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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.
While biking through the hills and along the shore of Mystic and Stonington the other day with my friend Spyros "Spy" Barres and son Tom, I began to regret that I neglected to bring along a water bottle.
Imagine strolling to the tip of one of Connecticut’s most magnificent natural habitats, Bluff Point Coastal Reserve in Groton, and instead of gazing at tidal marshes, salt ponds and sweeping, unspoiled view of Fishers Island Sound,...
When we last left Tom and Steve, they were paddling through muck and mire (though mostly sparkling water) in northeastern Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. Here is the second and final installment describing...
Gusty blasts that shook our tent during the night blew away thick clouds and rain showers, bringing morning sunshine that sparkled on Cherokee Lake when my son Tom and I crawled from sleeping bags last week.
After tramping more than a month some 700 miles along the fabled Continental Divide Trail, Mystic native Hilary Sueoka and her boyfriend, Dan Stedman, who started hiking April 22 at the U.S.-Mexican border, finally rambled from the...
By the time Phil Warner and I hit the water in his lightning-fast tandem kayak last Sunday for our team’s leg in the Josh Billings Runaground Triathlon in Lenox, Mass., we had already spent a good part of the morning lugging gear...
Three cheers for the Obama Administration’s decision this week to officially restore the name of North America’s tallest mountain to Denali, which is what early inhabitants called the 20,310-foot peak in the Alaska Range.