Periwinkle
Active member
As many of you know, I’d sworn off lists after finishing the NH/WM 4k’s. In fact, I swore off peakbagging lists before I finished that one. So why on earth was I on Vose Spur on Sunday? Because a friend asked me to go. And it’s hiking. So, I went. How hard could that one bit of ‘whacking be? Uh…
So, there I was at the Signal Ridge trailhead with Michael J. He didn’t object to my wanting to add another .2 miles of bushwhacking to skip the first stream crossing. It was the wet feet thing. The half dead boot thing. I didn’t want to start with squishy, cold toes. Having been up this trail before, I knew I’d barley make that crossing in high water. So, we skipped up the side of the stream, coming out exactly above the first crossing. No problem. Neither was the rest of the Signal Ridge Trail.
Then, we found ourselves at the first stream crossing on the Carrigain Notch Trail. Michael scoped a route and bounded across. I looked. Then look again. Shaking my head and cussing, I started across. Nice try. I couldn’t do it. Midstream, I yanked my boots off and worked thru calf-deep bracing water. It was the wet boot thing. Just didn’t want to go there yet. We blew some time with my hemming and hawing and foot drama.
From there on in, it was a very easy cruise to “the boulder”. That sucker is very obvious. I tried the “20 Ivy Giant Steps” up the trail and found that I have shorter legs than Poison Ivy. It was more like the 40 steps that someone else mentioned from the boulder as the trail curves to the left. Fortunately, the herd path (generously referred to hereafter as the “HP”) wasn’t snow covered and was quite visible. And we were off.
We followed the HP up the gully, then curved to the right following signs of human passing. As we moved upward the snow cover became more consistent, adding hope that we could follow the lone boots prints that appeared occasionally (assuming that those boots knew where they were heading).
The HP wasn’t completely obvious. We kept searching for packed foot steps, broken branches, and bent trees. Fortunately, we found them for quite a distance.
Then came the conifers. Ent Conifers. Evil, gnarly, mean, hiker-eating conifers. It’s all a snow covered green needled blur now, but I vaguely remember reaching “PapaBear’s Cliff” (and heading left around it), then reaching a tight “T” junction. Michael went left looking for a route; I went right. My bad. I ended up floundering amongst blow downs, swimming through evergreen branches trying to work my way back to Michael’s voice. At one point, I had to haul one leg up over a bit of spiked death, nearly impaling myself. Impregnating myself would be more like it. As I was whacking trees aside, I yelled out to Michael that in nine month I might be spitting out baby balsams.
After fighting our way through this one tight band, Michael found the herd path again in an open mixed wood growth. We followed along the contour line to the left, the curved right, vaulting over and crawling under more blow downs.
Just when we thought we’d never see the boulder field, an opening appeared above me (during one of the brief interludes where I took the lead and took my share of clearing the snow covered branches). We crossed to the left towards the small cairn and took a short break, then turned into the woods for more adventure.
The HP at this point was a little more visible, partially because there were tracks on it. As I followed along, I realized they weren’t boot prints. They were paw prints. The size of my hand. And they were fairly fresh.
Michael tried to jolly me along, but I wasn’t having any of it. We were hauling ourselves up a true herd path. As in critter path. Something big and furry had blazed the trail ahead of us. I yelled loudly (and I think cussed out Michael behind me for inviting me on this little jaunt in the woods), until the tracks veered off and the HP continued up.
Michael was in the lead again as we finished the final steep section (ooofff!) and reached the top. Toward the summit, the HP curved to the right as we expected, now following a set of lone boot tracks. At the top, a maze of tracks went every which way. After a brief check, we split up and began scouting for the canister. Ultimately, a sharp right turn at the “end” of the HP facing a blow down patch lead left, then, left again, making a U-turn to a clearing with the elusive canister high on a tree to the right. Vose Spur. Alrighty then.
The question still remained. Why was I here? I thought about it and put pen to register: “WHY AM I HERE? I’m not even doing this frickin’ list! No more lists Michael J! Eh, but what are friends for?
"
I had sworn off lists after the 48, then made my first of the NE 67, as it was hiking Michael’s finish on Mansfield. And here I was on my first NEHH, on Vose Spur. As the register description has it: “…the most difficult of the New England Hundred Highest to attain”. When Michael read that to me, I do believe I flipped him a one fingered salute. Thanks for taking me along for the ride.
We did look around a bit, trying to figure out how a group signed in the day before with only the single set of boot prints coming up and apparently nothing heading over to Carrigain. A mystery.
But, obviously, one doesn’t linger on a viewless wooded hump in late fall. After signing in, we followed our own tracks down, determined to be back to the Carrigain Notch Trail before daylight waned.
We were doing well (minus a few more rounds with the vicious blow downs, one which ripped a raw red gouge across Michael’s forehead and another that almost tore out what’s left of my knees) until we re-encountered the lower line of conifers. Just above the line, we had decided to leave our own boot prints and a try a HP to the left, hoping for a better route. No luck. It was just as scrappy and nasty. Below that point, we didn’t bother to waste time trying to pick up our tracks again, instead heading on a bearing back into Carrigain Notch. We ended up 50 paces above where we had first left the trail. Trail. Real trail. Ahhhhhhh…..
From there on in, we made time against the setting sun. I even walked through the high stream crossing on the Carrigain Notch trail, getting a icy dose of water streaming in over the tops of my boots. After that, it was nothing to get another load of cold water on my feet at the last crossing on the Signal Ridge Trail. .2 miles. Who cares at that point? Not even me.
So, I hiked a viewless, essentially trail-less wooded hump, getting soggy, muddy, and punctured in all the wrong places. For what? To spend the day on the trail (and off) with a friend. Was it all worth it? You bet.
I already have a classic case of trail amnesia. I remember a good deal of amusing creative cussing, laughter, and song along the way. It was a cool autumn day. We almost beat the rain and dark on the way out. We made it there and back. And had a great time on the way. That’s what it’s all about.
So, here’s to another on your list, Michael. Thanks for inviting me along for the ride. Really.
So, there I was at the Signal Ridge trailhead with Michael J. He didn’t object to my wanting to add another .2 miles of bushwhacking to skip the first stream crossing. It was the wet feet thing. The half dead boot thing. I didn’t want to start with squishy, cold toes. Having been up this trail before, I knew I’d barley make that crossing in high water. So, we skipped up the side of the stream, coming out exactly above the first crossing. No problem. Neither was the rest of the Signal Ridge Trail.
Then, we found ourselves at the first stream crossing on the Carrigain Notch Trail. Michael scoped a route and bounded across. I looked. Then look again. Shaking my head and cussing, I started across. Nice try. I couldn’t do it. Midstream, I yanked my boots off and worked thru calf-deep bracing water. It was the wet boot thing. Just didn’t want to go there yet. We blew some time with my hemming and hawing and foot drama.
From there on in, it was a very easy cruise to “the boulder”. That sucker is very obvious. I tried the “20 Ivy Giant Steps” up the trail and found that I have shorter legs than Poison Ivy. It was more like the 40 steps that someone else mentioned from the boulder as the trail curves to the left. Fortunately, the herd path (generously referred to hereafter as the “HP”) wasn’t snow covered and was quite visible. And we were off.
We followed the HP up the gully, then curved to the right following signs of human passing. As we moved upward the snow cover became more consistent, adding hope that we could follow the lone boots prints that appeared occasionally (assuming that those boots knew where they were heading).
The HP wasn’t completely obvious. We kept searching for packed foot steps, broken branches, and bent trees. Fortunately, we found them for quite a distance.
Then came the conifers. Ent Conifers. Evil, gnarly, mean, hiker-eating conifers. It’s all a snow covered green needled blur now, but I vaguely remember reaching “PapaBear’s Cliff” (and heading left around it), then reaching a tight “T” junction. Michael went left looking for a route; I went right. My bad. I ended up floundering amongst blow downs, swimming through evergreen branches trying to work my way back to Michael’s voice. At one point, I had to haul one leg up over a bit of spiked death, nearly impaling myself. Impregnating myself would be more like it. As I was whacking trees aside, I yelled out to Michael that in nine month I might be spitting out baby balsams.
After fighting our way through this one tight band, Michael found the herd path again in an open mixed wood growth. We followed along the contour line to the left, the curved right, vaulting over and crawling under more blow downs.
Just when we thought we’d never see the boulder field, an opening appeared above me (during one of the brief interludes where I took the lead and took my share of clearing the snow covered branches). We crossed to the left towards the small cairn and took a short break, then turned into the woods for more adventure.
The HP at this point was a little more visible, partially because there were tracks on it. As I followed along, I realized they weren’t boot prints. They were paw prints. The size of my hand. And they were fairly fresh.
Michael tried to jolly me along, but I wasn’t having any of it. We were hauling ourselves up a true herd path. As in critter path. Something big and furry had blazed the trail ahead of us. I yelled loudly (and I think cussed out Michael behind me for inviting me on this little jaunt in the woods), until the tracks veered off and the HP continued up.
Michael was in the lead again as we finished the final steep section (ooofff!) and reached the top. Toward the summit, the HP curved to the right as we expected, now following a set of lone boot tracks. At the top, a maze of tracks went every which way. After a brief check, we split up and began scouting for the canister. Ultimately, a sharp right turn at the “end” of the HP facing a blow down patch lead left, then, left again, making a U-turn to a clearing with the elusive canister high on a tree to the right. Vose Spur. Alrighty then.
The question still remained. Why was I here? I thought about it and put pen to register: “WHY AM I HERE? I’m not even doing this frickin’ list! No more lists Michael J! Eh, but what are friends for?
" I had sworn off lists after the 48, then made my first of the NE 67, as it was hiking Michael’s finish on Mansfield. And here I was on my first NEHH, on Vose Spur. As the register description has it: “…the most difficult of the New England Hundred Highest to attain”. When Michael read that to me, I do believe I flipped him a one fingered salute. Thanks for taking me along for the ride.
We did look around a bit, trying to figure out how a group signed in the day before with only the single set of boot prints coming up and apparently nothing heading over to Carrigain. A mystery.
But, obviously, one doesn’t linger on a viewless wooded hump in late fall. After signing in, we followed our own tracks down, determined to be back to the Carrigain Notch Trail before daylight waned.
We were doing well (minus a few more rounds with the vicious blow downs, one which ripped a raw red gouge across Michael’s forehead and another that almost tore out what’s left of my knees) until we re-encountered the lower line of conifers. Just above the line, we had decided to leave our own boot prints and a try a HP to the left, hoping for a better route. No luck. It was just as scrappy and nasty. Below that point, we didn’t bother to waste time trying to pick up our tracks again, instead heading on a bearing back into Carrigain Notch. We ended up 50 paces above where we had first left the trail. Trail. Real trail. Ahhhhhhh…..
From there on in, we made time against the setting sun. I even walked through the high stream crossing on the Carrigain Notch trail, getting a icy dose of water streaming in over the tops of my boots. After that, it was nothing to get another load of cold water on my feet at the last crossing on the Signal Ridge Trail. .2 miles. Who cares at that point? Not even me.
So, I hiked a viewless, essentially trail-less wooded hump, getting soggy, muddy, and punctured in all the wrong places. For what? To spend the day on the trail (and off) with a friend. Was it all worth it? You bet.
I already have a classic case of trail amnesia. I remember a good deal of amusing creative cussing, laughter, and song along the way. It was a cool autumn day. We almost beat the rain and dark on the way out. We made it there and back. And had a great time on the way. That’s what it’s all about.
So, here’s to another on your list, Michael. Thanks for inviting me along for the ride. Really.
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