For several years I had wanted to spend a week winter backpacking in New Hampshire’s White Mountains. In my imagination the trip involved alpine sunsets, spectacular ridgeline traverses, and the sort of hard-earned mountaineering wisdom one acquires only after suffering nobly in severe weather. In reality it involved frozen car locks, a damp rental sleeping bag, severe sunburn, bloody heels, equipment failures, sleeping in my car, and numerous opportunities to question my judgment. In other words, it was a complete success.
Weather forecasts were predicting all manner of unpleasantness across New England, but by the time I left Ohio I had invested too much effort planning the trip to be discouraged by something as trivial as a storm warning. The farther east I drove the worse the weather became. Near Albany, New York, I found myself in the middle of a snowstorm arriving at exactly the same time as rush hour. Cars spun across lanes, disappeared into snowbanks, and generally behaved as though winter had arrived completely by surprise. Somehow I avoided joining them and eventually reached Vermont, still several hours short of the White Mountains.
The following morning I stopped at an outfitter in North Conway to pick up a rental sleeping bag, only to discover it was still damp from the previous renter. A trip to the laundromat solved that problem, but I still lacked something as fundamental as a campsite. The remainder of the day disappeared in a frustrating tour of closed campgrounds, side roads, contradictory information, and one memorable episode in which I managed to get the car stuck. By evening I had finally found a place to camp and was setting up the tent in temperatures headed rapidly toward fifteen below zero.
Prior to this trip I had been given plenty of advice, much of it unsolicited, by supposedly experienced winter campers. Apparently the secret to staying warm at night was to strip down to lightweight long underwear before climbing into a sleeping bag. Don’t do that.
The following morning I discovered that my car had absolutely no interest in starting. Nothing builds character quite like standing alone in subzero temperatures wondering whether your transportation has permanently abandoned you. After a period of negotiation involving dry-gas, fresh fuel, and language not generally associated with wilderness appreciation, the car finally relented.
With transportation restored, I spent the day exploring several smaller peaks and viewpoints around Franconia Notch. Artist’s Bluff offered excellent views and only a minimal chance of falling to my death. Bald Knob proved equally enjoyable, though I somehow managed to stab my gaiters with my crampons three separate times before reaching the summit. Later I finally confirmed that winter camping was permitted at Lafayette Place Campground. Encouraged by this development, I strapped on snowshoes, shouldered my pack, and headed into the woods.
The pack was astonishingly heavy. The previous evening I had carefully removed all unnecessary equipment. Apparently my definition of unnecessary differed substantially from reality. After wallowing through deep snow I located a suitable campsite and began packing down a tent platform. Halfway through the process I experienced a rare moment of clarity. Setting up a winter campsite required effort. Sleeping in the car required none. A short time later I was back in the campground parking lot enjoying pizza and beer.
The next morning I finally committed myself to carrying the pack into the mountains. My plan was straightforward enough: hike to Greenleaf Hut, continue along Franconia Ridge, establish camp somewhere near Mt. Liberty, and spend several days exploring the area. The Old Bridle Path wasted very little time establishing dominance. Within the first mile my shoulders hurt, the pack dug relentlessly into my back, and every tree seemed intent on dumping snow down my collar. I stopped frequently for photographs, which had the additional benefit of disguising how often I needed to rest.
Eventually I reached Greenleaf Hut, closed for the winter and buried beneath deep snow. By then my legs were trembling badly. Looking south along the ridge I could see Mt. Liberty, my intended campsite. It looked considerably farther away than it had on the map. A local passing through described my plans as “a bit ambitious.” Only later did I discover that I had selected a significantly more difficult approach than necessary. At the time, however, I was simply relieved to abandon the original plan and establish camp near Greenleaf Hut. Once the pack came off, the mountains immediately became enjoyable again.
That evening I climbed Mt. Lafayette carrying only a camera and watched the sun set over the mountains, snow-covered peaks fading into the distance. The weather forecasts had promised storms and misery that had somehow failed to materialize and, for the first time all week, I felt as though I was finally participating in the trip I had imagined while planning it.
The following day was spent exploring Franconia Ridge beneath equally spectacular conditions. Beyond the Pemigewasset Wilderness the Presidential Range gleamed white against a deep blue sky while the ridge stretched away beneath unbroken sunshine. For hours I wandered through one of the finest alpine landscapes in the Northeast congratulating myself on having somehow timed the trip perfectly. There was not a cloud in the sky. The snow reflected sunlight in every direction and the air was remarkably mild for early March.
Unfortunately there was a hidden cost associated with these ideal conditions.
The following morning I awoke with the distinct feeling that something was wrong. A quick glance in my backpacking mirror revealed one of the most impressive sunburns of my life. My nose was blistered, peeling, and leaking fluids that probably should have remained inside my body. The right side of my face had swollen noticeably. Apparently spending several days above treeline surrounded by highly reflective snow without sunscreen was not considered sound mountaineering practice. This information would have been considerably more useful forty-eight hours earlier.
Having thoroughly abused myself on Franconia Ridge, I spent the next day reorganizing equipment, purchasing sunscreen and other supplies, repairing a failing stove pump, and generally pretending I knew what I was doing. Eventually I made my way to Pinkham Notch where I secured several nights of floor space at Hermit Lake. By this point my face was peeling, my nose looked diseased, and I was carrying enough equipment to outfit a small expedition. Unfortunately, equipment and competence are not the same thing.
The hike to Hermit Lake provided another useful lesson in humility. About halfway up I was overtaken by a local skier moving uphill at a speed that suggested either superior fitness or a fundamentally different relationship with gravity. He disappeared up the trail while I stopped for a rest and quietly reconsidered my ambitions.
By evening I had the shelter entirely to myself. Clouds were beginning to move in and the wind was steadily increasing, though at the time I regarded this as encouraging news. After all, I had come to New Hampshire looking for winter conditions and it finally appeared I might get some.
The next morning dawned gray and windy. Low clouds concealed most of the upper mountain and visibility deteriorated steadily as I climbed toward Tuckerman Ravine. In retrospect this should probably have been interpreted as useful information. Instead I continued upward. The headwall disappeared into cloud. Wind roared across the upper mountain and visibility shrank to perhaps fifty feet. At roughly the same time my heels had become bloody disasters courtesy of boots that had apparently decided they no longer approved of my feet.
For years I had dreamed of climbing Mt. Washington in winter and now I was finally there. Unfortunately so were the summit buildings, antennas, generators, and the unmistakable smell of diesel exhaust drifting through the fog. It was not quite the heroic alpine vision I had carried around in my imagination.
Rather than continue toward the summit buildings, I wandered over toward the Davis Path where the mountain felt considerably wilder. I’ve often heard it said that the best view of a mountain is not from its summit, but from somewhere else looking back at it. As the clouds began lifting I could see the wisdom in that. Portions of Mt. Washington emerged from the fog while the surrounding ridges and valleys drifted in and out of view beneath moving clouds. The views were brief but impressive, and for a while I simply stood there enjoying the fact that I was finally in the White Mountains in winter.
The descent proved considerably more entertaining. At one point I decided it would be a good opportunity to practice glissading. This immediately led to practicing self-arrest. Self-arrest in turn led to a crampon through my pants and an abrupt encounter with a conveniently placed tree that prevented the lesson from becoming significantly more educational. By the time I returned to Hermit Lake I had accumulated several additional bruises but considered the exercise a success.
That evening Alan and Chris, a father-and-son team from Connecticut, arrived shortly before dark. We spent the evening swapping stories, discussing routes, and attempting to give away the food we had brought but could no longer bring ourselves to eat. They won that contest decisively.
Sometime during the night I woke convinced it was raining. Instead it was snow melting on my face while spindrift blew through the shelter. Wind howled across the ravine and by morning every piece of equipment I owned was covered in a layer of fine snow. Naturally, I thought this was wonderful.
A quick stop at the caretaker’s cabin revealed average winds around forty miles per hour with gusts reaching seventy. A storm was moving in and, for the first time all week, the mountain was beginning to feel properly hostile. Unfortunately it was also time to go home. After one final cup of coffee and a few last conversations, I packed my gear and headed down the trail toward Pinkham Notch.
The mountains looked magnificent on the hike out. Fresh snow coated the upper slopes and occasional sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating entire ridges. Everything looked exactly the way I had imagined while planning the trip months earlier. Back at Pinkham Notch I discovered that none of the hot showers were functioning, which seemed entirely consistent with the rest of the week.
I returned the rental sleeping bag, bought food and gasoline, called my parents to assure them that I had survived, and pointed the car towards home. Fourteen uneventful hours later I climbed into my own bed exhausted, sore, sunburned, and completely satisfied.
The following day was spent drying gear, cleaning equipment, and sorting through a remarkable quantity of food that I had somehow carried into the mountains and then carried back out again. Eventually I found the guidebook and began paging through it over a cup of coffee.
The trip had taught me a great deal. I had learned about winter camping, route planning, sunscreen, footwear, weather, equipment selection, and the difference between confidence and competence. I had made mistakes, corrected some of them, and survived the rest.
Then I came across something that caught my attention.
A Presidential Traverse.
It sounded challenging.
Clearly I had learned absolutely nothing.