- 2016 Elections
- Special Reports
- Maps & Data
- Dear Abby
- Games & Puzzles
- Events & Exhibits
- Food & Drink
- Arts & Music
- Movies & TV
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. ...
Each step of snowshoe on crusty snow echoed through a dazzling ravine in New Hampshire’s White Mountains the other day, the only sound except for the occasional squawk of a coal-black raven circling in a cerulean sky and the huff of my breath expelling clouds of vapor in the frigid air.
Prisms from an early-morning sun danced among sharp shadows of swaying evergreen boughs as I worked my way down the steep Sprucewood Path, en route to a vast expanse of trails maintained by the Jackson Ski Touring Foundation that many consider some of the best for cross-country on the East Coast.
In past years I’ve skiied down the Yodel Trail directly from our hilltop hotel to the cross-country center in Jackson Village, but because of this week’s icy conditions I feared I would be doing a lot of unintentional yodeling on the way, and so opted for mountaineering snowshoes outfitted with crampons.
It was a rewarding decision — not just because I avoided slamming into a tree or sailing off a ledge, but because I enjoyed a short stretch of solitude in the mountains.
Don’t get me wrong — I always enjoy the company of friends and family on outdoor adventures, but every so often appreciate lone excursions, when solitude can heighten sensory experiences.
A few years ago I spent a week, mostly alone, as a winter caretaker at a remote, mile-high hut north of Mount Washington, and while it was lonely and intimidating at times I felt more intimately connected to my surroundings, more acutely aware of nature’s raw powers.
During that caretaking experience I hiked alone toward the frozen summit of Mount Adams at sunset just as a parhelion, or sun dog, materialized in the heavens, a halo-like glow caused by sunlight filtering through ice crystals in the air. Part of me wished other people had been nearby to share the magical experience, but another part was elated to have had the meteorological phenomenon all to myself.
Nothing on my brief sojourn along the narrow, twisting Sprucewood Path the other day came close to the euphoria of a sun dog, but I did experience a simple sense of serenity.
Soon I reached the bottom of the hill in Jackson and crossed onto the wide, well-groomed trails. There I met my family and switched to cross-country skis. As we glided along the Ellis River Trail crowds of other skiers swept past.
Happy faces, cheerful greetings, laughter. It’s all good.
During decades of traipsing through the wilderness I’ve slept, or attempted to sleep, in every conceivable indoor and outdoor quarters: in freshly dug snow caves; alongside bug-infested swamps; during thunderstorms with no tent; in the...
The awful story this week about a 2-year-old boy who witnesses said was pulled by an alligator into a lagoon near a Walt Disney World hotel in Orlando, Florida and later found dead serves as a reminder that danger lurks even in "The...
While kayaking the other morning I spotted a small, dark object poking above the lake surface 100 yards or so ahead, and I was pretty sure it was the head of a turtle until I drew closer and realized the sad truth: just another beer...
Shortly before the start of the late-great Rose Arts Road Race several years ago, a 10.47-mile running competition over the hills of Norwich considered one of New England’s toughest courses, my friend Bob and I decided to jog a couple miles...
Lugging back-country skis and poles on our shoulders, my son Tom and I trudged along the Volcanic Legacy Scenic Byway at Oregon’s Crater Lake National Park, searching for a section of road that had not been plowed.
As I clambered toward the crest of the Mist Trail in California’s Yosemite National Park a couple weeks ago, spray from the thunderous Nevada Fall washed over me, but I was already soaked, with sweat, after gaining nearly 2,000 feet of...
Just between us, don’t you hate it when friends or coworkers post photos on Facebook of awesome journeys to exotic destinations – or if they’re really old-school, send postcards depicting glorious sunsets, sparkling lakes,...
It’s difficult to imagine a more outrageous example of idiotic government overreaction than this week’s incident involving a mute swan on Five Mile Pond in Danielson, which would almost be laughable if the outcome weren’t so...
With a blustery breeze making the 8-degree temperature feel as if were a few notches below zero, our group didn’t intend to dawdle while scrambling back to civilization. The mountain hut where we spent the night had been so frigid my boots...