The Unstrung Harp
Active member
Full and lengthy report w/ pics: http://trekforpeace.blogspot.com/2012/05/5182012-north-moat-mountain-no-conway.html
Abridged words:
I set sail at 12:30pm from the Diana's Baths trailhead, which is just north of the spectacular climbing mecca, Cathedral Ledges. The first half mile slopes gently and is hard-packed and graded. I jogged along with my heavy pack and saw several folks, but only one couple that looked like they were out for a hike. The rest, as I saw when I arrived at the Baths, had reached their destination and were enjoying the dramatic cascades and pools. I had my camera out but, apologies, there was no sign of Diana.
Shortly thereafter, the trail split, and the one hikerish couple headed straight up the Moat Mountain Trail. My plan was to make a loop starting on the Red Ridge Trail which veers off to the left at this point.
The only problem with this plan was that I was immediately presented with a pretty ominous brook crossing. I wandered up and down stream a bit trying to find a good spot. I was nervous. I do not like dealing with water, at all. I wondered if I should avoid this and go up the MM Trail for an out and back. I stalled, I stared at the opposite bank. Tick tock. I waited, maybe for the river to go away? Caulk the wagon and float across. Rapidly approaching futility, I tried to decide what to do. All of a sudden, I had grabbed a wooden trekking pole and was halfway across. I was following visions of S., recalling her plunging nonchalantly through icy streams at 10pm in February.
The water hadn't even gone up to my knees, and would you believe that it actually felt great on my already warm feet? Yes, I just said it: the water felt great. I leaned the pole against a tree, hoping it would aid the next timid forder. I glanced back at the opposite bank, and someone was still over there, some apparition, pacing and muttering and staring longingly, sadly across the stream. 'Twas I. I wished her well, and quietly left her behind.
The Red Ridge Trail was reasonably flat in at first, and I jog/trudged sometimes, and picked my way through mud/water/roots/rocks at others. The midday sunlight was warm and pleasant, and though sweating like a banshee at a dinner party, I was comfortable. A couple of unmarked crossings of double track, faded blazes of three different colors, and a general lack of signs made for a journey that was at times confusing.
The trail became less runnable as it climbed up, parallel to the banks of another fabulous stream. There'd been several small and easy crossings and I liked hearing the play of the water over the rocks as I traveled. There were also several unfamiliar and really interesting bird songs happening, and I wished for my staff ornithologist. Looking up, hoping for a glimpse, I saw -- of course -- nothing but invisible music.
And then, the trail stopped. I wandered around, up and down to where I thought it ought to be. After around 10 minutes of confusion and weirdness, I pulled out the Romano's book again and stared and stared and read and re-read. Maybe I was supposed to cross the stream? Rocks and trees prevented me from seeing the opposite bank, and erosion had destroyed any possible signs that may have been left by previous crossers (ie, where's the best spot?), but after a couple of minutes, I clambered down to the edge and began picking my way. It wasn't too difficult but I was really hoping that there would indeed be a trail on the other side.
With much relief and joy, I spotted a trail that led upward and I figured this had to be, had better be, right. I think there may have been a painted wooden arrow here too; there were several throughout the day. Kind of ambiguous, but it worked.
Mt Washington is the one with snow on the left. This pic makes it look far less majestic than it was IRL.
I was only hiking now, as it was too steep for running. (I pictured certain Monstery people bounding upward past me.) In a few minutes, I emerged at a ledgey area, and the views began to open up. Mount Washington, with still snow still tucked in Tucks, and the other northern Presidentials sat regally next to their shorter henchmountains. Gorgeous. And this was just the beginning. Having lost a lot of time with my a) scary stream crossing and b) trying to find the trail, I tried to keep the pace as steady as possible. I only stopped for pics about 50% of the time I wanted to, and I never spent as long as I wanted to on getting the right shot. All the more reason to return sometime.
There were a handful of times when I had to climb with my hands; fortunately there were almost always good grips to be found. There was a ton of granite ledge, some of which was wet, and much of which featured a little herd path off to the side, for which I was thankful. The trees were getting shorter and the views were appearing more and more often at this point. My pace was quite slow by now but the temps remained comfy, warm with the most crisp breeze of ultimate clarity.
The laurel added flourishes of fuscia to the otherwise multi-greened flora. Seems a bit early, no? Blueberry bushes were everywhere too. This place will be delicious in July. Speaking of blue, I don't think I saw a single cloud all day. Vivid.
The solid rock underfoot continued. I was now ascending a long section of open ridge, perhaps a half mile of it, with wondrous views and challenging but simple hiking. Faded blazes seemed to appear just as I was about to wonder where to go. The steepness became more moderate. I focused on feeling the gratitude and peace brought on by my immediate environment.
Soon the glorious ridge closed in and I was back in the trees. I'd gotten a glimpse of what I believed was the nearby summit of North Moat, and I knew it wouldn't be long before I'd be there. I soon passed a signpost that was lying on its side, which I propped back up, long enough to snap a picture.
The trail became quite narrow as it tunneled through piney areas, sometimes muddy, and there was more climbing with hands every now and then. Nothing pinpoints the weak spots in the body like a little bouldering. Anyway, the climbs further slowed me down (and maybe we can blame the many, mostly failed, photo stops as well). I realized I was falling a bit behind the schedule I'd hoped to keep.
All day I'd been getting wrapped in spiderweb after spiderweb and there seemed to be more and more of them in this area. With my late start, I'd assumed that surely others would have been out on the trail ahead of me today, but the endless webs plus the lack of recent footprints made it clear that, of all the people in the world, I was the only person out on this loop today.
Soon, I looked up -- straight up -- ahead to see a huge beast of granite framed by the blue, blue sky, and I knew that the summit must be right up ahead. 360 degrees of incredible views were waiting for me there, and I climbed toward them in a final upward effort. The sun's shadows were reaching longer as it was around 4pm by now. I needed to keep moving, so I hurriedly appreciated the spectacular mountains all around, the Pemigewasset Wilderness to the west, the Presis to the North, Carrigain perhaps to the Northeast, and that must be Kearsarge North to the East. And so much more -- I wished, as always, for better geographical prowess.
As much as I would have truly loved to stay longer, much longer, I had passed the unmarked cairn and was heading out already, after just a few minutes. Wondering which direction the trail was, I wandered downward, looking for clues. Eventually I saw a large, messy, yellow swath of paint that I decided must have been a blaze, and sure enough, it led straight down past many other less-vibrant but very faded blazes. It was a little unnerving at first, but once again, the blazes kept appearing in the very last moments of confidence.
The descent was rocky and quite steep, and often wet. Typical. And you can imagine the pace. I thought wistfully back to the days before I was too cool for my own trekking poles. Note to self: maybe ought to bring these next time. They do seem to make for faster, gentler descents.
I ran slowly for the final miles, back toward Diana's Baths, enjoying the late afternoon light as it journeyed through the rippling leaves overhead. I was thankful for the shade, for the soft ground, for the flatness, for being all alone out here in this amazing place. The bugs were getting worse but, as a byproduct to my hope for a quick finish, I was outrunning them.
I heard some yelling up ahead and I nervously pictured a flock of teenage males livin' it up at the Baths. Or a lone escaped mental patient. The yells were a one syllable word that I couldn't make out. They were at unique intervals, but very frequent. I trotted closer along the brook and wondered what I was about to encounter. Suddenly, from behind a massive glacial boulder, a black lab dashed onto the trail and bolted past me -- and I put the pieces together. "He's here!" I shouted, and soon rounded the corner just in time to witness the dog and his owner being reunited.
The man looked very worried, thanked me several times, and asked where the dog had been. He looked at me kind of funny as I said I really hadn't done anything but was very, very glad that they'd found each other. I was muddy, sweaty, had blood all over one knee, and was basically jogging past him (to escape the intense, newfound cloud of mosquitoes) during our whole exchange. Guess I might have made an impression. It was almost 6pm and that was the first conversation I'd had all day.
Abridged words:
I set sail at 12:30pm from the Diana's Baths trailhead, which is just north of the spectacular climbing mecca, Cathedral Ledges. The first half mile slopes gently and is hard-packed and graded. I jogged along with my heavy pack and saw several folks, but only one couple that looked like they were out for a hike. The rest, as I saw when I arrived at the Baths, had reached their destination and were enjoying the dramatic cascades and pools. I had my camera out but, apologies, there was no sign of Diana.
Shortly thereafter, the trail split, and the one hikerish couple headed straight up the Moat Mountain Trail. My plan was to make a loop starting on the Red Ridge Trail which veers off to the left at this point.
The only problem with this plan was that I was immediately presented with a pretty ominous brook crossing. I wandered up and down stream a bit trying to find a good spot. I was nervous. I do not like dealing with water, at all. I wondered if I should avoid this and go up the MM Trail for an out and back. I stalled, I stared at the opposite bank. Tick tock. I waited, maybe for the river to go away? Caulk the wagon and float across. Rapidly approaching futility, I tried to decide what to do. All of a sudden, I had grabbed a wooden trekking pole and was halfway across. I was following visions of S., recalling her plunging nonchalantly through icy streams at 10pm in February.
The water hadn't even gone up to my knees, and would you believe that it actually felt great on my already warm feet? Yes, I just said it: the water felt great. I leaned the pole against a tree, hoping it would aid the next timid forder. I glanced back at the opposite bank, and someone was still over there, some apparition, pacing and muttering and staring longingly, sadly across the stream. 'Twas I. I wished her well, and quietly left her behind.
The Red Ridge Trail was reasonably flat in at first, and I jog/trudged sometimes, and picked my way through mud/water/roots/rocks at others. The midday sunlight was warm and pleasant, and though sweating like a banshee at a dinner party, I was comfortable. A couple of unmarked crossings of double track, faded blazes of three different colors, and a general lack of signs made for a journey that was at times confusing.
The trail became less runnable as it climbed up, parallel to the banks of another fabulous stream. There'd been several small and easy crossings and I liked hearing the play of the water over the rocks as I traveled. There were also several unfamiliar and really interesting bird songs happening, and I wished for my staff ornithologist. Looking up, hoping for a glimpse, I saw -- of course -- nothing but invisible music.
And then, the trail stopped. I wandered around, up and down to where I thought it ought to be. After around 10 minutes of confusion and weirdness, I pulled out the Romano's book again and stared and stared and read and re-read. Maybe I was supposed to cross the stream? Rocks and trees prevented me from seeing the opposite bank, and erosion had destroyed any possible signs that may have been left by previous crossers (ie, where's the best spot?), but after a couple of minutes, I clambered down to the edge and began picking my way. It wasn't too difficult but I was really hoping that there would indeed be a trail on the other side.
With much relief and joy, I spotted a trail that led upward and I figured this had to be, had better be, right. I think there may have been a painted wooden arrow here too; there were several throughout the day. Kind of ambiguous, but it worked.
Mt Washington is the one with snow on the left. This pic makes it look far less majestic than it was IRL.
I was only hiking now, as it was too steep for running. (I pictured certain Monstery people bounding upward past me.) In a few minutes, I emerged at a ledgey area, and the views began to open up. Mount Washington, with still snow still tucked in Tucks, and the other northern Presidentials sat regally next to their shorter henchmountains. Gorgeous. And this was just the beginning. Having lost a lot of time with my a) scary stream crossing and b) trying to find the trail, I tried to keep the pace as steady as possible. I only stopped for pics about 50% of the time I wanted to, and I never spent as long as I wanted to on getting the right shot. All the more reason to return sometime.
There were a handful of times when I had to climb with my hands; fortunately there were almost always good grips to be found. There was a ton of granite ledge, some of which was wet, and much of which featured a little herd path off to the side, for which I was thankful. The trees were getting shorter and the views were appearing more and more often at this point. My pace was quite slow by now but the temps remained comfy, warm with the most crisp breeze of ultimate clarity.
The laurel added flourishes of fuscia to the otherwise multi-greened flora. Seems a bit early, no? Blueberry bushes were everywhere too. This place will be delicious in July. Speaking of blue, I don't think I saw a single cloud all day. Vivid.
The solid rock underfoot continued. I was now ascending a long section of open ridge, perhaps a half mile of it, with wondrous views and challenging but simple hiking. Faded blazes seemed to appear just as I was about to wonder where to go. The steepness became more moderate. I focused on feeling the gratitude and peace brought on by my immediate environment.
Soon the glorious ridge closed in and I was back in the trees. I'd gotten a glimpse of what I believed was the nearby summit of North Moat, and I knew it wouldn't be long before I'd be there. I soon passed a signpost that was lying on its side, which I propped back up, long enough to snap a picture.
The trail became quite narrow as it tunneled through piney areas, sometimes muddy, and there was more climbing with hands every now and then. Nothing pinpoints the weak spots in the body like a little bouldering. Anyway, the climbs further slowed me down (and maybe we can blame the many, mostly failed, photo stops as well). I realized I was falling a bit behind the schedule I'd hoped to keep.
All day I'd been getting wrapped in spiderweb after spiderweb and there seemed to be more and more of them in this area. With my late start, I'd assumed that surely others would have been out on the trail ahead of me today, but the endless webs plus the lack of recent footprints made it clear that, of all the people in the world, I was the only person out on this loop today.
Soon, I looked up -- straight up -- ahead to see a huge beast of granite framed by the blue, blue sky, and I knew that the summit must be right up ahead. 360 degrees of incredible views were waiting for me there, and I climbed toward them in a final upward effort. The sun's shadows were reaching longer as it was around 4pm by now. I needed to keep moving, so I hurriedly appreciated the spectacular mountains all around, the Pemigewasset Wilderness to the west, the Presis to the North, Carrigain perhaps to the Northeast, and that must be Kearsarge North to the East. And so much more -- I wished, as always, for better geographical prowess.
As much as I would have truly loved to stay longer, much longer, I had passed the unmarked cairn and was heading out already, after just a few minutes. Wondering which direction the trail was, I wandered downward, looking for clues. Eventually I saw a large, messy, yellow swath of paint that I decided must have been a blaze, and sure enough, it led straight down past many other less-vibrant but very faded blazes. It was a little unnerving at first, but once again, the blazes kept appearing in the very last moments of confidence.
The descent was rocky and quite steep, and often wet. Typical. And you can imagine the pace. I thought wistfully back to the days before I was too cool for my own trekking poles. Note to self: maybe ought to bring these next time. They do seem to make for faster, gentler descents.
I ran slowly for the final miles, back toward Diana's Baths, enjoying the late afternoon light as it journeyed through the rippling leaves overhead. I was thankful for the shade, for the soft ground, for the flatness, for being all alone out here in this amazing place. The bugs were getting worse but, as a byproduct to my hope for a quick finish, I was outrunning them.
I heard some yelling up ahead and I nervously pictured a flock of teenage males livin' it up at the Baths. Or a lone escaped mental patient. The yells were a one syllable word that I couldn't make out. They were at unique intervals, but very frequent. I trotted closer along the brook and wondered what I was about to encounter. Suddenly, from behind a massive glacial boulder, a black lab dashed onto the trail and bolted past me -- and I put the pieces together. "He's here!" I shouted, and soon rounded the corner just in time to witness the dog and his owner being reunited.
The man looked very worried, thanked me several times, and asked where the dog had been. He looked at me kind of funny as I said I really hadn't done anything but was very, very glad that they'd found each other. I was muddy, sweaty, had blood all over one knee, and was basically jogging past him (to escape the intense, newfound cloud of mosquitoes) during our whole exchange. Guess I might have made an impression. It was almost 6pm and that was the first conversation I'd had all day.
