Chapter 1
A Simple Plan... A Deadly Quest
Without a moment’s hesitation, I turn onto the new trail. Now I am ascending into the screaming wind towards the summit. This is not the goal of the new plan: the goal is to find the Auto Road and get down off the mountain, as fast as possible.
Snow stings my face with its fury. Rime ice, formed from frozen fog or clouds by the blistering wind, covers my clothes, face, and glasses. The exposed parts of my face are burning. I notice that the cairns, the piles of rocks that mark the trail, are now wider and higher and are spaced closer and closer together, an ominous sign that this area must experience really harsh winter weather. I take each step slowly and carefully, for this trail is now much rougher; it seems to be composed of large rocks covered with an increasing and varying depth of snow and ice.
My heart is beating rapidly, more out of fear than exertion, for my ascent is very slow, very deliberate. In spite of the roaring wind, I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Although I know I am close to the Auto Road, I also know I am in big trouble. I feverishly search for the second sign, the one that should direct me onto the Auto Road. Where is it? Is it covered with rime ice? Has it been taken by some hiker as a souvenir?
I must continue hiking even though I am still ascending into the wind. Worse yet, it is now late afternoon. Soon, the night will envelop the mountain and me. My wide-open world is now closing in on me.
A powerful blast of wind and snow suddenly strikes me…then again, like the icy breath of an angry mountain god. I am now in true whiteout conditions. Where is the next cairn? I desperately continue—five paces, then ten. No cairn. I retrace my steps to the last cairn. I find it. If only I had a hiking partner, we could take turns finding the next cairn, which are usually within fifteen to twenty feet of each other. Together, we could leap-frog our way to the Auto Road and home. I start this process again…and again… I cannot find that next cairn.
I am solo. I am stuck. I stop.
* * *
What a thrill it is to return to the Mt. Washington area in the Presidential Range of the White Mountains in New Hampshire, where I had enjoyed so many walking and hiking trips from childhood right up to earlier this year.
At last I am free, free to hike, I say to myself as I emerge from the Joe Dodge Lodge after a great night’s sleep. Yesterday afternoon when I drove in, I could not see the top of the mountain and enjoy its majestic heights occasionally visible from the highway, for Mt. Washington is usually cloaked in clouds 305 days a year.
It is Saturday morning in late October and the clouds now blanket the sky completely. They appear motionless, hanging oppressively low in the heavens. A gentle rain is falling, causing the remaining leaves on the trees to dance, each to its own rhythm. Could the spirit of the mountains overcome this singularly dreary day?
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