A Presidential Marathon

by Samuel Brown

The Presidentials Range is the alpine highlight of New Hampshire. While adventurers from the Rockies look down their tanned noses at the Whites, few are unimpressed after an attempt on the rugged, temperamental nubbins that run North-South through the northern half of the state whose license plates proclaim "live free or die". There’s a lot of both up in the Presidentials, and their call to the masochists included me. I had hiked the course of them from the more rugged North to the quieter South several months back and loved it so much I decided to bite the bullet and do the entire range in a day.

I saw this as a baptismal of my "minimalist" approach, carrying no more than 25 lbs. of gear, including my home-made bivy gear: the "bivock" (bivy hammock--waterproof nylon base with No-See-Um mesh top and a zipper; I use webbing and a buckle to secure it to trees, rocks, climbing gear, etc.-- a friend’s invention, my name and craftsmanship and my own fleece sleeping bag, sewn and serged on my buddy’s mom’s machines by my hands. I chose as my companion a totally buff guy named Peter who runs marathons and wind surfs like a god. I prayed for good weather but decided that nothing would stop us short of a blizzard.

We arrived in scenic Crawford well after sunset in pissing rain, spent some time futzing with our gear and clothing and set out, hitting the trailhead of Webster Cliffs at about 11.30pm. Visibility was misty/poor, the rain was now only drizzling, and our headlamps were indispensable as we struggled up what I think is beautiful country during the day (it looked wet and dark from where I sat). After about an hour and a half, we decided that we were just shy of the summit of Mt. Webster, where Peter had once spied a decent bivy site, so we grabbed an absolutely perfect little gem of a clearing, strung my bivock up, unloaded the fleece bag, got Peter's gear on the ground, and went out for a look see. Some patches of sky were clear, and the stars stuck pleasurable pins in our eyes, a welcome and acute change from the cottony covering, which obscured views of much else. I loved the bivock and proudly displayed it to Peter, both of us laughing that I didn't really have a fly, only some leftover Visqueen. The plastic I suspended from a string to which I attached my boots and pack. I threw my Z-rest foam pad into the bottom (which proved to be vital--the parts of my body not insulated by the pad were freezing in the light wind). We were pleasantly to sleep by about 1.30am.

Morning came quickly, about 5.30am, and I was champing at the bit, ready to show the Presidentials what a day of Samuel is made of. We were on the trail by about 6.20am, dreaming (as would soon be apparent) that the mists would lift when the sun came and burned them away. The hiking went by like a dream, and we were soon at the Mizpah hut, averaging just over 2.5mph over mountain after mountain. It turned out that we had not been close to Webster, but spent about 1hr achieving the summit, which was absolutely beautiful, kind of. The view was the same stinking cotton that we already disliked, but the mountain itself was exposed bedrock slabs littered with copses of powerfully, demandingly green trees. Mt. Jackson flew by just as quickly, with our views limited to about 200ft most of the time. We found that hiking shirtless in shorts in the damp, windy 50F weather was our only option--we were moving so quickly that we were soon drenched with sweat any time we attempted to progress with our shirts on. We were quite a sight: two twenty-somethings almost naked with packs jogging past droves (especially near those stinking huts) of families bundled up to meet the cold day in the windbreakers, rain parkas, and fleece jackets.

The forecast was bad: rain and fog and crap all day. But we figured that we were strong and handsome and we could cope, so onward and upward we fled. The next several miles were a blur of respiration, perspiration, condensation, vegetation, and meditation. We were pushing harder than I've pushed on a hike for a long time. It's amazing how liberating it is to carry essentially no pack, especially given my habit of loading down extra junk on my pack in an attempt to match speed with the slower companions--Peter was a welcome miracle in that regard; he never slowed me down. Soon we were at the Lakes of the Clouds and soon after we fled the crowds which threatened to overwhelm us. The trail up to Washington was steep-ish and enjoyable as we passed group after group of unencumbered day hikers foolishly risking themselves in what was now brisk wind, dense fog, and wet air, with occasional drizzles. By then we had donned what primitive shirts our overheating bodies could handle, and our sweat mingled with heaven's in an awkward alchemy.

The summit of Washington (I realized then that I've never actually touched the survey pin on top) was hilarious--no view of anything; nothing; zilch. Only greasy tourists and the engineers from the cursed Cog railway. I was tired and hungry, so we spent about 45 min on top, eating lots of food and wandering around barefoot to give my poor feet a rest. Some jerk asked us if we were on the AT and vomited disrespect on us the moment we admitted that we were not. "I did it in '90 something." We headed out about 1pm, now in rain, with visibility down to 50m. We couldn't be sure of the trail off the summit cone, which is nothing but chunks of strewn granite. I asked some people coming up a trail whether they were using the one we needed. They responded that they didn't know what theirs was, but ours was on the other side of the summit. "You want to go North, but you're going due South," the patriarchal figure said, to the awe of his subordinate companions, pointing North to describe our current trajectory. Not wanting to be rude, I did not tell him that he was saying South and pointing North, so we pretended that his directions were good, and pulled out my compass. Lo and behold, our heading was something like 355 degrees. Another reminder: ignore other hikers' advice. It's almost always wrong and you never know beforehand which is actually correct. We finally decided to follow the railroad to the point where our trail intersects it, jumping from rock to rock so as to preserve the delicate alpine grass. It was a complete nightmare, but it was a good reminder of the importance of keeping your head and your gear in inclement weather.

We quickly found the trail and were off again, flying through the Northern Presidentials. The peaks became a misty blur of scraps of rock and cool wetness. Until Sphinx Col, my old magic saddle. The moment we dropped into the col, the clouds parted, and we experienced five minutes of perfect clear views. We dropped our packs and ran down Sphinx trail to catch some of the beauty of the Great Gulf and were not displeased. The col is simply fantastic, and the views were almost worth the hours of trudging through garbage. Then God decided we'd had enough, and the mists returned, never to depart again.

So off we went, passing miserable hiking couples, swearing about the weather, especially when we'd be hit by 90 seconds of monster drizzle. Edmands Col was an adventure, as was Mt Adams, which we simply tagged, having dropped our packs at Thunderstorm Junction. The mist was so bad that we couldn't always see the next cairn on our descent. We relied on my compass bearing and our basic sense of where we were, though, and we quickly returned to our packs, saddled up, and cruised on to Madison Hut, which was, as always, crowded to beat the bank. Some Ivy League dude told us that he was finding himself, and had lived in Jackson Hole and somewhere in Montana with a very serious I’m-better-than-Dennis-Hopper look. When asked whether he was alone, he responded that his girlfriend was with him. We looked and looked, but no sign of a woman. Then, about 15 min after he had arrived, up strode a rather angry looking girl. We fled their surging conflict, pumping up to the summit of Madison in about 15 minutes. On the summit, we met two old men who were completing their conquest of all 48 NH 4000-footers. We congratulated them, caught our breath, and blazed on down the ridge. After we hit treeline, we hit the most unsavory part of the hike. About five miles of twisted roots and slick rocks and mire, as we wandered our way back down to the highway. I guess I've used that trail two or three times now, and it always seems longer than the rest of the hike. We took Osgood trail, and spent a lot of time wandering and slipping over clammy, moist, slick tree roots and rocks through a trail that was evolutionarily indistinguishable from a stream. The last 2-3 miles were mellow, and we jogged for the last mile down this enormous connector trail that provided pleasant views of the adjacent Peabody River. We made it down to the trailhead by 7pm, approximately 13 hours after we set out from our bivouac below Webster Cliffs. We donned our shirts, tried to look respectable, and began hitching the 40 miles back to our car. The third or fourth car was a guy who had just hitched back to his car and felt guilty. He took us to Pinkham Notch, dropped us off at the exit, and I stumbled out of his jeep with thumb outstretched, almost hitting a couple in their blazer who were more than happy to carry us to the next major intersection. The woman was one peak shy of all 48 4000-footers, and her boyfriend was strange but supportive. Now we were on US302, and the sun had set. We were two ugly twenty-somethings with greasy hair and backpacks after dark, and we had left the most popular National Forest road. Eventually a pompous local politician and a desperate girl (she looked like she was fifteen and kept making horror-movie mopey-sexy eyes at us) toted us the rest of the way back to our car.

The hike was intense, even in the absence of any views whatsoever. Overall it was a just a couple miles short of a marathon, neglecting the accumulated altitude. We felt like Titans, ready to gobble up mere mortals (as soon as we could move again, which gave them about a two-week head start). I’d try the two day version first, and I’d be very safety conscious, but the traverse is an unrivaled exhilaration.

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.