McRat
New member
The silence of winter is displaced by the relentless CRUNCH of snowshoes on the crust. Hoary ice clings to everything, exploding into fireworks of prisms during the rare beams of sunlight. Overhead the skies are grey, but hold the echo of sunrise on the horizon in almost all directions.
We walk the ice-glazed corridor to Mt. Wolf along the undulating Kinsman Ridge, whose frequent cols weary the legs and will, offering occasional views to spur the traveler along.
The tracks of moose, mice, and grouse show clearly in the frozen blanket of snow, to the point an encounter seemed imminent, if not inevitable – but the creatures had simply used the trail as needed and moved on.
A short detour to North Blue Ridge, where amid the clustered trees hangs a jar whose faded label tells of a time before it was a sentry of the summits. The pasta sauce gone; it has waited patiently for visitors to sign and review its register. The cover is iced over, but is thin enough to break off. To the dry papers inside we add our own testament. Each message a different, yet essentially similar affirmation of existence - “I was here.”
We crunch along a few more bumps to the summit of Wolf, and take in the view from the frost-covered Franconia ridge to the slopes of Loon. The view, while fine and offering a different vantage point, looks like a black & white photo. Returning into the embrace of the ice-kissed evergreens is like returning to a winter wonderland against which few summits can compete for majesty.
Each crystal-encased tree, branch, and even spruce-needle provides much to ponder and appreciate on the four mile walk out…which is good, since going back over those many bumps would otherwise be a royal pain in the ass.
We walk the ice-glazed corridor to Mt. Wolf along the undulating Kinsman Ridge, whose frequent cols weary the legs and will, offering occasional views to spur the traveler along.
The tracks of moose, mice, and grouse show clearly in the frozen blanket of snow, to the point an encounter seemed imminent, if not inevitable – but the creatures had simply used the trail as needed and moved on.
A short detour to North Blue Ridge, where amid the clustered trees hangs a jar whose faded label tells of a time before it was a sentry of the summits. The pasta sauce gone; it has waited patiently for visitors to sign and review its register. The cover is iced over, but is thin enough to break off. To the dry papers inside we add our own testament. Each message a different, yet essentially similar affirmation of existence - “I was here.”
We crunch along a few more bumps to the summit of Wolf, and take in the view from the frost-covered Franconia ridge to the slopes of Loon. The view, while fine and offering a different vantage point, looks like a black & white photo. Returning into the embrace of the ice-kissed evergreens is like returning to a winter wonderland against which few summits can compete for majesty.
Each crystal-encased tree, branch, and even spruce-needle provides much to ponder and appreciate on the four mile walk out…which is good, since going back over those many bumps would otherwise be a royal pain in the ass.
Nice little punch line to jerk us out of the reverie you had put us in McRat!
