McRat
New member
I started my quest for the 48 in 2005, and I’ve been asking THE BIG QUESTION.
“Why do I do this? ”, I thought on the return trip as I slowed the Jeep down to 35-40mph in whiteout conditions. The outside temp had dropped and a volley of large snowflakes was turning my windshield into the Windows ‘starfield simulation’ screensaver. With fog lights on, I could occasionally make out the highway dividers, occasionally being zapped back to consciousness by the rumble strip. Passed a couple of spinouts including one in the meridian strip. From Woodstock to Franklin,NH was the scariest experience in this silly quest to stand atop an arbitrary list of hills.
“Why do I do this? “, I pondered when slapping the snooze button on my alarm for the last time before getting out of bed. It was quite comfy and warm, and a delightful rest after all the Christmas brouhaha. I checked ROT and the weather reports and really wanted to stay home. I looked at my map and saw two yellow (planned) pins in my map. The Osceolas have been planned several times before and each time the plan had fallen through. Might even happen again today, but I figured I’d try. I quickly grabbed whatever gear I could find amid the leftover wrapping paper and boxes and hopped in the car to enjoy a dark ride up. By the time dawn arrived, there were even little blue patches in the sky to suggest things would work out.
“Why do I do this? “, raced through my mind as I trudged up the Osceola trail through what can be described as the sorriest excuse for snow I’ve experienced. The Greeley Pond trail wasn’t so bad, a bit mushy, a few river crossings, but it felt good to be back on the trail. The dogs seemed undeterred by the conditions and would sprint ahead on the trail, and then rush back as if to ask, “Are you guys coming or what?”
Almost as soon as we began to encounter the more serious elevation gain, the rain became steady and the snow deteriorated further. Many people had very specific names for this type of snow, most of which shouldn’t be written down. I settled on the term “craptacular”, although someone suggested it was ‘water-based rock lubricant’ which is certainly much more descriptive. While I wore the snowshoes for practice, it did not appear any type of snowshoe or crampon would be of much use in the mush.
“Why do I do this? “, I thought while having a cigarette on E. Osceola. I’m pretty sure I was thinking about why I still found myself gambling with my health by smoking, but it extended to the trip as well. My legs were tired from being almost five months since my last 4Ker, I was soaked to the bone, my backpack was pretty much drenched, and I had about 4 oz of water left. I think I was the first to volunteer, “if anyone else is heading back, you’ll have company!” I had promised my daughter I would take her up Osceola in the summer, and it seemed like a remarkably good idea to save that peak for then. A few others (Mohamed, MtnPa, Bunchberry, and Amy) decided to pass on the trip to the main peak, while the rest charged on. I had bagged #21, and was content.
“Why do I do this? “, continued to be my mascot phrase during the descent. Each step had to be approached carefully, and caution or not – I think everyone took at least one spill. My favorite was a well-planned careful step over a rock. I decided that there was more snow there and it should be safer. I would say I postholed, but that was fairly difficult in this snow. It gave way under my leg and I went for a 35-foot unintentional glissade. I’ll need to practice this more. Instead of leaning back on my pack, I sat up to see where the next rock or tree was. My back filled with slush up to just below my neck. Snowshoes were not an effective brake, and I stopped by grabbing on to a passing tree. The tree stopped moving, and I stopped suddenly with my shoulder aching and my heart racing. I’ve survived. Time for a butt. I reached in the jacket and pulled out the soggiest pack of smokes I’ve seen. I tried to pull one out, but they simply broke off and left me with a soggy filter. With only two days left before my quit date, those stupid things were rather precious, and now they’re just soggy extra trash to pack out. Only smokers or the lucky quitters can understand exactly how I felt.
This was the worst fall, but was far from the only one. If Mohamed had not collected a variety of gear from my many crash sites, I might have returned to the car empty handed.
When we got back to the car, we said our goodbyes to Mohamed while the rest of our rational crew of turnarounds headed over to the Woodstock Inn to wait up for the, um, more intrepid ones.
I got into a dry pair of jeans and socks, walked to the store to buy another pack of coffin nails, and proceeded to get my nicotine and ethanol content back to acceptable levels. Soon Sherpa John, MichaelJ, Abster, and Poison Ivy returned safely and we enjoyed dinner, conversation, and even cribbage together.
This morning I asked again, “Why I do this?” There are many reasons.
Exercise. I have never spent time reading manuals on exercise equipment, but I find myself working out trails to peaks months in advance. The hikes become my excuse to exercise between hikes. The pounding I took heading up E. Osceola should have me scurrying back to the gym at just the time the New Years Resolution herd returns. Usually they are gone by February.
I genuinely like the people. I have met so many great and interesting folk during this adventure. I would like to list them all but the length would be a problem and I would hate to accidentally exclude anyone. Odds are, if I’ve met you on the trail, you’re OK in my book. Total strangers have helped me and I’ve been eager to lend a hand whenever needed. I’ve received encouragement, correction and good cheer almost consistently. People are SO much more enjoyable out of their usual habitats and habits. I especially enjoyed meeting Mohamed and SJ on the trail, as (aside from my Aunt Althea) they provided much of the inspiration to undertake this effort in the first place.
Ultimately, I’ve discovered that I’m more of a tourist than a peakbagger. For me the NH48 is a delicious sampler of places, an opportunity to experience just a small part of the rugged beauty of the Whites. To walk where tens of thousands have before, but where millions will never. To stare out at vistas virtually unchanged during our history, and realize that our significance is entirely what we make of it. I hope to complete the list, but even failing that - it can not be said that I didn’t enjoy each one. Every sunset, rain drop, injury and joy have merged in the sweet blender of memory – making each one as much a part of me as anything else I’ve done.
The mountains I have conquered under my boot heels will one day proudly stand above the ground where I have turned to dust and been forgotten. They call it ‘Peoplebagging’.
“Why do I do this? ”, I thought on the return trip as I slowed the Jeep down to 35-40mph in whiteout conditions. The outside temp had dropped and a volley of large snowflakes was turning my windshield into the Windows ‘starfield simulation’ screensaver. With fog lights on, I could occasionally make out the highway dividers, occasionally being zapped back to consciousness by the rumble strip. Passed a couple of spinouts including one in the meridian strip. From Woodstock to Franklin,NH was the scariest experience in this silly quest to stand atop an arbitrary list of hills.
“Why do I do this? “, I pondered when slapping the snooze button on my alarm for the last time before getting out of bed. It was quite comfy and warm, and a delightful rest after all the Christmas brouhaha. I checked ROT and the weather reports and really wanted to stay home. I looked at my map and saw two yellow (planned) pins in my map. The Osceolas have been planned several times before and each time the plan had fallen through. Might even happen again today, but I figured I’d try. I quickly grabbed whatever gear I could find amid the leftover wrapping paper and boxes and hopped in the car to enjoy a dark ride up. By the time dawn arrived, there were even little blue patches in the sky to suggest things would work out.
“Why do I do this? “, raced through my mind as I trudged up the Osceola trail through what can be described as the sorriest excuse for snow I’ve experienced. The Greeley Pond trail wasn’t so bad, a bit mushy, a few river crossings, but it felt good to be back on the trail. The dogs seemed undeterred by the conditions and would sprint ahead on the trail, and then rush back as if to ask, “Are you guys coming or what?”
Almost as soon as we began to encounter the more serious elevation gain, the rain became steady and the snow deteriorated further. Many people had very specific names for this type of snow, most of which shouldn’t be written down. I settled on the term “craptacular”, although someone suggested it was ‘water-based rock lubricant’ which is certainly much more descriptive. While I wore the snowshoes for practice, it did not appear any type of snowshoe or crampon would be of much use in the mush.
“Why do I do this? “, I thought while having a cigarette on E. Osceola. I’m pretty sure I was thinking about why I still found myself gambling with my health by smoking, but it extended to the trip as well. My legs were tired from being almost five months since my last 4Ker, I was soaked to the bone, my backpack was pretty much drenched, and I had about 4 oz of water left. I think I was the first to volunteer, “if anyone else is heading back, you’ll have company!” I had promised my daughter I would take her up Osceola in the summer, and it seemed like a remarkably good idea to save that peak for then. A few others (Mohamed, MtnPa, Bunchberry, and Amy) decided to pass on the trip to the main peak, while the rest charged on. I had bagged #21, and was content.
“Why do I do this? “, continued to be my mascot phrase during the descent. Each step had to be approached carefully, and caution or not – I think everyone took at least one spill. My favorite was a well-planned careful step over a rock. I decided that there was more snow there and it should be safer. I would say I postholed, but that was fairly difficult in this snow. It gave way under my leg and I went for a 35-foot unintentional glissade. I’ll need to practice this more. Instead of leaning back on my pack, I sat up to see where the next rock or tree was. My back filled with slush up to just below my neck. Snowshoes were not an effective brake, and I stopped by grabbing on to a passing tree. The tree stopped moving, and I stopped suddenly with my shoulder aching and my heart racing. I’ve survived. Time for a butt. I reached in the jacket and pulled out the soggiest pack of smokes I’ve seen. I tried to pull one out, but they simply broke off and left me with a soggy filter. With only two days left before my quit date, those stupid things were rather precious, and now they’re just soggy extra trash to pack out. Only smokers or the lucky quitters can understand exactly how I felt.
This was the worst fall, but was far from the only one. If Mohamed had not collected a variety of gear from my many crash sites, I might have returned to the car empty handed.
When we got back to the car, we said our goodbyes to Mohamed while the rest of our rational crew of turnarounds headed over to the Woodstock Inn to wait up for the, um, more intrepid ones.
I got into a dry pair of jeans and socks, walked to the store to buy another pack of coffin nails, and proceeded to get my nicotine and ethanol content back to acceptable levels. Soon Sherpa John, MichaelJ, Abster, and Poison Ivy returned safely and we enjoyed dinner, conversation, and even cribbage together.
This morning I asked again, “Why I do this?” There are many reasons.
Exercise. I have never spent time reading manuals on exercise equipment, but I find myself working out trails to peaks months in advance. The hikes become my excuse to exercise between hikes. The pounding I took heading up E. Osceola should have me scurrying back to the gym at just the time the New Years Resolution herd returns. Usually they are gone by February.
I genuinely like the people. I have met so many great and interesting folk during this adventure. I would like to list them all but the length would be a problem and I would hate to accidentally exclude anyone. Odds are, if I’ve met you on the trail, you’re OK in my book. Total strangers have helped me and I’ve been eager to lend a hand whenever needed. I’ve received encouragement, correction and good cheer almost consistently. People are SO much more enjoyable out of their usual habitats and habits. I especially enjoyed meeting Mohamed and SJ on the trail, as (aside from my Aunt Althea) they provided much of the inspiration to undertake this effort in the first place.
Ultimately, I’ve discovered that I’m more of a tourist than a peakbagger. For me the NH48 is a delicious sampler of places, an opportunity to experience just a small part of the rugged beauty of the Whites. To walk where tens of thousands have before, but where millions will never. To stare out at vistas virtually unchanged during our history, and realize that our significance is entirely what we make of it. I hope to complete the list, but even failing that - it can not be said that I didn’t enjoy each one. Every sunset, rain drop, injury and joy have merged in the sweet blender of memory – making each one as much a part of me as anything else I’ve done.
The mountains I have conquered under my boot heels will one day proudly stand above the ground where I have turned to dust and been forgotten. They call it ‘Peoplebagging’.
)
