New Hampshire White Mountains

The early morning hours on the road allows calmness to settle in as the direction is set, not on a GPS, but the intelligence  of her mind, keeping track of three routes, glancing at maps as the hours roll by not illegal in this state as it isn’t a technical hand held device. Lush trees border the roadways like perfume their essence molds the photo in one’s mind of all the beautiful New England images.

Gorham, NH is a strip of fast food joints, several gas stations hovering in a valley bottom. Night sets in early as I do my reconnaissance work up and down valley roads to find campground, trail head, and the warden station for information. By nightfall I am settled in after calling home to reassure myself that all will be well.

Three days of hiking ensue. Not sure who engineered any of the trails in the area but switchbacks must not have been invented, or perhaps not an acceptable means of contouring the mountains, because each trail teaches my body how to lift ones leg over heaving rocks. Walking up river beds describes the terrain, the only relief is a couple miles of walking over large tree trunks. The first shower doesn’t wash off the sweat but pierces the skin as liquid stones reaffirm the day’s work. No amount of vista can overcome the pain, or perhaps the stupidity of doing it for another two days.

The ridge walk is spectacular as it illuminates 4 ranges of mountains. The notion or concern of travelling alone on these trails wanes as each day more and more people gather at the trail head, does anyone work in this country? Hiking alone, and yet listening attentively to each person, couple, and family brings a sense of community that I won’t be left on the mountain if a storm comes through.

The vertical might not seem impressive, yet my legs are a true sign that constant lifting up and over rocks for miles has put some marring on my body. That long with my back that screams at the bottom of each trail. The meager stretching I try to do comes to no avail as I climb down into the tent, without my guide, as Hal was always the first to enter, to ward off daemons, ghosts and boogie men, is not around. Lying prone seems to bring the least agony yet after night 7 not even that can diminish the constant drone that my age is catching up with my spirit.

Rain was the least of my problems the last night when a sign posted bear sightings in the campground with large letters asking patrons to put their food away. I couldn’t sleep, no amount of Dermot Healy was going to slow my brain down. I brought bear spray into the tent as my mind relished all the terrible mauling of the past decade. Why wasn’t my deep breathing working? Would the beast give me some warning or simply bounce on me, would he knaw at my head or do they know to go for the jugular? Ever leaf that rustled and there were plenty sprang the body to a sitting position getting ready for the attack.  I eventually rolled up the sleeping bag and got into the car and with back pains twitching with every position I tried to manoeuver into I went back to the tent and slept. Here I thought I had good mind control, nature proved otherwise.