MrAmeche
New member
Arriving at the Gale River Loop Road trailhead at 8:00 AM, I noticed that I was the only other car in the small lot. I quickly stretched and got my pack together to start on the trail at 8:10; the skies were overcast, with a temperature of around 40 degrees. After a quick incline up an embankment, the trail began as a pleasant walk in open woods, paralleling a branch of the Gale River. The path was mostly wet mud and leaves with an inch of crusty snow on top. I could tell by the footprints I was following that someone had hiked the trail (presumably) the day before.
I rock-hopped across the Thompson and Spruce Brooks, which weren’t too bad as far as water level is concerned, and twenty minutes later I stepped out onto what seemed to be a wide logging road. For a moment I was confused about which way to go, but I found the footprints and continued up the ridge. From here I started running into problems, namely the ridiculous amount of blowdowns on the trail. I slowly and meticulously worked my way around them, which seemed to just keep coming, one after another. Quite a few times I would lose the footprints I was following, debate for a few minutes about turning around, only to spot them a few yards off the trail leading around the blowdown. I certainly wasn’t looking forward to coming down back this way, but I continued on. Eventually the downed trees thinned out and the trail opened up gradually, making for much easier walking.
I stopped to take a drink of water and was suddenly struck by how much more snow there was on the ground; in my haste to get around the blowdowns I failed to notice that I was standing in considerably more powder, nearly a foot in places. I was also sweating profusely and trying to figure out a way to tie my heavy coat around my waste and make it secure enough for travel, but nothing seemed to work. I made a note to stash it off-trail at the next memorable feature. A few hundred yards further I crossed a brook with a large rock, and I hung my heavy coat on a tree here.
The trail began to steepen a bit and the snow gradually increased, but I was feeling good and refreshed by the chilly air as I made my way up the ridge. I made a sharp right to ascend the first switchback when suddenly I stopped. The footprints that I had taken for granted all this time ended abruptly, and there was nothing but fresh, unbroken snow ahead of me. I took a few moments to consider my options: I was a little more than halfway up the trail, and though I had never “broken trail” before in boots, I felt good and decided to continue. It took a few dozen steps to get used to, but I found a rhythm and stuck to it. I became aware of how much colder it had gotten, and put my fleece jacket on for warmth.
It didn’t take long for my energy to start depleting fast. My legs felt heavier with every step as I worked through the snow, constantly looking ahead for the next switchback. I finally reached the last long section of the trail, where it ascends the east side of the mountain, and stopped for breath. I was clearly in over my head, and certainly not in any kind of shape to be doing this. Yet I was probably less than a quarter mile away from the Garfield summit, and though my body was screaming at me to turn around, my mind stayed stubborn. I took stock of my condition, and other than my legs being achy and sore, I was warm, in good spirits, and felt I could continue. It was now 11:25; I promised myself that if I didn’t reach the summit by noon, I would turn around. I tried to take a look through the trees into the valley below, but the ceiling was low and I couldn’t see more than a hundred yards or so down the ridge.
I pushed on for what seemed like forever, until I saw ahead the trail sign for the Garfield Ridge Trail. This seemed to boost me a little, and I turned right to ascend the summit of Garfield. I basically threw myself up the rocks after repeatedly sliding down after every step. I glimpsed the concrete base of the old fire tower ahead of me, and within a few minutes I was standing on it, just a few minutes before 12:00 PM. I was utterly exhausted in every way; Mount Adams was rough, but I couldn’t recall ever having to work so hard to gain a summit. The views were nonexistent for the most part, but occasionally the wind would howl over the ridge and blow some cloud cover away for a quick view. I became cold rather fast, and after staying a few minutes and taking a few pictures, turned around to descend the summit.
I didn’t so much step as slide down the rocks, but the trail leveled out again as I turned left back onto the Garfield Trail. I heard voices up ahead, and for a second or two I was genuinely shocked; the silence I had grown accustomed to all morning had been deafening and beautiful. I passed five nice ladies (three going up, two down), who thanked me for breaking in the trail. I wished them the best of luck and continued my slog down through the snow. My legs were so useless that I just let gravity do its work while I did my usual: thinking of food and making an effort to keep myself from a harmful slip. I picked up my coat from the tree where I had left it, and after some time, reached the lower part of the trail with all the blowdowns. I couldn’t be arsed to try to navigate around them, so I mostly just pushed through them, sending cascades of snow on my head and down my back. I crossed the brooks, descended the bank, and found myself back at my car at 2:10, exactly six hours after I had started.
Admission: This had been my first snow/winter hike, and though I had had an incredibly tough time breaking the trail and ascending the final part to the summit, I'm now hooked. Time to start loading up on more snow gear!
I rock-hopped across the Thompson and Spruce Brooks, which weren’t too bad as far as water level is concerned, and twenty minutes later I stepped out onto what seemed to be a wide logging road. For a moment I was confused about which way to go, but I found the footprints and continued up the ridge. From here I started running into problems, namely the ridiculous amount of blowdowns on the trail. I slowly and meticulously worked my way around them, which seemed to just keep coming, one after another. Quite a few times I would lose the footprints I was following, debate for a few minutes about turning around, only to spot them a few yards off the trail leading around the blowdown. I certainly wasn’t looking forward to coming down back this way, but I continued on. Eventually the downed trees thinned out and the trail opened up gradually, making for much easier walking.
I stopped to take a drink of water and was suddenly struck by how much more snow there was on the ground; in my haste to get around the blowdowns I failed to notice that I was standing in considerably more powder, nearly a foot in places. I was also sweating profusely and trying to figure out a way to tie my heavy coat around my waste and make it secure enough for travel, but nothing seemed to work. I made a note to stash it off-trail at the next memorable feature. A few hundred yards further I crossed a brook with a large rock, and I hung my heavy coat on a tree here.
The trail began to steepen a bit and the snow gradually increased, but I was feeling good and refreshed by the chilly air as I made my way up the ridge. I made a sharp right to ascend the first switchback when suddenly I stopped. The footprints that I had taken for granted all this time ended abruptly, and there was nothing but fresh, unbroken snow ahead of me. I took a few moments to consider my options: I was a little more than halfway up the trail, and though I had never “broken trail” before in boots, I felt good and decided to continue. It took a few dozen steps to get used to, but I found a rhythm and stuck to it. I became aware of how much colder it had gotten, and put my fleece jacket on for warmth.
It didn’t take long for my energy to start depleting fast. My legs felt heavier with every step as I worked through the snow, constantly looking ahead for the next switchback. I finally reached the last long section of the trail, where it ascends the east side of the mountain, and stopped for breath. I was clearly in over my head, and certainly not in any kind of shape to be doing this. Yet I was probably less than a quarter mile away from the Garfield summit, and though my body was screaming at me to turn around, my mind stayed stubborn. I took stock of my condition, and other than my legs being achy and sore, I was warm, in good spirits, and felt I could continue. It was now 11:25; I promised myself that if I didn’t reach the summit by noon, I would turn around. I tried to take a look through the trees into the valley below, but the ceiling was low and I couldn’t see more than a hundred yards or so down the ridge.
I pushed on for what seemed like forever, until I saw ahead the trail sign for the Garfield Ridge Trail. This seemed to boost me a little, and I turned right to ascend the summit of Garfield. I basically threw myself up the rocks after repeatedly sliding down after every step. I glimpsed the concrete base of the old fire tower ahead of me, and within a few minutes I was standing on it, just a few minutes before 12:00 PM. I was utterly exhausted in every way; Mount Adams was rough, but I couldn’t recall ever having to work so hard to gain a summit. The views were nonexistent for the most part, but occasionally the wind would howl over the ridge and blow some cloud cover away for a quick view. I became cold rather fast, and after staying a few minutes and taking a few pictures, turned around to descend the summit.
I didn’t so much step as slide down the rocks, but the trail leveled out again as I turned left back onto the Garfield Trail. I heard voices up ahead, and for a second or two I was genuinely shocked; the silence I had grown accustomed to all morning had been deafening and beautiful. I passed five nice ladies (three going up, two down), who thanked me for breaking in the trail. I wished them the best of luck and continued my slog down through the snow. My legs were so useless that I just let gravity do its work while I did my usual: thinking of food and making an effort to keep myself from a harmful slip. I picked up my coat from the tree where I had left it, and after some time, reached the lower part of the trail with all the blowdowns. I couldn’t be arsed to try to navigate around them, so I mostly just pushed through them, sending cascades of snow on my head and down my back. I crossed the brooks, descended the bank, and found myself back at my car at 2:10, exactly six hours after I had started.
Admission: This had been my first snow/winter hike, and though I had had an incredibly tough time breaking the trail and ascending the final part to the summit, I'm now hooked. Time to start loading up on more snow gear!
