A Hiking Trip

Hiking alone? At 4,000-something feet? In October?  Honestly?  Stupid, stupid and stupider.   Insight comes at the wrong time, Frank thought, and it hit him that that was insight itself.  He managed to laugh a little, and imagined a smile on his numb lips.  At least he was going downhill.

The day started well enough. The forecast was for clear skies in the morning, the temperature at the base anyway, hitting the low 60s, and he had not one, not two, but three sandwiches in the bottom of the red pack that still had its price tag, below the extra socks and shirt and copy of The Shining he was dying to finish.   He could do it on the 20-minute break he planned when he got to the top.  As an afterthought, he threw in the AMC trail guide as well.

The parking lot was empty, no surprise, when he got there at 5AM.  The Smokey-the-Bear fire danger sign had the arrow pointing to the very bottom of the ‘low’ zone, but looked like it hadn’t been moved in years.    A smaller sign read ‘No Parking Dusk Till Dawn; $500 fine’ and they meant it.   The budget for the park service, never large to begin with, had been cut, then cut some more, and on the topic of cutting there was talk about allowing some logging to be done.   Even the Republicans in the state legislature were upset with that, but they did issue more hunting licenses for out-of-staters at $350 a pop.

Frank parked at the far end of the lot.  Seeing some light on the other side of the mountain, he figured he could argue that it was dawn if he got a ticket.  Anyway, the log booth at the entrance was closed and there was no ranger in sight.  Or anyone else for that matter.   Frank would have the trail to himself this morning alone until some young-hyper-athlete-macho-ironman-runner-asshole managed to get ahead of him, which in his condition wouldn’t take much effort from anyone.  Otherwise it would be solitude and nature.  He half hoped he might come across a moose, or better still, a bear.

He took advantage of that solitude to take a piss against a tree just off the trailhead and headed up.  The trail bordered a gin-clear stream that flowed down a shadowed gully.  A sign at the bottom warned that the water needed to be treated before drinking: giardia was a problem in this part of New England.   But he had his water, a full liter of it, and a survival straw he was talked into buying at REI.  “Twenty dollars is a low cost insurance policy,” said the salesman, a fit young man with what must have been a body covered in tattoos from the creeping evidence on his neck and wrists not hidden by his staff shirt.  

“Yeah, and what if I never use it? Twenty bucks down the drain,” said Frank.

The salesman pulled on his long hair for a second and then offered, “Well, it means you’re doing something right.  Like any of this emergency stuff.  The best outcome is that it’s never needed.”  

“Clever,” said Frank.  He frowned at the salesman’s push for a space blanket, whistle, fire starters and paracord on shelf.  “I like to carry as little as possible,” Frank said. 

“Fast and light, huh?” said the salesman.

“Slow and lazy is more like it.  Less weight, less effort,” came off Frank. 

The salesman teased that he could lose 20 pounds and carry that in gear, but was quick to correct himself, “I mean, if you can afford to lose 10 pounds. You’re in pretty good shape for that hike I bet.”

His ego fed by the 20-something clerk, Frank bought the straw.

Frank looked north into dwindling twilight, a few stars lingering, and felt a cold breeze.   Once he started to climb, he didn’t expect to see much of the sky until he broke into the krumhholz just before he crossed the tree line.  “Perfect,” he thought.  The cool breeze would keep him comfortable as he trekked up.  And keep his inevitable sweating to a minimum; Frank was a sweater.  The mention of that to the flattering clerk at REI got another pitch going and Frank bought the merino tee shirt on his advice. 

“$150!?!”

“On sale.  $100.  But you know what they say?  Cotton kills.  Wool…I guess wool doesn’t kill,” said the clerk. 

“You watch Survivorman, huh?” said Frank.

“Les Stroud is THE man!” said the clerk. “Be prepared.  Boy Scout motto.”

Frank turned from the breeze and purplish northern sky to look up the trail.  He didn’t bother to read the yellow metal sign at the base, already knowing what it said.  He’d done his homework.
 

“ATTENTION. Try this trail only if you’re in top physical condition, well clothed and carrying extra clothing and food.  Many have died above the timberline from exposure. Turn back at the first sign of bad weather.”

At the wooden kiosk, there was a map, a bear warning and a sign-in sheet in a wooden box with a plastic cover.  The sheet was just a well-worn spiral-bound notebook with columns for the names of hikers, their start dates and times, and a column for them to sign out upon their return.  Fewer than half the spaces in that last column had been filled in.  “Irresponsible,” Frank said to himself.  He wondered if search teams would have been sent out when the Rangers saw they hadn’t returned or if the rescue people waited for a call.  “And he said he’d be back last night and I haven’t heard a thing all day.”  That would get them out, he thought.

Or maybe, like the sign suggested, “many had died.”  Surely, not THAT many.

Frank lifted the cover to write his name and details.  It was about 6AM he figured.   He pulled the string attached to the spiral wire and if there had been a pencil attached – it seemed so from the residual scotch tape on it – it wasn’t there now.   He felt around the box but found nothing.  He patted his pockets knowing full well he didn’t carry a pencil and thought he had one, or a pen, in his car.   But the car was all the way back at the far end of the lot, and he wanted to get moving.  A couple of cars had already driven by, thank goodness they didn’t come into the lot, and Frank didn’t want to have other hikers leapfrog him on the trail.  “FIFO,” he said inside his accountant’s brain.  “First in, first out.”  In a sultry German accent he said out loud, “I vant to be alone.”  He adjusted the straps on his pack, took another piss, and started up.

Frank was already breathing heavily when he hit the first signpost that marked the trail’s split.  He took the right fork.  It wasn’t the one he’d read about in the AMC Magazine article he found in his cardiologist’s office, the one that inspired him, but the ‘official’ book, the AMC Guide to the White Mountains’, he carried said the left trail was more challenging, with a steep boulder area to scramble over.   With a few miles to go 3,000 feet up he opted for the easier route.    It would be good trekking.  The dirt part of the trail was firm the frost overnight and he avoided the icy patches on the larger rocks.  Coming down onto a softened trail once the sun warmed things up would be slower, but more cushiony, and Frank’s knees would appreciate it.  He looked back and didn’t see or hear anyone else.  Solitude was his.

The part of the book which said this was an easier route did emphasize it was a steeper route, only with less of boulder fields to deal with.   Frank stopped for a second, for a water and pee break.   He sat down to catch his breath.   There was an opening in the canopy and he could see a series of streaks on a mountain way off to the west.  Ski trails, he imagined.  There’d be skiers on that before yearend.  The lower slopes of the surrounding hills and mountains had color on them as the leaves changed.  The upper reaches were mostly green from pines and fir.  And more than a few were topped by rocks and maybe a patch or two of snow already.  It was magnificent to see.

He smiled as he took in cool air; happy he’d started so early.  He wiped his sweaty face with a bandanna and took out the light rain jacket the clerk had advised him to buy.  “It’s not Gore-Tex but you’re not paying for the name.  This will do you fine.”  He didn’t need to the receipt, still in a pocket, to remind Frank it cost $135.  His accountant’s mind again coming into its own.

With his breathing starting to slow down, Frank could smell the rich pine of the forest around him.  He assumed the shiver he felt came from the thrill of being this high in the mountains, on this hike he’d only read about a few weeks earlier.  Here he was, actually doing it.

He held two fingers to his neck and felt his pulse: 113 bpm.  Not bad, he thought, this will be a good workout.  Frank didn’t expect it to be a walk in the park.  He was prepared, trained a few miles almost every day since that doctor’s visit, around his Boston suburb, and with all that REI gear.  He treated himself to one of those bars that boasts six egg whites, a dozen almonds and cashews, and a handful of dates.  No, that’s not right, he calculated.  That’s for two of those bars, the two he brought.  He mentally divided the nutrition he was eating in half.  He spend the next few minutes chewing it, then using his tongue to extract the gooey remains that stuck to his teeth thinking the was spending more calories in eating the thing then he got from it.

The trail got steeper.  Frank had to shorten his poles to deal with the slope.  It was dark under the evergreens and cold even though the sun was out.  Between the breeze and his soaked tee shirt, it felt colder when he stopped.   It was a healthy chill, he told himself, a workout chill and worthy of another rest.  The trees didn’t do much to stop the breeze.  He stopped again, took ten deep breaths he counted out loud, then took another 10 for good measure.  His breathing slowed a bit which allowed him to feel the strong pulsing of his heart.  “Yeah,” he said to no one, “This is a workout.”

He out the extra wool shirt he’d brought and tied the sweat-soaked one to his pack.  Between the sun, when he got to it, and the breeze, it should be pretty dry in no time, no time at all. 

There weren’t supposed to be boulders.  That’s what the book said about this trail.  Or maybe there were supposed to fewer boulders than on the other trail, the road not taken so to speak.  Frank started to recite the Frost poem from memory and fixed on the end where the roads turned out to be not that very different from each other.  So, yeah, he thought, “I got these goddamn Volkswagens to deal with.” 

Even that new shirt, the wool one, was getting well soaked in the effort to scramble up the boulder.  At least the effort itself was keeping him warm.  That is, until he stopped.  He knew he had some decent elevation under him from the different trees, fewer birch, scraggly spruce, then the ones lower down.  He put on a sweater he’d brought along, a ratty Norwegian skier’s thing celebrating the 1998 Nagano Olympics.   His ex had given it to him.  “More for the moths, than me,” he thought as he looked through its holes.

Frank kept looking up the trail, looking, as it curled around towards the timberline and summit.   He didn’t see anyone.  The breeze has turned into more of a wind, louder amidst the thinning trees, covering any sounds if there were people about.   Far below was some highway, maybe not the highway near where he’d parked, but a road anyway with flashes of light signaling off the cars.  He felt odd being alone on this mountain when there were so many people in spitting distance if he could spit a few miles.  That struck him as sort of funny.  But he didn’t laugh.  It came to him that a man can drown in two inches of water in his own bathtub. 

He sat behind a boulder the size of a VW Camper that blocked the wind.  The rest was a godsend.  He closed his eyes and imagined he could fall asleep right there, up against the rock, and take in the view and warmth the sun provided.   He ate another energy bar and half his almond butter and banana sandwich washing it all down water from the Nalgene container the REI clerk had advised.  “Dude, you can’t take enough water.  And drink it.  You’re the best canteen you can carry!”  The clerk suggested two; but after the boots, the pack, the energy bars, the survival straw, the wool shirt and compass – Frank wondered what he do with the compass, but bought it anyway – he didn’t want to spend any more. 

“You’ll want hiking poles,” said the clerk ushering Frank to a series of short sticks hanging from a display.   Frank liked the ones with the cork handle until he saw the price tag.  “One hundred and ninety-nine dollars!?! You are kidding me?”   The clerk advised that quality did sometime mean expense, and took out another pair that was fifty dollars less. 

“What about these?” asked Frank.  He was holding a set with a tag that said ‘used, $49.’ 

The clerk shrugged his shoulders.  They were a good brand, he noted, but used, well used from the scratches on them, and had been part of the coop sale.  “They shouldn’t be out here if they didn’t sell then.  I should put them back.”

Frank said, “I’ll take them.”

He took a small sip looking back down the trail.  Not a soul and it wasn’t so early any more.  Weird, he thought. He got up and headed downhill then stopped and looked back up.  For now, he was breathing almost normally.  His sweat had somewhat evaporated.  He sniffed his armpits and cringed at the odor, then sniffed again.  It reeked, but it was a healthy reek, a manly reek.  It was the reek of the gym he once belonged to. He smiled thinking maybe it was a good thing there were no other hikers around.  He turned around and started back up.

It took about five minutes for him to start heavy breathing again.  He tried talking to himself, “You can do this. Poli poli,” but it was too hard to keep up the dialog.  What has his cardiologist said; if you’re able to hold a conversation you’re not working hard enough? Or was it that you should be able to hold a conversation? 
Poli, poli.  Slowly, slowly.  That’s what the guides said to trekkers up Kilimanjaro.  He knew because he’d watched the Born-to-Explore episode that took a couple up, not much younger than he was, and they weren’t in great shape either.  Poli, poli, it would be.

He stopped talking to himself and moved to blowing air out after his deep breaths.  And spitting.  Frank was spitting a lot.  He was sweating less; maybe it was the colder air up here.  He had passed a sign that said “3,850 feet.  Summit 1.2 mi.”  Or thought he had.  He had passed a sign, he was sure of that, but didn’t pay much attention other than to see the one arrow pointing to another trail to his right and one distinctly point up to the summit.  It had to be to the summit; it was pointing up.  He shook his head at any doubts, encouraged that his trail going up.

And really encouraged that it was less steep.  He must be rounding the summit, the boulders rather more challenging, and silently thanked the people who made the trail less steep up here.   Looking up he thought he saw the top just over a rounded hump a couple of hundred yards higher.  Frank sat down and drank deeply.  Three quarters empty, he noticed before correcting himself to think one quarter full.  He didn’t stay long.  The boulder he was sitting on was more exposed and his tee shirt and fleece were wet again.  With less water left, maybe he’d sweat less.  That idea bothered him.  The trail leveled off, the incline to his left getting steeper, and then started downwards.  He enjoyed the respite knowing he’d pay for it when it turned back up. 

It never did.  He wasn’t paying much attention until he saw the scrub pines, the start of the timberline.  At least from where he was he could see a top, close enough he could almost touch it, the granite still not so very distinct from the greyness blowing in from the north.  A straight shot it would be.  From there he’d pick up the trail for the way back down.

What he got to wasn’t the top. Or anyway wasn’t the top he expected.  It was lower hump, a few hundred feet maybe, and from there he could see the real summit with, possibly, cairns and a few hikers on it judging from the out-of-place splotches of red, blue and orange raingear. Or parkas.  It was hard to tell from where Frank was, but they looked kind of bulky.   The hikers seemed to be jogging.  Weird, he thought. With the sun getting blocked, it was colder than he’d expected.  He looked down to see a water-filled divot in the rock he was up against, had ice forming on the edges.  Or maybe it has been iced over and was now melting.  Anyway, it was water and he was nearly out.  He was glad he bought the filtering straw.

Frank cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “I’m an idiot,” to the colorful hikers who couldn’t hear even if the wind hadn’t been blowing.   He continued to look, waved with no response, considering whether to backtrack, follow the trail he was on, or cross over to where the hikers were.  Another shiver told him it was time to go back the easiest way.  He rummaged in his pack for the trail book but couldn’t make heads or tails out of the maps since he didn’t know which trail he was on.  He found his compass, stared at it, and saw the arrow pointing north, exactly what it was supposed to do.  The top of the mountain, his goal, was a bit to the southwest.  He’d go there, find the right trail, and head home.   The easiest way he figured was the most direct way.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Frank said over and over.  He was holding his ankle, gritting his teeth in pain.  It wasn’t the pain that bothered him as much as his judgment. He yelled out half hoping someone might yell back.  Over the wind it wasn’t likely.    Where he’d made his mistake was crossing the short way to the top, to find the trail, any trail.  Find anything ASAP, was his thinking.  It was a patch of newly formed ice on a rock in a basin between his hump and the real mountaintop that got him.  His foot went through into a crevice not more than a foot deep.   He didn’t think his ankle was broken, but it hurt like hell and was swelling as he held it.  

He managed to stand with the help of his poles putting his weight on them and hop a three times before the lock slipped open allowing the shaft of the upper part of the pole to drive into the lower part and Frank’s head into the granite in front of him.    The clouds that had been coming released their contents starting with sleet that changed over to snow that would be the first layer to stick that season.  It stayed until May when hikers spotted a red pack in the gully.