Presidential Traverse

I’m going to start out by saying that I’m not from New England. In fact where I grew up by the time March rolled around it was likely to be fifty and raining, which really is why I’m not there anymore. One of the classic New England winter challenges that I’ve heard of, and I’m always psyched to hear about others, is the Presidential Traverse. For those unfamiliar with the Traverse it describes the general goal to hike over each of the mountains named for former Presidents in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

Our crew had a wide range of experience from Jordan who worked year round at the Mount Washington Observatory to Justin who has made it a point to learn as much about winter as possible since moving here from North Carolina this past spring. I fall somewhere in between. After petting a dog that looked like a barrel with legs we set out up Lowes Trail. We got a good early view of a sign warning us that we needed to be in ‘top physical condition’ and that people died where we were going. Tragedy not withstanding, it feels good to be reminded that what you are doing is challenging and—as much as you might downplay it to your mom or significant other—dangerous.

We were lucky enough that the hike had been packed out by two guys ahead of us. Packed out or not there were parts of the trail where the trees came so low that we were getting caught up and even had to crawl through in some places. We later learned from the caretaker at Gray Knob that the trees are kept trimmed. In places the snow pack was eight feet deep. I saw one blaze as we approached Gray Knob, it was at ankle height. The going was slow enough that we didn't make it to the shelter before it was starting to get dark, so our chance to safely summit Monroe was gone for the day. We shared our shelter with the caretaker, a pair of Quebecois and two other Americans. We were trying to get an early start the next day but were confounded by the Americans. Proving that hiking isn't the only dangerous thing you can do, one of the men fell down the stairs at Gray Knob in the middle of the night. I thought that it was just icy snow sloughing off the roof until I heard the groaning. Thankfully he was able to get back up and move under his own power, and didn't seem to have any debilitating injuries, but I do know that he is going to have some mean bruises. He also proved to be 'that guy,' you know that guy; the one person who has the cartoon snore.

The next morning we started hiking just after the weather report came in from the observatory; blue bird. After a very little bit of route finding we started our ascent of Adams, the first of our many objectives. Walking up Adams really struck home just what hiking above tree line is like. Exposed. Windy. Cloudy. Sunny. Breathtaking. We were in the mountains now.

After Adams there was Jefferson and one of the scariest moments I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. We were a quarter mile off of the direct path to the ridge, having deviated to read a sign and enjoy a patch of sun, when we started ascending a snow field trying to regain the ridge. The nice safe ridge. Now I was partway up when I heard the snow make that dreaded 'whump,' we'd heard snow settling under our weight earlier, but always in places where there was little chance that it would slide. I looked up and there was a fracture line fifteen vertical feet above me. Here I was on north side of Jefferson looking at King's ravine and essentially an unlimited runout; I was terrified.

If I had to say why I found myself in that situation at all I would suggest inexperience on the one hand. On the other I would say that what I do know of large snowfields usually has to do with resort skiing. I have never once considered an avalanche occurring on the mostly groomed trails that I ski. So looking at this natural, ungroomed, snowfield I lumped it in with something completely dissimilar. Rest assured that the snow pack did not slide, and that after a test of intestinal fortitude we all made it safely past. But I tell you this, I'm going to do a lot more research into avalanche safety before I do something like that again.

Mount Washington we hit in the sun and in calm breezes. Jordan seemed to run up it. Justin and I followed the cog rail up. An F-16 thundered overhead while I was on my way up. Since we know one of the observers we got a quick tour of the observatory, which is built like a bunker, if a comfortable one. We were treated to a quick YouTube video of the observatory crew trying to deice one of the instruments on the tower in high winds. It's amazing to consider the windspeeds that Mount Washington sees. in order to get into position to hit the ice-encased instrument with a crow bar the guy had two people holding him from being blow off the tower. Unreal.

We made camp that night downslope from Washington at Lake in the Clouds hut. The hut is closed for the winter, but it made a great wind block.

The end of our trip was as nerve racking as the day before had been. We were all getting tired at this point. Summiting the peaks that we did, carrying the weight that we were was wearing on us. Also the weather had decided to stop treating us to unlimited visibility. As we approached Mount Eisenhower the fog rolled in and we lost sight of where we were going. Did I mention that on this aspect of the Whites the cairns marking the trails were mostly, to completely buried? By the time we hit Pierce we couldn't see a single cairn. The trails were buried and we found ourselves following a line of snowshoe tracks hoping that whoever we were following knew where they were going. After a lot of tight bushwhacking we popped out of the tree line and found several things that gave us hope. One thing was that we could actually orient ourselves a bit, since the fog had receded, another was that we found that someone had been where we were without snowshoes. Such an ill equipped person was unlikely to have come from anything other than a well packed trail, and so we set off following the postholer. After a few more false starts and trails that infuriatingly looped back on themselves we finally found a well worn trench of a trail that led us back to the Center Highland Center. From a sign at the base of the trail I learned that Ethan Allen, one of Vermont's heros, helped cut the trail that I had just hiked down. Who knew?

After an enormous meal each we three headed back to Vermont bearing blisters, sunburns and stories.