I always expected that hikes and posts would drop off once work started up again, but I guess I didn't realize how precipitously. I promised myself to do a "big hike" every week or so and post regularly on various topics. Instead life caught up. Ministry is an emotional business sometimes. The various arenas of parish life require commitment in multiple ways. Essentially, there are things that must be done to aid a changing church and changing lives of church members. I haven't been able to get away for extended periods of time. Man...I would love to though... That said, I have been able to take a few smaller walks and hikes. The most challenging one involved a treadmill and an elliptical at the YMCA. The most meaningful one for me was Wolfe's Neck Woods State Park, just outside of downtown Freeport in Maine. This is one of those places I went often as a young person. It was relatively close to where I grew up. We would have picnics here regularly. Later, when I went to a private high school, the park was on my way home. Back then I would sometimes go running here to stay in shape for the worst cross-country team in the state. Then, when I, my siblings, and our significant others worked in the "outlet heck" of Freeport, we would sometimes take our picnic breaks here. Family members who worked at a sandwich shop would bring the food. Then we would drive home...to the same house, because we lived with our parents. In that group a number of our "first dates" happened here. Oh yes, there was camping involved, too... Through the trees you can see the innocent-looking island where the ospreys nest. One of the first lessons I ever got about the power of nature was a warning not to go over there because the ospreys would attack you. There have been plenty of stories about people--sometimes arrogant, sometimes drunk and arrogant--doing just that and ending up in the hospital. The path, itself, is not all that difficult. It winds from the picnic area along the coastline. There isn't a beach (thank God) so it is a hiker's park, mostly. The range of the tides is pretty extreme, so the view constantly changes. Also, there are many spots where one can turn back to the parking lot if necessary. It can be a pretty convenient feature if schedules or abilities differ. During this most recent trip on an unseasonably warm day, my niece had to head home after a while to get ready for school, so she just turned off and we continued on. There isn't much to say about the walk we took. It wasn't very technical. I nabbed a geocache. We spent time with family, like we always have here. Then we went back the way we came. However, it does bring up a subject that I have been reminded of frequently in this project. That, my friends, would be accessibility. Many of the hikes I list on Sabbath Walks can be challenging for some people. I forget that. Probably that is because the hikes are also challenging for me and I do not think of myself as much of an athlete. As a slow hiker, there are plenty of people to remind me on every trip large or small that it is harder for me than it is for them. That is how people roll; one-upping each other with abandon. It turns out that there is a degree of difficulty in what I do--even on Mount Cube or Hedgehog--that is worth recognizing. It might be that for some people the challenge makes those hikes less relaxing than they should be for a sabbath walk. The big accidental secret is that I take a lot of shorter or easier walks. It's not just Wolfe's Neck! I just didn't know anyone would be interested. With that in mind--and to reveal where I go when I am not climbing a mountain--here are some of my other favorite easy (or easier) hikes, some of which I have done more times than I can count... OK...one further note. No walk is really "easy." There is always a challenge. The trick is knowing what you are up for and what you think you can manage on any given day. When I injured my back all the hikes on this "easy" list were off the table for a while. For some people they may always be just manageable or not manageable. Know thyself, thy interests, and thy ability. If these seem a bit too easy, I recommend my Easyish Hikes list. Also...again...know you are hiking your own hike. Sometimes someone else thinks you are a loser for accomplishing something they think is beneath them. I have been on the receiving end of hiker toxicity more than once, myself. That is on them. You don't need their insecurities to harsh your vibe. Ridge Hill Reservation, Needham, MA I credit this trail with much of the progress I made rehabbing my back. However, my relationship with it starts way before my injury. When I need to think and then get right back to work, this is where I go. The trails here can sustain a hike of anywhere between 1/4 mile to 3 miles. It is dog-friendly and--unlike some parks not on this list--the dog walkers keep their furry friends relatively under control. There are no epic views here. However, there is a lovely boardwalk through a wetland. Most importantly: do not miss the area across Charles River Street from the parking areas! It is oft-forgotten so there are fewer people. Also, it takes you down to the Charles River, which is always pretty. Oliverian Brook Trail, WMNF, NH I hiked this one in the rain, but I have to say that the river was very pretty and--in an area of relatively tough climbs--it was a good cool-down. I sat by the brook for a while. On a pretty day I could see spending even more time there quite happily. If you are stuck in the White Mountain National Forest and don't want one of the many riskier hikes available, just tell your friends you are doing this and will meet up with them after. Note that this is an out-and-back. The same trail leads to some relatively easy--but more challenging than this list--ledges. Also, if you make the wrong turn you could end up on the butt-kicking slopes of Mount Passaconaway. Turn around when you are ready. You really call the shots. By the way, it gets a mention on my Mount Hedgehog post. Hedgehog, itself, is "easyish" and these trails could make a nice two-day combo. Broadmoor Wildlife Sanctuary, Natick, MA In the Covid era this extremely popular sanctuary required a reservation. It may still. Also, if you are not a member the Audubon Society, it will cost a you a tiny bit. That said, I love this place! I have hiked/snowshoed here in all kinds of weather. There are trails that make cute 1/4 mile loops and longer arrangements as well. This also borders the Charles River. I have passed the farthest flung trails from time to time in my canoe. If you like turtles do check out the various observation areas in the wetlands near the parking area. Finally, be warned, since the plague this place has been packed on the weekends. Cochituate Rail Trail, Natick/Framingham, MA One warning about this one...it is paved. This is a multi-use trail that is probably best on a bike but walkers can enjoy it too. It serves as a pedestrian/bike path for commuters. You can hit the mall. It leads to the back gate of Cochituate State Park. I made a loop of it from my house--which came to around 9 miles--in order to train up for the Great Glen Way road walk portions. Worked great. Be warned that the hard surface can do a number on your feet if you go the whole way. Mount Agamenticus, York, ME This is the "hardest" of these easy hikes and it is the only one that has its own entry on this blog. I will refer you there for details. Still, it was very accessible and there were plenty of trails that skirt the mountain, itself if that feels like too much. Long Pond Loop (Tully Lake Reservation) Athol, MA This loop is also on the challenging end of easy. There is an optional tiny mountain to consider. That said, it is one of my absolute favorites of all time. It follows Long Pond just north of the much-busier Tully Lake. There are views both over the pond and up on the tiny mountain. It is also the longest on this list at about 7 miles. Unlike the rail trail, you cannot really bail out, which is a consideration. That said. it is very doable if you give yourself enough time. Bradbury Mountain State Park, Pownal, ME I have mentioned this one before as well. I spent a huge amount of time here growing up. One of my brothers worked as a summer ranger here as well. This tiny "mountain" has a great view of the towns and villages where I grew up. Trust me, though, you will like it even if you are from away. Also, yes, my high school cross-country team ran here from time-to-time as well. As with Wolfe's Neck and Broadmoor, there is a fee to get in. The shortest trail to the top is about .4 miles. However, I usually take the perimeter trail that makes the whole experience closer to 3 miles. That is all for now! It was nice getting to think about these special places. I have already been to Ridge Hill once this week. Maybe I will head over again soon...
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Well...it happened. I am back at work after 5 weeks of a sabbatical filled with hiking, writing, and reading. I have to say that I enjoyed it. I also learned a great deal about interacting with the natural world which, of course, was the point. I find it is good to have goals even in an ostensibly less-structured time. I like being able to look back and see what I did. Among other things, I hiked 35 of New Hampshire's 48 4,000 footers and 18 of New Hampshire's "52 With a View" mountains. I have written about many of them here. Not bad. This is my third sabbatical. After every sabbatical at least one person will use the term "rested and refreshed" to describe my state upon returning. I don't get the "rested" part. I never really rested. I worked--and played--pretty hard actually and now I am tired around the edges. However, in one sense--perhaps that of restarting a computer, for example--I could be refreshed. Sabbatical is a reboot. It involves getting rid of old programming and updating systems. I am not done yet. There is more sabbatical to come. Still, I am in the reboot process and that is...interesting. I had a number of goals for myself at this point in that process. One of them was simply an act of definition. I wanted to answer the question of what a "Sabbath Walk" actually is. I named this weblog after the concept, which did not originate with me. What sort of "walk" helps us to connect to the Great Whatever? How do we find ways to act in the world that will expand our horizons? In an earlier post I talked about what the implications might be for the institutional church. Here, I want to lift up some aspects of what I learned. Now for this project my sabbath walks have been actual walks. That is what works for me. Of course they could really comprise any number of activities. Some people's sabbath walk is more of a sit or a read. There are people who explore through music or math or science. I kept it simple by making this metaphor for life somewhat literal. There are, of course, other ways to connection. Here I am talking about hiking, but there may be something in it for you even if that is not your bag. I learned pretty quickly that not every hike fit into the category of sabbath. Some of them were too challenging. Some were too easy. There were distractions along the way. Like Goldilocks I found that there was an element of "just rightness" that I needed to get into a prayerful or meditative mood. I have hinted at this realization in a number of other posts. Just as in formal worship--where through the elements of the ritual we attempt to elevate our minds and hearts--there are conditions that help or hinder the spiritual exercise of walking in the woods. Of course there are infinite variations to these conditions. However, for the sake of simplicity I have begun to use four broad categories that need to be present in relatively equal measure for a true sabbath walk. If they are not there the adventure can still be worthwhile, of course. It is just that the conditions make the spiritual connection--the meditative aspect--harder to find. There was much to say about ,my climb up Mount Washington and Mount Monroe, for example, but either my own state or the state of the hike itself (or both) made meaningful reflection difficult Anyway, here they are. All four of these aspects are recognizable to most hikers as being par for the course. Which is to say that they are part of any climb or walk. When we are mindful of them, we have a better time. In fact, these are often the specific reasons we went for a walk in the first place! 1) Physical Challenge and Discipline: It is hard to miss this one. I mark my own discipline of sabbath walking from right after my back surgery. There was rehab involved. I had to get out and get moving! Hiking was more interesting than going to the gym, where I injured myself in the first place. It was also something I was familiar with from a lifetime of getting outdoors. Most people--hikers and non-hikers alike--recognize that there is a physical challenge involved when we intentionally take a long walk. Even strolling around the neighborhood indicates that we are somehow pushing ourselves. The challenge is part of why we do it. We are "getting in shape" but we are also getting to know our bodies, their likes and dislikes. Knowing ourselves and the vessel that carries us is essential to a well-grounded life. Now, this can often be the primary motivation for some hikers. It is a legitimate door into a sabbath discipline. Getting stronger and feeling better physically is important in and of itself. So too is the pride and joy of achieving a difficult goal. When I climbed Mount Adams and Mount Madison a couple weeks ago, I was chuffed to have done so. The trip was very much about dealing with the 5,000-plus feet of total elevation gain and staying hydrated. We were coping with the discomfort and the risk around wet trails and the slippery rocks. My brother waited at the end for us and became worried something bad had happened! We were just slow. We all high-fived each other in the parking lot at the end. That said, the physical challenges out-weighed some of the other aspects so it was hard for me to make it a "sabbath." What I can say, though, is that one's physical presence brought about by addressing a physical challenge with intention and discipline is essential to the walk. It's just that too much physical challenge makes it hard to concentrate on other things. We must push ourselves and engage our bodies. Yet it can be--and should be--at the level of the walker. That is part of our practice of self-awareness, after all. It also needs to balance with a few other things. 2) Mental Challenge and Discipline: Now, it may be easy to conflate this with the physical challenge. Many athletes, for example, talk about getting the right mindset for their respective competitions. I am a big basketball fan and--if this were a different kind of blog--I would tell you about the many times in the NBA and WNBA where a less-talented team beat a more talented one because their heads were in the right place. We see this in a good walk, as well. Lets say we are climbing a physically challenging mountain and we need to find the courage and fortitude to keep going. In that moment we must push through the pain or despair to the other side. It matters that we do this. However, it also matters how we do this. For some it is a case of baring down, finding hidden reserves of power, and soldiering through. Others--and I would put myself in this category--do better through a discipline of openness. When I hike I try to cast my eyes and my heart outward into the landscape and toward other hikers, using the power of the world around me to drive me forward. It wasn't always this way. I remember hiking Mount Moosilauke early on in this project. In retrospect I probably shouldn't have. I was still in pretty bad shape both physically and mentally. I used the "dig deep, push through" method and it got me to the top of the mountain. About halfway down, however, those reserves ran out. I "crashed" emotionally and had trouble getting myself back to the car while in full hot mess mode. This was the state of things on many hikes for a while. However, I started turning the corner while climbing the Tripyramids and by the time I hit the Osceolas--where I actually took a major fall--I at least had the sense of what I needed to do going forward. All that stuff in my posts about noticing the colors, the views, the little plants, and the people began as part of that exercise of openness. It was a very practical adaptation to help me survive. The world/creation/the universe etc has more energy than we have on our own. It is good to find ways to use it. 3) Receptivity to the Moment: This one logically follows from the previous ones, doesn't it? It is in some way about aesthetics. Most folks who go for walks have a view in mind. That is why we climb mountains or circle lakes. It is why we try for the most "natural" places in our lives. We are trying to be called up and out from the concerns that tie us down and reduce our humanity. An experience that points to the vastness around us helps with that. Human constructs often demand more from us than we are able to healthily give. There are societal and economic demands on us. In order to maintain our selfhood in this environment, we naturally pull ourselves inward. We stay in our lane as much as possible. We also travel as fast as that lane allows. Maybe we manage to live in the moment while we are drinking our first cup of coffee in the morning. After that, though, for most of us life is a series of next moments. There are things we are expected to--or want to--achieve so we going about doing those things. This is what draws us to our sanctuaries. We are not products of our constructed world. We are products of the world before we built those things. You might want to go back and read the two previous sentences again. The solid foundation of a house of worship, or the quiet of an art museum, or the chaos of a concert, or the primal energy of the trail, are all sanctuaries for our souls where we can be present in the space we are occupying at that very moment. Our challenge is to find those places where we are receptive. There are many, many directions in which to go to seek them. If you have read my posts here then you know that I have developed a practice of receptiveness while hiking. Particularly when I am alone, I make a point of sitting, feeling the rock beneath me, listening to the wind and the animals in the bushes. If there is a view I try to enjoy that, too. It isn't entirely necessary though. This practice has helped to save many a hike that I would otherwise deem a bust. Most recently it helped me through a soggy hike up Mount Israel. The sabbath walk needs time to make connections to the right now, and sometimes it isn't that easy. 4) Contributing Creativity Worship is a dialogue. Yes, in many formal settings it may not feel that way. Folks who get their information about worship life third-hand may not be aware that in pretty much every tradition there are ways that everyone participates and adds to the moment. In my church there are hymns and responsive readings. There are announcements that are sometimes longer than the sermon. There is coffee and conversation afterward that frequently lasts longer than worship, itself. A sabbath walk requires these elements as well. Our conversation--broadly conceived--creates a new thing and adds to the whole of creation. Creativity can be intimidating. People think of painting, writing, and preaching, for example. However, it doesn't have to be that way. Do you sing along to the radio in the car? That is part of a dialogue. You are changing the original document--the song--and making it your own at least for that place and time. I sing hymns on the trail these days, particularly when things are getting rough. I picked this practice back up from my distant past on a solo hike up Tecumseh and have continued to do so when the spirit moves. I also take pictures and, yes, I write. That is extra, though. As this project has gone on I have found it harder to post something new for each walk but I still form sentences in my heart as I go along, even though you may never read them. I also usually manage an Instagram post. Pictures don't feel as repetitive to me. A sabbath walk doesn't just involve being in the moment and witnessing what is before us. It involves making that moment more meaningful and beautiful. This doesn't always happen. There is so much going on as we walk that we may be too distracted. There may be too much going on before and after our walk. We may not be in the right space to make something new. However sabbath is about practice and we do get better at being creative over time. We get better at talking back to--and building--creation. We need to forgive ourselves when things don't go right. There will always be another sabbath-day. So--once again--not all walks are reflective. That is fine and good. Sometimes we need to get something else out of an experience. That said, I do believe that there is a place for worshipful walking when we can. These four aspects in some sort of balance are--for me at least--what makes the difference between a good hike and a sabbath walk. If you are curious which ones made it for me, I have an "Actual Sabbath Walks" section which will give you a sense of what I am talking about. They can be a challenging as Mount Katahdin or as easy as Mount Norwottuck. On my list, for whatever reason, things aligned in such a way as to create an attitude of worship and of connection to something greater than myself.
I hope your walks--or your "walks"--are also satisfying. If you feel like sharing, please do! Communities--congregations in whatever form--make everything more meaningful. The glory of the mountains is color. A great many people think that they see all that there is to be seen of the White Hills in one visit...but what if you could go into a gallery where the various sculpture took different attitudes every day? ...Would one season be sufficient to drain the interest of it? Thus the mountains are ever changing. They are never two days the same. --Thomas Starr King Hiked On October 12, 2022 Many years ago my mother-in-law came across a Walter Launt Palmer painting in a thrift shop in New Jersey. That painting eventually got her an appearance on the Antiques Roadshow. Back then this name was new to me. Palmer worked mostly in New Hampshire in the White Mountains and his work was heavily influenced by the Hudson River school that began about a generation earlier. Since that time I have seen his work in many American museums. I remember, too, an exhibit of "New Hampshire school" painting at Fruitlands where the emphasis was on the use of light, how it falls, and how it changes a scene. Light and color are both evident in his work. Somehow his paintings seem both over-the-top and true-to-life at the same time. He creates spaces the viewer can recognize and inhabit, while also understanding that the perfection of these works makes them somewhat other-worldly. It turns out Palmer is a big deal. Looking at his paintings--easily available for viewing online--you can experience some of the dynamism of the natural world. They draw us in. They compel us with their familiarity. We inhabit the scene because it is magical, too. The appearance of our lived landscapes alters with the season and the time of day. We experience this in all its glory when we leave our homes to journey farther into the wild. However, we are familiar with it from our own more mundane lives as well. Looking at the trees outside my window I can see them cycle through the seasons; from brown, to green, to yellow and red, then back to brown. When it rains they look different from when they are in the sun or the snow. We are used to this phenomenon. Still, for most people it remains fascinating. The Universalist and Unitarian minister, Thomas Starr King also saw this aspect of light and color. He is most associated these days with California, where he ministered and where a seminary is named in his honor. However, Starr King was a New Yorker and a New Englander before that. In fact, he wrote a book in the 19th Century style about what he called the "White Hills." Now one of those "hills" is named after him and resides on the 52 With-a-View List. The quote at the top of this post refers to something that many people who visit regularly have observed. The light changes constantly. So, too, does the color...and not just in the fall. The mountains "are never two days the same." This is why we go out into the natural world more than once a year. When we return to the same place at a different time, we are reminded that this thing called life is dynamic and ever-moving. We are all these things as well. I climbed up Hedgehog on my own about 30 seconds after peak foliage. The weekend before--when we did the Carter Loop in the snow--was the busiest the Whites had ever been...or, at least, had been since the previous Indigenous People's Day weekend. Our drive home after that hike was a bit of a nightmare, actually. As I mentioned in my previous post, most peaks were crawling with people. This past week it was still crowded. However--just as with the Carters--one can find hikes where the more casual tourist doesn't go. They are looking for either the easy view or the famous mountain. I don't really blame them and have done so occasionally myself. Driving down the Kancamagus Highway on my way to the trailhead for Hedgehog, I saw overflow parking--cars along the road--at all the major trails and viewpoints. Random pedestrians popped out into my path to get a better angle on pictures of the Saco River and God knows what else. It was a bit chaotic even for the tail end of foliage season. Since I was in New Hampshire for a few days this time, I had planned at least a couple of more obscure hikes. This was the first of them. Pulling in the trailhead parking there was only one other car. The little mountain was pretty much neglected in favor of the more famous ones. That, of course, was my gain. After a quick conference with the couple in the car next to me, we chose different routes. My new acquaintances had a steeper climb straight to the peak. I decided to go counter-clockwise. I wanted to start with a clear view from a series of ledges over the Oliverian Brook valley toward Chocorua, Paugus, and then--most strikingly--to Passaconaway only two miles away. Passaconaway is a massive mountain I would rather look at than climb a second time. I knew that the direction I was going would put it front-and-center as I walked along. The early ledges were pretty much all that I expected them to be. Colorful hardwoods crawled up the slopes from their lower vantage point, attempting, maybe, to pull the dark, massive, pines back down toward them. I had to concentrate a bit on the early ledges that ended abruptly in a steep drop toward the valley floor, but that was not too much of a challenge. Also, having to focus on the ground gave me the opportunity to look at some of the reddish alpine communities growing in the cracks and crevices near my feet. Eventually those ledges ended, followed by a dip and then a steep climb toward the top. Somewhere before that final climb, I encountered the couple from the parking lot who told me that we no longer had the place to ourselves. Still, I only saw a few more groups over the course of the day. Some encounters were welcome. Resting at the peak, in fact, I had a conversation with a young person from Germany. She had rented a van and was spending a month or so hiking on the east coast. We got maps out, identified some peaks, and compared notes on our respective future and past hikes. She was also concerned about some older folks she had passed on her way up. They were moving quite slow to her mind. As a somewhat older person myself who is known to hike slowly, I told her I would check on them. They were fine. They had chosen to move steadily toward the seat we had recently vacated, careful to monitor their progress and their condition. This wasn't their first rodeo. They knew what they wanted from the climb. One can accomplish a great deal with an awareness of one's own strengths and limitations. The people I worry about are more confident--or overconfident--ignorant, and ill-prepared. After the peak I started down. With a little gas left in my metaphorical tank, I decided to take the diversion out to Allen's Ledge. Here, again, I could look over the Oliverian Brook valley. These ledges were off the main trail. There was no one else around. I spent about 40 minutes admiring the silence and the colorful display. It was easy to imagine being up there in other seasons. Probably winter, in particular, would be delightful on the ledges here. Maybe I will go see it then. The change of seasons that we witness in this way--just by looking out our windows every month or week of the year--can reflect our own personal seasons. Spring and fall have their easy, spectacular demonstrations of life and death. However, we also live through the pulsating heat and drought of summer. We survive the freezing cold of our winters. It is important to understand that there is beauty in times of desperate survival as well. Otherwise we will not get through the journey as well, will we? The next day--after a climb of Mount Israel that will be the subject of another post--I hiked along the Oliverian Brook. I was curious what the space between the mountains looked like from below the ledges. While I was there, the ferocious rain stripped many of the trees clean. The leaves gathered in muddy puddles along the trail, becoming soil in real time. Peak foliage is over for another year, but this new landscape had its own beauty to observe. I sat under the roots of an old tree along the brook and watched the current, the rain, and this year's bright color turn to the browns and grays that the snow will later outline like a Palmer painting. The cycle of life continues. Creation never ceases. We are blessed to participate and witness. And one final video. This one is not about peak color--quite the opposite--but I did do a longer video about Hedgehog... Hiked on October 9, 2022 Snow changes everything. Obviously there are actual physical changes. Climbing in the snow--even a little bit--can alter one's approach. The rocks get slippery, for instance. Footing gets weird. If it snows early in the season there can be personal thermostat challenges, with layers going on and off in rapid succession. However, there are also aesthetic and spiritual changes. The white flakes create sharp outlines where previously there were none. The fall of snow, itself, helps us remember previous snows for better or for worse. The sound is altered, too. Even a little snow has the ability to muffle the incidental noises of the forest. Also, many creatures--human and otherwise--become silent, hiding away until the squall passes on. An early October snowfall starting somewhere above 3,000 feet changed this hike across South Carter, Middle Carter, and oft-forgotten Mount Lethe. We had climbed Carter Dome a couple weeks before. Two weeks--and the snow--made all the difference. When we were on the Carter-Moriah Trail (also part of the AT) in September the place was a seething mass of humanity. Thru-hikers were hustling along their way in hopes of making it to Baxter State Park before it closed for the season. Day hikers were everywhere. On the top of Carter Dome--as I mentioned before--a group had decided to have a picnic and blast their tunes for the rest of us to hear. On this trip it was all silence. It is too late for all that rushing about and too cold for picnics. From now until May there is a seriousness to this endeavor that doesn't empty the big mountains of people so much as put more space between them. To get to the Carter-Moriah trail--the one that takes us over the peaks--we opted for a steep climb up 19 Mile Brook Trail. The pitch became steeper as went along. When we approached Carter Dome we were on the other side of the ridge. We stopped at Carter Notch and climbed to the peak from there. In this case--on the "front" side--the trail split, with 19-Mile Brook heading toward the hut. The other path--called the Carter Dome Trail though we departed it before the Dome--veers left and heads up toward South Carter. The plans of the few people we saw seemed to involve the hut. Once we turned we had the trail even more to ourselves. Shortly after this was when the snow started. I am not fond of winter or winter hiking. Snow, however, I like if it is ridiculously early in the season. It reminds me of Thanksgiving and Christmas. Also, it doesn't get deep enough to be a problem--other than the slickness--for our footing. We had the micro spikes in our bag just in case, but we didn't need them. I stayed in a T-shirt for quite a while, waiting for the snow to pick up. I heat up quickly and was mindful of what the drop in temperature could do if I soaked through too many outer layers. It was a strange feeling with the colored leaves still on the trees, but it wasn't an unpleasant one. The wind had died down, which helped a great deal as well. All the weather activity gave us something to think about as we moved higher and higher. In a previous post I made reference to a phenomenon that occurs sometimes on mountain hikes where the trail begins to feel safe and secure, like a comfortable room in a house or a welcoming hallway connecting two points. At least that is how I experience it sometimes. This hike had a great deal of this sort of action, particularly after the climb up. When we emerged onto the relatively broad intersection of our trail with Carter-Moriah, the room effect was very much in force. Again, two weeks earlier this spot would have been insane with hikers. Now Al and I were alone in the quiet with the snow gently settling around us. We may not have been in a true winter wonderland, but it was a wonderland nonetheless. That feeling stuck with us for the long walk along the ridge. We had selected this loop to get away from the crowds. Now on the main trail, we did see a few people enjoying the strangeness of the day. That said, the population was very manageable. We weren't sure it would be that way. The weekend of Indigenous People's Day is one of the busiest in the Whites. The foliage is usually full throttle. You cannot find a place to stay. Many of the best-known trails and mountains are packed with muggles looking for a fabulous view. We were under the impression that there wasn't much in the view department on the Carters. This was why we picked it. We wanted to hike. The snow had made the forest even more beautiful so we didn't mind terribly anyway. Funny thing, though. We were wrong about the views. After a long, long, time in the forest the snow started to abate. Through the trees and on various outlooks we were all able to cast our eyes on the fall landscape from our wintry perches. The juxtaposition of our landscape with the one far below was the sort of thing we hope for after putting in so much effort. It felt like a gift. At this point the temperatures had dropped substantially. Bundled up in our winter jackets we took a moment for snacks and water before heading just below the peak of Mount Lethe. Then we turned on the North Carter Trail toward the Imp Trail for our descent. The rest of the hike was less interesting. We had a few more brilliant views before dropping under the canopy of trees. We had been talking about heading over the Imp Face--one of the 52 WAV mountains--but we were really done. I was especially finished. I had decided to wear my "backup" hiking boots that I used on the Great Glen Way. This was a mistake. I was trying to save money by nursing along my favorite pair, saving them for other hikes. I paid for my cheapness with pain. I don't think I can do that much longer. It is worth it to use the right gear for the right job. The best boots one can get are the best boots to have, it turns out. Limping down to the bottom of the North Carter/Imp trails I welcomed the short road walk back to our car to complete the loop. Sometimes there is no great theme to a walk. On days like this it is best not to look too hard for meaning. Instead we favor the day we have been given with our attention. The snow, the pretty trail, the surprise views, and even the sore feet contributed to the experience. We were open to the wonder and were rewarded for it.
Hiked On October 4, 2022 (via Cross Rivendell Trail) It is the first hike of October and the foliage situation is improving. Right now--at least on Mount Cube--it is all about orange and yellow with a few touches of red. When it isn't raining, the temperature is just about perfect. I am going to have to switch out from my summer pack to my regular pack this week. The number of layers I use in a day out is increasing. There is a gentle smell in the air of wetness and rot. It is a beautiful time for a sabbath walk. Also, there are fewer people out on the trails. Vacation is over and the peak season of outdoor activity is behind us now. In fact, it turns out that if you hike this mountain early in the morning on a Tuesday in October, you can have the place to yourself. I have never been so alone on a mountain. There were no cars at the trailhead. I saw nobody at the intersections with other trails. That was fine by me. Still, it felt a bit strange. When I hike by myself I am rarely alone. There are people around even if I don't see them or talk to them. On the days with rain and fog at the top--most recently Katahdin and Black (Benton)--there are still some hardy types. On Black it was just a couple people. On Katahdin there were plenty. I chose the mountain and the day with isolation in mind. In fact, I considered the Webster-Jackson loop--which would have been populated even on a weekday--and rejected the idea. Cube guaranteed silent-time with nature. I just didn't realize how much silent-time... For people who hike a great deal, seeking isolation is frequently part (or all) of the goal. It isn't all fun outings. We want to be anonymous for our own reasons. The trauma of the plague, at least, has given many folks the drive to get away. Each individual, though, has a motivation unique to them. They can be dark reasons or not, but they are still present in our hearts somewhere, possibly not yet fully realized. The mountains don't care who you are, after all. They can be good spots to work things out. There is positive power in sitting with only the vastness for company. Many times, no one will even bother you. I seem to be drawn to isolation myself, lately. There are times in one's life when a person wants to change things even if they are pretty social during everyday life. During this sabbatical season the fall in the air has prompted a desire to fade from view a bit. Anonymity is appealing. When someone is unknown, they can change how they dress, look, and act if that is what is desired. Time away helps with that. Time in a relatively undisturbed ecosystem--which is constantly emerging and reinventing itself--helps, too. For a moment we can slip into creation's rhythms and see ourselves as non-static beings. We are able to escape Society's wish to cast us permanently in our current outward role. In the wild we do not have to play the part of good or bad, strong or weak, foolish or wise that has been our assignment through the passing of years. We are observed, judged, and graded in life. These pressures strive to mold us. Sometimes they do so in inauthentic ways. Many of the people I meet out in the forest are seeking out the liminal space in offers. On the trail we are reminded that all is in flux; that there is death, life, and possibility in every new step. We do not have to be who we have become. We do not need to carry those burdens. That said, I didn't meet any of those adventurous changing people on Mount Cube. I was that alone. Now practically speaking, on this particular walk, there were disadvantages to this isolation. First, I hadn't counted on being so tired at the beginning. My knees remembered the Katahdin hike differently from how my mind remembered it. It wasn't all about the beauty of the day or the companionship of the AT hikers. It was mostly pain, apparently. This creakiness came in part from having so few distractions. It takes a while to ease out of drive-mode into walk-mode. I could have used a person or two to facilitate the transition. Also, it isn't always great to be alone with your thoughts. One can have trouble settling down and putting aside whatever negative emotions have built up just from being alive and around people. The advantages, though, outweighed the burdens. The day was postcard-worthy. There was a mild breeze by mountain standards and the views were back. I encountered a couple view points on the way up; places where the rock ledges had overwhelmed any attempt the trees made to expand there. Then--as often happens--there was a scramble over exposed rock to the first of two peaks. The Cube's south peak is on the 52 With-A-View list. A wide valley can be seen with Smarts Mountain--only 4 miles away--dominating the landscape. The site of at least two plane crashes, it, too is on my list. After spending some time there I progressed along a few hundred yards of the AT, which passed just below the peak, itself. This led to a side trail that brought me, eventually, to the north peak. The course here was relatively flat and narrow. The trees pressed close in in a way that made this part of the journey feel like exploring a room or a hallway. I don't know how else to describe the phenomenon. It happens occasionally close to the top of a mountain or along a ridge where the contours of the terrain and the tight network of plants break the wind. In those places it feels like all you would need is a roof to live there forever. The north peak had its own views. Moosilauke, Black (Benton), and Blueberry mountain were easy to identify. The first was noticeable for its size and the others for their ledges. Again, a valley stretched out between them and me. In this case the trees had given it an orange tint that was mesmerizing. I sat at the viewpoint for a while and then started back. One of the problems with hiking alone is that there is only one brain to rely on when you get turned around. For this reason I took a bearing from the trailhead to make sure I could stumble down to the logging road where I left my car if need be. In this case it was more about retracing my steps along broad ledges that resist signs of foot traffic. Eventually I made back to the entrance of the tight corridor of trees and returned to South Peak. There I sat for a while. If you read my Watatic post you know I am trying to do more of that. My companion in this instance was a smallish tree situated near the same sort of 19th and early 20th century graffiti that graces many popular mountains in Massachusetts; old names of visitors carved deeply into ledge rock. At this point it was easy to remember that aloneness is not the same as loneliness, that we aren't really alone anyway, and that our thoughts--or non-thoughts--can be good companions. I pointed my feet toward the car. Trails always look a little different heading in the other direction. I noticed small paths to secret campsites along with some glimpses through the trees that I had previously missed. The challenge of the end of the hike is that--in the returning--all the pressures of life return as well. It starts with figuring out a route home and then cascades from there. Mindfulness can keep these worries at bay for a while, but not forever.
About a fifth of a mile from the trailhead I encountered two women heading up. I said hello and kept on moving. It was like a shift change. It was their turn to have Mount Cube to themselves. From this elevation just on the skirts of the clouds, we could overlook the country west and south for a hundred miles. There it was, the state of Maine, which we had seen on the map, but not much like that,--immeasurable forest for the sun to shine on, that eastern stuff we hear of in Massachusetts. No clearing, no house. It does not look as if a solitary traveler had cut so much of a walking stick there. --HD Thoreau Hiked (via Hunt Trail/AT) on September 29, 2022 Henry David Thoreau gets a bad rap in some quarters. Specifically it is fashionable to accuse him of hypocrisy. I have done it, but now I relent. This accusation isn't because of something he did. Instead it is the result of what people in the 1970's and 1980's wanted him to be. Thoreau died in 1862 having spoken out for a changed relationship between human beings and nature. In fact, his position was a bit of a counter-movement. It remains so. Capitalist society wants what it deems "progress" which means--primarily--financial, technological, industrial progress. The natural world, for many people, has developed into a setting for humans to exploit. This could be mining, or it could be forms of eco-tourism like hiking. Either way the question is what it can do to serve us. Actually it isn't even a question of serving all of us...just the ones who can grab those resources. Thoreau, on the other hand, was interested in nature on its own terms. We want Thoreau to be some sort of Medieval holy-man living in a cave somewhere. Maybe instead we wish him to be an explorer, denying himself the trappings of a comfortable life. The problem is, he didn't think of himself as an adventurer or a hermit. He was a businessman. He manufactured pencils and worked as a well-respected surveyor. He was an essayist and public lecturer at a time when these were prominent expressions of art. He worked his whole life, actually. He lived that life in Concord Massachusetts. "I have traveled a good deal in Concord; and everywhere, in shops, and offices, and fields, the inhabitants have appeared to me to be doing penance in a thousand remarkable ways." is how he put his observations in Walden. The man was into deeply knowing a place. He liked people and saw their burdens. When he lived in Walden--just a mile or two from downtown Concord--he maintained a regular social schedule with his friends and, yes, had his mother do his laundry. Why wouldn't he? After all, she did everyone's laundry. In a time before washing-machines, it was her job. I bring this up now because Thoreau was also an adventurer, like many of us. It just wasn't his primary identity. He would plan expeditions around New England to the places that were still wild and relatively untamed. He wanted to see them. He wanted to record them so we would remember what they were like. Maybe, if we experienced nature on its own terms, we might value what it has to tell us. One of his greatest adventures was a multi-week trek to Mount Katahdin, mostly on foot and by canoe. There were no roads, after all, which is worth remembering. In the end he made it to the mountain, explored the region around it, and hiked to the tableland. That he doesn't seem to have hit one of the six major peaks is occasionally brought up like the laundry story. It is worth noting that peak-bagging wasn't a thing yet. He was there for the journey and he had a long one back to civilization ahead of him. Another reason to bring it up is that many years after his death he had an ally in Percival Proctor Baxter. Known to generations of Maine schoolchildren as "PP" Baxter, this former Governor of Maine purchased a massive section of land that included Katahdin. Then he donated it to the state on the condition that it remain "forever wild." Human needs were to be secondary to the cycles of the land. People could come to see it; to hike, fish, and sometimes hunt in it. However, it would also be rough by the standards of human parks. It privileges wildness. In fact, this was a very controversial move. The state had refused to purchase it outright because of the hopes for future development. Baxter forced their hand. That is plenty of context, I know. It is important, though. This mountain is not climbed like, say, Mount Washington where you park at the bottom after getting off the highway and hike between gift shops. There is no bumper sicker for your car. Just like the rest of the mountains in the park, Katahdin is special. Even on the somewhat over-populated southern section of Baxter there are no amenities. Nature is in your face and that is on purpose. That is the way here. Knowing this and planning accordingly is the difference between a good trip and a bad--possibly deadly--one. "Man is born to die. His works are short-lived. Buildings crumble, monuments decay, and wealth vanishes, but Katahdin in all its glory forever shall remain the mountain of the people of Maine." --PP Baxter My own relationship with Baxter Park is a long one. When I was young my father served as a member and then chair of the Baxter Park Authority which functions as a sort of governing board for the park and overseer of its unique mission. Along with the activist Park Director Buzz Caverly, they pushed back human encroachment in an attempt to restore PP Baxter's vision. I got to spend a lot of time there, mostly in the northern section of the park away from Katahdin. My mom--a dedicated hiker herself who is trekking through the Dingle in Ireland as I write this--liked it better on that end. There were fewer people on the trails. I have climbed Katahdin, though, a number of times. The last time was many years ago. I was in my twenties and my little brothers, Matt and Dan, set off on what they hoped would be a southbound walk to Georgia on the Appalachian Trail. Which brings us--finally--to this climb. Once again it had to do with the AT. Astute readers of Sabbath Walks will remember that back in March I accompanied my eldest son to Georgia for his attempt at thru-hiking. Well...he made it. This trip was the last few miles of that epic journey of over 2,100 miles from Springer Mountain to Katahdin. His uncles are still picking away at the trail themselves. Dan and I had the chance to walk the last few miles with him and his "tramily" so we took it. That is how I ended up sleeping outdoors in late September. The walk began in a lean-to so we could get an early start. This is not unusual for Baxter hikes. The peaks are hard to reach. Then, after a cold but not horrible night, we began the climb. There were other thru-hikers around and a couple groups of day hikers as well. Not surprisingly, I was the slowest in our group which was fine. I can hike my own hike, after all, and it was nice to have time in the silence of the park. However, I made sure to start off early with Dan so that I wouldn't slow folks down on the other end. I don't want to inconvenience people and we had a drive south ahead of us. Over the course of the day I would lose track of the others for a while after they passed me. Trust me, though. It was more than good. The trail starts relatively flat, just like most hikes I have done. The fall foliage was just beginning to make its presence felt. The practice of observation was useful at this point as the trees and undergrowth were putting on a show. So, too, was Katahdin Stream running next to the trail, creating a fabulous soundtrack as we worked our way up. All this changed in a couple miles. After a while I encountered a big rock with "3 miles" painted on it and an arrow pointing up. Things started to get hairy shortly after that. After about another mile it became super-steep. The group condensed again as we helped each other over numerous rock hazards. The view also vanished (as it did for Thoreau) and we continued to stumble up toward the tableland that would welcome us to the last mile or so before Baxter Peak. During the climb there was plenty of time to look around at the life that makes its home on the cold, rocky ledge. We were also looking for handholds and sometimes the actual hands of the people in front of us. Still, even in the hardest moments we couldn't help but be transported by what was around us in the clouds. The weather is often bad on Katahdin just as it is on most big mountains in New England. Yet people climb it anyway because it is always beautiful. Finally, we managed to hit the tableland. At this point the thru-hikers gained some separation on me. They had waited six months for this moment and weren't going to wait another minute more than they had to. I couldn't blame them. Their excitement was infectious. Dan plodded along with me for a while but he slowly got ahead of me, too. Dan hikes in Baxter often. In fact, it was only two weeks since his previous ascent to Baxter Peak. What that meant was that I had the tableland to what felt like myself. There were people both ahead of and behind me but I could neither see nor hear them. I wondered if this was what it was like when Thoreau was separated from his party. It looked for all the world like the moors in Scotland that I had walked through in August...except on a very hostile day. The ground cover was different, of course. Here the red came from some relative of the blueberry rising just over any number of plant species clinging close to the rocks. I paused a moment to take it in. Then I remembered my mission and started up again. I was alone for the last twenty minutes of climbing, which was probably for the best. I had started singing in order to maintain a rhythm and keep my spirits up; Ain't No Grave, Voice Still and Small, If I May Speak with Bravest Fire, This Little Light of Mine. I trailed off on my third time through Amazing Grace as I saw (and then heard) the group at the top. The tramily was there and my brother. So, too, were a number of other thru-hikers and a couple muggles like me. It was a low-turnout day because of the weather but everyone was excitedly taking pictures of each other. I felt like an observer at somebody else's graduation party which--by the way--is a good feeling. I was proud of these humans, most of whom I had never met. I was proud of being human. What an amazing achievement for all of them! I arrived late and left early of course. I was the slowest and needed to get going again. Back down the peak and across the tableland I went. I encountered some day hikers I had passed and told them they were almost there. The others passed me again and then Dan and I started down the rough part behind them. The best thing is...we had a view. Just as Thoreau had experienced on his journey, the clouds started to blow away as we descended. They continued to hover at the top of the mountain, of course. It wasn't that the clouds were moving so much as we were. On the way down, though, we caught glimpses of the land around us. It was an excellent backdrop to our labors. Going down a mountain is difficult. It is hard on the knees and the back. Gravity and the mountain conspire to do all sorts of things to your pack and to you so as to twist you into a crevice and a puzzle of their own making. Still, we had made good time and had nowhere to be, so we took as many breaks as we could. The tramily finally disappeared down into the trees and rocks. Dan and I took a long break to snack at the final viewpoint. From our spot we could see a number of mountains, some of which I have hiked in the past and some that remain for me to explore. Dan has hiked all of them. It is his happy place.
This may have been the toughest hike I have done since surgery. It is hard to tell because I am in much better shape than I was and didn't suffer the way I did on the earliest hikes. Those early ones--like Tripyramids and the Osceolas--felt more arduous than this day. They also felt more arduous than Washington. After our break Dan sped up and I hiked the last couple miles relatively alone. There were other people out and we leapfrogged a bit, but no one was feeling conversational. For me it had been quite a day. For most of my companions it had been a life-changing one. It was great to be back on the park and on the mountain. I don't think I will wait quite as long for next time. Hiked On: September 24, 2022, Normally we hit the "usual" route, whatever that is. We have books and there are recommended ways to do these things. This trip, however, we chose a different approach. That happens sometimes when off-hike schedules and other issues conspire to require something different. This time there was also a less-used trail we had heard good things about. There was strange weather predicted for the weekend, too. Early fall in the Whites can mean some fairly eccentric moments. We had planned to hit Little Haystack, Lincoln, and Lafayette but there was a cold wind coming through. With that in mind, we didn't feel like contending with freezing temperatures and ice on the exposed ridge. Instead we climbed Carter Dome; heading up Bog Trail to Wildcat River Trail, to Carter-Moriah then down the little-used Rainbow Trail to the Wildcat River and Bog trails again to the car. It was an adventure that took us what felt like forever. There were sketchy river crossings, a visit to the Carter Notch hut, a hang out near the top with some old guys we met on the way, and a fabulous descent that made the first part worth it. This was a hard hike. It required a certain amount of mental discipline as well as physical exertion to get to the top. We started late for us--around 8:30--the air was clear and cold but there was plenty of evidence of rain the day and night before. Also, all the trails were littered with fallen branches, leaves and sometimes whole trees thanks to the windstorm that still packed a depleted but potent punch. Al and I saw a few other people as we went along. Mostly they were the usual sorts of hikers moving at slightly faster clip than our own. We got out of the way for each group to pass. One group coming down consisted of a father and a daughter. He had an overnight pack on. Presumably he stayed at the hut where we planned to take our first long rest. The daughter was probably four or five years old. He was carrying her as well as the pack but seemed very cheerful. They had spotted a moose earlier and wanted to know if we had seen it. Sadly, we had not. The hut is located in Carter Notch. On one side of the notch is the back end of the Wildcat ridge that boasts a number of peaks and a ski resort. On the other is the Carter ridge. We took a break and thought about plans to perhaps stay at the hut when we hike the Wildcats. We also talked to some backpackers who had spent a hairy night camping on the ridge. The storm winds pelted them with ice. They were in good spirits but very tired and hungry. We left them to their recovery lunch and moved on up to the Dome. Carter Dome is steep and rocky while also--for the most part--encased in trees. This is actually part of why we chose it. The trees broke the wind somewhat. All around us were shards and chunks of ice, some still falling from the branches above. We were all a little damp and cold, changing layers every few minutes. That is the thing with climbing the tall mountains. The weather is different in different layers. It is why it can be so hard to get a view sometimes. It is also why--if you choose to respect what nature is telling you--new approaches and plans are made. The Carter-Moriah Trail is part of the Appalachian Trail, so it always feels a little like US Route 1. It functions like that, too. No matter what one has plotted, it is likely that there will be a part of it that hops on to the AT. This is where--on any given day--you will encounter the most hikers. We ended up leapfrogging with a couple of amiable groups on this section. The slightly faster ones kept taking long breaks at the few lookouts along the way. The other group was made up of men in their 70's who called themselves the "Gluttons for Punishment." Their mission--by their own description--is to "go on stupid hiking trips." They kept the mood very light, which I think we all appreciated. Their behavior reminded me a bit of hiking trips I made in high school. They ran back and forth between each other with a certain manic glee. They also made many, many, loud and self-deprecating jokes that the rest of us only vaguely understood. After a long break at a false peak our combined group finally hit the actual top. There was no view for us to linger over...just a busy intersection of various trails. There was also another largish group who had decided to listen to music through one of their cell phones, broadcasting it far and wide. The music thing is truly annoying and a bit of a mood breaker. We have encountered this phenomenon before like its a mid-'80's no-walkman situation and there isn't another option. Here we all went our separate ways. The other two groups started over to Mount Hight where there are better views. We decided to start down on the Rainbow Trail. We had heard there was plenty to look at there. At some point I will make a list of my favorite trails. However, so many of them can only be reached by hiking another trail that the list seems impractical for planning purposes. Still, some are better than others, obviously, and this one was special. We had actually noticed as much in our research and it was part of the reason we took the less travelled route. Rainbow is relatively unknown for so popular an area. When I told the Gluttons about it, they thought I was teasing them. We had to pull out maps so I could prove it existed. Perhaps not surprisingly, it is not well-maintained and a bit overgrown, but we were never lost or even confused. Three things stand out. First, some thirty seconds below the peak we hit a section with absolutely no sound. Some trick of the landscape protected it not only from the wind but also from the noise of the music at the top. It was unique and very welcome. That deafening silence continued for a while. Shortly after the wind sounds resumed, we emerged on a flat place with some of the best views of the day. We could see the Wildcats and get a peak of the Great Gulf and Mount Washington still peaked in clouds. We could also see the massive pile of Carter Dome and Mount Hight. All of this was framed by more distant peaks. The weird point of Chocorua helped us identify some of them, many of which which we (or I or she) had hiked before. That view was the second thing. The third thing that stood out was that it added about two miles to our trip. The trail hooked way out and then drifted back toward Wildcat River Trail. Our patience was worn pretty thin by the end as we counted about 13 miles on the day. I have mentioned earlier that every hike feels a little too long. In this case it had taken us more time than we had thought. We started later than we wanted. We also had a three hour drive home. Our car was there in the lot waiting for us, however. We were almost the last to leave. HIKED ON; September 21, 2022 Anyone who has ever made their hobby or passion into a job will know that it changes the relationship. I first did this with preaching. I have always been a performer. When I was in high school I was a theater kid. Somewhere in the back of my mind has always been the thought that I was most myself holding forth on stage and at the lunch table back in my senior and junior years. Now I am a pastor and there are lots of different parts of that job that have nothing to do with performance. Still, when I am in the pulpit I am happy. It is where I should be. However, this type of performance is a job now. I have to take all kinds of things into account when preparing my worship services. I think about the people I see in church every week. How are they doing? What are they thinking about? I think about the seasons of the town and of the church. Are the kids in school? Is there a holiday or liturgical element I need to think about like water gathering, baptism, or communion? Now it is sabbatical and I find that I am being rather businesslike in my approach to hiking as well. What is my schedule of mountains? What does each require? How is my body feeling, not for this one hike but for the next and the next? What do I hope to get out if it? Gone for now are the days of spontaneously hitting the trail, understanding that I can take all the time in the world until I do it again. This temporary change in relationship isn't bad...but it is different. This was something of a pragmatic hike. I chose "Black of Benton" for a number of reasons. Partly it was because it is beyond the area I plan on exploring closely in October. The geographical diversity seemed desirable for right now. Partly it was because I wanted a moderate hike. I haven't climbed anything other than a flight of stairs since Mount Washington and need to stay in shape for larger hikes coming up. I also must make sure I don't injure myself. Black Mountain--a 52WAV mountain--fits the bill with an out-and-back trail of just under four miles and an elevation gain of just over 1,600 feet. I can be challenged and still recover in time for the next one. Finally, there is an apple picking place just a few miles away. Not all outdoor time needs to be strenuous! My plan was to get a good workout with a full day pack, catch some views, and eat some apples without straining or pulling anything that would inhibit the next battery of hikes. Another result of the temporary relationship change is that each hike feels a little bit like an appointment and obligation. There are days--I assume we have all had them--that contain an abundance of entropy. This was one of those days. Careening out of the parsonage at 5am I managed to lock myself out. Later, with that sorted, my car let me know that I was losing tire pressure. When I was figuring out what to do about that, I discovered that one of my water bottles had leaked all over my bag, my dry layers, and the maps and guidebooks I brought in the car with me. Somehow, though, I managed to hit the trailhead at 8:30, only an hour after my target time. I am not sure I would have persevered to that point if I didn't feel some responsibility. Apparently I have a schedule to keep. This "hiking like its work" element had invaded my psyche. I have to admit that on this day in Benton I started way too fast. Maybe some of the stress of the morning influenced my mood. In any case it took me a while to figure out the office mentality I had brought to the trail. I specifically chose this mountain because it would be challenging but not exhausting. Yet there I was 30 minutes in...trucking right along and wearing myself out. A socked-in scenic overlook--the views never really materialized--helped to slow me down. I waited for a minute to see if the clouds would blow away and then I turned around to see the remarkable stand of trees I was about to walk through. In the pause I was able to refocus. If you are a mountain, you get to be called "Black" for one of two reasons. Either somebody with that surname lived on or near you for a while in the 18th or 19th century, or the trees that grow upon you are among the many varieties of dark-shaded conifers that grace our landscape. This Black Mountain--like most--falls into the latter category. Black mountain is full of tall old trees that from afar give it a gloomy appearance. On a rainy day in September, though, to be in among those dark trees is downright mystical. This slowed me down. How could I be missing the scene around me? Still, there was that feeling of work. The hike was still partly a task. I told people I was going to climb a bunch of mountains, after all. One thing that I do in overly-businesslike situations is to actually add a fun and perhaps frivolous task that I can rationalize into being part of the project at hand. Enter photography. I had always wanted to do more with pictures. I was also a photographer in high school. I dressed all in black and did extensive studies of local gravestones. In my senior year I could be found either in the darkroom or near the stage. Just like hiking regularly, taking pictures slipped onto the back burner with the rise of work and children. To slow myself down on Black mountain I decided to try to figure out what capabilities my cellphone camera has. I always meant to, but there was the perpetual issue of something else going on. To take a good picture--or even a "just okay" picture--one needs to slow down and observe the context. This is what I did. The 19th century nature writer John Burroughs tells us that "There is nothing in which people differ more than in their powers of observation. Some are only half alive to what is going on around them. Others, again, are keenly alive; their intelligence, their powers of recognition, are in full force in eye and ear at all times."* Observation is one of the key steps to creation and creativity. That can be a sermon or a story we are making. It can be a picture, or a sabbath walk, or any number of other creations. Burroughs--writing in a shack in the middle of his vineyard--made a practice of observation. We should too. Sometimes I need to trick myself into thinking it is part of work...albeit a happy part. Maybe we all need to find ways to think of it as part of our being. In the end I had a great time noticing the striations on the rocks and the emerging fall colors. At the top of the mountain I set a timer for 40 minutes to sit and experience the space I was in. After about 20 minutes a very chatty woman and her dog came up off the trail. We sat their talking and--unsuccessfully--waiting for the clouds to part for about 40 minutes. Then we hiked down. I left my new friend to go check out the old lime kilns at the foot of the mountain. Limestone is relatively rare in New Hampshire but this operation was quite large. They would heat the stone in these massive structures and the resulting lime would be used in agriculture and construction. The kilns were built in 1838 and 1842, operated for 50 years, and then were restored as a WPA project. I would have stayed longer there if it weren't for the presence of friendly-but-barely-controlled dog. It was full-fantasy mode. After a few more pictures I went back to the car and life...or whatever. I did go apple-picking. That, however is a different post... * Burroughs may be worth checking out. This quote is from his essay "The Art of Seeing Things"
Dear Folks, I am in the process of catching people up with some early hikes and other encounters with nature that I thought people might find interesting as part of a "How It Began" (HIB) series. Mostly this will describe specific hikes and perhaps some lessons learned along the way...if there are any. They are meant to be short and, perhaps helpful in some way to other hikers or fellow-travelers. I will post the dates of when I hiked a specific mountain since the ones in this series are NOT posted at or near the date I actually hiked them. To add further confusion, I am not doing them in order! Here is a post about a winter hike. We did so many and have posted so few... Today is the second day of my sabbatical and I am getting restless. Yesterday was all indoor work to prepare for various events to come. I arranged hiking companions and started on a schedule. Today it is raining off and on and I wish I was somewhere other than my living room. Oh well...I do have a pile of used books for the sabbatical and I can start breaking in to them. To keep the content flowing I have a couple of relatively easy hikes that we did in the winter. Winter hiking is its own thing, with special equipment and special rules to follow. It is not like downhill skiing. Winter climbing requires a trudge uphill, after all--causing wide fluctuations in body temperature if one is not careful--and there isn't a lodge nearby most of the time. Some people--including my wife Allison--claim it is easier to hike in the winter. The dips between roots and rocks are often filled in and there is the ease of butt-sliding down the larger peaks. I am not sure that matters in the total summation, though. The packs are heavier. We are heavier. Also, with the cold and ice we have a whole new way to mess ourselves up. Still, the views are something else. There is a whole winter-wonderland vibe that is different on the trail. Also, the trails are quieter. Many hikers hunker down for the winter. Others ski or sled. There are still people on the weekend but--as always--if you get out on the trail early or during the week, you can have plenty of space. Anyway, the two hikes. They are relatively close to each other and both sport some of the best views-for-effort in New Hampshire. In the regular hiking season there are generally thought of as the easiest of the 52 With-A-View list. Whether you will find them easy is subjective, obviously, so be advised! Mount Willard: Hiked on December 30, 2021 After our first hike up North Kinsman--which was less than ideal--we decided to get some more winter experience on smaller mountains. Willard shares a trailhead with Mount Avalon, one of my favorite mountains. We had hiked that after a long day of peak bagging in the fall. We knew that whatever Willard had to offer would be equally stunning...and include snow. It was misting a bit ("spitting" is the term I grew up with) and we moved on up with some trepidation concerning the weather. That said, the fog hanging over the snow was pretty special. The trail was mostly straight. It just went up, and then up more steeply. However, true to the conventional wisdom, it wasn't so bad! The snow had indeed rounded out many of the edges. We shed layers as our bodies warmed up and then added them back on for breaks. Layering is a key element of the whole winter hiking experience. We need to pay even more attention to our bodies with this new weather development. Snacking is pretty key as well. It is a good idea to eat something (a protein bar or a handful of GORP) right before starting. It will give your body something to do at the beginning and the energy is helpful as well. I also found myself sucking on hard candies most of the time. That may have been for morale reasons. After a while we hit the top and the clouds began to part. The only others up there that day were fellow peak-baggers testing out their Christmas gifts. In the clear winter air we were treated to highly technical conversations about hats, gloves, backpacks, and snowshoes. No doubt they were treated to ours. We actually packed snowshoes for this trip but did not put them on. That said, we wore micro spikes the whole way. For some other hikes snowshoes were essential. We want them when the trail isn't quite as broken out or if the wind has caused drifts. However, the spikes were always on otherwise. They are essential kit. Don't do serious winter hiking without them in your pack or on your feet. One great feature of this climb was that the clouds had begun to part and the sun warmed the top. It was rather relaxing to plop down on the snow in our winter gear and take a break to soak in the view. Finally, though, we turned to head down. Honestly with was a lovely half-day hike for us, which helped me, at least, feel like winter hiking was something I would be able to do. The trail is 3.2 miles round trip with only 900 feet of elevation gain. The reward is a fantastic look straight down Crawford Notch. Mount Pemigewasset Hiked on January 8, 2022 This was very similar to the hike of Willard in most respects. The view in this case was of Franconia Notch. The folks at the peak were more 52 WAV peak baggers and the whole vibe was very relaxed. It was a touch longer (3.8 miles) and quite a bit steeper (1,250 feet of elevation gain). Also, it was a cold, clear day which brought with it different challenges but, of course, a view untroubled by clouds. This hike was not without its challenges. The steepness got to us and our post-holiday bodies so we needed to stop a couple times to catch our breath. Some of our water froze as well and we needed to re-pack a bit. The trail was icy in places which gave our micro spikes a work out on the way up and the way back. I do not love winter gear...but it is necessary. There was one incident that reminded me of the importance of layering and of modifying your layers. The temptation is just to keep on hauling but, really, that can be a bad idea. On our way down we passed numerous groups heading up. Like I said, it is considered an easy mountain and--unlike our Willard walk--it was a beautiful day. It was also a big vacation time in the Whites and a number of people who probably had spent part of the week skiing decided to take a hike, instead. Most of them were fine. However, there were a number of groups with children who were way too bundled up. Steam was rising from the open spaces in their heavy jackets and they were screaming bloody murder trying to tear them off while their adults were forcing all that gear back on. A few adults were in the same situation as the kids. They all looked like old fashioned cars with burst radiators still trying to move forward. It is important not to be afraid of removing layers as well as adding them. We all know from sitting in our driveways during the pandemic that if you are staying still outside, the goal is to be as warm as you can be. However, with something a physically trying as climbing a mountain, it is more important to maintain a safe and comfortable average temperature. This requires using that big pack to take off and don clothing throughout the day. It is annoying and slows you down, but it is really for the best. I always start a little cold, knowing that I will warm right up when I move. Al always puts on a warm (but packable and lightweight) jacket for the first ten minutes then stops to take it off. Either way we are often bundled at the top where the wind chill requires it and we always wear hats and wool socks...and carry spares. Anyway, the drama of the descent aside, this was another fantastic hike that is probably doable for a lot of people who want to try winter hiking. I would suggest starting with Willard or Watatic as a shakedown. Then Pemigewassett and bigger peaks await. Actually we finished early enough from our Pemigewassett hike that we did another and explored Flume Gorge... Not all walks are literal. Not all adventures take place in our world. When I got bored on a hike when I was a kid my mom would suggest I pretend to be a hobbit on a quest. A love for Lord of the Rings was--and still is--something we share. We also share a profession and, I think, these two things are not unrelated. It takes an active imagination to go through life living into the idea that there is something else beyond our existence. It is an act of both faith and imagination to try to make that dreamed-of world more of a reality. Of course, having an active imagination is not always looked upon with affirmation. I am a child of the rigid adult-centered culture of the 1980's. The "satanic panic" that tried to lay the problems of the world at the feet of teen gamers (among others, including rap and metal musicians) was acting out of the id of a conformist culture. Fantasy, science fiction, comic books, and other outsider art presented something that wasn't really new but seemed strange and subversive in a corporatized society. Even today--when so much of that literature has been co-opted and sanitized--to be interested in a speculative universe puts a person on the outside. Being a little "nerdy" is in vogue. Being an actual nerd...well...that is still tricky isn't it? In a sense--and from a certain view--this criticism has weight. To think outside the box in a way that does not have remunerative value has to seem strange if the cultural "good" is tied up in acquisition. However, the serious, rational, commercial world is neither fun nor humane. I believe that imagining others worlds may make our own better in the end. I believe it is necessary to do so, in fact, if we are to escape what we have created for ourselves. After all, we thought-up this way of doing things. I bet we can do better. This leads me to a pursuit that has taken a certain chunk of my time for over three decades; tabletop roleplaying games. Right now I am in three regular games that meet somewhere between once and twice a month. The newest of these is one that I run with adult members of the church. It is a beginners' game, for the most part--there is one old-school LARPer--and we struggle to find time to meet. That said it is fun to get together and work through the rules. I am the "Dungeon Master." I keep the story flowing and play every character that my players do not play. Theoretically that is an entire world. I have gamed with many of their children over the years. Now it is the parents' turn. In a sense that is my only actual D&D game. By this I mean it is the only one that uses a version of the official D&D ruleset. It is also the only one where we meet in person. Another group meets over zoom and isn't Dungeons and Dragons at all, but a rules-light horror game that emphasizes improvisation. I play a variety of characters doomed to madness or death. The dice rolling is saved for crucial high-risk moments and the rest of the time we act out our characters as we encounter difficulty. I do not run this game. I am a player, which is very liberating. The people I play with are either close friends or close friends of my close friends so the trust level is high. It is good sometimes to work though dark stuff with grace and humor, which is what we do. A good tabletop roleplaying game needs geography, politics, and religion. It needs characters with motivations and depth well past what is provided in a 90-minute action movie or even in the most well-developed fantasy video game. It needs a world at least as complex as a quality novel. In some ways (because the players can literally travel anywhere) it needs to have eternal potential for even greater complexity. It also needs the commitment of the group--whenever they are able to be together--to build and live in to that world. In that way it is like church. It depends on its participants. Also like church, people are committed at various levels. My own ability to participate is based on many things, the most basic of which is time. In each group I have been able to be more or less involved as the months permit. I wonder if I will have more or less of it during sabbatical. The last sabbatical I had involved developing a gaming world and then leading those children of my current church group through various scenarios. My plans in this area are less involved this time. I just want to stay part of the groups I am in right now. After all, I value the practice So that is what I am doing. I am building--with others--three different worlds through acting out three different stories that are at least partly beyond our control. It is as vulnerable thing to do. Maybe that is what we are all practicing. We aren't just imagining. We are trusting. We aren't just building a story. We are holding out hope for each other and for the people we could have been...or in some sense are. This is part of the sabbath walk both when we are out on the trail and when we journey with our minds and hearts. I am delighted to get to collaborate with people in this way. For the record. My mom's suggestion about pretending to be a hobbit wasn't taken well at the time. Hobbits spend a lot of time complaining, demanding snacks, and slowing the "big people" down. Still, living into a dream isn't a bad idea when the road gets tough, is it? There are ways to imagine out on the pathways of life. So I want to lift up five hikes that did, in fact, make me feel like I was in a fantasy novel. I could imagine some sort of magical, primordial "better place". A quick note. None of these look like New Zealand. Also, Scotland--the only hikes I have done with castles on them--did not make the list. Don't make blockbuster movies your measure of what a fantasy hike should be like... 1) Mount Tecumseh: This mountain doesn't have much of a view from the top, but as a journey, it has all the feels. There are endless stone stairs and moody groves of old trees. When I hiked it there was an abundance of moss and fungi strewn about. Every once in a while you can catch a glimpse of a view down one of the ski trails which themselves--if it isn't winter--have the feel of an abandoned ancient civilization. 2) Mount Norwottuck: This mountain has to be on the list as the final hideout of Daniel Shays and his rebel farmers. It isn't fantasy, exactly, but there is something to being in a place where a variation on Robin Hood's band truly walked. Also, while the rest of these hikes can really knock you around. This one is easy and fun. 3) Mount Jefferson: This mountain is full-on "Houses of the Holy". The massive rocks and the wind whipping around the top as you navigate the relatively bald ridge make this place exciting. Be sure to pick a trail that loops around the peak so you can peer down into the Great Gulf. Just try to ignore the road heading up nearby Mount Washington. 4) Mount Galehead to Mount Garfield: This was a hard hike for me. We took a connector trail between the two peaks but it was beautiful. It has much of the same vibe as Tecumseh with the added benefit of massive views off of Garfield. Start early, though. It was over 16 miles and we finished the last couple hours in the dark...which was also like a fantasy novel. 5) The Osceolas: This was early in my rehab but this mountain had some epic hobbit hiking moments. Also it rained. Wet, rainy days are hard for hiking but they are atmospheric. I hiked this mountain with my brother, Dan, who loves and collects wild mushrooms like a real life (and very tall) hobbit. 6) The Kinsmans: I would say that North Kinsman the first time we climbed it definitely fits into the "Cruel Caradhras" category. Winter hikes naturally lend themselves to fantasy settings. After all, ice and snow make a wild place even more wild. Just...be safe OK? In fact, there are also some winter hikes that I haven't written up yet. Of these the Hancocks--a very difficult run in my opinion--definitely would have a place on this list. Also, much easier and very elfy Mount Willard would make an appearance. Liberty would have had the fantasy vibe but there were too many people out when we did it. So much of this is situational, isn't it? I will stick with these, though. On the day I hiked them they were fantasy-novel perfect. |
Adam Tierney-EliotI am a full-time pastor in a small, progressive church in Massachusetts. This blog is about the non-church things I do to find spiritual sustenance. Archives
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