Trail magic
Taking a selfie break on the Osseo Trail, the first and only of them during the 3-day trip, 9/1/17
I stumble and fall, face forward, into the last pile of rough-edged New England boulders before I make it to the campground. It’s been a long day, not longer, or harder, than tomorrow will be, but I don’t know that yet. All I can think about is that last step before I make it to my sleeping grounds for the night, the warmth of the freeze-dried food I’ll prepare for dinner, the sound of my sleeping bag's zipper closing all the way, a peaceful night on the mountains. I get up disoriented and hop my way down the last bit of the trail.
“Are you ok?”, Rachel, the campground caretaker, asks in a worried tone, my dazed expression concerning her more than it should.
“I’m fine. It’s been a long day”, I respond back, and proceed to hand her the $10 bill that’ll grant me a spot at the Liberty Springs campsite, my first of two resting stops this weekend on the Pemigewasset Loop. The Pemi, as many people call it, is actually a conglomerate of trails that form a 32 mile lollipop-shaped loop that traverses along eight of New Hampshire's 4,000+ ft. summits that cater some of the most spectacular scenery in the White Mountains. However beautiful the typical trails are around here, their terrain is also gnarly to conquer: steep and rocky, unforgiving. The Appalachian Trail thru-hiker consensus is that Southern Maine (last final miles of the 2,200 mile traverse) are by far the most difficult, with the stretch of the trail that crosses the White Mountain National Forest coming in second. I have around 12 miles of it ahead of me tomorrow.
At the campsite, I meet Pterodactyl, Single T, Happy Brave, Jason, Maple (Jason’s adorable dog) and other AT thru-hikers hoping to make it to Katahdin before the snow makes the last 300 miles or so of the Appalachian Trail much more difficult to trek through. None of them started together or even on the same day, but as trail life goes, they’ve met and shared campsites before. “It’s so crazy when you think about it. We met in North Carolina and hadn’t seen each other since then. 1200 miles later and here we are. It turns out we were only 5-10 miles apart from each other the whole time.”
They ask me what my trail name is, a question I’ve been asked every time I’ve been on the AT. I confess I’ve never felt I deserve one since I see trail names as only a special thru-hiker distinction. “So what?”, Single T snaps back. “You’re on the trail, right? And it’s better to get one now, that way when you do thru-hike, because you look like you will, you won’t have to deal with people trying to make one up for you”.
We witness what I think is an underwhelming, maybe average, sunset, but Jason is soaking it up as if this were his first night watching day turn to night in the backcountry.
“Isn’t this beautiful? It’s moments like these when I realize that ‘shit, I’m thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail!’”. They’re all enthralled by the sky’s display of red and yellow undertones. I stare at them for a second, dumbfounded by what I just heard from a person who’s been walking on the same trail, throughout multiple states, for the past four months. “You realize that now? You’re almost done!”
“Yeah, but the trail is not always as nice or pretty. Sometimes you’re just going and going and forget to take it all in. But now, all I’m doing is watching the sun set, here, on the White Mountains in New Hampshire, and it sure is a sight to remember.”
We stay up until it’s dark enough to need headlamps to find a place to pee. They talk about trail magic: finding the same girl on the trail after hundreds of miles spent thinking about her, strangers randomly throwing pizza parties at the shelters, the old man that spends his summer cooking fresh omelets for the thru-hikers. Jason makes some chamomile tea with maple syrup and fresh-picked pine leaves, and passes his mug and his bit of trail magic to me. With just two sips, the sweet warmth of that tea hits home. The day’s exhaustion creeps over me, and I’m suddenly ready for bed. I say my goodbyes and head over to my tent. I fall asleep thinking of trail names.
I wake up to the sound of the wind early next morning, which in fact I did mostly all night as well. It is well below freezing without even accounting for wind chill, and some people walk around with a bit of frost on their eyebrows. I feel miserable, not as miserable (or tired, or cold, or hungry) as I will later in the day, but I don’t know that yet. I pack my tent, eat a minute portion of the rock hard granola I brought for breakfast, and get ready to head back to the main trail.
The trail is nothing short of awful and spectacular at the same time. It’s an oxymoronic dream. The steep inclines and equally treacherous descents, for which trekking poles aren't very useful, start hurting my knees early in the day. I reach the Franconia Ridge, one of the most celebrated sections of the AT, by 9:30 AM, and it’s even more fantastic than all the pictures I saw and the blogs I read while preparing for this trip. If it weren't for the bone-piercing 50 mph winds I'd say it's the perfect day. Ice covers the cairns that stand tall to let you know you're going the right way but you still have a long way to go. I take a few pictures and keep heading North. I've got a long way to go.
The thing about the Pemi is that after crossing the Franconia and Garfield Ridges, which go up and down in elevation between the 4000 footer peaks they cross, it gets considerably worse. Some portions of the trail are literally a rock wall that you have to scramble to get up. I struggle with my balance with the pack on my back, but taking it off and catapulting it upward to then thrust myself behind it is not an option. At this point, I'm feeling destroyed and I don't have much water left, but I'm moving towards Galehead Hut and the trail marker says I'm 0.6 miles away. The hut means I get to drink some soup and fill my bottles back with potable water. 0.6 miles is not that far away. Except it is. It seems like it takes me forever to get there, and once I do, I realize I can't get comfortable or I'll still be on the trail after the sun sets. There's no way I can scramble through these trails in the dark.
It's only after I get back on the trail after a short break at the hut that I realize the worst part of the trip is ahead of me. My mental stability has been hanging by a thin thread for the past few miles, and the ascent to South Twin breaks me. I want to cry but I'm too tired to produce tears. Instead I curse at the rocks.
"What the fuck, this fucking trail has to stop! Just please get me to the fucking top!"
I don't see the AT thru-hiker who's sitting quietly on the side of the trail. “I think you’re almost there", he says with a smile that tells me he's trying hard not to laugh at me.
Embarrassed, I apologize. "It's just been a long day."
"I know, but keep going. You're almost there."
And I am. Before I know it, I stand at the top of South Twin, and I can see miles and miles of impeccable mountain ridges. I want to think the views makes up for it, because they really do, but I’m so caught in the pain, the utter insanity, of the last 55 minutes, 0.8 miles and 1,122 feet of elevation gain, that I just feel like going and going and dismiss taking it all in. But, as trail life goes, I suddenly hear a familiar voice approaching the summit, and then I see it’s Pterodactyl that just made his way to the top of South Twin.
“Oh, man, look at this view! This is what the trail’s all about”. He stand tall and victorious with a huge grin on his face, the last 1800 miles of his journey invisible in his stance. It all clicks in my mind. I decide to sit down, have a snack, and take some pictures. Take it all in.
I make it to Guyot before sundown, after 11.5 hours on the trail, but this time I don't fall on my face before reaching the campsite. I have a strong and determined stride. I'm exhausted, my feet are blistered, my hands are cold, and my stomach is empty, but I don't feel broken or miserable anymore. There's something about this trail that's made me realize that amidst the struggle, whether I've realized it or not, there have always been moments of magical serendipity. The sun sets. Everyone else seems to miss it tonight, but I don't take my eyes off it until it's dark enough for headlamps again.
Early morning clouds over Mt. Washington, 9/3/17
I make my way down to the Lincoln Woods parking lot early on Sunday, since the day holds the promise of heavy winds and scattered thunderstorms throughout the mountains. I watch the clouds hover around Mt. Washington (the highest point in the Whites, and a peak I'll summit the following day), settling over it like a crown of atmospheric despair. On this side of the mountains, however, nature is being kind, as if asking for forgiveness following yesterday's cruelty. Nikki, a Lincoln local, and later Scott, from Ohio, make the long way back to civilization bearable and fun. We share some laughs and talk about the day before. Both Scott and I cursed at the rocks. Nikki wants to volunteer with the Forest Service in the wintertime. She must've lost her mind on the trail.
In the evening, I drive to the nearest hostel for a shower and a warm bed amidst the torrential downpour that has not stopped since I made it back to the rental car. To my surprise, the hostel's packed; there are as many as 15 AT thru-hikers who also got off the mountains escaping the rain.
"Got your trail name figured out yet?" I look to my left and Pterodactyl's there, still smiling.
This time, I smile back and nod.
Trail magic.
Collection of postcards from AT thru-hikers who stayed at Rattle River Hostel and later successfully made it to Katahdin
*Pictures of the rock scrambles are from Scott's Instagram (@backpackbroker)