Every August my daughter and I meet up for a climb - usually in the Adirondacks, but this year we chose the White Mountains. She needed 4680' Carrigain for the NH 4k list, and I needed the 3540' Captain for the NH Hundred Highest. The plan was to haul our overnight packs up Carrigain Saturday, spend a relaxing night, then bushwhack down and up to the Captain Sunday. After the passage of a cold front, the humidity was supposed to drop along with the temperature. it looked like we'd lucked out with a nice fall-like weekend.
Noon Saturday I pulled into our rendezvous spot, the Highland Center parking lot above Crawford Notch, accompanied by strong winds and cold sideways rain beneath an angry sky. So much for the weather forecast.
I found Erin napping, supine in her car, dressed in shorts and a tank top. She'd left southern Connecticut's sweltering summer weather at 5 a.m. and was hardly prepared for this.
I'd come up from Bartlett, though, through the notch, and encountered no more than a sprinkle down there. So I had her follow me down to the Willey House snack bar where we discussed our options over ice cream cones and coffee.
We decided to head for the Signal Ridge trailhead; if the rain followed us down, we'd overnight in a campground, hike Carrigain as a day trip Sunday, and forget the Captain.
The Sawyer River Road was dry, as was the trailhead parking lot. We decided to go for it. With the iffy conditions, though, our packs became overloaded with all the warm clothing, jackets, gloves, hats, and rain gear we could stuff in.
After the long grind up, we were rewarded with views along the top of Signal Ridge. "That's Mt. Lowell above those slides," I said. "And that's Anderson to its left. Really thick, nasty stuff down there, laced with blowdown. The other side of Anderson's the worst I've gone through. Hopefully the Captain won't be so bad tomorrow."
Erin, 23, and I have notched some three dozen peaks together, but she's never bushwhacked. Introducing her to the rigors of off-trail hiking on the Captain might not be the brightest idea I've ever had....
At six o'clock we dropped our packs at the old firewarden's camp site just shy of the summit. We quickly threw our tents up. I hustled around looking for campfire material, but everything was soggy. I did get a small fire going eventually, and Erin warmed up while I cooked our Mountain House meals. I was pleased to find ample water in the nearby well. I didn't have a thermometer, but I'd guess the temps were in the low forties, below thirty with the wind chill.
Chilled to the bone, she crawled into her zero-degree bag at 8pm, and I brewed a cup of coffee, tuning in the Sox game on my little radio, turning it off in disgust as Schilling surrendered a home run to the Angels, falling behind 5-zip in the fifth. I was encouraged to see stars overhead and thought about taking the short jaunt up to the tower, but I was cold, too, and whipped from lugging the heavy pack up 3200', so I conked out at nine.
After a warm, restful night in my tent, I emerged at six and got breakfast going (coffee and bagels). Erin wanted no part of leaving the warmth of her bag, so I passed hot coffee to her through the tent flap. She finally greeted the day at eight. We noticed we could see each other's breaths.
With hats, gloves, gaiters and glasses and a rucksack and fanny pack filled with essentials, we set off, first climbing the tower, Erin bagging her #29. We had a huge view in all directions, but the tops of distant peaks above 4600', like Bond, were in cloud. I pointed to Mt.Washington, telling Erin she should be glad we weren't up there, in what was undoubtedly much colder frozen fog. She just shivered.
To be continued....
Noon Saturday I pulled into our rendezvous spot, the Highland Center parking lot above Crawford Notch, accompanied by strong winds and cold sideways rain beneath an angry sky. So much for the weather forecast.
I found Erin napping, supine in her car, dressed in shorts and a tank top. She'd left southern Connecticut's sweltering summer weather at 5 a.m. and was hardly prepared for this.
I'd come up from Bartlett, though, through the notch, and encountered no more than a sprinkle down there. So I had her follow me down to the Willey House snack bar where we discussed our options over ice cream cones and coffee.
We decided to head for the Signal Ridge trailhead; if the rain followed us down, we'd overnight in a campground, hike Carrigain as a day trip Sunday, and forget the Captain.
The Sawyer River Road was dry, as was the trailhead parking lot. We decided to go for it. With the iffy conditions, though, our packs became overloaded with all the warm clothing, jackets, gloves, hats, and rain gear we could stuff in.
After the long grind up, we were rewarded with views along the top of Signal Ridge. "That's Mt. Lowell above those slides," I said. "And that's Anderson to its left. Really thick, nasty stuff down there, laced with blowdown. The other side of Anderson's the worst I've gone through. Hopefully the Captain won't be so bad tomorrow."
Erin, 23, and I have notched some three dozen peaks together, but she's never bushwhacked. Introducing her to the rigors of off-trail hiking on the Captain might not be the brightest idea I've ever had....
At six o'clock we dropped our packs at the old firewarden's camp site just shy of the summit. We quickly threw our tents up. I hustled around looking for campfire material, but everything was soggy. I did get a small fire going eventually, and Erin warmed up while I cooked our Mountain House meals. I was pleased to find ample water in the nearby well. I didn't have a thermometer, but I'd guess the temps were in the low forties, below thirty with the wind chill.
Chilled to the bone, she crawled into her zero-degree bag at 8pm, and I brewed a cup of coffee, tuning in the Sox game on my little radio, turning it off in disgust as Schilling surrendered a home run to the Angels, falling behind 5-zip in the fifth. I was encouraged to see stars overhead and thought about taking the short jaunt up to the tower, but I was cold, too, and whipped from lugging the heavy pack up 3200', so I conked out at nine.
After a warm, restful night in my tent, I emerged at six and got breakfast going (coffee and bagels). Erin wanted no part of leaving the warmth of her bag, so I passed hot coffee to her through the tent flap. She finally greeted the day at eight. We noticed we could see each other's breaths.
With hats, gloves, gaiters and glasses and a rucksack and fanny pack filled with essentials, we set off, first climbing the tower, Erin bagging her #29. We had a huge view in all directions, but the tops of distant peaks above 4600', like Bond, were in cloud. I pointed to Mt.Washington, telling Erin she should be glad we weren't up there, in what was undoubtedly much colder frozen fog. She just shivered.
To be continued....
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