north, the ski slopes of Vermont presented their trails like advertisements, already covered with early season snow.
I'd climbed for a number of reasons. First, it was a nice day and I had no other obligations. The chores were done and the family was otherwise occupied. Second, this climb had been on my to-do list for some time. The last time I'd climbed had probably been 10 years ago, when I journeyed up from Boston with a car full of friends and a lot of youthful male enthusiasm. After climbing to the top, we ran down, terrorizing others on the heavily traveled trails and reveling in our recklessness. I wanted to climb again to add a new perspective to my memories of the mountain, a viewpoint changed by the passing of years and accumulation of experience.
My final reason was preparation for my annual winter hike with Chip. Part of it was certainly physical preparation - hauling my not-so-young body up four and a half miles of trail and 1665 feet of elevation to give both legs and lungs a workout so I'd have the strength to climb in the snow come January. A larger part though was the mental preparation. I needed to remind myself that I enjoy doing this sort of thing. On a cold winter evening, walking to the car after a day in the office, I'm often enveloped by a sense of deep loathing of the idea of winter hiking. The cold bores through my clothing, and even though I say to myself that I'm really not dressed for being outside, the chill goes right to my core until it reaches my heart and I think, "The last thing I want to be doing is winter camping." The feeling grows as the hike day approaches and by the time we hit the trail I'm a walking, talking Prophet of Doom. We'll never make it, we'll be miserable, I hate doing this.
Despite all of this, I still go on the hike. Usually, my mood lightens a bit at the beginning of the hike, when the going is relatively easy. As things get tough though, the darkness descends again. All I can think of is how much I don't want to be doing what I'm doing and how I wish it would end. I focus totally on the moment I will wake up the next morning (after what I know will be a horrible night), because that moment is the beginning of the journey home, the point at which things start to get better, not worse.
I'm not a lot of fun to be with.
So I went to Mt. Monadnock for the pain, or more accurately, for the pain and the pleasure. By experiencing both, I'd remind myself that the effort required by a hike is always rewarded eventually. My hope was to reinforce that concept in my mind, so that when I was hiking next January, I'd remember it.
I left the house around 8:30 and arrived at the Pumpelly trailhead two hours later. I'd made one small driving mistake, passing the access road (East Lake St.), but managed to find its other end just past Dublin Lake and looped back to the trail with little time lost. A line of 3-4 cars by the side of the road signaled the spot and I pulled in behind the last in line. One hiker was just setting out and another was getting ready as I made my own preparations.
Not knowing what to expect, I'd loaded the car with gear for a wide variety of conditions. Snowshoes, crampons, ice axe, layers of fleece, gloves, gaiters, etc. It was pretty apparent that I'd need little of it, so I emptied my daypack of most of its contents, locked the car, and headed out.
Judging by where the cars were parked, I figured the trail began at an obvious dirt road just ahead of the first car in line, but when I reached the road, it appeared to be a private driveway. Unsure as to where to go, I went to a rock and retied my boots - carefully - so as to give a hiker behind me time to pass to I could follow him. That turned out to be something of a mistake, for the trail was just a few yards further up the road and clearly marked and the hiker in front of me was going slightly slower than me. I decided this gave me a good opportunity to slow down and enjoy the day, so I paused a bit to give the other hiker a lead and then proceeded at a relaxed pace.
The trail was an easy, woodsy walk at first, climbing slightly but steadily. A good hike for Andy, I thought, or perhaps a fun ski trail. The ease ended however when the trail reached the base of the shoulder of the mountain and began to climb steeply. I managed to keep up a reasonable pace and was pleased to see that I seemed to be in reasonably good condition. After climbing a good bit however I was forced to stop and rest a bit. I drank some water and caught my breath and then noticed voices coming from above. I expected to see hikers coming down the trail, but none did. After a while, I set off again and found the owners of the voices a few yards up the trail. An older man and a young man with a ponytail - father and son, most likely. We greeted each other and I noted what a wonderful conversation they seemed to be having. If they were indeed father/son, they enjoyed a uniquely strong and intelligent relationship.
The trail continued to climb a bit further and then came out on the ridgetop, with viewpoints occasionally presenting themselves. The clarity of the air made for some spectacular vistas, which I paused to look at briefly. I decided to save my serious gazing for the summit though and kept going. The trail continued along the ridge and became somewhat obscure. At one point, following an apparent pathway, I found I wasn't sure if I was still on the trail. I kept going a bit before deciding I'd definitely lost the path and backtracked. I quickly regained the trail and realized my mistake - not watching carefully for the rock cairns which marked the way. By paying more careful attention, I was able to make the rest of the climb without incident.
As the trail cleared the trees, I began to see more and more people and soon I was among the crowds on the summit of this second-most climbed mountain in the world (after Mt. Fuji in Japan). My fellow summiters were overwhelmingly male and many appeared to be part of organized youth groups. A lot of teen and pre-teen boys. I crossed the summit, then found a spot with a view to the northwest to have lunch. After a quick munch and a rest, I rose and began the return trip.
Despite my earlier incident with losing the path, and even though I'd just come up the trail, I managed to lose my way for a bit on the way down. This time though, my concentration on cairns was the cause of my problem. I was just getting back to the treeline and a small pile of rocks indicated the trail continued straight along the ridge. Past that marker though, no other cairns were evident. I circled around a bit, then noticed another hiker doing the same thing. "You lost the trail, too, eh?" I called. Together, we explored further out on the ridge, since that seemed the logical path for the trail, but without any luck. As we came to the end of the ridge, my new companion continued on through the brush, hoping to spot the route. Knowing the real trail was much more obvious than the faint traces we were following, I announced I was heading back. We both agreed to call if we found anything. I backtracked along the ridge to the last pile of rocks I'd seen and then heard voices. I turned to see hikers emerging from the woods on the true trail, which had turned just before the cairn I'd followed. Apparently, that cairn was a false marker, created by some unthinking person. I dismantled the pile a bit, then returned along the ridge to call to the other hiker. I went to where we parted and called out, but got no answer. I continued on a bit more and called again, but still no response. Finally, I decided I'd done what I could, returned to the trail, and resumed my descent. The area he'd gone into was bounded by three trails, so eventually he'd hit one, I figured.
The rest of the trip down was uneventful. I never saw another hiker and had a nice walk back to the car. The steep sections were tough on my legs and feet, but once the trail smoothed out, it was easy walking.
More pictures
I'd climbed for a number of reasons. First, it was a nice day and I had no other obligations. The chores were done and the family was otherwise occupied. Second, this climb had been on my to-do list for some time. The last time I'd climbed had probably been 10 years ago, when I journeyed up from Boston with a car full of friends and a lot of youthful male enthusiasm. After climbing to the top, we ran down, terrorizing others on the heavily traveled trails and reveling in our recklessness. I wanted to climb again to add a new perspective to my memories of the mountain, a viewpoint changed by the passing of years and accumulation of experience.
My final reason was preparation for my annual winter hike with Chip. Part of it was certainly physical preparation - hauling my not-so-young body up four and a half miles of trail and 1665 feet of elevation to give both legs and lungs a workout so I'd have the strength to climb in the snow come January. A larger part though was the mental preparation. I needed to remind myself that I enjoy doing this sort of thing. On a cold winter evening, walking to the car after a day in the office, I'm often enveloped by a sense of deep loathing of the idea of winter hiking. The cold bores through my clothing, and even though I say to myself that I'm really not dressed for being outside, the chill goes right to my core until it reaches my heart and I think, "The last thing I want to be doing is winter camping." The feeling grows as the hike day approaches and by the time we hit the trail I'm a walking, talking Prophet of Doom. We'll never make it, we'll be miserable, I hate doing this.
Despite all of this, I still go on the hike. Usually, my mood lightens a bit at the beginning of the hike, when the going is relatively easy. As things get tough though, the darkness descends again. All I can think of is how much I don't want to be doing what I'm doing and how I wish it would end. I focus totally on the moment I will wake up the next morning (after what I know will be a horrible night), because that moment is the beginning of the journey home, the point at which things start to get better, not worse.
I'm not a lot of fun to be with.
So I went to Mt. Monadnock for the pain, or more accurately, for the pain and the pleasure. By experiencing both, I'd remind myself that the effort required by a hike is always rewarded eventually. My hope was to reinforce that concept in my mind, so that when I was hiking next January, I'd remember it.
I left the house around 8:30 and arrived at the Pumpelly trailhead two hours later. I'd made one small driving mistake, passing the access road (East Lake St.), but managed to find its other end just past Dublin Lake and looped back to the trail with little time lost. A line of 3-4 cars by the side of the road signaled the spot and I pulled in behind the last in line. One hiker was just setting out and another was getting ready as I made my own preparations.
Not knowing what to expect, I'd loaded the car with gear for a wide variety of conditions. Snowshoes, crampons, ice axe, layers of fleece, gloves, gaiters, etc. It was pretty apparent that I'd need little of it, so I emptied my daypack of most of its contents, locked the car, and headed out.
Judging by where the cars were parked, I figured the trail began at an obvious dirt road just ahead of the first car in line, but when I reached the road, it appeared to be a private driveway. Unsure as to where to go, I went to a rock and retied my boots - carefully - so as to give a hiker behind me time to pass to I could follow him. That turned out to be something of a mistake, for the trail was just a few yards further up the road and clearly marked and the hiker in front of me was going slightly slower than me. I decided this gave me a good opportunity to slow down and enjoy the day, so I paused a bit to give the other hiker a lead and then proceeded at a relaxed pace.
The trail was an easy, woodsy walk at first, climbing slightly but steadily. A good hike for Andy, I thought, or perhaps a fun ski trail. The ease ended however when the trail reached the base of the shoulder of the mountain and began to climb steeply. I managed to keep up a reasonable pace and was pleased to see that I seemed to be in reasonably good condition. After climbing a good bit however I was forced to stop and rest a bit. I drank some water and caught my breath and then noticed voices coming from above. I expected to see hikers coming down the trail, but none did. After a while, I set off again and found the owners of the voices a few yards up the trail. An older man and a young man with a ponytail - father and son, most likely. We greeted each other and I noted what a wonderful conversation they seemed to be having. If they were indeed father/son, they enjoyed a uniquely strong and intelligent relationship.
The trail continued to climb a bit further and then came out on the ridgetop, with viewpoints occasionally presenting themselves. The clarity of the air made for some spectacular vistas, which I paused to look at briefly. I decided to save my serious gazing for the summit though and kept going. The trail continued along the ridge and became somewhat obscure. At one point, following an apparent pathway, I found I wasn't sure if I was still on the trail. I kept going a bit before deciding I'd definitely lost the path and backtracked. I quickly regained the trail and realized my mistake - not watching carefully for the rock cairns which marked the way. By paying more careful attention, I was able to make the rest of the climb without incident.
As the trail cleared the trees, I began to see more and more people and soon I was among the crowds on the summit of this second-most climbed mountain in the world (after Mt. Fuji in Japan). My fellow summiters were overwhelmingly male and many appeared to be part of organized youth groups. A lot of teen and pre-teen boys. I crossed the summit, then found a spot with a view to the northwest to have lunch. After a quick munch and a rest, I rose and began the return trip.
Despite my earlier incident with losing the path, and even though I'd just come up the trail, I managed to lose my way for a bit on the way down. This time though, my concentration on cairns was the cause of my problem. I was just getting back to the treeline and a small pile of rocks indicated the trail continued straight along the ridge. Past that marker though, no other cairns were evident. I circled around a bit, then noticed another hiker doing the same thing. "You lost the trail, too, eh?" I called. Together, we explored further out on the ridge, since that seemed the logical path for the trail, but without any luck. As we came to the end of the ridge, my new companion continued on through the brush, hoping to spot the route. Knowing the real trail was much more obvious than the faint traces we were following, I announced I was heading back. We both agreed to call if we found anything. I backtracked along the ridge to the last pile of rocks I'd seen and then heard voices. I turned to see hikers emerging from the woods on the true trail, which had turned just before the cairn I'd followed. Apparently, that cairn was a false marker, created by some unthinking person. I dismantled the pile a bit, then returned along the ridge to call to the other hiker. I went to where we parted and called out, but got no answer. I continued on a bit more and called again, but still no response. Finally, I decided I'd done what I could, returned to the trail, and resumed my descent. The area he'd gone into was bounded by three trails, so eventually he'd hit one, I figured.
The rest of the trip down was uneventful. I never saw another hiker and had a nice walk back to the car. The steep sections were tough on my legs and feet, but once the trail smoothed out, it was easy walking.
More pictures
