WHITE MOUNTAIN NATIONAL FOREST
LL MY LIFE I have admired and felt in awe of Mount Washington, the highest peak in the northeastern United States. Not only is the peak more than a mile high (almost 6,300 feet), it boasts the oldest continuously-running cog railway and at its summit, some of the nastiest weather in the world.
As a child years ago, I visited the summit with my family, via the Auto Road. It was time to return, this time under my own power.
In addition to the Cog Railway, which now costs $39 round-trip, and the auto road, which charges $15 for vehicle and driver and $6 for each additional passenger, Mount Washington is criss-crossed by the Appalachian Trail and other hiking trails, some dating back to the 18th century. On a recent visit to New Hampshire, I vowed to climb one of those trails to Mount Washington’s windswept summit. I convinced Mike Welch, a Boca Raton, Fla., resident whose father has a summer place in Haverhill, N.H., to go with me. Being a better organized person than I am, Welch had the foresight to call the local AMC (Appalachian Mountain Club) chapter to inquire as to conditions on Mount Washington. “Bring snowshoes,” was the message. “There is so much snow on Mount Washington the Auto Road is not even open yet.” A more rational person might have been deterred at this point, but being a skeptic, and mildly obsessed with achieving a goal, I convinced Welch we should go for it, at least part of the way. He in turn decided to bring along two dogs; his father’s standard poodle, Murphy, and his own Dalmatian-hound mixed-breed, Bessie Moo. The morning of May 28 dawned as one of the clearest, most beautiful days I’ve ever seen in New England. The temperature was a brisk 39 degrees, but it warmed quickly as we worked our way toward Littleton, then Bethlehem, N.H. In Bethlehem we could clearly see the White Mountains beckoning to the east, sparkling with a thick coat of snow befitting the name. Looming above them all was Mount Washington, looking like Mount Everest from our Florida perspective. The AMC guide book warned we would pay a hefty parking fee at the Cog Railway parking lot, but there was no one around collecting money. Instead there were dozens of cars, most of them bearing fit-looking men and women with skis, snow boots, knapsacks and mountain-climbing gear. “This is our fun thing,” offered one of the skiers cheerfully. “It’s pretty hairy up there. This has been the latest spring with the most snow in years.” The mountain-climbing skier said if we wanted to see snow and panoramic vistas, to take the Jewell Trail, which parallels the Cog Railway. The Ammonoosuc Trail favored by skiers is more direct, but rocky and barren. Morning climbs are safer, he cautioned. By afternoon the snow can get very mushy. The Jewell Trail begins, scenically enough, with a rough-hewn bridge over a rushing brook alongside the Cog Railway. A signpost advises it is a 4.4-mile hike to Mount Washington. “This isn’t so bad,” I thought as we followed the well-worn path. Someone had even placed notched logs over the swampy parts of the trail. Then as the ascent steepened, patches of snow began to appear. The snow is a novelty at first, but soon it begins to ooze into my leather tennis shoes, saturating my socks. The higher we go, the deeper the snow gets. The footing gets trickier and trickier. One false move and you are up to your knees or even your waist in snow. The shrill whistles of the cog railway sound as we climb higher and higher. A party of three Vermont skiers passes us, amused by the dogs on the trail. “There’s a 1,200-foot vertical drop once we get to the top,” declared one of the skiers. “We can ski here as late as July. It just gets a little shorter every week.” The view is breathtaking, encompassing the historic Mount Washington Hotel in the Bretton Woods valley below us. We stop for a snack just above the tree line and Murphy, the older dog, is shivering and wheezing. My feet are numb. I wonder how long it takes for frostbite to set in. We press on a little farther, but decide to turn around at the three-quarter mark, for the dogs’ sake but maybe our own pride too. The descent is even more treacherous than the ascent. The snow has become mushy, as we were warned. I grip tree branches as I trudge downward, but I am constantly sliding and falling, soaking my jeans. Just when I think I am home free, I slip on a rock approaching the first bridge, and in a flailing attempt to break the fall I bash my right palm so hard the flesh is punctured in two places. Bloody but unbowed, we reward ourselves with a cup of hot soup and a sandwich at the Coffee Pot, the finest diner in Littleton, if not all of New England. We talk of climbing Mount Washington again at a more hospitable time; maybe September, when the snow is finally melted and the new snow has yet to fall. Maybe not. I read an article in “Summer Week,” a local freebie paper, in which writer Mike Dickerman warns that 120 lives have been lost on the Presidential Range in the past 150 years — five in 1996 alone. The bowl-shaped glacial cirque on the southeast shoulder of Mount Washington attracts hikers and ski daredevils from all over with grades as steep as 55 degrees. Some fly off cliffs. Others get buried in avalanches or get caught in freak storms and freeze to death. One thing is certain, climbing Mount Washington is no casual thing. It is not Thunder Mountain at Disney World, but a raw, unforgiving and unpredictable hunk of granite that should be approached only with the highest respect. 
