New Hampshire 2007: It passed too quickly

New Hampshire 2007…

Usually I write this in the Red House Journal. Unfortunately, as the following words will dictate, this year’s stay at the Red House passed way too quickly — so fast, in fact, that I didn’t even get a chance to make my annual journal post.

So, blessed by the graciousness of technology, this year’s entry is going on the Internet. As a disclaimer, if you don’t like mountains and hiking, you’d probably be better off spending your morning/afternoon/evening reading the obituaries, but if bushwalking is your thing (or, of course, if you’re a RHSR — Red House Summer Resident), then read on.

This is for you…

It started with the traverse and concluded with the annual three-day hike. In between, there was some ladder hiking, a tribute hike, and lots (I mean LOTS) of bocce ball.

In all, J-bo — my primary hiking companion — and I hiked 66 miles over the course of two weeks. What follows is the approximate breakdown:

The Traverse — 24 miles
Morgan & Percival — 5 miles
Whiteface — 8 miles
Three-day hike — 29 miles
Total — 66 miles

It was easily our best hiking summer ever, which is pretty impressive considering all the summers we’ve spent amid New Hampshire’s White Mountains (I can only remember missing one summer). In the past I’ve usually been able to shape my summer job around two and half weeks (or more) of time in Sandwich, N.H. But this year, my first as a college graduate, getting two weeks from my current employer — even though I only work part-time — wasn’t easy.

At least I think I made the most of the time.

Tennis nearly every day. Did I mention bocce ball? Swimming in Squam Lake nearly daily. Mini golf twice (more on that later). Our annual movie-seeing experience (go see “The Bourne Ultimatum”). Great family dinners. Another pretty successful field day (the negative later). And the hiking.

I flew into Boston in the morning of Sunday, July 29. By that late afternoon (after a dreadful stop — instigated by my big cousin, Pete “Franchise” Wolf — at the Tilton outlets) I was in Sandwich swimming with J-bo, my cousin Caitlin, 15, my aunt Vick and Franchise.

The first two days consisted of plenty of tennis, swimming and board games, mainly “Sorry” with Caitlin, now known to us close to her as “Pudds” (greatest nickname ever), and “Stratego,” aka “Strat” with J-bo.

The Red House is probably the main reason why I haven’t lost my love for board games. We play them every day. They are intense, crazy competitive. Especially “Strat.” This year it even got to the point where J-bo surreptitiously went online to look up strategies.

They didn’t work. Although he managed to steal the summer’s final game from my grasp, I won the series 5-4. J-bo has pledged to bring the phenomenal game to our new apartment in Durham, N.C. It’s safe to say that there will be plenty of strategizing as soon as I make the move down South.

The Traverse
On Wednesday morning, J-bo, his friend Mark, 34, and I woke up at 3:10 a.m. (the earliest I’ve ever awakened for a reason other than taking a leak or watching a Tigers game live from Australia). It was time for the traverse; that is, the climbing of New Hampshire’s 11 presidential mountains, 10 of which are 4,000-plus feet.

It was crazy. Vick called us insane.

But toward the end, I named it “the greatest day of my life.”

No kidding.

For record-keeping purposes, here is the order of the 11 summits we ascended:

Webster (the lone sub-4,000-footer), Jackson (4,000), Pierce (4,300), Eisenhower (4,700), Franklin (5,000), Monroe (5,300), Washington (6,200), Clay (5,500), Jefferson (5,700), Adams (5,800) and Madison (5,500).

We began hiking at 5 a.m. and finished at 9:30 p.m. That adds up to 16 and a half hours on the trail. As J-bo would say, “So fast, so furious.”

We hiked at a steady pace the entire way, stopping briefly on each peak for pictures, a video marking the accomplishment of reaching the summit (also a chance for me to make inane comments), and food/water.

Luckily, three of the AMC’s wonderful huts — Mitzpah, Lake of the Clouds, and Madison — were right along the trail, providing us the opportunity to refill our water bottles. Because of this, each of us needed just two water containers each to complete the traverse without dry throats. It should also be mentioned that at LOTC, we ate some absolutely ravishing chocolate chip brownies fresh out of the oven. I don’t know if I’d have made it up Washington — the next summit — if not for the warm delight.

Despite the length of the traverse, we managed to remain satiated throughout. We packed four sandwiches apiece (two turkey, two PB&J) and an assortment of energy bars and candy bars. I don’t want to think about all the glucose I absorbed throughout the day.

But it was worth it. Way worth it. Despite my affinity for rain, I must admit the day of the traverse needed clear skies to make the trek successful. That’s what we got. As soon as we beasted up Webster’s steep trail, we were greeted by amazing visibility in all directions.

Once we reached the top of Jackson, we could see most of our journey in front of us. At the time, Washington’s ugly, building-and-tourists-infested top was in the clouds. But, amazingly enough, as we hiked, the sky seemed to open up for us. From the top of Franklin, which — unlike the other peaks — wasn’t easy to find, we had a really cool view of Washington right behind Monroe’s false and actual summit.

We had perfect visibility the rest of the day, even seeing Chocorua and Whiteface, two mountains close to Sandwich, from many of the peaks.

J-bo wasn’t shy about letting other hikers know our journey. Whenever they asked him the customary, “Where y’all heading today?” he responded, “We’re doing all 11 presidentials!”

This, usually, was followed by a gasp, a “wow” or a look that said, “You crazy??” While J-bo wasn’t exactly modest in describing our hike, he said there was a reason for disclosing it to the hordes of people we saw on the trails.

“It might give them the idea,” he said, “just like we got it last year.”

And he was right. We had never thought of the traverse until we met two young fellows a year earlier doing it who gave us the idea. While the casual hikers J-bo told are sure not to duplicate our feat, it’s possible that J-bo was inspiration for a couple of future traversers.

The peaks
By 6:30 p.m. we were sitting on top of Madison, trying to fathom the fact that we had just summated 11 pretty big (not to mention rocky) hills. We had survived injuries — Mark had a bad knee the entire hike, amazing us with his gutsy ability to drag on and even stay in front of J-bo and I for most of the final half of the traverse, which is the toughest part. J-bo also twisted his ankle, but simply walked it off.

We had also seen hundreds of fellow hikers (no fellow traversers, though) and a handful of headstrong dogs, including Enma and Toby, two beautiful dogs belonging to a older-aged man we met on top of Eisenhower. The man shocked me when he said that Enma, just four and a half, had ascended all 48 of New Hampshire 4,000-footers. Enma’s feat proved to be motivation for J-bo and I, who plan to summit all 48 within in the next couple years (we’ve already got about 20).

The best part of the traverse, of course, was getting to sit on top of 11 large mountains, which afforded incredible views and simply made us feel as though we were on top of the world. When you’re up there, you forget any real-world worries. You forget about crime, war, poverty. There’s nothing better. Believe me.

After the hike, J-bo and I ranked the 11 summits based on the views they afforded, their rock shapes, and their comfortability. Here are our lists:

J-bo
1. Adams
2. Monroe
3. Clay
4. Eisenhower
5. Jackson
6. Jefferson
7. Madison
8. Franklin
9. Pierce
10. Webster
11. Washington

Me
1. Monroe
2. Clay
3. Adams
4. Madison
5. Jackson
6. Eisenhower
7. Jefferson
8. Franklin
9. Pierce
10. Webster
11. Washington

The end
It’d be pretty difficult for a 24-mile hike to go completely smoothly. Ours did.

Until, about, the final longgggggggg mile.

So here’s what happened (from my standpoint; J-bo, feel free to add to this). We started down the Watson Craig trail, which was supposed to take us to our final path of the day, the Valley Way. Our previous trails had been the Webster Cliff Trail (to Mitzpah), the Crawford Path (to LOTC, then up Washington), and the Gulfside Trail (to Madison).

Well, I got way ahead of J-bo and Mark, mostly because Mark was having a very difficult time with the descent, rightfully so, because of his bad knee. I, meanwhile, kept a steady pace until the path finally crossed the stream I’d been seeking. There I stopped to soak my feet in ice cold water (I couldn’t keep them in for more than 30 seconds, no joke).

About 15 to 20 minutes passed before my comrades graced me with their presence long enough to take a picture of me in front of a mini waterfall and continue on (I think they wanted Frosties that badly). Figuring they’d continue at a slower pace, I took my time putting my wool socks and New Balance sneakers back on and preparing for the easy final stage of our long journey.

And then I hit the trail. I came to a sign, which said to bear right for the Brookside trail, which, apparently connected with the Valley Way. I was interested in the Valley Way, so I went that way. After about a mile, with dusk starting to set in, I spotted something black in the middle of the trail roughly 30 yards ahead of me. Warning: The next sentence will sound really stupid; if you don’t enjoy stupid sentences, skip ahead two paragraphs.

I thought it was either a black bear or a large puddle.

Maybe I was hallucinating or being delusional, but all I can say for myself is that I thought a big, strong bear might be in my way. With no one near me and darkness on its way, that was a scary proposition.

So I turned around.

I headed back up the path (yes, back up the mountain). I ran. I sweated. I began thinking things like…

“Isn’t this when all the animals come out??”

“What if there’s a crazy guy who appears at night and eats lost hikers like me?”

Yeah, I almost lost it.

But I didn’t. Unfortunately for you readers, the rest of the story is pretty boring. I took a ridge trail out of my way to get to Inlook Trail, which finally starting going down the mountain as I was enveloped by black (causing me to get out my savior, my trusty headlamp).

I called J-bo, my brotha from another motha, who directed me the rest of the way, on about 17 different paths. I ran the whole way and somehow never fell (don’t ask me how; it must have been the black New Balances).

Remarkably enough, despite hiking about an extra 2 miles, I made it to Vick’s car just 10 to 15 minutes after J-bo and Mark did via the good ‘ole Valley Way. According to J-bo, Mark had become delusional on the way down, swaying back and forth and falling several times. I like my bear story better.

Even though I would be teased for several days after the traverse about my bear story, it was worth it. It added a little excitement to the usual business-like descent. When I think about it now, it was the perfect ending to our hectic, insane, amazing day.

The Copper Tribute Hike
I hate to break this to you, but I despise resting. Even after a 24-mile hike. So, no, I didn’t spend the days after the traverse sitting around the Red House twiddling my thumbs. I did stuff.

More tennis. More beach. A little biking. Plenty of Strat. Not to mention another mountain climb.

On Friday, less than two days since the beginning of the traverse, J-bo and I decided to tackle Morgan and Percival, a two-summit hike (they’re both a little higher than 2,000 feet) off the curvy road (Route 113) between Sandwich and Holderness. It was a nice “cool-down” hike, and we met a bunch of young campers on top, who scared us (by talking about flying while on the peak of a steep mountain) and loved J-bo (“We’ll remember you,” a 13-year-old girl kept telling him).

Easy, J-bo.

Despite ruining the mountains with their loud shouting, the campers were great. So J-bo and I invited them into our picture on top of Percival before waving goodbye. And as far as I know, they all made it down the mountains, which wasn’t a bad accomplishment, considering all the “flying” talk and stumbling they were doing.

That hike wasn’t just a cool-down from the traverse, however. It was also a warm-up for the Copper Tribute Hike, which took place the following Tuesday. I decided before my trip to NH that we would hike up Whiteface Mountain, all 4,020 feet of it, in honor of Copper, my family’s amazing Golden Retriever (we think; he might have had some Irish Setter in him), who passed away earlier this summer at the age of 7.

Just two years ago, Copper accompanied J-bo and I up Whiteface’s steep cliffs under a searing sun. We had to help him up a couple rock faces, and he became absolutely exhausted, but he made it to Whiteface’s peak (then slept for the next two days). I’ll always remember that climb as one of Copp’s crowing moments.

(My mom prefers to call it one of the dumbest decisions I’ve ever made).

So it was only appropriate that we hiked Whiteface once again to remember Copp. And as I climbed up cliff after cliff, I felt more and more amazed that Copp, who weighed a solid 95 pounds, had been able to scale them.

When J-bo, Pudds and my uncle Buzz stopped on a cliff for a short water break, a beautiful orange and black butterfly appeared. Only later, when the creature reappeared on the mountain’s summit, did I begin to believe that it represented Copper’s spirit. I’ll never forget that butterfly.

On the peak, I gave a brief speech in memory of Copp — maybe the second speech I’ve presented in my non-oratory life — and each of us released a pinchful of Copp’s ashes into the high-altitude air. It was the perfect tribute to a dog that I’ll never forget.

The end is near
The days that followed before my stay’s climax, the three-day hike, were one final opportunity to enjoy all of the things that make the Red House and Sandwich so perfect every summer.

On Tuesday night, I saw my cousin Kristen and her boyfriend, Brad, for the first time, meaning I had seen all the usual family members during my stay. (Franchise left that Sunday after beating me in tennis, leaving him unbeaten for the summer… yeah, I was a bit peeved).

Wednesday was the second rainy day in three days, but there’s not a day to waste in Sandwich, so we made the most of it, playing bocce at Squam, buying hiking shoes and playing some hardcore tennis. (During the first rainy day, I should mention, Pudds, Vick and I took an incredible swim during a downpour in a very tranquil Squam). That night the cousins played mini golf one last time, and I put together my best round ever, a 3-under-par 37. I didn’t ace any holes, but I didn’t need to. The night before the first round of golf’s fourth major, the PGA Championship, I felt like Tiger.

(OK, that was an awfully inaccurate sentence. How about, I felt like one of those kids who wins the annual putt-putt championship and a gift certificate to Chucky Cheese?)

Thursday, despite being the day before the hike, was no time to rest. After treating J-bo, the birthday kid, the 22-year-old, to breakfast at the general store (and stuffing myself with hash browns, which would keep my stomach on lock until dinner time), we played a couple of great final tennis sets.

First, my aunt Sal and I bested Brad — the top player among us — and J-bo, 7-6 (4), coming back from a 4-0 deficit in the tiebreak. Then I beat J-bo in singles, 7-6(7). It was the perfect way to close out what had been nearly two weeks of great tennis. I feel like I improved leaps and bounds as did my competitors, especially J-bo, whom I will play with daily down in North Carolina.

Then it was time for the annual Old Home Week event we call “Field Day.” Some things never get old. Field Day is certainly one of them. It’s an afternoon filled with races. The rotten kids run and so do the adults. Ribbons are handed out to the top three finishers in each race.

As is usually the case, the Red House members didn’t disappoint, bringing home an array of blue (first place), red (second place) and yellow (third place) ribbons. The highlight race had to be the 50-yard three-legged version, in which J-bo and Brad finished second and Rose and I took third. I thought we had a real chance to pull off the upset (I never beat J-bo in that race, but that’s usually because he’s with Seth Duda, and their chemistry is impeccable), but we stumbled about midway through when we had the lead, and we had to accept the yellow. It wasn’t bad, however, considering Ro and I had never raced together.

Following the races and a terrible defeat in the Camp Hale-Sandwich tug-o-war (you have to understand, Camp Hale is made up of strong men; Sandwich, during the summer, is infiltrated with 5-year-olds), it was time for the main event, the blueberry pie-eating contest.

I guess I understand that most people don’t consider it the prime competition. In fact, most adult men are too embarrassed to compete in it or give 110 percent (see, J-bo), but not me. In my mind, it’s what friendly competition is all about.

The rules are simple. Eat the pie in front of you, with your arms behind your back, faster than your fellow eaters. Accomplishing the feat is another story. In this year’s version of the BPEC, I got a great start — two gigantic bites and swallows — but when J-bo, who wasn’t even pretending to eat his pie, starting laughing, I lost my concentration and any hope of winning the darn thing.

It was disappointing, frustrating mal-nourishment at its best. To say I’m already thinking about next year would be an understatement. It’s the only Field Day event in which a Lloyd/Wolf/Boreyko has never ribboned. I want to make the family proud.

The Mountains
The most difficult part of each summer is the day after the three-day hike. Returning to the valley. Seeing cars again. Having to look up at the mountains.

That was even tougher this summer after probably the best three-day hike I’ve ever experienced.

We had a record number of family members put on their hiking shoes and packs this summer. There were the regulars — my dad, Bust, J-bo, Sal, me, Brad, Kristen & Pudds — but Rose also participated in her first three-day hike and my cousin Lou, recovering from many ailments, was able to return after missing it the past two years. It was great to have so many loved ones in tow.

But that didn’t mean that I waited for them at each sign. My goal entering the hike was to summit all nine possible 4,000-footers, and that’s exactly what I did.

On the first day, we hiked up the Gale River Trail to Gailhead Hut. From there, some of us made the most of the late afternoon window before dinner (one thing I’ll never do is miss a hut dinner; the bread it out-of-this-world good), making the steep ascent to South Twin and North Twin Mtns.

And, boy, were we rewarded. The view from the top of South Twin (approximately 4,900 feet) was the best I’ve ever had from the top of a mountain. Yep, better than the view from any presidential. I mean, we could simply rotate our heads and see nothing but peaks in every direction. No buildings, not the ugly Mt. Washington Hotel in the valley (it was perfectly blocked by a summit). As I lay on the flat rock atop the peak, I literally thought I was in heaven. It was unbelievable.

The South Twin experience didn’t ruin the last two days of the hike, however. They were just as amazing. On Saturday, we hiked the up-and-down-and-back-up-then-down Garfield Ridge Trail through trees and rocks. We stopped for a good while on the summit of Mt. Garfield, which afforded us splendid views of what lay ahead of us (mainly Mt. Lafayette), and presented a good spot to bust out our second-day food (mainly PB&N sandwiches — that’s, peanut butter and Nutella, for those unfamiliar).

On that subject, let me quickly tangent to the food on mountains subject. I’ll be blunt. While I love food all the time, wherever I am, there is no doubt that food tastes better when eaten on a mountain. No doubt about it. Cheese and crackers at 5,000 feet is tantamount to steak and potatoes at sea level. Don’t question me on this one. It’s true.

Now back to the hike. After leaving Garfield, we continued on the ridge to the summit of Lafayette, or “Lafers,” as J-bo would later eloquently term it. The hike up “Lafers” showed another one of the mountains’ great attributes: crazy weather.

Winds were gusting at up to 30 mph, we were in the clouds, we couldn’t see farther than 30 or 40 yards. My adrenaline level kept increasing… and increasing as we climbed past false peak after false peak before finally locating the actual top of the mountain (the 5,000-footers really make you earn them; there are no gimmes in mountain climbing).

But when you do reach the top of a 5,000-footer, there’s nothing better in the world. Especially when the sky is clear, as we learned on Day 3.

After a delicious meal from an awesome Croo at Greenleaf Hut and an unofficial win in hearts by J-bo (it wasn’t over when the other participants declared bedtime), Day 2 was in the books. I was less than 48 hours away from being in Ann Arbor, staring at 100-foot green hills, wondering where all the mountains went. But I wasn’t there yet on Sunday, and along with J-bo and Brad, I made sure to take advantage of one final day up above reality.

While the other members of our group decided to take a shorter route down, the three of us didn’t take it “easy” on Day 3. In fact, we took it hard. We made it our toughest day of hiking. But also our most rewarding.

We hiked the 1.1 miles back up to Lafers’ summit (the third time J-bo and I had traversed that path — we ascended it to relieve Sal and Ro of their packs late Saturday). And then we headed to Lincoln, aka “The Linc,” Little Haystack, aka “Stackers,” Liberty, aka “Libs,” and Flume, aka “Flumer.”

None of us had ever climbed any of the four 4,000-plus-footers, so the terrain was new to us. And for bushwhackers like us, there’s nothing more exciting than traveling on a new path with clear skies.

J-bo stopped every few minutes to put the digital camera to use. Brad climbed out on a precarious, totem-pole-looking rock structure for a picture that will remain a classic for generations to come. We were followed by an interesting Appalachian Trail hiker who was excited about a condo a woman was letting him use once he reached the valley (but he was not pleased that she didn’t come with its use; gotta love them through hikers).

Day 3 encompassed what hiking is all about. And I haven’t even gotten to the climax yet.

OK, I’m there now. The Flume Slide Trail. The trail that the AMC book specifically said NOT TO DESCEND. The trail that we told Bust and Sal we wouldn’t go down. We didn’t want to worry them. But by the time Brad had climbed onto the totem pole (what could be more dangerous?), we had decided that we HAD to experience the FST. It would be the perfect ending to our trip. Just like hiking the Knife’s Edge at the conclusion of the AT.

We had heard horror stories about the FST. Guys in the hut, apparently, told Bust how they fell 25 feet trying to go up it. Imagine what could take place going down. As we sat on the top of Flume, which, appropriately, was jagged and not suited for the comfortable meal, eating our cheese and crackers, we professed our death wishes. I told Brad and J-bo that it would be a successful descent if two of us survived.

Well, I guess it was super successful, because not only did we all survive, but only one of us fell and no one got hurt. That’s not to say, however, that the trail wasn’t difficult. We had to participate in more butt-sliding than the normal person does in a lifetime. We had to constantly be on the lookout for footholes. It took us about an hour and a half to slide down the .8 miles of slides.

BUT WE MADE IT!

We survived. I survived to write about the experience. And now we’re all ready to go up it (no easy task either) in the near future. On our way down, we passed about 15 people and two dogs, including a beautiful 8-month-old Golden named Jackson. Free bones to both dogs for tackling such a beast of a trail.

After the slides, there was nearly 4 more miles of mild, simple hiking. The woods were quiet, the vegetation very green. It was a great time to think and reflect on my time in New Hampshire’s woods.

As I plodded along, my new shoes climbing over endless roots and navigating stepping rocks at what seemed like 10 different stream crossings, I dreaded the end of the trail. I detested the thought of hopping on a plane less than 24 hours later and returning to civilization.

I knew I couldn’t escape what was coming… the car ride to Boston, the night at Lou’s nice condo, the subway rides to the airport, the plane, the car ride back home, the work the next night.

It was all inevitable. It was my life.

But I told myself, with each step, that I’d do whatever it takes in the years to come to make the mountains, and New Hampshire, and my extended family (and bocce ball) central parts of my life.

Because what else would I have written 4,540 words about when I have laundry piling up and cat litter to empty?

PS — I hate to say this, but Brad won our annual bridge-guessing contest. He surmised an astronomically low 30 bridges for the entire three-day hike, but won after we crossed just 98. Pudd’s guess of 221 placed her second.