By Cassandra Krivy Hirsch
Photography by Robert Kazlow
Anticipating the first getaway with my husband in nearly three years, I envisioned the exotic. My husband, however, longed for more of a rustic holiday, since our last vacation was spent tooling through several coastal cities in Spain. For years, he has wanted to hike along the Appalachian Trail, specifically the Presidential Mountain range in New Hampshire. At 6,288 feet, Mt. Washington is the tallest mountain in the northeast. Thankfully, he had no designs on that peak. Yet, somehow, forgetting that I am not athletic and prefer to experience rustic splendor from car windows, I found myself agreeing to the adventure.
The fateful day arrived in mid-August. The drive from Philadelphia to North Conway, New Hampshire, was easygoing save the great swells of rock along route 302, an undulating ribbon of highway dotted with antique and ski shops. That night we would start our vacation at the Victorian Harvest Inn Bed & Breakfast, tucked away in the Mt. Washington Valley in the village of North Conway.
After we settled into the Nook and Cranny – our intimate, top-floor bedroom, charmingly adorned with antique furniture, a private bath, and double bed – we went downstairs to the swimming pool and took a rejuvenating dip. As we strolled into town, daylight faded behind the Moat mountain range and dusky pinks and purples filled the sky. At Decades, a down-home restaurant with décor and music from nearly every era, we talked without interruption and I drank a glass of wine without worrying about slowing my parenting reflexes.
The next morning we donned our hiking gear and went down to breakfast. The innkeepers, David and Judith Wooster prepared a sumptuous breakfast of fresh seasonal fruit, home-baked muffins, Belgian waffles, sausage links, and sinfully good coffee. We had David’s undivided attention before the other well-rested patrons joined us. He rhapsodized about the beauty (and rigors) of the trail we were bound for, while Joe savored everything placed before him. But I felt a palpable dread, eating only what I could stomach.
An hour later, we set off along Webster-Cliff Trail from Crawford Notch Depot (elevation 1,900 feet) with our thirty-pound packs, filled with power bars and lunch for three days, strapped to our backs. Ever the dreamer, I imagined us strolling hand in hand, pointing out – in muted tones, out of respect for the forest – furtive little creatures and vistas teasing us through the firs and balsams. We did see thumbnail-sized tree frogs leaping out of harm’s way and mushrooms of indescribable reds and purples that flanked portions of the trail. But as we climbed craggy configurations of rocks, I huffed along behind Joe, calling out occasionally just to reassure myself that he hadn’t vanished. Lush and dazzling green, still as stone, the forest absorbed every sound.
I didn’t mind poking behind; it was impossible to walk comfortably and safely abreast because the trail was rugged and often wound steeply uphill at sharp angles for long stretches. Daunted by what lay ahead, I kept my eyes down, dodging rocks and protuberant tree roots. We rested every fifteen minutes and marveled at the stillness, not sure when the thrum of civilization had faded. This true quiet was so deliciously surreal and unaccustomed that I thought a nearby birdcall was the persistent warble of a cell phone.
That first summit, Mt. Webster (3910 feet), offered an encouraging view of the progress we’d made. We kept on, following the Webster-Cliff Trail to the Jackson summit. The trees were growing sparse, offering more sky, while the air was getting cooler. We shed our packs to ascend the final few yards up to each peak and for a few minutes, without the thirty-pound burden, we felt weightless.
From Mt. Jackson (4,052 feet) we saw the entire Presidential Mountain range. Mt. Washington loomed, bare-topped, in the hazy distance. We could also just make out the Mizpah Springs hut (3,800 feet), where we would spend the first of our three nights. Though deceptively close it was still a few miles and several hours away for bipeds.
Along the Appalachian Trail, ambling from forest into sun-drenched alpine meadows and bogs then into forest again, we greeted middle-aged and very young hikers who trekked in both directions. Because the exertion of that first day’s six-mile hike was greater than I’d imagined, I realized that without the preceding months I’d spent working out at the gym I’d have given up back at Mt. Webster.
We reached Mizpah just before the six o’clock dinner call. As I sat ogling our surroundings, the clean pine surfaces, and panoramic windows, Joe handed me water and urged me to stretch my legs. After sitting for only five minutes, my muscles were strung as taut as guitar strings.
Between May and September/ October, the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) employs college students to maintain these sizeable alpine huts that can comfortably sleep up to eighty guests. With bunk beds (each equipped with three wool blankets and a pillow) stacked two, three or four high – ten people in each of Mizpah’s eight rooms – any thought of privacy is eclipsed. But we were too blissfully exhausted to consider the alternative.
At dinner, Mizpah’s sixty hikers relished the carbohydrate-rich spread of lentil soup, home-baked whole wheat bread, salad, stuffed shells, and mixed vegetables as if we hadn’t eaten in days. For dessert we cherished spice cake, made fresh that morning on the premises. A joking, gratified crew bustled between tables urging us to eat our plates clean to minimize their task of removing the waste. On the Appalachian Trail nothing is left to decay. Afterward, a short lecture about the boreal forest was given by one of the crew. The AMC trains its young recruits to educate the hikers about the environmental efficiency of the solar and wind powered huts and about the forest’s wildlife, flora and fauna, and ecology.
Joe and I snuck outside just after lights out occurred at 9:30 p.m. to look at the stars, which were brilliant and undimmed by any yellowish cast from the valleys below. We lay back and stared up at the Milky Way and the few shooting stars that we knew were only a prelude to the Perseid meteor shower that was to occur after midnight. Droopy-eyed within minutes, we knew we would not be able to stay awake and hobbled off to bed.
At 6:30 a.m. the next morning, the crew sang sweetly to guitar to get us all moving. We filled our bellies with oatmeal, pancakes, fruit, juice, hot cocoa and coffee at seven, refilled our water bottles at the taps, then set out along the Mizpah cut-off trail to Crawford Path. The oldest traveled path on the Appalachian Trail, Crawford Path was established by Ethan Allen Crawford and his son Abel in 1819.
After descending to the opposite side of Crawford Notch, we climbed the Avalon Trail toward Mt. Avalon (3,442 feet), which offered another thrilling view of Mt. Washington. But the day was already half gone and we still had several miles left to cover to get to the next hut. As we plodded heavily down into the thickening forest, dropping a total of a thousand feet, we heard the rush and babble of streams. At one of them, we replenished our water bottles, using water tablets to make it potable. The taste was a tingly blend of mineral and sweetness.
At another stream, one we now affectionately refer to as the “Stream of Despair,” we doffed our packs to sit and rest. Joe pulled out the contour map; Zealand hut was still a fair distance away. Maybe it was the scarcity of passersby or my sore ankles, but my confidence, wobbly to begin with, finally toppled. Perched astride our separate lichen covered rocks, the crystalline water rushing around us, I turned away from Joe and pouted. Of course, I denied it at the time.
With little choice but to press on, my spirits slowly lifted until I felt like a hand was pushing me along. People at Zealand Falls hut who learned I was a novice hiker congratulated me that evening. Then, learning of our next day’s destination, their smiles faded. “You’re really in for it,” they warned. They were right.
But, to my own surprise, the next day I was less intimidated, spurred on by the company of some of the hikers we’d met. Together, we reached Galehead hut (3,800 feet) by a grueling ascent up the Twinway Trail to Zealand Mountain (4,260 feet); to Mt. Guyot (4,580 feet), with its knee-high trees; and finally up to South Twin Mountain (4,902 feet). Then it was a slow and tricky progress for 1 1/2 miles over great boulders down to the Galehead hut. We arrived by mid-afternoon and spent the waning daylight hours waxing nostalgic with other hikers about the past three days, munching on trail mix, and soaking up the sun.
On that last night, tired as we were, we were determined not to miss the meteor shower and agreed to let Margaret, a fellow hiker, wake us. At 1:00 a.m. the air was sweet and mild, the sky luminous and star-studded. The three of us found a rock to lay back on, then looked up and waited. The hikers bedded down in sleeping bags, snoring lightly all around us, barely stirred as we gasped at one brilliant streak of light after another darting across the sky.
address book
Victorian Harvest Inn Bed and Breakfast, www.victorianharvestinn.com (800) 642-0749
Appalachian Mountain Club, www.outdoors.org/lodging/huts
September/October 2003
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