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...After it became clear that Pete was not going to stop pushing the snooze
button, I finally yanked myself out of bed and turned on the stereo in the
next room, where the other two would have to expose themselves to both sunlight
and the chilled air if they wanted to do anything about it. After some coffee,
we were able to get ready. I appointed myself driver, as the most awake of
the group. We drove over the Kancamagus highway which passes over the mountains
between Lincoln and Conway. The omniscient views of the Presidentials were
a silent pep talk for our approaching expedition. We arrived at the Pinkham
Notch lodge and found a brimming parking lot. While hiking and backpacking
are typically enjoyed in solitude, a crowd at Tuckerman means safety in numbers.
After topping off the water bottles, we started up the trail that would lead
us to our last day of boarding for the next five months.
Pete and Drew getting ready for the decent to the ravine. The lip of the headwall slopes down to the left and out of sight. |
The trail began easily and gently, enabling us to shake off the residual
grog of the early morning, and warm up. After the incline increased somewhat,
the trail began taking switchbacks and we encountered the first stream crossing
where we took our first rest. By this time, all of Drew's stuff had found
its way down to the tail end of his "pack", and it was hitting the backs
of his calves on each step. The worthless school bag style backpack straps
were digging in to Drew's shoulders. This was particularly bad news, as Drew
had dislocated his shoulder earlier in the year. We fashioned some make-shift
pads out of our extra socks and duct tape. I was reminded of something I
once read about duct tape being like the force. It has a light side, a dark
side, and it binds the universe together. We pushed on, but the journey was
peppered with frequent rest stops for Drew's ailing shoulder, and developing
a rhythm proved difficult.
At about the two mile mark, we reached the trail merge where we had the option
of continuing straight on to the base of the ravine, or to take a right turn
onto the Lion Head trail up the right hand shoulder of the ravine. With no
real itinerary, we decided to take the Lion Head trail since none of us had
previously done it. We reasoned that the Lion Head trail would put us right
at the top of the ravine with an easy option to continue to the summit.
The view from Lion Head was commanding. A full panorama of the ravine and
the peak of Washington lay spread out before us, all covered with beautiful
white snow. It was as if we had been crashing through the jungle with machetes
and had stumbled upon the lost city of snowboarder paradise. The vast concavity
of the white bowl seemed to suck me in as I tried to focus on the line of
dot-sized people trudging up the middle of the ravine. The three of us stood
silently, soaking in this new wild perspective.
Pete ruling the summit snowfields.
When we reached the snow line we had to decide whether to strap in and ride
down toward the ravine, or to turn right and continue to the summit snowfields.
At this point, Drew's shoulder would permit no further ascent, however, he
insisted that Pete and I press on. Pete and I took off for the summit, clambering
over lichen covered rocks and boulders. Near the summit, we agreed that we
didn't need to summit Mt. Washington. It was our little boycott of the fact
that any rubbernecking flatlander can drive his car up the Mt. Washington
Auto Road and buy a T-shirt proclaiming the event.
Skirting the summit, being sure to stay outside of the guard rail along the
road, we found our way over to the snowfield where another lone snowboarder
was already strapping in. I picked up a handful of snow and threw a ceremonial
last snowball of the year at Pete. We eagerly got out our riding clothes
and boots, and strapped in.
The snowfield was big enough to comfortably accommodate an entire lift-line's
worth of weekend warriors, however, we decided that it would be safest to
go one at a time and wait. I gave Pete the honors, and he rode off, arcing
huge roller coaster turns and yelping with glee. He stopped at the horizon
of the next pitch and waved me on.
After more than a month of being cooped up at college without snowboarding,
the first turn was orgasmic. My edge found flawless purchase in the natural
corn snow. I swooped down the face of the field making figure eights with
Pete's track, carving fast enough to become airborne between turns. I think
it may have been the only time in my life when I had total reign over an
entire region of snow. I stopped with Pete and laughed out loud, unable to
contain the satisfaction and awe. The next pitch was as amazing as the first,
burning turn after turn into our memories. We rode until we were about level
with where we had left Drew, and traversed in his direction until we had
to take off the boards and hike. We found Drew reclining in a nook of rocks
and told him about the run, editing a bit to not bum him out about his shoulder.
By this time, Drew was fully rested and ready to conquer. With minimal delay,
we strapped in again, and rode down toward the top of the ravine. Riding
toward the lip of the bowl had a new and different dimension, in that we
were actually snowboarding to get somewhere, not just for the sake of
snowboarding itself. From our perspective, the lip of the ravine sloped
drastically down and out of sight into the bowl, presenting an eerie and
unsettling mystery of what lay beyond our view. We reached the lip and
snowboarded down toward the headwall.
Snowboarding in the east does not offer one the opportunity to get any good
at cliff jumping. Not being able to see beyond the edge of the headwall was
downright terrifying. We sat down. One wrong move here could be our last.
I suggested we try to go to our left, where the rocky border looked like
it might provide better footing. We made our way down to a reasonable place
to dismount and lashed our boards back onto our packs.
We slowly worked our way down the rocks, carefully double checking each foothold
and handhold. We made it down below the level of the headwall without incident,
and stopped to head out onto the 45 degree face of the bowl. While carefully
negotiating the down climb, none of us had noticed the rushing sound of water
that now became so obvious. There was a waterfall running right next to us,
underneath the snow. This meant one big thing: the shell of snow and ice
that encased the waterfall would be completely untrustworthy for footing.
The real problem became apparent when we realized that we were situated directly
above a twenty foot cliff with rocks for a landing pad. The snow bridge over
the waterfall was our only exit.
View of the headwall rocks and the dot people from Lion Head. |
We thoroughly inspected the snow bridge for tracks or any hint that one possible
foothold might be more solid than another. A few boot prints dimpled ten
foot span. Halfway across a rock protruded out of the snow. It looked promising.
Pete was the closest to what seemed to be the start of the sequence of delicate
footsteps to the other side, so he volunteered to go first. He took off his
pack thinking he would come back and get it if the route was safe. He started
across and we all held our breath as he tested the first foothold. It supported
him, and he moved slowly from step to step, using his hands on the slope
for balance. Just as he went to take his last step to safety, the footing
gave way with a frightening crack. His boot disappeared into the hole he
created and water sprayed up his leg. Fortunately, he must have found footing
on the rocks beneath the snow, as he quickly pushed off with the wet foot
and scrambled to the other side, noticeably shaken.
Drew and I heaved a sigh of relief and exchanged a knowing looks. Then I
realized that Drew and I were now responsible for somehow getting Pete's
pack across as well as our own. I started to make my way toward Pete's pack
when the unthinkable happened. I lost my footing and began sliding, picking
up speed right toward the cliff. In a panic, I flipped over on to my stomach
and tried to kick my toes and claw my hands into the snow, figuring my last
resort would be to catch the edge of the cliff as it slid up my front side.
Obviously, I lived to tell the tale, but I still don't know what kept me
from going over that cliff. I just stopped sliding, and I wasn't about to
look around and determine why. I secured the best foothold I could find,
and climbed back up to Drew. He looked as though I had just crawled out of
a grave. I found a safe place to stand and panted heavily, feeling my heart
race.
Pete somehow made it halfway back across the waterfall to the rock in the
middle, where we were able to swing him his pack. Drew and I cinched down
the straps of our packs and cautiously negotiated the precious few footsteps
that looked supportive. Thankfully, our crossings were successful after Pete
had exposed the weak spot.
The sun had already passed over the mountain, and the ravine was filling
with shadow. On the 45 degree slope, strapping on bindings took a new meaning.
Although our butts were in the snow, it felt like we were almost standing
up, and reaching for our bindings presented the danger of somersaulting down
the ravine. Having been waiting on the safe side of the waterfall the longest,
Pete was elected to make the first run. He stood up, hopped his board around
and quickly accelerated down the bowl. He made several turns to control his
speed on the steep slope, but about halfway down, the fight with gravity
was too great, and he high-sided a turn and rag-dolled the rest of the way
down.. He quickly popped up and waved to us, signaling that he had survived.
I let Drew go ahead, still unsure of myself from my scare on the other side
of the waterfall. Drew was fresh and fully stoked for his run, as he had
not experienced the summit snowfield. He dropped in and carved huge high
speed sweeping turns down the bowl, screaming with joy. He made a successful
run of the bowl, and met Pete at the bottom.
Knowing that I could stall no longer, I stood up and jumped the board around
into the fall line. I worked my way down the steep slope with big traversing
carves, still a little shaky in the knees. Once the initial fear of dropping
in wore off, I let the nose point more downhill and picked up speed. Despite
some bumpy patches where potholes were left over from the hikers, I got into
a rhythm of big, round, fast carves and let out my own howl of excitement.
By the time my fifteen second run was over, I had almost forgotten about
the near disaster. We dug out our hiking clothes and boots, and began descending
the trail back down to the car.
As we walked, I actually felt a distinct awareness and appreciation of the
fact that I was passing through time; that I was being allowed to experience
the fourth dimension. I hadn't beaten the mountain at any game, for I certainly
did not feel like the victor. If the mountain had not allowed me to catch
myself on that ledge, my time would have stopped. When you set out to climb
a mountain or survive in nature, it is not possible to "conquer." The best
you can hope for is to break even.
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