Mt. Madison in Early Spring

by Samuel Brown

Mark and I decided to celebrate the Memorial Day weekend with some activity up in the northern Presidentials. We had thought some of doing a traverse, but we recognized that we are not yet fully capable of such an undertaking in winter conditions, and--wishing to live for several more seasons of winter mountaineering--we decided to do an ascent of just one peak. Even in Spring the mountains are snow-covered and dangerous.

We started out at the Dolly Copp campground, site of some of the greatest (was that cheesiest?) car camping around: kids on training wheel bikes, big ugly trucks, tents the size of football stadiums, and hungry fires lit in the rusted maws of tired pits. We arrived about 10pm. The night was cool and sweet, about 45F and perfectly clear. We hiked in about 1 mile, when we realized that if we were going to make our early start, we would need to retire shortly. We immediately began seeking a tent site, no small task in the dark night with only a headlamp to guide you through the thick foliage. I made it about 80’ or so from the trail (regulations say you need to be 200’ but it was getting way too complicated) and found a tiny spot flat enough to support the two of us. I called Mark over, we threw up the tent and passed out.

About 7.30 am we arose to a warm, beautiful, day matched by the cheerful tones of a bird’s courtship cry. I stepped out of the tent and collapsed laughing. Turns out most of the 80’ were parallel with the path, and we were at most 30’ from the trail. Embarrassed, I sought to expiate my guilt by making breakfast. I found a gurgling brook attempting to sing a duet with the amorous bird. She agreeably gave me 3L of her liquid assets, and within five minutes a steaming pot of flavorful ‘fruit and cream’ oatmeal was heading down the hatch. We set out just before 9 am, hopping along the Great Gulf Trail for 4.5 engaging miles. For most of its path, the trail rides the banks of the Peabody River. Broad and shallow, rocky, and overgrown with vegetation, this river reminded me of my intellectual character and was a pleasant companion.

We enjoyed the fine weather: sunlight filtered by the branches and leaves of the tall trees to a manageable stream, 45-50F, low humidity, and made good, quick progress for several miles. We only made one false turn, occasioned by the kindness performed by other campers of turning an arrow sign upside down and setting us onto a cross country ski trail. Soon the trail dropped steeply to cross the Peabody, one of many shallow river crossings. The going became a bit sketchier, with large patches of consolidated snow surrounded at random intervals by fluffy snow, ready to drop the unwary leg an inseam below its mate. The rocks became larger and more slippery, and the going became slower.

At about 12.30pm we reached the Six Husbands turnoff and decided to have lunch, which consisted of cold beans from a can and some granola bars. The view was perfect, the increasingly constant companionship of snow the welcome touch of a familiar hand. We were delighted to find the general resurrection of Spring included the ironic persistence of Winter. Perhaps shameless Persephone had indulged her pomegranate addiction just once more, for our sakes. We thought about making her our patron goddess. I just hope Demeter doesn’t strike us dead for supporting her incarceration.

After a rest and some grub, we set out toward the Buttress trail. Six Husbands Trail was completely covered in 2.5’ of perfect snow, unmarred but for the single set of snowshoe tracks heading opposite our direction. We quickly made our way to the Buttress turnoff, having donned snowshoes and begun delighting in the perfect arch support of a column of soft snow. The Buttress Trail winds a traverse across the northeast face of Mt. Jefferson (which owns no slaves but us), up a touch higher, then across the northeast face of Mt. Adams, over a Col with a pond dubbed Star Lake, and down to the Madison Hut, an AMC-owned cabin. Going was slow. The trees stood as tightly linked sentinels, and the height of the snow placed our midriffs at normal eye level and caused several altercations with "low" hanging branches desperate to borrow our ice axes from our packs.

We quickly reached a boulder field that was too much boulder for snowshoes and too much snow for boulder hopping. So we yanked off the shoes and made our way deliberately across very exposed (fortunately not to the prevailing winds, though) rock, relying on poles and axes as third and fourth feet, and slipping just enough to feel stupid but not enough to be truly worried. No injuries were sustained, and we began the next phase, a steep half mile in deep snow due East. We made extensive use of the rest step and finally, huffing and puffing, made it to a moderate Northbound traverse, gradually gaining altitude, until we were 400' below Adams' summit. At that point, the fun began in earnest. The views were spectacular: the ridge that is the Northern Presidentials outlines the upper border of the Great Gulf, which is no misnomer. Washington, solid and ominous but for the lock of winding hair that is the Auto Road, squats at the southern edge. Covered in snow, the ridge extends up Clay, Jefferson, Adams, Madison and several subsidiary summits, named only to keep maps cluttered. The cool embrace of this sweeping, hoary ridge continually beckoned to us from behind, but we were resolute in the fulfillment of our goal. Besides, we were tiring somewhat and the day was drawing on. It was time to finish the hike.

We began the traverse of Mt. Adams, somewhat disturbed by the avalanche-safety parameters we were violating. The slope was above tree line (bad), about 35-40 degrees (bad), northeastern in late season (bad), covered in freshly fallen snow (bad) that poorly bonded with the consolidated layer below (bad), and the sun was decreasing the stability of the snow (not good). It was too late to turn back, though, as it was now about 4pm. So we walked quietly and attempted to stay within the tracks of those who had passed before. Even so, periodically little slabs would slip off and fortunately grind to an immediate halt. Not being an expert, I cannot comment on the risk we incurred. I also know that I don’t plan on doing it again, unless and until I am a confident judge of avalanche conditions.

The relatively smooth summit of Mt. Adams was safeguarded by the rugged, adolescent mini-peak John Quincy Adams, which sits like a gendarme just north of the older appearing summit. We continued on toward the Col, excruciatingly slowly, alternating the traverse with fairly steep climbing. The weather was looking a little ominous, I was wearing a total of 10 pounds of Hypalon tennis rackets and plastic boots on my feets and feeling the load on my thighs, and my mind rushed back to a near debacle the season before atop Washington. I was intensely relieved when I finally made the Col, saw the lake, and rushed to a view of the Madison Hut. It was 5 pm. While waiting for Mark, I started inspecting the rime. The winds, usually from the West, drive freezing rain in almost horizontal sheets, and the accumulated ice resembles a windsock flying into the wind.

We hurried down to the hut, took care of biological business at both ends of the GI spectrum, and took stock of our situation. The clouds continued to threaten immediately overhead, but to the West skies were clear and wind was not moving too quickly. I was tired and wanted to avoid a fiasco above tree line (we still had to summit Madison and make 2miles and change to get back below tree line), so I proposed camping near the hut for the night. Mark, wisely, proposed that we plug on as quickly as was reasonable to avoid an excruciating Sunday morning hike. I finally acquiesced and began a quick push for the summit .04 miles over and 500 feet up. In retrospect, Mark was wiser than I. At the time, I was a little spooked, given the late hour and the recent binge of mountaineering disaster stories I had consumed. We made half a mile in half an hour and found a fine view on the summit, although the view from the Buttress Trail had often excelled it.

We continued on the Osgood Trail along the ridge for about a mile of attention-requiring boulders, when I encountered three curious young fellows. One, sporting combat boots and an overgrown mohawk sometimes hidden beneath an OR waterproof sombrero, turned to me and jabbered something mostly unintelligible about "soup". I nodded politely and he continued in his excited skater slang about the excitement of the mountains, the wonders of this difficult weather. The more he talked, the more I hoped that he would be okay, that the weather would hold up. These are the statistic-making wise men who add to the death tolls of the Northern Presidentials. They warned us of difficult "sheet ice" just below tree line, and I motioned to my crampons with the knowing, priggish look that must infuriate those who are not gearheads. My young co-conversant was not deterred. Easily excited to embellished stories of bravado and derring-do he occupied my attention for about ten minutes, after which Mark appeared, winded. He had slipped and fallen, chest-first, into a sharp rock. Somewhat shaken, he was nevertheless fine and ready to proceed. The long hours of difficult hiking had begun to take their toll, however, and he soon fell onto his knee, while I hyperextended my knee by stepping hard onto snow that was merely the scalp of a rock. We soon reached timberline and breathed a sigh of relief. It was just before 8pm; we had made the two miles in as many hours, about what we had expected. We were excited to find the ice, eager to use our crampons once more this season. Then we found it, steep but easy snow, amenable to plunge-stepping or boot-glissading. We chuckled in that elitist way only intermediate amateur mountaineers love, and began sliding the "treacherous" quarter mile. It was exhilarating and made me want to do some actual skiing. Amid juvenile yells of glee, we slipped and skidded our way rapidly down the quarter mile run with no lift service. Patches of true ice only increased the excitement and caused Mark to have a difficult first lesson in the standing glissade, which resulted in a sore bum and a broken ski pole. Then we hit mud for a while, completely covering our boots in thick, sticky paste. We eventually found what must have been melting snow when our expert guides had ascended. After 5 min of doing the tree Tango (jumping from tree to tree in order to avoid walking on the ice-covered path), Mark wisely suggested donning our crampons. Delighted to finally use my crampon bag, I hungrily pulled off my crampons and threw them on, all the while balancing on a small patch of dirt just above a tree trunk on a steep ice-encapsulated patch of trail.

The operation was a success and the miracle of ice travel (which still amazes me) began in earnest. Unfortunately, our ice-bonding adventure only lasted 20 min after which our crampon points became skewers for dirt shishkebabs, and we quickly removed them. The thick mud soon regressed to insipid, dark soup, as we walked down the erstwhile trail now brook. Finally, 3 miles off the summit, now hiking in the darkness without a moon, we reached the Osgood camp site, replete with bear warnings and tent platforms that look like decks with no house. Exhausted, we searched out a spot on the rolling ocean of running water and dark mud and could find nothing. Looking as pathetic as possible, we began asking people on the platforms (many of them only half-used by unpleasant-looking college types) if they knew where we could stay. Finally, a pleasant engineer named Dick said "I don’t own this; you can put your tent up here"). We quickly and unashamedly accepted and began to set up the tent, quite a project in the tiny corner of the platform that remained after his 3person Kelty had assumed its position. But we managed, with some creative knots and some guy lines, to get the tent up. Figuring we were safe from rain, we left the fly off. We made some couscous, chatted with the now completely inebriated Dick and headed for bed. About three am, I awoke to humming bird kisses and realized that the rain was coming through the screen. We dashed out in our underwear, threw the fly haphazardly on, and fell back into our beds. The rain continued for two hours, and Dick, eager to harmonize, started a loud struggle with sleep apnea. I didn’t sleep well, but I was contentedly safe. We arose at 6 am and dashed home, making it just in time for me to catch church.

About the Author

Sam is a physician in Boston who has trouble making it back to clinic from the Whites. Additional content is available at http://fas.harvard.edu/~smbrown/outdoor.html.