Climbing Mount Washington
I grew up in North Carolina hearing boasts that Mount Mitchell (named after a UNC geology professor who fell to his death while surveying) was just a bit taller than Mount Washington, and hence won the title of the tallest mountain east of the Mississippi. I spent lots of free time backpacking from Mount Mitchell up and down the Black Range, that cragged spine of spruce and fir. One of my fondest memories is lying in a mountain pass on the Black Range and watching the clouds crash into the peaks and get pushed through the saddle.
Nevertheless, Mount Washington always had an allure for me as a kid. An honest-to-god mountain, with krumholtz and a tree-line and alpine tundra and everything! Its reputation for having some of the worst weather on Earth also seemed exciting. Anyway, in the spirit of doing things that I would regret having lived in Boston and not done, I west Wednesday and climbed Mount Washington.
Even the decision to climb one of these peaks on foot requires a certain amount of faith- both Mitchell and Washington have roads that lead to the top for the more lazy, although the latter seemed decidedly more pricey and upscale. I departed from Pinkham Notch around 8am, and began the long steady climb up Boott Spur Trail. I soon reached the alpine zone, with gorgeous views down into Tuckerman’s Ravine. The flowers here were all in bloom, even what looked like Dwarf Cinquefoil (although I didn’t spend long botanizing). One frustration as I went farther up was how the trail ceased to be a path made out of dirt, and became a series of cairns that mark a route through a field of boulders and small rocks. This rock hopping was fun at first, but in the end killed my knees, leaving me wistfully remembering the black soil of Mt. Mitchell’s trails. Once I gained the spur, I had a snack, walked quickly down to the pass, and began the steep 0.6 miles up to the peak. Once there I had an ice cream (so civilized!) and relaxed on the observation deck, before the descent down the Lion’s Head trail, another rock hopping exercise. What I love about hiking is how fatigue reduces my usual buzz of thoughts down to a single-minded focus on where to step next. It becomes a sort of enforced meditation, and I was reminded of the beautiful passage in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance that makes this point. I took frequent breaks on the way down, and read a book my mother gave me by Anna Quindlen called A Short Guide to a Happy Life. At the time the book seemed to me a bit too plain-spoken to be my kind of essay, too ethically simplistic. Now, perhaps because I’m older and more sentimental, I found it to be a gem of a book, bringing a tear to my eye. All in all, it was a glorious day.
Nevertheless, Mount Washington always had an allure for me as a kid. An honest-to-god mountain, with krumholtz and a tree-line and alpine tundra and everything! Its reputation for having some of the worst weather on Earth also seemed exciting. Anyway, in the spirit of doing things that I would regret having lived in Boston and not done, I west Wednesday and climbed Mount Washington.
Even the decision to climb one of these peaks on foot requires a certain amount of faith- both Mitchell and Washington have roads that lead to the top for the more lazy, although the latter seemed decidedly more pricey and upscale. I departed from Pinkham Notch around 8am, and began the long steady climb up Boott Spur Trail. I soon reached the alpine zone, with gorgeous views down into Tuckerman’s Ravine. The flowers here were all in bloom, even what looked like Dwarf Cinquefoil (although I didn’t spend long botanizing). One frustration as I went farther up was how the trail ceased to be a path made out of dirt, and became a series of cairns that mark a route through a field of boulders and small rocks. This rock hopping was fun at first, but in the end killed my knees, leaving me wistfully remembering the black soil of Mt. Mitchell’s trails. Once I gained the spur, I had a snack, walked quickly down to the pass, and began the steep 0.6 miles up to the peak. Once there I had an ice cream (so civilized!) and relaxed on the observation deck, before the descent down the Lion’s Head trail, another rock hopping exercise. What I love about hiking is how fatigue reduces my usual buzz of thoughts down to a single-minded focus on where to step next. It becomes a sort of enforced meditation, and I was reminded of the beautiful passage in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance that makes this point. I took frequent breaks on the way down, and read a book my mother gave me by Anna Quindlen called A Short Guide to a Happy Life. At the time the book seemed to me a bit too plain-spoken to be my kind of essay, too ethically simplistic. Now, perhaps because I’m older and more sentimental, I found it to be a gem of a book, bringing a tear to my eye. All in all, it was a glorious day.
