McRat
New member
The plan was simple. Hike to the Carter Notch hut, grab a bunk, lighten the load, tag Carter Dome, and back to the hut for the night, out over the Wildcats in the morning. I’d get three of my remaining four peaks. When KayakDan suggested a pot luck dinner, Gary(scoutmaster) and I booked our bunks and waited for the day to arrive.
Let me begin by saying we knew it was going to be cold. The weather report was suggesting single digit temps with high winds almost a week in advance. Surely serious weather justified feeding my gear habit, and I decided to give my leather boots a rest and purchase a ‘winter boot’.
I was impressed by the –40°F rating, the general fit of the North Face Baltoro 400s, and the fact that it was the cheapest winter boot that would hold my crampons. My sudden purchase inspired Gary to take the plunge and he grabbed a pair of Sorel Conquests. As gear junkies, the boots would make good discussion fodder on the hike.
We met up at 5:00am, and started the drive north, watching the outside temp fall from 24°F down to 12°F by the time we arrived at the trailhead.
The 19-mile Brook trail had a lot more snow than my trip a fortnight earlier, with a decent hard-pack to follow. The temperature continued to drop as we walked along the partially frozen river, enjoying the gurgling sounds of water flowing under the ice. Before long we had gotten our stride (or plod if you will) and passed the Carter Dome Trail junction.
I looked up towards the notch and could see some disturbingly fast blasts of snow being hurled from the ridge above. They seemed the size of school buses, but with much greater speed. I began to suggest that we consider dropping our plans for Carter Dome at this sight in light of the falling temps. The stalwart Gary questioned this and I suggested we decide at the hut.
Around this time, the new boots became a discussion topic. Gary’s had been pinching him around the ankle, and mine were not keeping my toes any warmer than winter hikes in my Limmers. By the time we reached the steeper final pitch of the trail, some numbness had set in my right foot, and I was eager to get to the hut.
It was also around this time that the weather decided to show us what sort of a day was in store. Temps felt around zero, and the winds were whipping as we arrived at the shoulder. Here at last were some thigh deep drifts of snow, which were refreshing to see after this warm winter. I paused to catch my breath and enjoy the view, just long enough for my eyelashes to start freezing together. After snapping a couple of photos, we scurried down to the hut.
I took off my gloves and removed my left crampon. In the time it took to do this, my fingers became unreliable from the cold, and the right crampon took three times as long to remove. I rushed in and sat by the woodstove rubbing my hands.
Another hiker walked up and said, “ummmm… you know there’s no fire started yet?”
I laughed but kept waving my hands over the stove. “Maybe it’s the psychological value”.
We checked the weather instruments and the temp was –4°F with winds in the 40-50mph range. Adam, the hutkeeper suggested we get into some dry clothes and and eat a bit before we start cooling down.
We picked our bunkroom, and changed. Gary was now very much in agreement that Carter Dome was off our to-do list. I got into my dry clothes, sleeping bag, and a great chipotle cheddar block. As our internal engines returned to idle, we began shivering and wondered if the bags would be warm enough. Before long, we both found ourselves napping, and awoke a couple of hours later to the end of the daylight.
We headed down to the hut and found the woodstove lit and Dan and Linda waiting among a fairly large crowd of hikers. By the time dinner was underway, the temperature in the hut had reached a balmy 46 degrees, while outside had dropped to 8 below with winds peaking in the sixty mile per hour range.
They offered us some pepperoni and cheese and crackers and dip while Linda took to the kitchen. From the first sip of the leak soup, I was glad they suggested the trip. Soon there was cheese tortellini and chicken sausage with dried tomatoes in a thick alfredo sauce. It was so good I couldn’t get enough until I realized what a filling meal it was. I felt stuffed to the gills by the time we broke out dessert.
While it was slow eating after that dinner, we broke out the ice cream, hot fudge, and whipped cream. With Linda’s tasty brownies it was a delightful sundae. When I tried the whipped cream, it was frozen solid. It appeared I had lugged the can up with nothing more than the promise of nitrous oxide until Adam (eager enough to be dealt in on this) dipped the can in some boiling water until it was thawed enough to use.
Though missing out on the peaks, their delightful company and cooking made this a great night. We chatted about sailing, hiking, and dozens of topics until the hut emptied out.
Heading back into the cold was a rude awakening, but nothing quite like my encounter with the privy.
Anyone who has used the Clivus is appreciative of the exhaust fan on the vent pipe. I had braced myself for the shock of the cold seat, but had not considered the full scope of the adventure. As the winds roared overhead, they also took a detour down the vent pipe.
Suddenly an arctic blast of cold air shot up from the privy (along with the ghosts of a thousand finished meals), sending a shiver up my spine and a shock to my nose I could have never imagined or prepared for.
I slid along the icy path to my bunk in down booties, fortunate to have the occasional tree to slow my descent. It took a while to warm up the bag to a comfortable level, but after a brief chat and a couple shots of Irish whisky, we participated in “Fool Scout Camping in a Walk-in freezer night.” Whenever I would roll over in the night, the frozen moisture of my breath would send a small avalanche of snow onto my face or neck.
In the morning, as light entered through the prisms of frost, I could exhale into the beams of light and watch as any moisture turned to dust-sized particles and drifted slowly to the floor. I felt like Iceman just discovering his superpowers.
Back at the hut, I was hoping the woodstove would be going, without luck. Adam pointed out that the stove is only lit in the morning in the case of extreme cold.
I looked at the weather instrument readout again. –1°F. I realize that the word extreme is relative, but you gotta hand it to the winter hut keepers to make you feel like a pampered wuss.
The breakfast crowd warmed the hut up to a respectable 32°F. We enjoyed bacon, french toast from thick cut chullah, and some scrambled eggs – the latter of which were made more for easy carry-out than consumption… and it showed. Every time I use a hut kitchen, my admiration for the croo grows.
We cleaned dishes, packed our stuff, and decided that we had had enough fun with the weather, and would head down without attempting the Wildcats. Once we made it down off the steep stuff, we had decent protection from the wind.
We had not bagged any peaks, but we had survived. We congratulated each other on the decision to save the peaks for another time and for making the best of the trip as possible. Our questions concerning our own sanity and safety the night before were a memory, and the lingering question, “Why do we do this?” was unnecessary to answer.
Good visibility with clear blue skies set off the white, green and grey world below as we walked back down along the river. The sheer beauty of the scene seemed enhanced by our newfound respect of the weather and its capability – which is as much a part of the forest as the trees, rocks, and animals.
Exhilarating and terrifying, beautiful and bitter, life-giving and threatening – the cold thundering winds blew through our gear to our souls changing us ever so slightly… just as they do the mountains themselves.
Pics HERE
Let me begin by saying we knew it was going to be cold. The weather report was suggesting single digit temps with high winds almost a week in advance. Surely serious weather justified feeding my gear habit, and I decided to give my leather boots a rest and purchase a ‘winter boot’.
I was impressed by the –40°F rating, the general fit of the North Face Baltoro 400s, and the fact that it was the cheapest winter boot that would hold my crampons. My sudden purchase inspired Gary to take the plunge and he grabbed a pair of Sorel Conquests. As gear junkies, the boots would make good discussion fodder on the hike.
We met up at 5:00am, and started the drive north, watching the outside temp fall from 24°F down to 12°F by the time we arrived at the trailhead.
The 19-mile Brook trail had a lot more snow than my trip a fortnight earlier, with a decent hard-pack to follow. The temperature continued to drop as we walked along the partially frozen river, enjoying the gurgling sounds of water flowing under the ice. Before long we had gotten our stride (or plod if you will) and passed the Carter Dome Trail junction.
I looked up towards the notch and could see some disturbingly fast blasts of snow being hurled from the ridge above. They seemed the size of school buses, but with much greater speed. I began to suggest that we consider dropping our plans for Carter Dome at this sight in light of the falling temps. The stalwart Gary questioned this and I suggested we decide at the hut.
Around this time, the new boots became a discussion topic. Gary’s had been pinching him around the ankle, and mine were not keeping my toes any warmer than winter hikes in my Limmers. By the time we reached the steeper final pitch of the trail, some numbness had set in my right foot, and I was eager to get to the hut.
It was also around this time that the weather decided to show us what sort of a day was in store. Temps felt around zero, and the winds were whipping as we arrived at the shoulder. Here at last were some thigh deep drifts of snow, which were refreshing to see after this warm winter. I paused to catch my breath and enjoy the view, just long enough for my eyelashes to start freezing together. After snapping a couple of photos, we scurried down to the hut.
I took off my gloves and removed my left crampon. In the time it took to do this, my fingers became unreliable from the cold, and the right crampon took three times as long to remove. I rushed in and sat by the woodstove rubbing my hands.
Another hiker walked up and said, “ummmm… you know there’s no fire started yet?”
I laughed but kept waving my hands over the stove. “Maybe it’s the psychological value”.
We checked the weather instruments and the temp was –4°F with winds in the 40-50mph range. Adam, the hutkeeper suggested we get into some dry clothes and and eat a bit before we start cooling down.
We picked our bunkroom, and changed. Gary was now very much in agreement that Carter Dome was off our to-do list. I got into my dry clothes, sleeping bag, and a great chipotle cheddar block. As our internal engines returned to idle, we began shivering and wondered if the bags would be warm enough. Before long, we both found ourselves napping, and awoke a couple of hours later to the end of the daylight.
We headed down to the hut and found the woodstove lit and Dan and Linda waiting among a fairly large crowd of hikers. By the time dinner was underway, the temperature in the hut had reached a balmy 46 degrees, while outside had dropped to 8 below with winds peaking in the sixty mile per hour range.
They offered us some pepperoni and cheese and crackers and dip while Linda took to the kitchen. From the first sip of the leak soup, I was glad they suggested the trip. Soon there was cheese tortellini and chicken sausage with dried tomatoes in a thick alfredo sauce. It was so good I couldn’t get enough until I realized what a filling meal it was. I felt stuffed to the gills by the time we broke out dessert.
While it was slow eating after that dinner, we broke out the ice cream, hot fudge, and whipped cream. With Linda’s tasty brownies it was a delightful sundae. When I tried the whipped cream, it was frozen solid. It appeared I had lugged the can up with nothing more than the promise of nitrous oxide until Adam (eager enough to be dealt in on this) dipped the can in some boiling water until it was thawed enough to use.
Though missing out on the peaks, their delightful company and cooking made this a great night. We chatted about sailing, hiking, and dozens of topics until the hut emptied out.
Heading back into the cold was a rude awakening, but nothing quite like my encounter with the privy.
Anyone who has used the Clivus is appreciative of the exhaust fan on the vent pipe. I had braced myself for the shock of the cold seat, but had not considered the full scope of the adventure. As the winds roared overhead, they also took a detour down the vent pipe.
Suddenly an arctic blast of cold air shot up from the privy (along with the ghosts of a thousand finished meals), sending a shiver up my spine and a shock to my nose I could have never imagined or prepared for.
I slid along the icy path to my bunk in down booties, fortunate to have the occasional tree to slow my descent. It took a while to warm up the bag to a comfortable level, but after a brief chat and a couple shots of Irish whisky, we participated in “Fool Scout Camping in a Walk-in freezer night.” Whenever I would roll over in the night, the frozen moisture of my breath would send a small avalanche of snow onto my face or neck.
In the morning, as light entered through the prisms of frost, I could exhale into the beams of light and watch as any moisture turned to dust-sized particles and drifted slowly to the floor. I felt like Iceman just discovering his superpowers.
Back at the hut, I was hoping the woodstove would be going, without luck. Adam pointed out that the stove is only lit in the morning in the case of extreme cold.
I looked at the weather instrument readout again. –1°F. I realize that the word extreme is relative, but you gotta hand it to the winter hut keepers to make you feel like a pampered wuss.
The breakfast crowd warmed the hut up to a respectable 32°F. We enjoyed bacon, french toast from thick cut chullah, and some scrambled eggs – the latter of which were made more for easy carry-out than consumption… and it showed. Every time I use a hut kitchen, my admiration for the croo grows.
We cleaned dishes, packed our stuff, and decided that we had had enough fun with the weather, and would head down without attempting the Wildcats. Once we made it down off the steep stuff, we had decent protection from the wind.
We had not bagged any peaks, but we had survived. We congratulated each other on the decision to save the peaks for another time and for making the best of the trip as possible. Our questions concerning our own sanity and safety the night before were a memory, and the lingering question, “Why do we do this?” was unnecessary to answer.
Good visibility with clear blue skies set off the white, green and grey world below as we walked back down along the river. The sheer beauty of the scene seemed enhanced by our newfound respect of the weather and its capability – which is as much a part of the forest as the trees, rocks, and animals.
Exhilarating and terrifying, beautiful and bitter, life-giving and threatening – the cold thundering winds blew through our gear to our souls changing us ever so slightly… just as they do the mountains themselves.
Pics HERE
