As I ascend, I enter stretches of dense, shadowy forests of mixed hardwoods and conifers, with an occasional openings to a woodland glen ideal for a hobbit house. The gentle rain falls on the remaining brilliant red and yellow leaves of the red and sugar maples, and on an occasional white ash. As I progress up the trail, I note that the white ash leaves are now missing, usually a sign that a heavy frost has already struck this area. The American beech and red oaks stubbornly hang on to their leaves as they will throughout the winter. There is a fresh smell that one experiences during and after a fall rain—not that pungent smell of rotting vegetation that accompanies an early spring rain—during the so-called “dog-shit days” of spring. Occasionally, a gentle breeze carries the scent of hardwood smoke from a distant fireplace—a scent that goes deep into my primitive nature.
Winter is on the way.
The trail crosses the Cutler River at about a quarter mile from the AMC Center and starts a steeper ascent, including four switchbacks, and then crosses the river once again. Although I am in no way tired, I stop on the wooden bridge and sit for a moment to observe the flowing water. The smooth stones and boulders in and around the river bring to mind the observation of Chinese Taoist philosopher Lao Tzu in the book Tao Te Ching. He noted that water is more powerful than the rock, for the water can wear down the rock; yet the rock cannot wear down the water. Coming to mind is the admonition of my tai chi master, Chungliang Huang: “Walk like a cat; move like a river.”
Wow, is my mind ever wandering! Esalen Institute stuff is surfacing. This hike is offering the time and ultimate freedom to contemplate, talk to myself, do some strategic planning, solve some problems, and maybe even create some new ones.
Yesterday was a great day. Although I had taken early retirement from the full-time practice of pathology, I was privileged to speak at the annual meeting of the Medical Technology Societies of Maine and New Hampshire, held in Portland. My subject was “Optimize Your life with the One-page Strategic Planner.” It was a joy to be back with medical technologists, the laboratory professionals that serve so well, often without adequate recognition. They had played a major role in making my twenty-five years as pathologist a success. The comments and questions from the spirited audience focused on the need to constantly update one’s personal and professional strategic plan and to implement the plan.
The rain is increasing as I continue up the trail. I think of the insight shared by Alan Weston at the hospital in Sanford, Maine who grew in London in the early 40’s: “Any day that they are not bombing is a great day.” Today is such a day.
I am hiking solo, but I am not alone on the trail. It is the most popular trail in the Presidential Range, which hosts more visitors each year than Yellowstone and Yosemite combined. In spite of the weather, well over one hundred fellow hikers are here, mostly students from Germany, France, and Canada, as evidenced by the flags sewn to their packs, and the scant banter that can I hear from them. They are, however, descending after a rainy night of camping out. My greetings of Guten tag! and Bon jour! yield few responses and no smiles. A few hikers are ascending, but I continue to hike alone so I can keep my own pace, and stay unfettered. Soon the forest falls silent, except for the gentle rain.
For decades, I had hiked alone, had swum alone, and had hitchhiked alone, throughout North America, Latin America, and Europe. I enjoy being alone for I am a classic introvert. Many people label introverts as shy and inadequate people, but psychiatrist Carl Jung clearly defined an introvert as one who derives his energy from himself, as compared to an extravert, who gains and shares his energy with others. I did, however, have some harrowing experiences, some near-misses with real danger while soloing. I think briefly of my hike up Galdhøpiggen, the highest mountain in Norway and of Irazú, an active volcano in Costa Rica.
I am now about one hour and forty minutes underway, having hiked the 2.4 miles up to the Hermit Lake shelter area (elevation 3,875 feet), nestled on the floor of the Tuckerman’s Ravine. To many hikers and skiers, the ravine is synonymous with Mt. Washington, especially to those who ski here in the late winter and spring. The ravine is a gigantic bowl that welcomes you with its open arms of granite and metamorphic rock. It is about seven hundred feet high and bounded on the left (south) by Boot Spur and, on the right (north) by Lion Head. For one who is truly creative or easily swayed, The Lion Head may be aptly named, but only when viewed from the highway just north of Pinkham Notch. From the ravine, I can only see a steep rock wall which disappears into the heavy cloud cover.
This trail is familiar. I know it well, for during this past summer I hiked it on the way to the Lakes of the Clouds hut for a weekend with the AMC as a member of their Presidential Council. The rain is subsiding a bit as I continue on the trail into and up the ravine. The trail, first quite smooth with a surface of mud and small rocks, soon becomes a series of rock steps created by the AMC folk over the decades. Eventually, the convenient steps give way to a trail of rocks and boulders. The trail is, however, marked well with multiple layers of blue paint. You can’t get lost on this trail.
I reach a point about three-quarters of the way to the top of the ravine where I encounter a major tributary of the Cutler River. It is so swollen with rapidly flowing rainwater that if I attempt to ford it and fall in, I will certainly be swept into the ravine. I am forced to stop.
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