My last hike had started out in the bright sun on the verge of being too warm. The morning of May 22nd was to be the complete opposite. Climbing rock ledges in the rain by myself wasn't necessarily a good idea, but as long as there wasn't any lightning, I'd be summitting Whiteface and Passaconaway.
I arrived at the Ferncroft parking area shortly after 9am; it was 45 degrees and the rain was pouring down. Another hiker was leaving the trailhead, giving up in the face of the weater. I wasn't so easily deterred, and started loading up my gear. The mosquitoes were large and vicious, but they avoided the rain, attacking me only at the trail kiosk and under my tailgate. When all my various waterproof layers were finally on, I hoisted my pack onto my shoulders and started up the road.
To get to the Blueberry Ledge Trail, I walked up Ferncroft Road past a few houses, crossed Squirrel Bridge, turned up a driveway, and headed into the woods. It was dark with the tree cover, soaking wet, and I had a huge smile on my face. The woods have a magic about themselves in the rain - the sound, the shimmering of the water drops, the whole experience. I even saw a rabbit, just sitting on the trail looking up at me, wondering what foolish human would be out on a day like this.
Making my way further up the trail, I came out on the Blueberry Ledges, open expanses of rock interspersed with woods and vegetation. The area is very reminiscent of portions of the Welch-Dickey loop. I had no problems whatsoever with the rain on these ledges, and imagine they must have lovely views in nicer weather. I didn't care about the rain, though - at the upper junction with the Blueberry Ledge Cutoff I was simply having a fantastic day.
The trail reenters the woods for a distance and climbs. At this point I encountered two women and two men hiking down. I didn't catch if they'd summitted, but they wished me luck with my footing and warned me of bad weather higher up (in fact, I never encountered the wind they described). I turned a corner and had a brief view of the ledges above me. My reaction was that the trail couldn't possibly go right up those ledges, could it?
It could, and it does. Almost immediately there's a rock face that goes up at an angle greater than 45 degrees. It once had wooden steps, but they have been removed, leaving behind only the holes where they were drilled. Well, let's just say those stairs were put there for a reason - the only way up now is to put your left foot against the edge where another slab faces and to grab at the old pin holes and pull yourself up. It was uncomfortable, but a misstep here would simply mean a short slide back to the ground. Even so, it occured to me that even though I had both a tarp and a space blanket with me, if I were to slip and injure myself severely enough, I would probably not be found until the next day ... and not last through the night. It's sobering to think about the implications of solo hiking in bad weather.
The next turn revealed an open cliff, sloped left and dropping off into the nothingness of the gray fog. A slip here would be an instant end to it all. Fortunately, although blue blazes are painted to take you out on it before turning right up and over the ledge's crest, a herd path has shortcutted this dangerous slab walk. Without it, I would have had to "bushwhack" to proceed. I had a few more ledge climbs, but they weren't bad at all, just grabbing a root and stepping carefully. Finally, though, I was stymied. I had already stepped up onto a small shelf barely as wide as my hand, about 3 feet off the ground. The top of the ledge was at about chin level. There was nothing to hold onto unless I could step about a yard to my right; however, that would exceed ability to balance, I would fall backwards. So, with one hand just pressed on the top of the ledge hoping for as much friction as I could maintain, I carefully tossed my polls up, released my pack straps, got my pack up on the ledge, and then was able to hold my balance, make the shift, and get up. After a loudly exclaimed quotation from Futurama, I made my way past the former Camp Heermance to the south summit of Whiteface.
The south summit, at the junction with the McCrillis Trail from Flat Mountain Pond, is a fine ledgy area that must make a great clearweather lounging spot, but it was already 12:30 and in spite of being 1/2 hour ahead of book time I still had a long way to go, so onto the Rollins Trail I went, traversing the ridge to the junction with the Kate Sleeper Trail at the site of the fomer Camp Shehadi. The rain had tapered off to a foggy drizzle, and I was hungry, so I snarfed down half a sandwich before moving on.
The Rollins Trail is fairly uninteresting. It runs along the side of the ridge with occasional views to Mount Wonalancet, slowly descending after its imperceptible crest of the true summit of Whiteface. I was able to make good time, but my wet clothes weren't getting any drier in the fog, and I was cold. Thiese were prime hypothermia conditions and so I did a layer change to help reduce my risk. Suddenly, I dropped into some switchbacks which threw off my mental compass briefly, but a quick look at the map restored my faith in myself, and after almost 2 hours I came to the Dicey's Mill Trail.
From here I'd be going straight up to the Passaconaway summit, then back down. I wasn't willing to leave any gear behind, so after a short snack I started up. This is a tough stretch of trail - steep and eroded, with a lot of high stepping and loose material. I wouldn't call it brutal, but after what I'd already done it was definitely discouraging. Fortunately, it's broken up by the junction with the East Loop Trail, a tiny brook crossing, and the former Camp Rich. And then suddenly there was an outlook. I have no idea where I was looking, but I was between an undercast and an overcast with some distant summits poking up through the clouds, and it was amazing. I turned onto the trail again only to see the sign pointing me to the true summit of Passaconaway in the trees. I took the requisite pictures of the 3-small-stone man-made summit cairn (and the many-pellet deer-made summit, uh, cairn), and then took a moment back on the outlook.
After that, it's all (well, almost all) downhill. Descending that upper stretch of the Dicey's Mill Trail was tough on the quads, but below the Rollins Trail junction it was much more moderate as it edged its way down the ridgeside into the Wonalancet River ravine. The vegetation throughout here, the birches, beeches, and other flora, was an incredible green color, only intensified by the muted grey light, the light fog in the air, and the layer of wet on the leaves. Other than the color, I don't even remember this section of the trail: my focus was concentrated on my tired legs, willing them not to slip on a wet rock or root.
The sound of running water started to make its way through the quiet stillness. At first my heart skipped a beat - with all this rain, my fear of water crossings was piqued. However, I had reviewed the map before the hike and new that this was my only crossing, and that it was an upper branch of the Wonalancet River, which I had crossed easily back at the beginning of the trek. And in fact, as I approached the site of the former Dicey's Mill, the way was simple. The trail then ascends away from the river and turns flat for a mile before descending back down. What amazed me was when I suddenly realized I had finally gone below the cloud ceilng and could see all with sharp clarity. I had grown so used to a blurred, foggy world that crisp scenery came almost as a shock.
And before I knew it, I had emerged behind a house and barn. It feels weird to be on the wrong side of a gated driveway, but the WMG had reassured me that hikers were welcome. On to Ferncroft Road, and after 11.9 miles and 3,800 ft of climbing over 8:15 (25 minutes over book time), I was ready to face the mosquitoes one last time, throw on dry clothes, meet HikeNH76 and friend as they arrived to camp, hop in the warm car, and cruise home. #'s 30 and 31 - the quest continues.
The full set of pictures are available here.
I arrived at the Ferncroft parking area shortly after 9am; it was 45 degrees and the rain was pouring down. Another hiker was leaving the trailhead, giving up in the face of the weater. I wasn't so easily deterred, and started loading up my gear. The mosquitoes were large and vicious, but they avoided the rain, attacking me only at the trail kiosk and under my tailgate. When all my various waterproof layers were finally on, I hoisted my pack onto my shoulders and started up the road.
To get to the Blueberry Ledge Trail, I walked up Ferncroft Road past a few houses, crossed Squirrel Bridge, turned up a driveway, and headed into the woods. It was dark with the tree cover, soaking wet, and I had a huge smile on my face. The woods have a magic about themselves in the rain - the sound, the shimmering of the water drops, the whole experience. I even saw a rabbit, just sitting on the trail looking up at me, wondering what foolish human would be out on a day like this.
Making my way further up the trail, I came out on the Blueberry Ledges, open expanses of rock interspersed with woods and vegetation. The area is very reminiscent of portions of the Welch-Dickey loop. I had no problems whatsoever with the rain on these ledges, and imagine they must have lovely views in nicer weather. I didn't care about the rain, though - at the upper junction with the Blueberry Ledge Cutoff I was simply having a fantastic day.
The trail reenters the woods for a distance and climbs. At this point I encountered two women and two men hiking down. I didn't catch if they'd summitted, but they wished me luck with my footing and warned me of bad weather higher up (in fact, I never encountered the wind they described). I turned a corner and had a brief view of the ledges above me. My reaction was that the trail couldn't possibly go right up those ledges, could it?
It could, and it does. Almost immediately there's a rock face that goes up at an angle greater than 45 degrees. It once had wooden steps, but they have been removed, leaving behind only the holes where they were drilled. Well, let's just say those stairs were put there for a reason - the only way up now is to put your left foot against the edge where another slab faces and to grab at the old pin holes and pull yourself up. It was uncomfortable, but a misstep here would simply mean a short slide back to the ground. Even so, it occured to me that even though I had both a tarp and a space blanket with me, if I were to slip and injure myself severely enough, I would probably not be found until the next day ... and not last through the night. It's sobering to think about the implications of solo hiking in bad weather.
The next turn revealed an open cliff, sloped left and dropping off into the nothingness of the gray fog. A slip here would be an instant end to it all. Fortunately, although blue blazes are painted to take you out on it before turning right up and over the ledge's crest, a herd path has shortcutted this dangerous slab walk. Without it, I would have had to "bushwhack" to proceed. I had a few more ledge climbs, but they weren't bad at all, just grabbing a root and stepping carefully. Finally, though, I was stymied. I had already stepped up onto a small shelf barely as wide as my hand, about 3 feet off the ground. The top of the ledge was at about chin level. There was nothing to hold onto unless I could step about a yard to my right; however, that would exceed ability to balance, I would fall backwards. So, with one hand just pressed on the top of the ledge hoping for as much friction as I could maintain, I carefully tossed my polls up, released my pack straps, got my pack up on the ledge, and then was able to hold my balance, make the shift, and get up. After a loudly exclaimed quotation from Futurama, I made my way past the former Camp Heermance to the south summit of Whiteface.
The south summit, at the junction with the McCrillis Trail from Flat Mountain Pond, is a fine ledgy area that must make a great clearweather lounging spot, but it was already 12:30 and in spite of being 1/2 hour ahead of book time I still had a long way to go, so onto the Rollins Trail I went, traversing the ridge to the junction with the Kate Sleeper Trail at the site of the fomer Camp Shehadi. The rain had tapered off to a foggy drizzle, and I was hungry, so I snarfed down half a sandwich before moving on.
The Rollins Trail is fairly uninteresting. It runs along the side of the ridge with occasional views to Mount Wonalancet, slowly descending after its imperceptible crest of the true summit of Whiteface. I was able to make good time, but my wet clothes weren't getting any drier in the fog, and I was cold. Thiese were prime hypothermia conditions and so I did a layer change to help reduce my risk. Suddenly, I dropped into some switchbacks which threw off my mental compass briefly, but a quick look at the map restored my faith in myself, and after almost 2 hours I came to the Dicey's Mill Trail.
From here I'd be going straight up to the Passaconaway summit, then back down. I wasn't willing to leave any gear behind, so after a short snack I started up. This is a tough stretch of trail - steep and eroded, with a lot of high stepping and loose material. I wouldn't call it brutal, but after what I'd already done it was definitely discouraging. Fortunately, it's broken up by the junction with the East Loop Trail, a tiny brook crossing, and the former Camp Rich. And then suddenly there was an outlook. I have no idea where I was looking, but I was between an undercast and an overcast with some distant summits poking up through the clouds, and it was amazing. I turned onto the trail again only to see the sign pointing me to the true summit of Passaconaway in the trees. I took the requisite pictures of the 3-small-stone man-made summit cairn (and the many-pellet deer-made summit, uh, cairn), and then took a moment back on the outlook.
After that, it's all (well, almost all) downhill. Descending that upper stretch of the Dicey's Mill Trail was tough on the quads, but below the Rollins Trail junction it was much more moderate as it edged its way down the ridgeside into the Wonalancet River ravine. The vegetation throughout here, the birches, beeches, and other flora, was an incredible green color, only intensified by the muted grey light, the light fog in the air, and the layer of wet on the leaves. Other than the color, I don't even remember this section of the trail: my focus was concentrated on my tired legs, willing them not to slip on a wet rock or root.
The sound of running water started to make its way through the quiet stillness. At first my heart skipped a beat - with all this rain, my fear of water crossings was piqued. However, I had reviewed the map before the hike and new that this was my only crossing, and that it was an upper branch of the Wonalancet River, which I had crossed easily back at the beginning of the trek. And in fact, as I approached the site of the former Dicey's Mill, the way was simple. The trail then ascends away from the river and turns flat for a mile before descending back down. What amazed me was when I suddenly realized I had finally gone below the cloud ceilng and could see all with sharp clarity. I had grown so used to a blurred, foggy world that crisp scenery came almost as a shock.
And before I knew it, I had emerged behind a house and barn. It feels weird to be on the wrong side of a gated driveway, but the WMG had reassured me that hikers were welcome. On to Ferncroft Road, and after 11.9 miles and 3,800 ft of climbing over 8:15 (25 minutes over book time), I was ready to face the mosquitoes one last time, throw on dry clothes, meet HikeNH76 and friend as they arrived to camp, hop in the warm car, and cruise home. #'s 30 and 31 - the quest continues.
The full set of pictures are available here.
) I have been on many of the routes that you write about and it's great to relive the experience! Thanks for the painstaking detail - I don't know if I would have the patience to try to remember the hike so vividly! I have 1 4k left - Carrigain!
