I can tell you precisely when our attempt the other day to climb Mt. Lafayette, a mile-high peak in New Hampshire’s White Mountains, became less fun.
That moment occurred when Jamie Plouffe of Mystic, who had been doing a wonderful job breaking trail through ankle-deep snow for more than a mile, realized he had been working harder than the other hikers and asked, “Does somebody else want to take the lead for a while?”
Since I was right behind him, carefully following in his footsteps, I gallantly offered to move forward, and right on cue the snow on the Old Bridle Path trail seemed to grow deeper. I jabbed my poles in for leverage and trudged ahead through what soon became knee-deep drifts.
I know, I know, what were we doing out there without snowshoes, but we had hoped other hikers would have tromped up and down the popular route and cut steps ahead of us. No such luck. Not only were we the first ones out after a snowstorm, but a shifting wind, instead of scouring the slopes as it often does, had piled it up in big, billowing heaps.
Our itinerary would have been relatively modest in ideal conditions but more challenging in winter: Ascend Lafayette and hike along the Franconia Ridge for a couple of miles, dropping down and rising up again twice to tag the summits of Lincoln and Little Haystack before descending back to the parking lot via the Falling Waters Trail. I’ve hiked this loop several times in all seasons and looked forward to stunning views of the Presidential Range from above tree line. Hiking it in a clockwise direction also usually offers the advantage of a tailwind as well as a warming sun when you’re facing south along the exposed ridge.
Anyway, the snow continued to deepen as we gained elevation, and by the time Jamie’s uncle, Phil Plouffe, the third member of our hiking party, took pity on me and assumed the lead position, we were postholing and wading through hip-deep drifts.
“Be my guest,” I said to Phil, as I stepped aside to let him pass. I checked my watch: Nearly noon, which meant we had been hiking without a break for almost three hours and still hadn’t reached Greenleaf Hut, a mile below the summit. Phil, who has successfully climbed Aconcagua in Argentina, at 22,841 feet the highest peak in North America, and also made it above 24,000 feet on Everest, was struggling along with Jamie and me on Lafayette.
By the time we crested the final approach to the 4,200-foot-high hut the wind had kicked up and low-hanging clouds scraped the tops of the krumholtz that poked through the snow. Hoarfrost and rime ice coated the twisted branches, as well as the walls of the wooden hut, locked tight for the season.
By my hasty calculations it would take us another hour and a half to reach the summit, and then another couple of hours to scramble to the Falling Waters Trail, meaning it would be dusk at best by the time we descended to the parking lot – and then we still would have another 1.6 miles to hike up to Lonesome Lake Hut on the west side of Franconia Notch, where we planned to spend the night.
Our summit conference at Greenleaf lasted only a few minutes and the decision was unanimous: Skip the last mile and 1,000 vertical feet to the peak, and traipse back down. The descent took less than two hours, and then we climbed back up to Lonesome Lake just as the sun dipped below the horizon.
Wind whipped clouds of snow across the frozen lake and shook ice from the spruces, so we were happy that the caretaker of the hut, which is owned and operated by the Appalachian Mountain Club, had a fire going in the wood stove when we stomped inside.
A warm hut after a cold hike – it doesn’t get any better.
It’s also reassuring or dispiriting – take your pick – that experienced climbers from little old New England don’t have to journey to the Andes or Himalayas to confront a challenge.