Trail Log #35, Day 80, A Landscape Out of Time and Space
Franconia Ridge, a helicopter evacuation, and some really, really gross pond water.
Greetings!!
Hi friends! And HELLO to all you new faces! I know a lot of you have come from the wonderful
’ recommendation of my publication. For this, I’m deeply grateful. Whether you’re here because you accidentally clicked that big “Continue, Subscribe to Recommended Publications” button as you subscribed to Aaron, or because you genuinely are curious to hear about a death doula’s ramblings on life, death, and a long-ass Appalachian Trail hike, I’m so glad you’ve chosen to come along for the ride.As we ease into autumn, I’m looking ahead to a *very* full calendar; all good things: travel and family visits and a long-anticipated trip to Glacier National Park. But I’m not sure where I’ll find time for writing amidst all this life-livin’!
A September Hiatus and Publishing Schedule Changes
So, I’ve decided to gift myself permission to take a bit of a Substack vacation for the month of September.
(That’s right…welcome, new readers….aaaaaaand buh-bye, catch you later! *cringe* Yeah, not the best timing…)
It was a tough decision, but in the end, I’d rather write quality pieces for you all instead of trying to cram writing in between all my September craziness. I’ll use any spare time this month to re-build my publishing backlog for October, without the pressure of thinking, “You need to finish this by next Wednesday!”
Additionally, I miiiiiight temporarily revert back to my older “Substack ways,” where my publishing schedule wasn’t alternating between a Trail Log one week and a piece on life/death doula stuff/etc another week.
Instead, I allowed myself to publish whatever was coming through me that week, whether it ended up being two Trail Logs in a row, or a spontaneous piece about deathwork.
The reasoning for this is twofold: I want to maintain consistency, and currently, my creativity is leaning hard into the Trail Logs. Forcing myself to work on articles that have long been on my “to-publish” list is not going very well.
The other reason is, I suspect my creativity is pushing me into the Trail Logs because I’ve more or less accepted that I cannot continue to progress on my book until this Trail Logs series is done. It’s too discombobulating trying to tell the same story in two different places…in two different ways!
Okay, all the disclaimers and updates are out of the way. I hope you enjoy this latest installment of the Trail Logs, where I finally begin the long awaited Franconia Ridge traverse…
August 1, Day 80
Yesterday was supposed to be Franconia Ridge day. But unexpectedly, it wasn’t.
Costco and I still are not on great terms, and this is one of many factors that lead to my dissolving into a panic attack a mere three miles into our day. Other fun contributing factors include: my tendency to ruin absolutely anything good; my tendency to internalize the external; my crushing guilt about things that were never meant to rest upon my shoulders.
In the end, we were exhausted, opting to stealth-camp on a hill off-Trail. We traveled a whopping total of three miles.
Suffice to say, it was not a day I want to repeat.
The next morning (that’s today), we are cordial when we part ways, agreeing to “hike our own hike” and remain mostly separate. And so, I trudge alone up Mt. Liberty. I don’t want to quit and go home - not exactly - but I’d be lying if I tried to deny that something special about my hike might have been extinguished.
When I reach the summit, I emerge from the greenery to a sneak peak at Franconia Ridge, two miles off. From here, the Ridge doesn’t look like such a big deal. As the Trail drops back beneath the pines, I worry I have over-hyped this whole ridge thing.
Oh, how wrong I am.
A half mile later, the pines giving way to turquoise sky, I crest the summit of Little Haystack Mountain and the official start of Franconia Ridge. I gasp. I thought mighty Moosilauke had been a sight to behold, with its bald peak surrounded by miles of tree-covered mountains. But the view down Franconia Ridge is something altogether different.
I drink in the sight: the White Mountains spread wide, shimmering blue-green in the humidity. To the west, I pick out North and South Kinsman, the peaks where I caught my first glimpse of where I’m now standing. Looking east, I see what I imagine is Mount Guyot and Bondcliff, my next stops in a day or two. Further east and obscured by Mount Guyot lies the beginning of the Presidential Range, culminating in the formidable Mount Washington, the crown jewel of the Whites and the tallest mountain in New Hampshire.
Standing here, I straddle them all on this razor-like ridge, carving a line northward. I name the peaks that comprise Franconia Ridge, peaks that I’ll be traversing over the next mile and a half: Mt. Lincoln just ahead, followed by Mt. Lafayette, the highest in the ridge at 5,200 ft. I marvel anew at the contrast between the Whites and the rest of the Appalachian Mountains. Unlike the rest of Appalachia – ancient, rounded, and worn down by time – the Whites are far younger. They stand proud and jagged, not yet beaten into submission. It’s an otherworldly landscape, a mountain range seemingly out of time and space.
Northward, the jagged point of Mt. Lincoln beckons. But I don’t go. Not yet. I want to hike the rest of it with Costco, even though we agreed on the whole “let’s hike alone” thing. Besides, I couldn’t have asked for a better lunch spot. I drop my pack on a giant slab of granite, fishing for my food bag. I boil water for the dehydrated meal I devour as the sun rises ever higher and hotter. It would normally be too hot, melting like a bug beneath a magnifying glass, but this is one of the benefits of hiking at higher altitude: it’s about ten degrees cooler here than at sea level. And so, I’m content to kick my feet up on my pack and sprawl on the warm stone slabs.
While I rest, I hear tourists making their way up from the Falling Water Trail that intersects with the Appalachian Trail. From eavesdropping on their winded conversations, I can tell they’ve climbed up the hard way: a strenuous route that ascends 3,000 brutal feet from the highway to Little Haystack…all packed into the soul-crushingly-short distance of 2.7 miles. They see me lazing in the sun and then the murmurs start: “Look at her knee! Look at that big bandage! Wow!”
Costco crests the top of Little Haystack an hour later. I can tell things are still not well, but I push this out of my mind, determined to enjoy this ridge walk. The rest of Franconia makes this easy; focusing on the scenery, I mean. Breathtaking, rough, and surreal, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever hiked. The Trail has become a thin ribbon of dusty dirt, no longer a lush green tunnel. Piles of rocks line the way in an attempt to encourage hikers to stay on the path and off the sensitive alpine vegetation. I turn to stare behind me, noting how Mt. Liberty now seems so small. I brush a hand over a stack of rocks – another of the many cairns showing the way in lieu of blazes on trees. Now the blazes are painted on the cairns. On either side, steep drop-offs tumble away into the abyss.
As we approach the Mt. Lincoln descent, the dirt path of the Trail vanishes, replaced by a steep, stark field of sharp rocks; the path is literally no more. Thank god for the white-blazed cairns marking a tentative route through the mass of stone.
We haven’t descended halfway down Lincoln when we come across a hiker sitting sprawled on a rock, off to the side. He’s a middle-aged man – probably a day hiker – and I note his outstretched leg supported by a splint.
I eye him, turning to stop. “Hey, you okay? Can we get you anything?”
“Nah,” he says. “I appreciate it, but I’m not taking another step. They’re sending the chopper up now.”
A helicopter evacuation? I peer harder at his wrapped leg, wondering if it’s worse than it looks. “Damn,” I remark, “you sprained your leg good, huh?”
The hiker maintains a straight face as he replies, “No, my knee disconnected from the muscle.”
Instantly, my stomach churns in revolt and I cringe at such an injury. How is he not writhing in pain? I’m guessing he has some mighty fine pain relivers.
Costco is grimacing too. “Shit. That must have been a helluva fall.”
“I didn’t fall. I stepped on a rock that rolled out from under me. Took my knee tissue with it, I guess.”
I cringe even harder. That could be us, I think, dread filling my throat. That could be us so, so easily. I think of all the times I’ve carelessly hopped around these rocks. I thought I was being careful descending Mt. Lincoln, but I resolve to tread even more tentatively.
The hiker gives us a wan smile, probably noticing our horrified expressions. “Anyway, I’ll be okay. Chopper should be here any minute.”
I stare at the other hikers nearby, standing by to signal the helicopter. I figure he’s not alone and he’s as okay as he can be in those circumstances. As we carry on, I notice how our speed has halved; we’re more than shaken by the man’s injury. Rather than plow ahead, I test each rock before committing my full weight, gingerly using my trekking poles to feel out each step.
Thankfully or luckily, we make it to the bottom of Mt. Lincoln, unharmed, and with a renewed and humbled respect for the seriousness of the Whites. I crane my neck to stare at the rock scramble in front of us: the base of Mt. Lafayette. It’s a beautiful view, but I’m having a hard time appreciating it as I huff and puff my way up, stashing my poles in my pack; I need my hands free to clutch the available boulders and drag myself up and over each step. GodDAMN, I mentally complain, throwing in a handful of other choice swear words. I’m shocked by the difficulty of the last stretch of Franconia.
Once we make it to the top of Mt. Lafayette, I turn, Franconia Ridge unfurling like a banner behind us. All that waiting, and it’s simply done. I feel a small twinge in my chest, but any sentimentality is interrupted by a low “wubwub,” the unmistakable throb of a helicopter ascending up the valley. I wonder how much an emergency airlift must cost as we watch a tiny string lowering from the belly of the chopper. A first responder hops off and makes his way to the tiny dots on the cliff – the injured hiker and his friends.
We stare in silence as the first responders complete their operation, bearing witness as the helicopter eventually flies back across the horizon with its payload. Costco mutters, “Fuck,” and that pretty much sums it up. As he gets ready to continue on, I reach for my water only to discover that it’s almost empty. I guess baking in the sun on Mt. Lincoln was, in fact, a little dehydrating. As much as I hate asking for help, Costco lets me steal a few sips of his water. I shade a hand and squint into the sun, rapidly dropping behind the mountains with no regard for us idiot hikers who still have yet to descend a rock-covered hellscape.
“Hey,” I say, “You sure we’ll get over Mt. Garfield?” That’s our goal for the night. At the rate the sun is going down, I worry it’s an impossibly ambitious goal.
“Oh sure,” he says, dismissing me with a handwave. “It’ll be fine.”
I beg to differ. For the rest of the evening as the sun sets, we don’t stop to enjoy golden hour cresting over the stunning ridgeline. We are too busy picking our way down the sheer slope, ankle-rolling rocks clattering down the mountain with each footfall. In spite of our darkness-enforced deadline, I eat up precious time with my snail-like pace, the image of the injured hiker fresh in my mind.
We go as fast as we dare, but it soon becomes apparent that we’re not going to make it over Garfield Mountain; we’ve dilly dallied too long.
Costco tries again to talk me (or himself) into a last push up the mountain. “If we keep this pace, we can get up and over before it gets too dark.”
A flash of irritated heat explodes in my head. Annoyed instead of cheered by his blinding optimism, I put my foot down. “Dude,” I snap, “Absolutely not. You go if you want, but there’s no way in hell I’m going down a mountain like this in pitch blackness.” I half expect him to take me up on the offer and peace out right then and there, but he doesn’t. I think it has less to do with our friendship than it does with the fact that darkness is falling fast, especially here in the Whites, where the looming peaks and their long shadows make night come even quicker.
By the time we reach the base of Garfield Mountain, we’re navigating through darkness with our headlamps and counting down the tenths of a mile to Garfield Pond. It’s not an AMC-managed site, but FarOut informs us there’s room for tenting. There won’t be a bear box or a privy here, but we’re just happy to stop for the night without paying fees or competing with dayhikers for limited tent space.
Less than a quarter-mile to go. My headlamp has been slowly dying, the tiny pool of light barely enough to see ahead. I’m holding my breath with each rock and slippery, mud-slimed board that only marginally offers safe passage across the muddy, boggy sections of Trail as we approach the pond.
Exhausted, I tear off my pack the second FarOut informs us we’ve arrived. I stake out a spot for my tent and set up camp while Costco gets his hammock ready. As an olive branch gesture, I offer to collect his water since I took some of his on Franconia. He accepts, and I take both our water bags down to the pond.
I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it’s certainly not a muggy, mucky, mass, more bog than pond. My camp sandals sink deep into the muck as I swivel around in mild panic, trying to find a spot with actual water. I eventually slop over to an edge where it seems the muck stops and the murky water begins. I submerge both our bags in the water, hoping not to get too many filthy particles in there. I’m sort of grateful for the darkness, if only so I can’t see the definitely brown water floating in our bags. Undoubtedly, this is certainly the nastiest water source we’ve ever resorted to.
When I turn around, I am staring at a black, blank void. I realize I’m completely lost. The pond isn’t that far away, but in the pitch dark, I have no idea where the tents are. I fumble with my headlamp, holding it out ahead of me, but it provides a mere foot of light. And it doesn’t tell me which direction I should walk. Fear rises in my throat. I know it’s irrational, but there’s a primal part of me shrieking about being lost in the night.
“…Costco?” I call, hoping my voice doesn’t shake.
His reply comes, hesitant, somewhere ahead and off to my right. “Yes?”
Oh, thank FUCK.
“…Marco polo? Marco?”
This elicits the smallest of chuckles. “Polo. Here, gimme a sec.” I hear him fumbling and soon the flashlight on his phone blinks on, providing a direction.
“Thanks,” I say with no small amount of relief as I step back into our campsite.
While we sit on a log and filter our water, we revisit the “hike alone” thing, and agree to do that again tomorrow. I shrug and do my best to act non-plussed, but deep down, I’m wondering if it’s better to just hike alone, period. Permanently.
After Costco climbs into his hammock, I remain on the log, staring up through the gap in the thin canopy of trees. The Milky Way fills the available space, dominating the night sky now that light pollution can’t suppress it. I feel myself halving, like two selves are sitting together yet separate.
The majority of me is deeply grateful for today: for Franconia; for not ripping my knee like that evacuated hiker; for all the beauty I was privileged to behold. Another part of me is wondering if I indeed need to finish out this journey on my own, if it’s worth it to continue traveling with Costco. I sit alone in my silent wrestling and continue to take in the Milky Way, torn between independence and interdependence; aloneness and the necessity of existing in relationship with other humans. In the face of all that infinity and ancient beauty, I search for answers I know I won’t get before I give up at last, surrendering to sleep and the slow and uncaring turning of the stars.
Hello, reader!! Thank you so, so much for being here. <3 If you particularly loved this edition of Full of Life, perhaps you’d consider buying me a quick coffee? Your support makes my heart melt, and lets me know you find my writing worthwhile. I rather like the one-time support option, as it feels more manageable than the monthly financial commitment of a paid subscription.
All that money-stuff aside, being gifted this space in your inbox is a true honor, and I promise I will continue to deliver quality writing.
Upcoming pieces to Full of Life:
What Climbing + Powerlifting Have Taught Me About Mindfulness - a cross post with
Hey Phoenix: What the hell is THE POINT?
Lyric Analysis: It’s So Comfortable to Be Miserable, But So Dangerous to be So F*** Full of Life
A Commentary on Pixar’s Soul: On Meaning Making
On Millennial Loneliness
CARPE DIEM: Dead Poet’s Society
Lyric Analysis: I Used to be Afraid of Time Before I Grew
The Beautiful Lessons of Endings
Hiking as Spiritual Practice
Depression, Mental Health, and Does Any of this Fucking Work?
Chasing Happiness: The Small and the Large
Maybe You Aren’t “There” Yet and That’s Okay
Re-defining the Wheel: Who Are You? And What Do You Want?
Coming up in the Trail Logs series…
The four-mile Bondcliff detour, hiking in the rain, and a boujee AMC Center stay
A (longer) detour to the town of Littleton and a wonderful reunion
MOUNT WASHINGTON IN A GALE!
Well done Niki! Franconia looks stunning! I know that feeling of finishing something you've looked forward too for so long. It makes the accomplishment tinged with sadness, but still motivating to look forward to what's next.
Also, your struggle between being alone vs needing other people strikes a chord. I'd love to read more on you thoughts on that. I hike alone every time. Mostly because I cannot find anyone to go with me. I've become highly confident in myself, but at the same time feel like I can't really share the experience with anyone. Someone was going to go with me on my overnight trip the last couple of days. I agreed, but actually wasn't looking forward to that. It felt like an intrusion of some kind. But, then he cancelled and I was back to going solo.
Anyway, have a fantastic September. I'll be over here pondering my own publishing schedule!