Spring Break on Mt. Washington

6:15 am – The sound of my cell phone—an obnoxious cuckoo clock—cut through a bombproof slumber and brought me ungracefully back to the dim closeness of my corner room at the Colonial Motel in North Conway, New Hampshire. In a daze, I shut the alarm off, glanced at the time, groaned, and rolled over. 6:15 am. The twilight zone. Where was my meter? I resolved to move, lest the fleeting comforts of warmth, sleep, and the blissful abandon of my dreams threaten my long-awaited appointment with Washington. Then, before I could react, the foreign sound of the clock radio alarm—my failsafe backup—announced itself to the room. The frigid New Hampshire dawn had seeped into the room leaving the inside almost as inhospitable as the outside. I turned the thermostat to high and barricaded myself in a steam-filled bathroom.

7:15 am – One pair of heavy-duty mountaineering socks, two pairs of pants, a base layer, fleece layer, shell layer, outer layer, double insulated gloves, balaclava, and one woolly hat later, it occurred to me that I wasn’t dressed for just another spring break. Double plastic mountaineering boots in tow, crampons at the ready, and an ice ax lashed to the outside of my pack, my friend and I set off down the White Mountain Highway to meet Jim for a quick hearty breakfast of champions. We looked like we were from the moon, but the people passing by and the waitress who took our order didn’t even flinch. Commonplace here…

9:15 am – As we sped vicariously down the ice-worn road in Jim’s navy blue pickup (with license plates that read, “Ice Jock”), I couldn’t help staring out at the unfolding landscape which we were soon to be immersed in. My mind was taking to the idea far faster than my body was. I’d never done anything like this in my life, and try as I may, it was hard not to ignore the realization that all these months of preparation and curiosity were giving way to the simple yet magnificent and stunningly real vista unfolding before me. (It still amazes me how mountains seem to possess the unique capacity for silencing all triviality and relegating the incessant minutiae of everyday life, the litanies of questions, and any unfounded reservations to the wind.) We parked the truck at the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trailhead and unloaded our gear. I laced my boots, tested my blood sugar, adjusted my pack, and followed Jim up an embankment and onto the wooded trail at the end of the parking lot. The fresh snow sparkled in the warm rays of morning sunlight, as the ground rolled gently along a frigid creek bed. Secretly I appreciated these first few miles of approach, as it gave me a chance to get acquainted with my hulking royal blue double plastic mountaineering boots. All in all, I felt energized—the momentary glimpses of the mountain through the trees were both outwardly mesmerizing and introspectively unreal. To literally see the goal ahead and the entire way up was so unlike the other challenges thus far in my life. In the triathlon, the finish line was always in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t see anything more than the particular section of the course I was occupied with. To see the entirety of the mountain, laid out before my eyes and rising below my feet, was invigorating and unparalleled, but also daunting. As cliché as it sounds, I felt at once close to the mountain and closer to something within myself.

The forest receded into a small clearing where upon Jim halted and turned around. I had been wondering where and when the trail was planning on gaining the elevation necessary to ascend the peak. I had no qualms about continuing on at this particular grade, except that the summit wouldn’t get any closer this way. When Jim turned around and suggested that we stop to put our crampons on, it got real. We took our packs off, stuffed our top layer of clothing in, and unstrapped the legendary mountaineering hardware. Sitting atop my pack, I attached each set of pre-fitted jagged metal spikes to my boots; it reminded me of an ancient pair of snap-on plastic roller skates I used to wear with my tennis shoes when I was little. (Though I must admit that it was easier to learn crampons after nineteen years than it was to master roller skates at age four.) I checked my blood sugar (88 mg/dL) and downed some Gatorade to keep my numbers steady. Once we were set, Jim proceeded to familiarize us with the art and science of the ice ax. As Jim covered one facet of alpine climbing after another, I would recall its respective chapter in my copy of Freedom of the Hills, the mountaineering bible that I’d carried with me across the country and studied near-religiously during the past few weeks. Jim, finding this humorous, began to quiz me on the content of the book whenever he stumbled upon a potential lesson. In that clearing and along the hill at its edge, we learned how to traverse and ascend any type of snow-covered ground with these two basic, yet incredibly versatile, tools. Plunging the ice ax into the hill above and crampons into the frozen ground below, we practiced French, German (front-pointing), and sidestepping techniques. I found sidestepping awkward at first, but it proved to be incredibly efficient when the trail steepened later on. After a short while Jim judged that we’d gained sufficient confidence in our newly acquired skills, so we shouldered our packs and continued onward and (more dramatically and refreshingly) upward. Unlike reading Freedom of the Hills, the experience quickly revealed itself as a practical lesson in trial and error—much akin to learning how to walk. Error was inevitable, unavoidable, and essential. We each had our moments—slipping, tripping, and teetering—even Jim involuntarily hit the deck when it got icy. Moving up the mountain was ungraceful at first, but it became more natural as I discovered which techniques best fit the changing pitch and grade of the mountainside. From the clearing, Jim led us up a steep and windy section of trail at a more ambling pace. Assisted by two trekking poles, our guide made his way steadily and confidently up the slope, kicking steps in the snow for us who followed. He reminded me of a lead goose flying at the headwinds of a flock, and I completely content just to learn and follow in his footsteps. The trail led persistently higher, but it was hard to gauge our true progress from below the treeline under the canopy. It was getting warmer, and Jim had warned us about the dangers of perspiration and ensuing heat loss in a winter environment like this. We paused to shed a layer and rehydrate. As I dropped my pack and went to remove the fleece layer, my friend remarked with surprise that there was steam rising from where the fleece had covered my arms. I wasn’t sweaty, but apparently all it took was a tiny amount of perspiration magnified by the cold air and I was smokin’! With a couple of jokes and a chuckle, Jim carried on. Though the trailhead was now miles behind, the treeline lurked still imperceptibly higher. I began to fall into a solid regular tempo, and my thoughts drifted across the landscape, among faraway peaks, and alongside those who climbed here before me. As I looked around, the trees began to recede as the trail suddenly opened to a stunning overlook. It was our first real glimpse of our progress upward, and it was exhilarating to look down across the forested vista toward the trailhead far below. I hadn’t realized just how far we had come in just a couple hours. We turned and rendezvoused with the stream, crossing over a shallow pool and stumbling up a steep slope toward its source. After crossing the stream, Jim stopped for a moment to look up trail and I stopped abruptly behind him… perhaps too abruptly. Though quite stationary, I managed somehow to spontaneously trip and belly flop into the fluffy snow. And though I tripped on even ground and slid nowhere, Jim turned around just in time to hear me bellow “self arrest!” and see an impishly delayed version of the self-arrest technique we had just learned, plunging the pick of the ice ax into the snow beneath. To my amusement, the tradition lived on whenever any one of us slipped while negotiating the frozen ground.

We saw animal tracks in the snow, but the only nature that wasn’t scared away by our passing were the stunted trees along the summit route. With the short, yet steep, section over and having gained the ridge above, we took a water break and removed our crampons. I checked my blood sugar and was surprised to see it had already risen well into the 300s! My correction was on the conservative side, as I figured the ascent would soon catch up with me (which it definitely did!). Jim pointed out the Lake of the Clouds Hut as we traversed along the ridge. As we climbed past the hut, the mountain all but disappeared behind a thick, but momentary, fog also traversing over the mountainside. As we passed through the cloud not only sight but sound too was muffled surreally.

The Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail now merged with the Crawford Path on the long ridge toward the still-elevated summit. (For one not familiar with the topographic footprint of Mt. Washington, it rises about 2500 feet from the Ammonoosuc Ravine trailhead to the Crawford Path intersection at the Lake of the Clouds Hut, and when at last you become generally content with the trail, the view, the boots, and the skills—when the summit tower is within grasp—the mountain throws one last curve ball, one last challenge in the form of a miniature mountain set atop the principle one. We were deceivingly close to the summit, yet there was still the realization that the biggest challenge was presumably still ahead. I was starting to feel low and stopped briefly to test my blood sugar again—in about an hour I had dropped about a hundred—back into the normal range—but with a steeper climb ahead, I was concerned my blood sugar would progress in the opposite direction. After a few fast carbs, I was hoping my race against the low was over, but we were still racing the clock. The unconditional turnaround time was approaching faster than I was comfortable with, and Jim warned us about being on the mountain too late in the afternoon. (The weather, while still beautiful, was predicted to worsen that night.) We hadn’t gone very far, but I had become increasingly aware that it was my blood sugar, and not fatigue from a relatively light section of trail, that was slowing me down. Only a half-hour had passed, but I had dropped another hundred to 68. I knew my blood sugar was falling, but I hadn’t expected to fight a plummet—especially as the most demanding section was just ahead. This wasn’t a time to sit and ponder a course of action—I couldn’t have been more determined to keep going, and it would have taken a meteor to slow me down. Resolving that lows just weren’t allowed at this point, I whipped out my extra water bottle, two packets of Gatorade, and some highly-caffeinated crystal light energy mix, combining them into an unspeakably sugary pick-me-up, which I downed in seconds. It was ludicrously sweet, but it did the trick. I cut my basal rate, and we set our sights once again on the summit. (In retrospect, I probably over-treated the low, but I wasn’t about to take any more chances.) I asked Jim how much time remained before turnaround time; we had a little over an hour. The early afternoon was wearing on, and for the first startling moment of the journey, I sensed that we were running out of time. Up until then, I had taken somewhat for granted that we would make it to the top. And Jim, whose expertise far outweighs my own, was doubting with the better part of reason, intuition, and time on his side. The hope of a successful first climb had fueled ambition and action since the beginning. I knew that Jim was probably right—Jim and all the books, stories, websites, and all that I had read and heard about mountaineering. After all, reaching the summit is only half the battle.

Jim asked on a scale of one to ten what my remaining energy level was—I looked up at the summit directly above, looked him in the eye, and said seven. He considered it, looked back at me, and we proceeded on. In retrospect, my legs were probably closer to a three, but in my mind, if that seven was what was going to get me to the top, then that was that and my legs would just have to get over it. My blood sugar was ideal, so the only thing standing between me and that summit was the ground beneath my feet and the strength of my resolve.


Jim sensed this, again reminding us to be aware of our energy level as we started up the final section of the climb. At this point, the trail wound about the mountain in way too gradual an ascent than any of us were willing to put up with. Jim made a quick but calculated judgment, and we turned ninety degrees, kicking steps and moving slowly, yet deliberately, up the steep face directly en route to the top. All peripheral ambition and inessential thought melted away as the sole object of my concentration became the ground directly in front of me. The key was to find a rhythm and stick to it. If you hesitate, you lose not only your outward momentum, but more importantly, your inner concentration. The prospect of reaching the awaiting summit within a matter of mere feet or minutes was energizing. Jim would pause to look down every few dozen yards, and I’d just smile, nod, and perhaps even muster a wave. Then, in a combination of anticipation and disbelief, I saw Jim disappear over the crest of the snowy slope. The long climb upward had ended, and with a grin I joined Jim and my friend on the summit. The skies were overcast and it was understandably windier up there than anywhere else on the mountain. That didn’t matter though; it was just incredible to be there, at the highest point in the East. We climbed up a small snow-covered rock pile and snapped some photos with the famous summit sign, the sturdy weather observatory towering behind us. There wasn’t a whole lot of time to enjoy it though, as the downward half of the journey still awaited. But first we sat down behind a partially enclosed wind shelter, and took a well-earned break. Jim’s only advice was to re-hydrate and put away as many energizing calories as we could in that short interval of time. Even though our journey was only half over at most, it felt like an indescribable weight had been lifted; and I couldn’t help but smile at the rugged “hi-ho Silver” mentality that guided every step and brought us all the way from Virginia. While no one could complain about the weather atop the mountain that day, there was still plenty of evidence of the extreme wind and bitter cold that makes this summit, “Home of the World’s Worst Weather” (William L. Putnam, author of The Worst Weather on Earth). Three major storm systems converge at the summit of Mt. Washington, and it holds the record for the fastest wind velocity ever measured on Earth: 231 mph on April 12, 1934. The windward sides of all the outbuildings were coated with rime ice, windswept formations that develop when water vapor freezes instantly on hard surfaces.

Fifteen minutes later, after a quick rest and refuel, we began our decent. As most would guess, moving down a mountain requires the use of different muscle groups, techniques, and foot placement. Jim gave us a crash course in plunge stepping with the ice ax—it looks a lot like a snow-laden goose-step. Coming down the mountain was not only easier, but much more exciting. When the trail came to a smooth unobstructed decline, Jim scanned the slope below and sat down; holding the ice ax in self-arrest position he kicked off with his boots and demonstrated a spotless glissade. We followed suit, although not nearly as impeccably. At first, I dug my boots into the snow and proceeded at a pace somewhere between a scoot and a crawl—a velocity I was perfectly happy with. But Jim yelled something like “faster!” so I picked up my feet and let gravity do the rest. I had no idea there was something better than sledding on an inflatable doughnut, but glissading is definitely the most stylish and efficient mode of transportation out there. I tried the standing glissade too, but the result wasn’t quite as graceful. Blisters and boot bang, two of the infamous menagerie of mountaineering souvenirs, are often acquired during long steep descents, and I definitely brought home my share of the fun. Wonderful conversation pieces in the weeks following the climb, the attractive blisters on my lower shins and heels were so dreadfully worth every second on the mountain. (Besides, there’s nothing that a little tape and moleskin can’t fix.) Even though we descended at a good clip, the comparative ease allowed plenty more room for conversation. The three of us had a half-spent half-enlightened, but absolutely entertaining, discussion of politics, history, philosophy and literature that rambled and hit bottom as much as we did. For the most part Jim tried to stay out of it, but every once in a while he’d throw in his weathered mountain man two cents. It was a different mountain on the way down—relaxed to the point that everything said was funny. Even though Mt. Washington’s 6,288 feet pales in comparison to the Rockies, the Cascades, and beyond, I felt—and still feel—an incredible sense of excitement and accomplishment because this was, and always will be, the first climb—the place where I first held an ice ax and stepped into crampons; learned the ropes and fell on my face; where I tested my blood sugar and tested my resolve; and it’s the place where I fostered a deep respect for and affirmed a growing love of high places.