Trail Log #37, Day 82, Whispers of the End

Just as I'm approaching the famed, majestic, Presidential Traverse, so too am I rapidly approaching the end of my hike....and I'm not sure if I'm ready to say goodbye to the Trail.

August 3 Bondcliff, 14ish miles, Day 82

My morning breakfast view from the second story of the shelter

We hop into the morning, eager – for some reason – for our extra 4 mile detour to Bondcliff. I don’t even care about the extra pain the added miles will cause at the end of the day; I’m only happy that Costco and I are cool again, and I’m ready to get into more stupid shenanigans with my friend.

We leave our packs at the shelter, knowing we’ll retrieve them after Bondcliff. With visions of Skylar’s epic photoshoot powering us on, we muscle up and over Bondcliff. At the summit, we admit this is very much worth the extra miles.

Blueberry bushes materialize after we break treeline. Laughing at our good fortune, we stuff them into our mouths by the handful. We have a little photoshoot at the summit where a cool hiker offers to take our photos for us. But this means I have to sit at THE SPOT where Skylar took his photos: a sheer drop of hundreds of feet off a giant rock ledge.

Did I mention that I’m fucking terrified of heights?

Bondcliff!

I hold my breath and try to fight the nausea and lightheadedness that instantly ignites deep within my gut as I tiptoe towards the edge. I paste on a smile for the hiker pointing the camera at me, then swallow hard and sit down, scooting to the lip of the abyss. I dangle my toes over it but refuse to go any further.

THAT SURE IS QUITE THE DROP.

Meanwhile, Costco has no trouble striding up to the edge beside me, sitting down and dangling his lower legs over the sheer drop. “Don’t touch me,” I warn, fearing any nudge will push me over. I envision slipping and falling to my death; I feel the visceral sensation of topsy-turvy spinning. I fight the urge to throw up. When the nerves settle the barest bit, I allow him to drape an arm around me for a photo.

All in all, Bondcliff is a stunning spot. And I’m so glad we came here together.

When we return to Guyot Shelter to retrieve our packs, we check the bear box to grab our food and notice a fat block of fancy cheese. Cheddar, horseradish, and bacon. It’s a bizarre combination that wouldn’t appeal to me in “real life” but right now, it sounds like the tastiest thing on Earth. I resist a longing compulsion to sniff it.

Costco palms the cheese. “Uh. You think this is up for grabs?”

I look around the silent shelter. Everyone who was here last night has long gone; the shelter is completely empty. I shrug. “It’s just going to go to waste in here,” I reason.

Costco gives me a cheeky look as he slides it, without another word, into his food bag.

We ascend back up the long blue blaze to the actual Trail. It’s long and steep, but a lot more pleasant when I’m not getting rained on. Our route for the day takes us over Zealand cliff and then sends us tumbling down the long descent to the Zealand Falls Hut. The sound of roaring water greets us as we walk into a lovely pine grove, a place out of a fairy tale.

Situated on the banks of Zealand Falls, where the river forms a rushing rapids that are rocky and shallow enough to swim safely in, is Zealand Falls Hut. It’s gorgeous! I say that about every Hut, but I really mean it. Nearby, day hikers are playing in the shallow waters or sunbathing on the huge boulders planted in the river. I’ve gotta say, I had my reservations and worries about the Huts before I entered the Whites. But now that I’ve become a filthy, freeloading, Hut-hopper, I’m loving them. Logistically, they’re a huge help in the Whites: they’re frequent enough to substitute or supplement a meal, and the free soup and coffee helps take the strain off rationing my food.

I help myself to a lukewarm cup of coffee and redeem one of my thru-hiker pass perks for a free baked treat. Costco swallows at least two cups of coffee.

While we’re settling in, there’s a commotion by the door. A croo member staggers in beneath a huge load: wooden planks comprise a makeshift backpack, lashed together with rope.

“What the heck is that?” We ask a different croo member who walks past to direct the croo-girl with the pack.

“That’s the food for the Hut. We hike it in from an access road; there’s no other way to get stuff up here.”

I gape openly at the girl who plods off with her pack. The teenager says it weighs almost a hundred pounds. And she’s hiked this in from the road, several miles down. Suddenly, the exorbitant price of a Hut stay begins to make a bit more sense.

Over bowls of lentil soup and coffee refills, we examine a few maps out of boredom. It’s a good thing we do. This is the first instance of FarOut being wrong. We aren’t entirely sure what other AT hikers are doing, but there doesn’t seem to be anywhere nearby to stop for the night. No shelters or even tentsites.

“I guess they’re stealthing?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Costco says. “I mean, I’ve got no problem with stealthing. But we were hoping to get to the Highland AMC Center by tonight.”

Although the AMC Center is also managed by (you guessed it) the AMC, it’s a far cry above an AMC shelter or even the Huts. I read on FarOut that the AMC Center was kind of bougie, but right now, I don’t really have any expectations. I only want to figure out where we’re camping.

“Well,” I say, “Maybe we can get tenting there or something. Or at the worst we can stealth near the road.”

As we’re poring over the map, a lady joins us at the table, her pack dropping with a heavy-sounding thunk on the wooden floor. She gives us her Trail name (that I no longer remember) and says she’s a thru-hiker. I eye her up and down. She’s older, but that’s not what stands out the most. She seems exhausted, her mind scrambled by heat or exertion. I no longer remember our exact conversation, but I recall the general impression that she struggled with comprehending basic directions as she looked over the map with us. Costco and I exchange looks after she leaves, hoping she’s okay.

Upon closer examination of the route to the AMC Center, we notice FarOut is wrong about the distance of road walk required to get there from the Trail. If we stick to the AT, we’ll face a three mile roadwalk to the Center, rather than the one mile FarOut claims. We double and triple check this using the map’s scale.

“That sucks,” I grumble. “Ain’t no way I’m doing a three mile road walk at night - even if we left right now, we’d still be doing some of it in the dark.”

Costco doesn’t reply, absorbed in thought. He points at the map, tracing an alternate line over Mt. Tom, rather than around it, which is what the AT does. The line is marked as “The A-Z Trl,” which eventually becomes the Mt. Tom Trailhead and the Mt. Avalon Trail.

“We could take this. It links up all the way over the mountain and lets out at Crawford Notch, right next to the AMC Center.”

It’s technically not being a “purist” to skip AT miles, but this is better than a long-ass night roadwalk.

“Let’s do it.”

With our plan set and bellies full, Costco grabs a last coffee refill that he chugs before we head out, following the AT along the river. Before long, the blue blaze veers away from the river and cuts back into the woods. Both of us have our phones open with Google Maps up, diligently tracking our position.

On the way up Mt. Tom, the trail gets steep. Steeper than the map at the Hut led us to believe. It’s not difficult by White Mountain standards, but it’s a lot more exertion than the AT would have been.

Costco has been lagging behind, but abruptly, he stops. “I…I need to take a break,” he manages. Any and all thoughts slam to a halt, replaced by paralyzing worry. I can’t put a finger on it, but there’s something wrong with his voice.

“What’s up?” I do my best to sound nonchalant.

“I can’t…breathe right. And my heart’s going crazy.”

Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck.

“Uhh. So is this medical emergency territory, or…?”

A few minutes of long and agonizing silence stretch between us.

“No,” he finally says. “I think it might be…an…anxiety attack?”

Relief makes me almost go limp. That, I can handle. “Okay. Well, we can just sit here on this nice rock for a while.”

I sigh and sit in silence. I’m no mental health expert, but I’ve learned through helping friends through anxiety attacks that sometimes the best thing to do is simply be silent and bear witness. Without meaning to, I lapse into an old trick I picked up in my death doula training: matching the cadence of his breathing in a way to subliminally establish silent connection and togetherness. I used to do this all the time when I was a hospice volunteer where I sat with patients in the process of actively dying. They were nonverbal, within hours or days of death, and the body was shutting down. The trick of matching their breathing was one of the few ways I was able to offer presence. By the way Costco’s breathing begins to level out and return to normal, I guess this is the right call.

After about a half hour, I ask, “Any idea what caused that?”

“Might have been the coffee…the three cups I had at the Hut. And the Mio squirts I had in my water this morning.” Mio, for those uninitiated, is a caffeine concentrate that he drinks like crack.

I groan. “Yeah. Probably that.”

He looks away, sheepish. “Thanks. For sticking around during that, I mean.”

I tap his shoulder with an affectionate punch. “Don’t mention it, dummy. But maybe chill on the coffee next time.”

He grins and that settles that.

There’s only a little bit of “up” left until we summit Mt. Tom, and this portion of the path is tame, gently unrolling the rest of the way to the road. When we emerge from the brush, we have no idea where we are. The sun is going down, casting the road in an eerie purple-gray half light. “So…” I ask. “Where should we tent? I thought FarOut said there was tenting here.”

“I thought so too,” Costco mutters. We walk along the street and seriously debate putting the tent and hammock down in a spot off the busy street, somewhere in the trees. We’ve reached the point where we simply don’t care.

We settle on walking to the AMC Highland Center to ask if they have cheap tenting. But as soon as we step foot onto the bougie property, we suspect they might not. I’m flabbergasted when I walk in there. The Center is gorgeous, head and shoulders above the Huts. It’s basically a resort-like hotel that happens to be run by the AMC. I don’t fall in love with it the second I see it but the bougie side of me basically falls in love. And I really sort of kind of want to spend a night here, just for the experience of it.

But, tenting. We’re trying to find tenting. Stay focused!

Inside the lobby, we hope to talk to one of the customer service (customer service!?) reps at the counter, who is busy checking in a family of guests. While we wait, we’re cornered by a volunteer.

“Hi! Can I help you?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, watching Costco scoot away to save a place in line at the counter. “Do you know if we can tent here? We’re AT hikers.”

“Hm, that’s a question for the front desk.” He points at the rep. No shit, I think.

“Okay, thanks then.” I turn to walk away. But the volunteer stops me, holding out a sheet of paper. It’s the weather forecast for the next five days.

“If you’re planning to hike in the Whites during your visit, have you seen the weather? It’s not going to be good this week.”

We do in fact, know the weather isn’t going to be amazing. I’d planned to deal with that with Costco later. This is one of the reasons we wanted to get to the AMC Center: to have a base camp to figure out what to do if we have to wait out the weather.

The volunteer takes my hesitation as an invitation to keep talking. “See, the conditions on Mt. Washington are going to be pretty poor. The Whites are all volatile, but Mt. Washington is the worst.”

“Yes,” I say, trying not to sound strained, “I know the Whites are fickle. I’m an AT hiker. I’ve been hiking through the Whites for the last week.”

All this does is prompt the volunteer to switch gears, launching into a lecture about the AMC shelter system.

“Uh-huh,” I say again, “I know about that too. Like I said…I’ve been in the Whites for a week now.”

And on and on it goes.

As the volunteer begins yet another informative lecture, I meet Costco’s eyes across the room and do my best to make my expression convey “HELP.” He grins at my predicament but doesn’t do anything; he’s gotta hold our place in line after all.

My stomach growls, shortening my nub-thin patience even more. I tend to get manic when hungry, and I’ve been starving for hours. All I want is somewhere quiet to heat up dinner. And maybe a shower. And then sleep. In that order.

At long last, the customer service person is free, and I bolt from the volunteer to talk to the rep. We’re told the Center rents out a section of their bunks to hikers. They come with showers and a free breakfast. But there’s no tenting. Which means we’ll have to pay for bunks. Costco and I exchange looks. We aren’t keen to drop $90 on a stay, but the idea of showers has been dangled in front of us, and I genuinely want to explore this place. So we agree to it.

The volunteer guy walks us around back to the separate hiker bunkhouse. There don’t seem to be many hikers in the hiker’s bunks, so we have our choice of beds. After taking a hot shower, I almost feel like a human again. I make dinner on my camp stove and stock up on a few dehydrated meals from the gift shop. When Costco emerges from his shower, we walk back to the lobby, where we’re eager to sit on the giant porch lined with beautiful wooden rocking chairs. Costco brings his food bag and a knife, and we split the fancy block of cheese we rescued from the Guyot Shelter bear box. As we munch on the cheese, we admire the stars on full display above the grassy lawn. The Milky Way is still here, though a little fainter than it was in the deep woods.

The Highland AMC Center is gorgeous at night.

We pull up our weather forecasts on our phones and try to strategize our upcoming Presidential Traverse. Just as I explained about the Franconia Ridge traverse, I’ll do my best to summarize the Presidential Traverse. Basically, the Presidentials - so named for the peaks bearing the names of past American presidents - are supposed to be like Franconia on crack: 13ish miles of otherworldly, stunning ridgeline. But everything we’ve been told about that traverse includes severe warnings about not attempting it in bad weather, due to its complete and prolonged exposure above treeline. Supposedly, on Mt. Washington, there have been hikers who died from the elements.

And so, for all these (very good) reasons, Costco declares, “We aren’t doing that in a thunderstorm.”

I stare at my phone in mild frustration. “I agree. But the forecast is so finicky for the next week.” It predicts anywhere between a 50-70% chance of thunderstorms over the next few days. This is to be expected, of course - we’re at that point in the summer where the unrelenting heat creates thunderstorm weather. But it makes planning ahead a nightmare, a guessing game gamble where the weather gods could decide to throw anything at us…especially at elevation, above treeline.

“I guess we could stay here for a while?” Costco suggests.

“Sure, but I’m not paying that much money for a few days here.” I try to tamp down the rising frustration. I’m eager to hike on, but there’s no fighting the weather. A cantankerous voice demands, what are we going to do, then? Just sit around and wait?

After some quick Google Map stalking, we notice the town of Littleton, forty-five minutes northwest of our position. It seems walkable with resupply points and decent restaurants. Not to mention, the photos of the downtown area are damn adorable. As much as I want to hit the Presidentials (sometimes called The Prezzies), I guess it would be a nice place to crash for a while.

Then our phones buzz. I’m shocked to see the name on screen, and even more surprised by what the text says:

It’s All-heart: “Hey! I’ll be back in the area soon if you guys want to meet up for the Presidential Traverse??”

“HOLY SHIT!” I yelp. I immediately text a reply: “Of course! Why are you heading up here? You’re not getting back on Trail right?”

“Nah, just some doctor’s appointments and my mom visiting some friends up in New Hampshire near you guys.”

Costco hops into the chat: “How far off are you, do you think?”

“A few days? Maybe five at most?”

And just like that, I’m more than happy to wait.

We coordinate a plan in the ensuing texts. We’ll go to Littleton tomorrow and wait a few days for the weather to clear. There, we’ll keep an eye on the forecast while waiting for All-heart to arrive. It could all work out so perfectly.

As I walk across the grass lawn to the hiker bunk, I am filled with joy and relief. I can hardly wait for the Prezzies. I’m excited for our dumb detour to Littleton. I’m over the moon at the prospect of hiking once again with All-heart - our tiny tramily reunited. I couldn’t stop grinning if I tried. Not that I want to try. I can’t believe how fast things have changed in such a short time. Such is life, I suppose. Such is life on the Trail. The Trail provides, indeed.

Thank you, I think.

It’s hard to contemplate how my time here on Trail is almost over, permanently. A whisper of a thought fills my heart: I don’t want this to end. But I’ve already agreed to end it in a few weeks. I bound myself to that timeframe the moment I told my boss, my boyfriend, my family. Costco has done the same. We’ve committed.

And yet, a tiny kernel of dread, almost small enough that I can pretend it out of existence, takes root in my heart. I hear the whisper again: I don’t want this to end. Please, not yet.