Raven
Well-known member
5 January 2002, 9 winters ago…Mount Madison
Battling along the frozen ridge among swirling white specters, the wind swallows all sound. The blowing snow is relentless and quickly erases any sign of my passing. I turn in the middle of the snowfield to watch as the remains of my snowshoe track fill in behind me. Three steps…now two…one…gone. No trace. It was already as if I had never been here. The cairns, large piles of rock marking the trail above the tree-line were barely visible at best and often disappeared completely in the near whiteout conditions. Some were buried deep under the snow. I was traversing a landscape of sheer power, a place where the beauty and danger of nature were embraced in a chaotic dance. For possibly the first time in my life, I realized my own insignificance. I was completely transfixed.
10 January 2004, 7 winters ago...Mount Flume
This was the coldest day I’ve ever felt in the mountains. Mount Washington set a record with a real temperature of -34 F. A heat-stealing, gusty wind infiltrated the woods and mocked the highly technical layers I was wearing. I was stunned when, on removing an inner glove for no more than a few moments, it hardened into a twisted mass. Sounds were different. The crusty snow squeaked with an unfamiliar pitch under my plastic double boots. I heard a warning in these new sounds. It was reminding me that the mountain is dynamic; conditions are always changing. Be observant. Stay aware. And by God, stay warm. Cold is a complicating factor. Small errors in judgment, mistakes not needing a second thought on most days can have much more severe consequences below zero.
I spent little time on the rocky summit of Liberty before continuing along the ridge and dropping down into the col approaching Mount Flume. As I passed through the low point along the ridge midway between the two summits, I groaned as both quads locked into knots at the same time. My water had frozen past the point of usefulness a while back and the resulting mild dehydration combined with the cold set me up for cramping issues. With both summits now equally distant and standing shakily in the col, I was going up 500 feet regardless, so I opted to keep moving on. My legs cramped in the first few steps as I started the ascent toward Flume’s summit cone. I bent my right leg and pulled it up behind me to try to stretch. Then my calf locked up. The muscles seemed set like mouse traps, ready to go off any second if I wasn’t ever so careful in my step. This was not going to be an easy 500 feet. After a few more failed attempts, I found that lifting up on the balls of my feet and climbing on my toes kept my legs from cramping. My legs warmed and the muscles became pliable again. That was a little close. I was relieved to make it to the summit of Flume without further incident and enjoyed a few moments looking down Flume Slide, the rocky face that drops steeply away from the summit to the west. I moved on quickly to keep what warmth I had. Before long, I began descending the Osseo Trail, thankfully one very forgiving on the legs. The day turned out a good one, a unique one for me. I’ve always been fascinated by the cold, compelled by it. I spent the day hiking in the mountains in temperatures well beyond what I’ve experienced before and I learned a few valuable things about the cold. Even anticipating many more years in the mountains, I recognize this as an experience I may only get once, whether by chance or by choice.
Attempts. That became the word I began to associate with West Bond, my 100-mile mountain, and ultimately the final mountain I would summit on the W48. In February of 2005, my sister Pat had flown up from Florida to join me for a trip over the Bonds and an overnight at Guyot Shelter. My two older sisters are both good sports that way. After years of them pummeling me into an athlete by beating me repeatedly in a variety of sports, I now get occasional sweet, sweet revenge by convincing them to join me on a rigorous mountain trip; I like to suggest January or February. After climbing up Bondcliff with overnight packs, we were tired but in good shape and moving well. The weather was cold but beautiful. It was later than I hoped. We worked our way to Bond’s summit having to break trail beginning somewhere near the top. The trail to the col and presumably on to the shelter, although less than a mile further, was not broken out. Considering this, along with the late time in the day and our lack of familiarity with the trail ahead, we opted for the ten mile return out, a long option but one now known to us and easy enough to follow. The idea of breaking trail in the dark on an unfamiliar range with tired legs seemed too risky even for such a short distance. The walk out was long, but pleasant and we were treated to a beautiful moon to light our way replacing the need for headlamps. Little did I know then how many miles and days I would hike attempting to reach that summit. I didn’t attempt it again for a few years, but it often flirted with me in the back of my mind. There was the thrill of heading back out to such a wild and remote place, but along with it a growing unease. It WAS a wild and remote place. And it was cold, especially at night.
Four years later in February of 2009, I would try from the north. I left the winter lot across from Zealand Road in heavy snowfall with an equally heavy pack. I didn’t like the weight that time. I had packed such that I could stay at Zealand Hut or Guyot Shelter depending on my progress. The big flakes were coming filling the air, but they were light. It had snowed all night though so I began breaking through 12-16 inches of fresh powder on Zealand Road before eventually passing hikers along the Zealand Trail. I would do a fair bit of breaking trail on that trip which turned into a successful summit of Mount Zealand but left West Bond once again out of reach. Zealand would be the only one of the winter 48 I climbed that year, number 46. They were getting harder.
One year later. February, 2010. Another attempt on West Bond planned from the north. The higher summits forecast called for 50-75 mph winds. Mount Guyot, a very exposed, rounded summit is along this route, and could present a formidable obstacle in those winds. This time, I made quick work of Zealand road and trail and was soon past the hut on the way up to Zeacliff. I caught up with three others and helped them break trail the rest of the way up Zealand, their destination for the day. The trail over Guyot was not broken out however, and although I had reached Mount Zealand early enough, at 12:45 PM, my quads were giving me signals of oncoming cramping. I would not be making it through 2½ more miles of trail breaking that day. Without much choice, I turned back, and hiked out. Over 18 miles, again with an overnight pack. This time, I gained confidence that I could make the distance given different conditions or stronger legs on a different day.
11 months later. 2011. Temps rose into the fifties and the sun shone brightly. It felt more like May than New Year’s Day. I didn’t like it, not in January. I was attempting West Bond again from the North. And I was again planning an overnight at Guyot Shelter. Cold would not be a problem this time. Again, I made good time through the early part of the hike, but the snow became too soft to hold me up as the day warmed. The climb up to Zeacliff felt like trudging through wet cement. With tired legs, I finally reached the summit of Zealand, a place becoming increasingly familiar to me. I was warm and the sun felt wonderful on my face. But as I slowly sank in the soft snow, I realized again, that West Bond was going to have to be earned.
I would make a second attempt this past winter, about 7 weeks later in February, this time opting to try again from the south as I had in 2005 with my sister. Successful this time in reaching West Bond and crossing the Bond Range, I was treated to two beautiful days and a much anticipated night at Guyot Shelter. 5 attempts. 100 miles, not one of which I’d give back.
23 February 2011, This Winter...West Bond.
As I lay on the snow near the open south summit of Mount Guyot, I watched the sun slowly fall behind the snow-capped peaks of the Franconia Ridge. Day stood aside for the coming night. Mounts Flume and Liberty rose up from the ridge like a pair of waves lazily approaching the higher shores of Mounts Lincoln and Lafayette. On the east, Mount Washington and the Presidentials stood out starkly among endless ridges of ever- deepening violets and purples. At the horizon, the blurry interface of land and sky, mountains morphed into the twilight above. The sun’s final rays illuminated the snowy, white summit cone of nearby West Bond. The high point rose up at the eastern end of a shallow, saddle-shaped ridge. I gazed fondly upon that summit; a few hours earlier I had crouched on its peak lost in a soul-healing view. West Bond had become a symbol of many things to me. Most obviously, it represented the final winter summit in a decade long quest, but it had also come to symbolize other things. It had been a test of my physical and psychological limits. I had fears associated with this mountain, with myself, both healthy and phantom, both real and imaginary. It was important for me to face them, discern them, to let them dissolve. Watching West Bond slowly fade in the encroaching darkness, I recognized it further as a symbol of beauty in solitude, a place where nature is left to exist untarnished by the hand of man.
Pictures of the West Bond trip, the most recent that is...http://s1084.photobucket.com/albums/j402/sgordon48/West Bond and Bond Range February 2011/
Battling along the frozen ridge among swirling white specters, the wind swallows all sound. The blowing snow is relentless and quickly erases any sign of my passing. I turn in the middle of the snowfield to watch as the remains of my snowshoe track fill in behind me. Three steps…now two…one…gone. No trace. It was already as if I had never been here. The cairns, large piles of rock marking the trail above the tree-line were barely visible at best and often disappeared completely in the near whiteout conditions. Some were buried deep under the snow. I was traversing a landscape of sheer power, a place where the beauty and danger of nature were embraced in a chaotic dance. For possibly the first time in my life, I realized my own insignificance. I was completely transfixed.
10 January 2004, 7 winters ago...Mount Flume
This was the coldest day I’ve ever felt in the mountains. Mount Washington set a record with a real temperature of -34 F. A heat-stealing, gusty wind infiltrated the woods and mocked the highly technical layers I was wearing. I was stunned when, on removing an inner glove for no more than a few moments, it hardened into a twisted mass. Sounds were different. The crusty snow squeaked with an unfamiliar pitch under my plastic double boots. I heard a warning in these new sounds. It was reminding me that the mountain is dynamic; conditions are always changing. Be observant. Stay aware. And by God, stay warm. Cold is a complicating factor. Small errors in judgment, mistakes not needing a second thought on most days can have much more severe consequences below zero.
I spent little time on the rocky summit of Liberty before continuing along the ridge and dropping down into the col approaching Mount Flume. As I passed through the low point along the ridge midway between the two summits, I groaned as both quads locked into knots at the same time. My water had frozen past the point of usefulness a while back and the resulting mild dehydration combined with the cold set me up for cramping issues. With both summits now equally distant and standing shakily in the col, I was going up 500 feet regardless, so I opted to keep moving on. My legs cramped in the first few steps as I started the ascent toward Flume’s summit cone. I bent my right leg and pulled it up behind me to try to stretch. Then my calf locked up. The muscles seemed set like mouse traps, ready to go off any second if I wasn’t ever so careful in my step. This was not going to be an easy 500 feet. After a few more failed attempts, I found that lifting up on the balls of my feet and climbing on my toes kept my legs from cramping. My legs warmed and the muscles became pliable again. That was a little close. I was relieved to make it to the summit of Flume without further incident and enjoyed a few moments looking down Flume Slide, the rocky face that drops steeply away from the summit to the west. I moved on quickly to keep what warmth I had. Before long, I began descending the Osseo Trail, thankfully one very forgiving on the legs. The day turned out a good one, a unique one for me. I’ve always been fascinated by the cold, compelled by it. I spent the day hiking in the mountains in temperatures well beyond what I’ve experienced before and I learned a few valuable things about the cold. Even anticipating many more years in the mountains, I recognize this as an experience I may only get once, whether by chance or by choice.
Attempts. That became the word I began to associate with West Bond, my 100-mile mountain, and ultimately the final mountain I would summit on the W48. In February of 2005, my sister Pat had flown up from Florida to join me for a trip over the Bonds and an overnight at Guyot Shelter. My two older sisters are both good sports that way. After years of them pummeling me into an athlete by beating me repeatedly in a variety of sports, I now get occasional sweet, sweet revenge by convincing them to join me on a rigorous mountain trip; I like to suggest January or February. After climbing up Bondcliff with overnight packs, we were tired but in good shape and moving well. The weather was cold but beautiful. It was later than I hoped. We worked our way to Bond’s summit having to break trail beginning somewhere near the top. The trail to the col and presumably on to the shelter, although less than a mile further, was not broken out. Considering this, along with the late time in the day and our lack of familiarity with the trail ahead, we opted for the ten mile return out, a long option but one now known to us and easy enough to follow. The idea of breaking trail in the dark on an unfamiliar range with tired legs seemed too risky even for such a short distance. The walk out was long, but pleasant and we were treated to a beautiful moon to light our way replacing the need for headlamps. Little did I know then how many miles and days I would hike attempting to reach that summit. I didn’t attempt it again for a few years, but it often flirted with me in the back of my mind. There was the thrill of heading back out to such a wild and remote place, but along with it a growing unease. It WAS a wild and remote place. And it was cold, especially at night.
Four years later in February of 2009, I would try from the north. I left the winter lot across from Zealand Road in heavy snowfall with an equally heavy pack. I didn’t like the weight that time. I had packed such that I could stay at Zealand Hut or Guyot Shelter depending on my progress. The big flakes were coming filling the air, but they were light. It had snowed all night though so I began breaking through 12-16 inches of fresh powder on Zealand Road before eventually passing hikers along the Zealand Trail. I would do a fair bit of breaking trail on that trip which turned into a successful summit of Mount Zealand but left West Bond once again out of reach. Zealand would be the only one of the winter 48 I climbed that year, number 46. They were getting harder.
One year later. February, 2010. Another attempt on West Bond planned from the north. The higher summits forecast called for 50-75 mph winds. Mount Guyot, a very exposed, rounded summit is along this route, and could present a formidable obstacle in those winds. This time, I made quick work of Zealand road and trail and was soon past the hut on the way up to Zeacliff. I caught up with three others and helped them break trail the rest of the way up Zealand, their destination for the day. The trail over Guyot was not broken out however, and although I had reached Mount Zealand early enough, at 12:45 PM, my quads were giving me signals of oncoming cramping. I would not be making it through 2½ more miles of trail breaking that day. Without much choice, I turned back, and hiked out. Over 18 miles, again with an overnight pack. This time, I gained confidence that I could make the distance given different conditions or stronger legs on a different day.
11 months later. 2011. Temps rose into the fifties and the sun shone brightly. It felt more like May than New Year’s Day. I didn’t like it, not in January. I was attempting West Bond again from the North. And I was again planning an overnight at Guyot Shelter. Cold would not be a problem this time. Again, I made good time through the early part of the hike, but the snow became too soft to hold me up as the day warmed. The climb up to Zeacliff felt like trudging through wet cement. With tired legs, I finally reached the summit of Zealand, a place becoming increasingly familiar to me. I was warm and the sun felt wonderful on my face. But as I slowly sank in the soft snow, I realized again, that West Bond was going to have to be earned.
I would make a second attempt this past winter, about 7 weeks later in February, this time opting to try again from the south as I had in 2005 with my sister. Successful this time in reaching West Bond and crossing the Bond Range, I was treated to two beautiful days and a much anticipated night at Guyot Shelter. 5 attempts. 100 miles, not one of which I’d give back.
23 February 2011, This Winter...West Bond.
As I lay on the snow near the open south summit of Mount Guyot, I watched the sun slowly fall behind the snow-capped peaks of the Franconia Ridge. Day stood aside for the coming night. Mounts Flume and Liberty rose up from the ridge like a pair of waves lazily approaching the higher shores of Mounts Lincoln and Lafayette. On the east, Mount Washington and the Presidentials stood out starkly among endless ridges of ever- deepening violets and purples. At the horizon, the blurry interface of land and sky, mountains morphed into the twilight above. The sun’s final rays illuminated the snowy, white summit cone of nearby West Bond. The high point rose up at the eastern end of a shallow, saddle-shaped ridge. I gazed fondly upon that summit; a few hours earlier I had crouched on its peak lost in a soul-healing view. West Bond had become a symbol of many things to me. Most obviously, it represented the final winter summit in a decade long quest, but it had also come to symbolize other things. It had been a test of my physical and psychological limits. I had fears associated with this mountain, with myself, both healthy and phantom, both real and imaginary. It was important for me to face them, discern them, to let them dissolve. Watching West Bond slowly fade in the encroaching darkness, I recognized it further as a symbol of beauty in solitude, a place where nature is left to exist untarnished by the hand of man.
Pictures of the West Bond trip, the most recent that is...http://s1084.photobucket.com/albums/j402/sgordon48/West Bond and Bond Range February 2011/
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