Southern Ossipee Traverse - One final perspective?
First, some background. I’m a neophyte hiker/climber who has only recently been bitten by the bug. In retrospect, I have owned some form of hiking boot or shoe continuously since the age of 17, have had a copy of The Complete Walker in my collection for at least twenty years, and my trekking poles were acquired at least five years ago. I had never climbed a mountain until this past spring, though, when my wife and I did Mount Megunticook in Camden, Maine. Since then, I’ve tried to get some climbing in with increasing regularity. Greylock, Monadnock, Acadia, Mansfield, the Southern Taconics all became our new found friends this past summer. Finally, this October we put a few days together and met my 21 year old down in NC, where we climbed in the Great Smokey Mountains and on Mount Rogers in VA.
As the fair weather hiking season has approached its end, though, solo hiking/climbing became something of a concern. That’s what drove me to this site, where I stumbled upon Rocket’s planning for this Southern Ossipee Traverse. This seemed a perfect opportunity to participate in a moderately strenuous hike with experienced people. None of our friends climb anything higher than a barstool. (Well, maybe a ladder to clean the gutters.) Perhaps we could make new hiking friends and explore new territory. The people responding to the original post certainly seemed like a nice bunch, and their banter evidenced true affection for young Rocket, who popped up seemingly everywhere on VFTT.
Plans are made. Rocket, having been contacted by email, graciously extends an invite. Headlamps and traction assistance are purchased, much to the amusement of my wife. Weather reports and information from the board are monitored and digested with increasing frequency. As the weather prognostications deteriorate, and the hike is delayed until Sunday, a discouraging word or two is heard from across the bedroom. Teachers don’t like late activities on Sunday evenings, and this hike will entail a three hour drive back from NH on the back end. Diane is a no-go.
Alarm set for 4:30, I’m out of bed fifteen minutes early, grab my gear and grub, and hit the road. Not being a member of the Red Bull generation, I rely on my wits and a combination of a recording of Byrd’s Mass for Five Voices and the Arctic Monkeys to keep me focused as I charge up Routes 3, I-93 and I-95 fast enough to make time, but slow enough not to attract the attention of the constabulary. A bit of confusion at Courthouse Square is quickly corrected, and I’m at the car spot by 7:15, where a sixteen year old boy jumps out of his truck to greet me. This would be Rocket21. After an exchange of pleasantries, Rocket suddenly notices an enormous beast in the field behind the cars. It’s a bull moose, already bereft of antlers, and he seems a bit bored. Rocket immediately hops the stone wall for a closer look and a photo op.
Meanwhile others begin to filter in. The first is LRiz, who looks about 15. Now I’m worried that this will be a youth march, and I will spend the day trailing miles behind, lost in a steady frozen drizzle while the children race ahead eating cupcakes and singing songs of nature. Not to worry, though, as companions more appropriate to my age appear, led by Silverfox, Trail Bandit, and Jazzbo. Soon it looks like a VFTT all-star lineup. There’s una_dogger! I recognize Jabberwalk! It’s funny how I seem to know something of these people already by their postings at VFTT.
After effectively spooking the moose, car transport is organized. We are some 18 strong, with three canine companions, Terra, Virga and Emma. Reassembled at the trailhead, we commence, quickly encountering a newly cut logging road. This would be a good place for some Ice-Nine. The trail soon cuts to the left, marked by a red metal blaze and blue hiker symbol tacked to a tree. The trail climbs with ever steadier abruptness until the summit of Sentinel Mountain is gained, with dramatic views of the distant mountains and encircling weather.
I can’t remember if it was before this point that the Groucho Marx nose and glasses combo first made their appearance. It may have been at the car spot before we even got going. I become increasingly aware, however, that this hike is accompanied by a soundtrack of jokes last heard in a Las Vegas lounge act sometime in 1967. They are delivered by a person introduced to me as Russ, but who is now known to me as McRat. He is relentless. We stop to clear a blowdown, the banter continues without letup. Funny jokes, bad jokes, vulgar jokes, you name it. The quality control button is definitely turned off. After one exchange verging on the blue, I shoot a glance at LRiz, who looks like the kind of girl who wouldn’t say the S-H word if she had a mouth full of it. She verges on embarrassed.
We soldier on after regrouping. Our next objective: Flagg via the Merrowvista Ledges. Someone questions the etymology of Merrowvista, and I successfully resist the temptation to concoct a story about an ancient New Hampshire explorer who, accompanied by his Japanese aide-de-camp and their transcriber, marveled at the exceptionally serene views afforded from the cliffs of the pond below. I chat up LRiz, and find that, in addition to having lived in a variety of English speaking locales, she spent a year of study in Beijing. (Note to Rocket: LRiz may not be terribly impressed when you bring her to the Panda Garden Restaurant and order the General Gao’s Chicken).
After some satisfyingly challenging up as well as down, we reassemble on Shaw, gain partial shelter from the winds on the lee side, and enjoy a midday repast, which seemed to vary among the group from power bars and apple for some, to sandwiches, to my traditional chicken salad, which certainly made me popular with the dogs.
I think that the most disturbing part of the trip, for me at least, was next, in the section between Shaw and Black Snout (Snoot?). I was ambling along, minding my own business. The terrain was rather moderate, perhaps slightly downhill. Two hikers were directly behind me, and I could not help but overhear their conversation. One of the voices I recognized as the person introduced to me as Russ, but known to me now as McRat. He and his companion were sharing a deep and serious discussion centering on the programming choices on the Sci-Fi Channel. I dared not turn around. I quickly attempted to visualize the area map in my head to calculate the direction and distance to the nearest road. I don’t think that I have ever been more frightened in the woods.
From Black Snout (Snoot?) to the trailhead the terrain, which begins at a pitch (“there’s only a little more rough part” is the comment you usually hear just before you fall on your keester), and eventually flattens out to a dirt road and a pleasant amble to the car spot, where, just six hours earlier, we had encountered Bullwinkle.
Now its time to shuffle cars and engage in the type of long good-bye I’m used to from countless Italian weddings. Groupings are made, dogs accommodated, and it is determined that I will ferry Kevin, Judy and Emma. That’s OK, I guess. I mean, Judy, sure, fine. And Emma has been nothing but a lady the entire trip. But Kevin? For crying out loud, the man is wearing a dress! OK, it’s not a dress, but a kilt. Same difference.
I put Kevin in the front seat. I want to keep an eye on him. I’ve hear about these “on line” meeting things.
I try to be nonchalant. We banter. I enquire if his choice of garment is meant to honor his Scottish heritage, or if he just prefers freedom. I hear a muffled chortle from the back seat, and immediately rule out Emma.
Finally we get to the trailhead and the second set of cars. As Kevin, Judy and Emma emerge from my car, I observe to myself that I will have to wait until spring to find out if Judy has the better pair of legs. That is, if they ever allow me back on one of their hikes.
