White Mountain Revival

 

As I took my first few steps into New Hampshire and onto the campus of Dartmouth College, a student on a bike, likely a frat bro based on the can of Natty Ice in his bottle holder, asked if I was thru-hiking. When I told him I was, he offered to swipe me into the dining hall with one of his guest passes and mentioned that he had also thru-hiked the trail the year before. I graciously accepted his offer and felt comforted by how highly he spoke of the 400+ miles remaining in front of me.

Ivy League Meals

Being a week removed from the last time I had done laundry, and even longer since the last time I had showered, I felt self-conscious and out of place among the sea of ivy leaguers. However, once I took my seat inside and observed my surroundings I was pleasantly surprised that the people and atmosphere felt familiar to the dining halls at my middle-of-the-road public university at Michigan State. Students in their favorite team’s soccer jerseys watched game highlights on their phones, while exchange students with big headphones focused on homework on their laptops. We are all just 20-somethings on a limited income after all.

The food wasn’t particularly great, but it was endless and much better than pre-packaged little Debbie cookies and concoctions of cold flavorless ramen noodles and dehydrated mashed potatoes. The real star of the show for me was the plant-based section. Sweet potatoes, plant-based nuggets, and impossible burgers were lined up for the taking. I grabbed them all and then some more, including cereal, a grilled cheese, salad from the salad bar, and then several glasses of Coke. Hotdog was hanging out at a cafe nearby. I texted him to come over and buy a meal pass. We reunited and continued the feast. I managed to outlast him and finished my journey with a bowl of ice cream before heading out the door.

Andy’s Hospitality 

We needed a good resupply and rest before continuing on the trail, so we looked into staying in town somewhere for the night. There were no hostels or free campgrounds, but there was a list of trail angels willing to open up their spaces to hikers. Hotdog called around before eventually striking a win with a man named Andy. In nearby Lebanon, NH he had a room for us to stay in, so we took a bus over from Hanover. He wasn’t around when we arrived, but he told us to make ourselves at home. We squared our gear away and took a couple of much-needed showers.

Small World 

Without the burden of our gear on our backs, we walked back to the bus stop in the evening to head to the shopping district. I thought I might be able to fix my sleeping pad with a new valve, so we headed to Eastern Mountain Sports and L.L. Bean to see if we could find one. Both turned out to be a bust, but Hotdog chatted for a while with the older man working at L.L. Bean who used to work at Baxter State Park, the park in Maine that houses the Northern Terminus of the AT on Mt. Katahdin, and Isle Royale National Park, a seldom visited island nearby our home in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. He told us about a man he worked with in Baxter who would give hikers a matchbox at the start of the trail at Springer Mountain and promised to bake them a cake if they returned it to him in Maine. He ended up baking a ludicrous amount of cakes. There were certainly times I could have used the extra motivation of a cake waiting for me at the end of the line.

We grabbed Subway for dinner and then foolishly missed the last bus home. Hotdog was annoyed, but for whatever reason I had accepted our misfortune with humor. It would be a several-mile walk back to Andy’s place so we checked Uber and Lyft for a ride back. It took a long time for us to connect to a driver and like a cat watching the dot from a laser pointer, we watched the car icon move around the phone screen, constantly taking wrong turns and driving the arrival time up. Hotdog’s frustration rose. Anger eventually turned to pleading. When our driver finally arrived, we found an overwhelmed lady behind the wheel. She was new to driving Lyft and having a hard time with the navigation. After several more instances of missed turns on the way back, we eventually made it home. Hotdog and I crashed in Andy’s second-story apartment as we sweated out all our fluids in the heat.

Diner Quest

In typical Hotdog & Tomcat fashion, we woke up to a very slow morning. Once we left our room, we finally met our host and his cute new pup. Andy was an extremely nice and accommodating young guy. We thanked him for his hospitality before heading out on our quest to find a breakfast diner.

After a long bus ride, we found ourselves sitting at a booth at the Four Aces diner. Between the retro bar seating, assorted Knick-knacks, and the waitress continuously running laps to top off people’s coffee, I felt incredibly cozy. There is something about a classic American diner that fills me with a nostalgic sense of warmth and joy. Sitting down to stuff yourself with pancakes and drink cup after cup of hot coffee with your friends simply sets up your day with a wholesome mood. A magic 8 ball was waiting for us at our table, so we asked it a few questions: “Will we reach the end of the trail?”, “ Will we finish the trail together?”. After giving the ball a vigorous shake we nervously awaited our answer… “All signs point to yes”.

Baguettes 

We left the diner to resupply at the co-op grocery store across the street. The options were limited compared to Walmart, our Resupply Mecca, but I found it to be the perfect time to try something I had always wanted to do: buy a 2-foot baguette to stick into the side pocket of my backpack. Afterward, we took the bus back out to Hanover to get back on the trail.

Bubble Tea 

On the way out of town, I stopped at a bubble tea spot to treat myself to a taro-flavored bubble tea, a guilty pleasure of mine. The trail walks directly through downtown Hanover and on our way out two people sat outside a restaurant waved and yelled, “Hotdog!”. While Hotdog and I were separated he had met and hiked with a couple of thru-hikers named Ragnar, a former Army Ranger turned author, and Scorpion Queen, a chef from Britain. I teased him that with only a day apart he had already found a replacement for me.

AT Legends

It was an exceptionally hot day, and as we walked past the Dartmouth Athletic grounds and onto the trail, we knew we were in for a sweaty day. Within minutes of our first climb, the effects of our shower were nixed and we were left with shirts and shorts soaked in sweat. On the bright side, the trail magic was flowing. As we picked out fresh fruit and ice water from a cooler I read a note taped to a tree. The name, Andrew Thompson, looked familiar and then it clicked in my head; Andrew Thompson was the former holder of the fastest known time on the Appalachian Trail and also part of a small and prestigious club as a finisher of the infamous Barkley Marathons. I had long admired Andrew for his grit to keep pushing, even in the face of failure. It took him several attempts to set the speed record and to finish the Barkley. To see a figure that was so large in my head still giving back to the AT community made me happy and grateful. Thinking about what Andrew had to overcome to achieve his accomplishments offered me a reminder that I can move through any problems that come my way.

Moose Mountain 

Hotdog hiked ahead until I could no longer see him. This had become par for the course over the past couple of weeks. We agreed to meet at Moose Mountain Shelter for the night. When I arrived, Hotdog had already set up camp.

We woke up on Moose Mountain in good spirits. The views were slowly beginning to pick up in excitement. The White Mountains loomed in the back of our minds. Southern New Hampshire was the first time we began to notice a serious uptick in SOBO hikers, but their numbers were still low compared to our NOBO comrades. We love to joke that SOBOs are weird, but I have nothing but respect for the decision to hike south. It seems like a lonelier endeavor and finishing at the relatively modest Springer Mountain doesn’t have as much magnetism as taking a summit picture on top of Katahdin.

Smarts Mountain

In the middle of the day, we began the steep 2,000+ foot climb up Smarts Mountain, a 3,000-foot mountain with a fire tower at the top. The day was hot and the sun was glaring. Needless to say, the climb kicked our ass. The views at the top of the fire tower were worth the effort. We stood at the top eating snacks and situating our gaze to the Northeast where we saw the silhouette of the Whites towering high within the sky. We’d been waiting for this moment for nearly 1800 miles and now it was finally within sight.

The Descent of Tomcat 

We descended from Smarts Mountain quickly, determined to camp at a stealth spot on the summit of Mt. Cube, our next climb. As I made it further and further down Smarts I began to feel a sense of lethargy and nausea wash over me. When we reached the river at the bottom of the mountain I sat down on the dirt and then leaned back on a mound. As the minutes ticked by my lethargy had only gotten worse. I was glued to the ground, frustrated and confused as I tried to figure out what was going on. Another thru-hiker, Hoot from Mississippi, came flying down the mountain and began talking to us, but I couldn’t bring myself to join the conversation.

Eventually, I forced myself up and told Hotdog I was ready to go. Each lift of the foot left me gassed. We lowered our expectations and pivoted our plan to just make it one more mile to Hexacuba shelter halfway up the mountain. It was my slowest mile throughout the entire trail. Every tenth of a mile I took an extended break to catch my breath. At one point I laid on a cliff in the sun as ants crawled on me. I was convinced I was going to melt into lava. I eventually pulled off the trail again, dry-heaved, and then vomited until there was nothing left in my stomach.

A Poor Omen

The aura of the moment was quiet and melancholy. Hotdog had watched the whole thing from behind me. I knew the same thoughts were running through both of our heads. With my numerous injuries, I had only been slowing us down, and now with a new mystery illness, I would likely need multiple days to rest and recover. Hotdog wanted to get home and was hiking well under his current capabilities, meanwhile, my body was falling apart trying to stick by him. We were in an unhappy medium and neither of us was hiking our own hikes.

An Emotional Trench 

Hotdog helped me fill up water and set up my tent in the only semi-usable spot available. Afterward, we sat next to each other on a log in silence, neither of us wanting to address the elephant in the room. The atmosphere was heavy and the air reeked with grief and sadness. Minutes in silence felt like hours. Eventually, I spoke up and said I’d need a few days to rest. I mentioned how good of a run we had, but it was time for us to split up and hike our own hikes. I heard Hotdog sobbing next to me. He knew it was true.

Hiking, camping, laughing, and suffering together for 1800 miles had created a comradeship between us that was impossible to put into words. We had always dreamt of summiting Katahdin together, but now everything was falling apart. The emotions didn’t hit me hard until the middle of the night. I woke up to my deflated sleeping pad and couldn’t fall back asleep. I lay in despair as I anxiously thought about finishing the hike on my own.

Trying to Push Through 

The next morning I woke up with a nasty headache. Hiking 16 miles and throwing up all your nutrients will do that to you. The bright side was that I didn’t seem to feel nauseous. I told Hotdog that I’d try hiking with him and see how it went. If I felt like garbage I would pull off at a road crossing, call a local hostel to pick me up, and then we could say our final goodbyes. The going was tough and my legs lacked energy, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the evening prior. I chased Hotdog for 15 miles, stopping once for a break filled with PB&J sandwiches and cold Gatorades from Trail Angels, Trail Mama, and Granite State. Trail Magic was once again hitting exactly when it was needed most.

Gateway to the Whites 

After hitting 15 miles we had reached the entry point of the Whites: the base of the 4,000-foot climb up Mt Moosilauke. Earlier I had told Hotdog I thought I could make it up the mountain if I could first walk over to the “Hikers Welcome” Hostel down the street and eat a big meal. As I turned down the street, expecting him to follow, he stopped and mentioned he wasn’t going to stop at the hostel, and said I should do whatever would be best for myself. My chest sank and the panic lights went off in my head. I couldn’t shake the feeling of abandonment. We had talked about splitting up the evening before, but at this moment I was still fighting and trying to bounce back. Partly pissed off and partly feeling pathetic, I  couldn’t bring myself to look at him. We wished each other good luck and walked in separate directions.

The Moosilauke Mission

At the hostel, I took a shower, drank soda, ate some pie, and contemplated what to do next. My energy was back, but I still had some post-vomit digestion issues. I saw familiar faces new and old like hikers Hoot and Small Claims, as well as a handful of hikers I had never seen before. It was a welcoming group and I could use the rest, but something was pulling me to Moosilauke. I had a bit of a chip on my shoulder. Pride and spite gave my mind a jumpstart. I wanted to show both Hotdog and myself what I was made of. I walked down the street feeling like I was in the final scene of an action movie. I drank a bottle of caffeine mix, put both of my earbuds in, and started the long ascent up the mountain.

The climb was steep and rocky, but also fairly manageable. There weren’t any difficult scrambles, but it was the amount of elevation gain as a whole that made Moosilauke tough. The trail never seemed to stop ascending, but my determination couldn’t be shaken. At every creek, I dipped my hat and bandana to cool off my body and keep my energy up. I felt my muscles breaking down. I hadn’t done a climb like this since starting the trail. I breathed a sigh of relief when the trail flattened and I could see the sky above me between low-lying evergreen trees.

The trail began to open up and I peered out at the peak in blue skies and an evening warmth. The mountain was majestic and awe distracted me from the pain in my legs. At the peak, I took in the view all around me. The grass lightly blowing in the wind, the ridgeline I had just walked to arrive here, and the large mountains in every direction. It was all perfect. After so many tumultuous emotions I finally felt content and at peace. With a shift in mood, I slowly made my way down the other side of the peak and stopped at Beaver Brook Shelter to set up my tent on a rough slant. Hotdog was down the mountain, but I was content to finish my chase in the morning.

Taking Souls 

A concept Hotdog and I stole from David Goggins is called “Taking Souls”. Taking someone’s soul is when you focus on digging deep and finding the best version of yourself and as a result, you leave others shocked in the process. We’d often use it together in more of a joking way than in complete seriousness, but we often found it to help reinforce our drive and discipline. I woke up early to tackle the climb down Moosilauke, a steep and technical monster of a descent that parallels a long waterfall. Once I reached Kinsman Notch at the base I saw a lone Durston x-mid tent off in the woods. A smile instantly becomes drawn on my face and I whistle a funky tune loud enough for the tent occupant to hear. A few seconds later I see Hotdog, with his tired face and bedhead peek out of the tent in disbelief, “I’m taking your soul dude”, I yell at him as I continue walking down the trail snickering to myself.

Journey to the Notch

We planned to reach the Liberty Springs Trailhead by 4 pm to catch the final shuttle to the town of Lincoln and stay at the Notch Hostel. This would make for a day where we had to cover 18 miles up and over the Kinsman Mountains on a short schedule; no easy feat in the Whites. While waking up early to catch Hotdog off-guard was highly motivating, it was also necessary.

Climbing Kinsmans 

Hotdog caught up with me slightly after Mt. Wolf. On an elevation chart, Mt. Wolf doesn’t look too intimidating, but the constant mud and rock walls to ascend up and down made for a more challenging hike than we had expected. However, this paled in comparison to the hike up South Kinsman Mountain. The climb was challenging from the jump, but the first half didn’t present any challenges we hadn’t experienced before. The further we climbed, the more challenging the terrain got. Our pace slowed dramatically, and our bodies shouted for rest, but we were in the zone and kept moving like a well-oiled machine.

My heart rate thumped high and I hadn’t felt so happy and amped in weeks. The climb was a grind, with rock scrambles galore that at times felt like we were solving a puzzle, trying to decide where to put our four limbs to propel us upward. Entering the Whites was completely revitalizing my spirit. The physical challenge and the awe-inspiring views were rewiring my mindset toward determination and gratitude. Numerous mentors along the way had told us it would all seem worth it once we reach the final 500 miles and experience the beauty of the final stretch’. I was starting to understand what they meant.

For a long time, the summit never seemed like it would arrive, but we eventually scrambled up the last leg. We were shocked to see a father with what looked like a 60lb pack on his back, followed by a group of several kids with their backpacks. After experiencing the brutality of the climb ourselves, we had to give them some respect. Still stuck to our schedule we pushed on to North Kinsman Mountain and then began the long descent down. It was another characteristically technical White Mountain descent but perfectly laid out in a way where, if you focused on doing a run shuffle, you could almost effortlessly flow down the trail. I thought my knees would start telling me to back off, but they took the terrain like champions. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but physically I wondered if things were turning around for me.

Water in the Alpine 

Halfway down the mountain, we stopped at Kinsman Pond to fill up on water. We were awestruck as we looked at the towering pine-covered mountains that cradled this alpine pond. At the bottom of the descent, I stopped once more at Lonesome Lake to take in the view of the mountains surrounding the water. The landscape demanded attention. To pass by such a place without stopping and deny the universal feeling of awe would have felt like a disrespect to my humanity. For a moment any sense of time had dropped from my mind.

It turned out we had made good time on the descent and we were able to give ourselves some free time at a swimming hole we found on Cascade Brook. We popped our shoes and shirts off and hopped in the refreshingly chilly water. I enjoyed the sensations of the brook flowing at my body. Once I got out I felt my feet cramp immensely. I assumed it was a mix of the heavy stress I put them under and the shock of the cold water.

We arrived at the Flume Gorge Visitor Center with time to spare. Just as we had made it inside to wait for our shuttle it had begun to pour outside. Although the town was merely minutes ahead of us, we couldn’t resist buying some hot food at the cafeteria.

Bostonian Shuttler

Our shuttle driver was a man with wavy hair and a thick Boston accent. There was nothing he loved more than hiking the mountains in the Whites and he told us a story of a recent rescue he made in the Kinsman Mountains as part of the search and rescue team. I knew I liked him when I told him my trail name was Tomcat, and he said, “Oh, you like cats? You’ve gotta check this out”, and proceeded to show me his phone’s background image, an adorable picture of his cat.

Weary Travelers of the Notch

The Notch was a big 3-story white house with a wraparound porch lined with Tibetan prayer flags. Upon arrival one of the hostel workers gave us a grand tour of the space, eventually leading us to our bunk room. The fresh linens felt full and cozy, but best of all was that the room was fully air-conditioned. The common areas were lined with beautiful images of the surrounding mountains, local maps, images of past guests, and news clippings of local record setters. I appreciated how clean and cozy the space felt. For a brief period, I could feel at home.

After taking showers and putting fresh loaner clothes on we hopped on the shuttle to resupply and pick up some Mexican Food. After popping out of the grocery store my hunger got the best of me and I downed half a quart of chocolate milk which I instantly came to regret as I battled a stomach ache for the remainder of the night. Play stupid games and win stupid prizes.

Back at the Notch, we spent as much time off of our feet as we could. Hikers came and went as Hotdog and I sat in the living room. We met a group that included hikers named Rex, Mountain Goat, and Firefly; most of whom were vlogging their journey on YouTube. There was also a solitary Sobo named Kale, a younger woman filled with energy. She was surprised at how the personalities of NOBOs she encountered had changed since starting the trail. NOBOs in the bubble were more social and willing to slow down, while NOBOs ahead of the bubble were solitary and more likely to fall into the suffering mentality.

We sat sharing stories, talking about training, and talking about physical challenges well into the night (Rex is a physical therapist). One by one hikers peeled off to bed until it was just me, Hotdog, Rex, and an older Italian hiker named Rudy. Rudy sat silently with a smile on his face. He could hardly understand us, but he was just happy to be there, part of the hiker commune and taking in the collective energy. I think we all need a little more Rudy energy in our lives.

A Storm over The Whites

We woke up to an uncertain feeling. We had planned to go back out on trail, but the weather wasn’t looking good. The night before, other hikers had spoken of the treacherous conditions in the forecast; severe thunderstorms, non-stop rain, heavy winds. Bad weather typically didn’t phase us – by now we had seen some shit – but bad weather in the Whites was the one thing that could strike fear in us. We fell into the hiker hive mind and decided to stay an extra night. We got the last two spots for the night.

With our first Zero since New Jersey, Hotdog and I felt a huge mental and physical relief. We borrowed a few of the Notch’s bikes and headed into the town of Lincoln. As we looked up at the storm clouds hanging over Franconia Ridge, we instantly felt more confident in our decision to stay.

We stopped at a gear shop to purchase a new valve for my sleeping pad, which I would later find out wasn’t the solution to my air leak issue. Then we hopped over to the pizza shop to knock back some slices while we quizzed each other with trivia cards. Trivia is a favorite weekly pastime for us at a brewery back home; although our efforts are typically mediocre at best. We found our hiker brains didn’t make us any smarter

Tour de Whites

After wrapping up in town, Hotdog and I raced back to the Notch. In the final mile, our competitive personalities got the best of us and we pushed our weary legs down on the pedals as hard as we could. Hotdog was ahead of me, but I slowly gained on him inch by inch. In the end, my efforts failed and he beat me back to the hostel. With my pride getting in the way I told him I would have had him if the bike geometry fit me better.

A Cozy Community

Hour by hour the number of hikers at the Notch began to rise until full capacity was reached. Many other hikers had seen the forecast and were attempting to dodge the weather. The space began to get crowded, but not in an uncomfortable way. Most of the time that I’m in a crowd, I’m surrounded by strangers with a sense of disconnect that breeds loneliness. However, this experience felt cozy and warm, like a family gathering over the holidays. Most of the people there were strangers, but we shared a common experience and to an extent, we understood each other. There was warmth and fellowship between us all. This is something that makes thru-hiking particularly unique. The instant connection and camaraderie with a crowd of strangers is something that is much more rare in the normal life of the modern age.

In the kitchen Rex and Mountain Goat cooked up a large dinner for all of us. Every seat from the couch to the dining table was filled as we shoveled pasta into our mouths. I met Scorpion Queen and Ragnar, two thru-hikers Hotdog had made friends with a week prior while we were separated. Ragnar mused his philosophical way of thinking as he spoke about how hiking with others speeds up our ability to connect with one another. We also talked with a hiker named Scribe after he recognized the Lake Superior tattoo on the back of my arm. He had hiked up to New Hampshire the year prior but abandoned the trail due to the disastrous rain and flooding that had beat so many hikers down. The AT never stopped calling at him, and now he had returned to finish his thru-hike.

We bonded with Hoot, who had seen me at my worst a few days prior when I was throwing up just outside Hexacuba Shelter. We chatted about Lord of the Rings which came about from the Tolkien-inspired map of The Whites hanging on the wall. Noticing Hotdog and I’s embarrassing attempt at completing a puzzle, he jumped in to help us out. An AT alumni from the prior year named Slim Pickins with a popular AT documentary online walked in the door and started talking with us. He pulled up on a motorcycle and began playing beautifully on the hostel guitar. Despite his intimidating level of coolness, he was the sweetest guy who simply had a love for thru-hiking and meeting other hikers.

The Danish Shakedown 

The climax of the night came in the form of a pack shakedown. A young Danish section hiker named Taters, who I passed on Mt. Wolf the day prior, was the poor culprit. Scorpion Queen and Firefly led the charge as they removed things from his gigantic pack one by one. Like a ravaging pack of hyenas, thru-hikers jumped in on him with their opinions. Each piece of gear was carefully scrutinized. Items like bear spray, a large heavy knife, and several sets of extra clothing brought strong opinions from the ultralight-minded. The event ended up being half comedic roast and half helpful tips and education. The goal was to help Taters lighten his load and find more enjoyment in backpacking, but with some beers flowing, this group wasn’t going to offer it up without poking a little fun. Taters took it all in good fun.

Hostel Musings

Hostel culture and the community it brings with it is one of the greatest aspects of the AT. Part of the Mid-Atlantic’s challenge was that it lacked many of these opportunities. I felt that Hotdog and I had lost our way on the AT for quite a while, but our experience at the Notch reminded us about what was important. These places are special and the memories they create are truly invaluable. Floating in a mental state centered around trying to rush and longing for the end doesn’t create a meaningful and joyous experience. Keep your feet moving and don’t lose track of the end goal, but don’t let it consume you. Bringing it back to the present day or moment and being open to surrendering ourselves to extra rest or a social encounter always shifted our mood for the better and was never regretted.

Onward to Franconia Ridge

Hotdog made me a pancake in the morning while I tried to knock out a few tasks, including packing up my food and back-flushing my water filter before the 7:30 am shuttle back to the trail. Our stay at the Notch was so great that I was sad to be leaving. Soon enough we found our lungs sucking for air as we began the 4,000-foot climb up to Franconia Ridge. We began passing fellow hikers from the Notch like Small Claims, Rex, and Mountain Goat.

The ridge was completely socked in. I was hit with a wave of disappointment. Franconia Ridge, with its fantasy-esque landscape, was the one section of trail I wanted to fully take in at all costs. The AT, however, rarely gives you what you’re seeking out for free. It challenges you, batters you, and grinds you down until you think you’ve just about had enough, and then, in what often feels like magic, it gives you a nugget of beauty and joy. The hardship faced fertilizes the soil to make the fruit we bear more sweet.

Patience Begets Views

We sat atop Mt.Lafayette, the end of Franconia Ridge, waiting to see if the clouds would pass through. They never did, but after a few minutes back on the trail, the soft white haze began to dissipate and get carried off by the wind. We turned back to see a clear portion of the ridge and then turned in the other direction to take in a landscape of large mountains that looked like a fantasy realm. Clouds rested perfectly on top of the highest peaks like whipped cream on a cup of hot chocolate. We were filled with ecstasy as we took in the whole scene. Looking out at the mountains we had to climb ahead was intimidating, but exciting. Descending Franconia Ridge felt easy with the adrenaline pumping through our bodies.

No Lasagna

Our next stop was Mount Garfield. I joked with Hotdog that we might find a couple of bowls of lasagna at the top of the mountain; little did I know this joke was closer to reality than I had thought. At the peak of the mountain, we sat around the base of an old fire tower and took in the views. The descent down was exactly what you’d expect from the AT: A treacherous and direct pathway straight down a field of rocks. Appalachian Trail Blazers aren’t the only ones that love a direct path down; water also seems to enjoy taking the path of least resistance. Thus we found ourselves on a descent through a waterfall. At least we didn’t have to worry about locating a water source.

At the bottom of the mountain, I found Hotdog snoozing on the ground in his rain jacket with a bag of chips resting on his chest. I woke him up and he told me he was feeling tired; I had already deduced this much. At this point, I felt great physically. A full zero day at The Notch had seemed to do wonders for my body’s ability to recover. In the past few weeks I had never gotten a physical leg up on Hotdog, so I savored the moment as best I could.

Galehead Mountain Hut

We came up on the spur trail to Galehead Mountain Hut a little after 4 pm. Each hut owned by the Appalachian Mountain Club has a staff of caretakers called the “Croo” and an often full roster of paying guests staying each night. The AMC huts allow the first two thru-hikers of the day who arrive after 4 pm the opportunity to do a work-for-stay, which is often highly sought after. Despite being at a relatively low mileage for a typical day, we thought we’d take the spur trail up and test our luck. If it worked out, it would be meant to be.

When we walked in to ask if the work-for-stay spots were open, we were met by the leader of the Croo, a tall and friendly young guy with his hair pulled back named Jasper. He told us we were in luck, and that we could hang outside and wait until the guests were done with dinner. Reserving a spot in the White Mountain huts isn’t cheap and it doesn’t necessarily require you to carry any backpacking gear. Much of the clientele was more on the affluent side than we were used to, and with our now ragged and dirty gear, we stuck out like a sore thumb. Regardless, all of the people we talked to were nice and very interested in our journey.

While dinner was being made, a Croo member took the guests outside to talk about how the huts operate and give a presentation about local wildlife. Once dinner was ready we listened in on the Croo’s pre-meal theatrics and tried to stop salivating as we heard the sound of silverware clattering on plates. A little after 8 pm the Croo finally welcomed us in to eat leftovers before putting us to work. We piled our plates sky high with lasagna, salad, and coffee cake and ate until we couldn’t stomach another fork-full. We talked for a while with a quirky member of the Croo named Henry. It was interesting to share stories of our journey and hear his experience of being a Croo member, a seasonal position living and working in the remote huts that takes up the entirety of the summer months.

After eating we hopped over to the kitchen for our work tasks. Jasper had us clean some dishes, sweep the floor, and organize the fridge. The thru-hiker and Croo relationship is a symbiotic one. Hotdog and I felt that the experience was undoubtedly worth it. In a society where things are run by money, contracts, and bureaucracy, it was pleasant to have such a kind and simple exchange. After the Croo turned the lights out we were allowed to reenter the dining hall and set our sleeping gear on the ground.

We woke up early in the morning and packed up our gear to leave before the hut guests woke up. A Croo member was even nice enough to bag us up several slices of coffee cake for the trail, but we scarfed them down before the hut was even out of sight. We took in the sunrise and admired South Twin Mountain, our next destination, in the early morning glow.

Hut-to-Hut

The climb up South Twin was steep and had us sweating buckets, but I felt good and reveled in the grind. The air around us had slowly begun to turn white and by the time we reached the summit, we were socked in. With the lack of views, we didn’t stick around for long. After a few miles, we took a short spur trail to Zeacliff, an open area where we had originally planned to stealth camp the night prior. The fog we experienced on South Twin had thankfully passed and we stopped to enjoy tremendous views of the mountains around us.

We took a pit stop at the Zealand Falls Hut to stop for a mid-day cup of coffee; something that had once been a sacred part of our days in the south, but we had lost once we decided to trade our stoves out for the benefit of lightness and simplicity. The Croo at Zealand Falls was a bit standoffish which we initially found frustrating. We decided to treat it as an opportunity to practice letting go and focus back in on the path in front of us.

Surfs Up

The next few miles were shockingly flat and smooth. I decided to stop at Ethan Pond to take another shot at finding any punctures in my sleeping pad. I filled up my pad and held it under my arm like a surfboard while I threw up a Shaka sign with my hand toward Hotdog. Once in the water we squeezed my pad around and were finally able to see bubbles come up. One by one we marked each one off with a pen, but the amount of punctures was becoming overwhelming. This pad was past saving with a field repair kit. At that moment I decided I would order a new inflatable pad. A few more weeks of good sleep was well worth a couple of hundred dollars.

Climb Mode

We descended to the Saco River and stopped to filter some water and take a break. It was a hot day, and we were both feeling tired. We dreaded the 3-mile and 2,500ft climb up Mt. Webster ahead of us. I looked longingly at the open spot next to the river; perfect grounds to set up a tent. Then I downed a caffeine packet and put my headphones in. It was time to get into grind mode.

I led the charge for the first mile until I stopped to wet my hat in a stream and Hotdog passed me. He unleashed something within and took off like a mountain goat running for its life. I tried to keep up but had to pull back. The pace would have burnt me out too quickly and sapped the energy out of my legs. A mile ahead I caught Hotdog standing in place on the phone. As I passed I yelled out, “I’m taking your soul bro”, knowing it would annoy the hell out of him while he was talking to his girlfriend. As I moved on ahead I heard him saving face by talking about how he had left me in the dust on the way up the mountain.

Mt. Webster threw out false summits one after another. Each time I thought I was finally at the top of the mountain, I would come face to face with a near-vertical rock scramble. A certain number of false summits eventually equates to a real summit, and once I reached it I waited for Hotdog to catch up.

Together we pushed toward Mt. Jackson, our last peak before Mitzpah Spring Hut, our home for the night. We passed a duo of older ladies and then an alpine bog which, based on a test with my trekking pole, must have been 3 or 4 feet deep and required a 3-foot leap to reach a boardwalk. We barely made it across unscathed and I felt sympathy for the older women who were trailing behind us.

Mizpah Spring Hut

We arrived at Mizpah Spring Hut well after 6 pm, which is over 2 hours past when the highly sought-after work-for-stay opportunities are opened up. We figured our odds of getting our slots were slim, but thankfully there was a campsite adjacent to the hut. The dining hall was full of people when we walked in looking for a Croo member. We located a young woman full of energy wearing a Croo shirt and when we asked if they had any work-for-stay availability we were shocked when she gave us the good news. They were busy getting dinner service all set, but they directed us to the basement to empty, clean, and organize their fridges; after we finished our work and the guests finished dinner, we could feast on all the leftovers we wanted.

One by one we emptied, chipped away ice, and wiped away cleaning solution in each fridge. The work was more substantial than the night before, but we took pride in earning our keep. For a moment I thought how bizarre it was to be full of so much excitement to do manual labor after hiking 20 miles through some of the most rugged terrain in the country. Thru-hiking is a strange, unrelatable endeavor.

When we were all wrapped up, we sat outside taking in a Croo member’s presentation on the local weather. We listened to our stomachs rumble as we waited for the call inside to eat. When the time finally came, we jumped right to our feet and headed to the kitchen. We stacked our plates with bread, lasagna, and lentil soup until there was nothing left. We sat feeling out of place in the hut’s dining hall until a man with a large beard sat down next to us and asked if we were thru-hiking. His name was Father Time and he lived close to the trail in Massachusetts. He was on a short trip with friends but did a section hike earlier in the year of a few hundred miles. It turned out we must have just missed each other. We swapped stories and thoughts for a long time and even uncovered some common acquaintances like the hiker Lone Star. The ease of connecting with a stranger so easily is a special characteristic of long-distance hiking.

The dining hall was filled with people and chatter late into the night. A Croo member came out and yelled, “Lights out!!”. That was our queue to set up our sleeping area. We ran up to the small library room; tonight we were lucky enough to have private accommodation. Hotdog and I were going to play one of the board games in the room, but as soon as he blew up his sleeping pad he was out cold. I took out my sleeping pad repair kit and used every patch I had to try and cover up the punctures I had marked earlier in the day. Despite my best efforts, I was still woken up by the feeling of my hip resting on solid ground several times throughout the night.

The Top of the Northeast

We got up early to pack our things, but we lingered around outside of the hut drinking coffee for a long while. A man approached us to chat. He was a former thru-hiker who had hiked the PCT and CDT. He was focused on family life now but noted that thru-hiking was some of the best times of his life. We asked if he would ever finish his triple crown, but he replied that the trails out West made hiking on the East Coast much less attractive. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

It was a big day for us as we were entering the Presidential Range which would offer us several miles of hiking above tree line. We started our day 6 miles out from the top of the largest mountain in the Northeast, Mt. Washington. My mother had decided to make a spontaneous trip to come out and visit me, and this also happened to be the day she was arriving. Since there is a visitor center and a road on top of the mountain I thought it would be a fun idea to meet at the summit. I sent her the directions and then Hotdog and I began our ascent on foot.

Socked In

As we made our way up Mt. Pierce the atmosphere did what it so often does on the high-elevation peaks along the AT; the fog picked up and the mountains were socked in. Hotdog and I joked about how great the views were and did our best awestruck social media influencer parodies as we looked out at the white canvas.

Lake of the Clouds

Despite the fog, we still enjoyed the change in terrain and lack of trees. We steadily climbed until I eventually saw the silhouette of a building breaking out of the clouds. As we got closer we could also make out several people around the building and a small alpine lake. We had arrived at the largest hut in the White Mountains, the Lake of the Clouds Hut. We entered the building looking for coffee and another excuse to take a break. After breakfast, they not only had coffee but also a sign reading, “free food”, sitting just behind a large bowl of scrambled eggs. We scarfed down our cold flavorless eggs while we talked to an AMC volunteer, an older lady who had thru-hiked the trail a couple of decades prior. I’m always surprised at how deep the thru-hiker network truly runs.

We began the final push up to the summit of Mt. Washington on a steady and rocky climb. The wind wasn’t so bad, but the fog remained. Our excitement would spike when our field of vision briefly changed from 20 feet to 50 feet. In the last half-mile a trail runner, who I assume was French-Canadian based on his accent, asked if we were thru-hiking. When I told him we were, he encouraged us and gave us the remaining maple syrup hard candies he had in his vest. The long-lasting sweet hit of the maple was delicious and we craved more of these mystery candies as the pleasure lodged itself into our memories.

Mt. Washington

We reached the summit anti-climactically as we passed cars, buildings, and a line of people waiting to take selfies at the summit sign. The development of wild places and mountains like this is a complicated issue. On one hand, it increases the accessibility of awe-inspiring locations, but it also certainly harms the grandeur and sanctity of these spaces in my view. Today it allowed me a chance to eat warm food, recharge my devices, and meet my mom, so I really couldn’t complain.

Reunion with Mom

I found my mom wandering through the gift shop. We had a long hug, making up for the 1.5-year gap of time since we had last seen each other. The exposed drive up the mountain had shaken her up a bit. We caught up for a long while in the cafeteria eating overpriced pizza before we headed to the thru-hiker area, a small area in the basement with an extension cord and a hiker box. There we found a couple of hikers including a nice woman named Sparrow, and a father and a son from Pennsylvania. The father was a biologist, marking down observations while hiking the trail and he planned to write a book after they finished. As my mom talked with them it was weird to see two completely different worlds in my life come together.

I bought a gray stuffed cat from the gift shop. A Russian Blue cat named Nimbus lives in the weather station, but sadly I didn’t get to see him. I figured sending a stuffed version of him back to my partner would be a nice consolation. Afterward, Hotdog and I dropped off most of our gear in my mom’s car. It was the first time we had ever slackpacked since getting on trail and we thought it would be a great opportunity to protect our knees on the long descent from the Presidentials. We planned to meet my mom in the evening at Pinkham Notch.

I gave my mom one last hug and we headed off to the trail while my mom searched for someone to drive her down the mountain. Killing a few hours on the summit paid off for us as the clouds eventually passed and we were awarded with some fine views. The next several miles were nothing short of spectacular.

Open Skies in the Presidentials

The beautiful greenery of the alpine vegetation brought a sense of liveliness that contrasted with the rough and rugged patches of rock scattered along the peaks. It was the most beautiful section of trail we had seen yet; the fruit tasting especially sweet from all the labor that it had taken to get there. I felt as though we had walked away from reality and into a realm of non-fiction like Tolkien’s Middle-Earth.

The trail was technical, often consisting of hopping from one rock to another amidst an endless rock field. We flowed above them effortlessly, passing many hikers along the way. Walking isn’t a particularly difficult skill, but moving lightly and efficiently through the landscape is an art form in itself and one that we have become particularly proficient at after dedicating double-digit hours of our lives to it nearly every day for the past few months.

A Presidential Finale

Mt. Madison eventually came into site and marked the end of the Presidentials. It looked like a large stone pyramid protruding from the forest. At its base was the Madison Spring Hut. We were starting to become slightly weary at this point, but our only choice was to push onward. We filled our bottles and used the composting toilets and then took off up the steep climb up and over Mt. Madison. My legs were back, my motivation was untethered, and my vitality had been restored. I climbed up like a rocket.

We looked back one last time to watch the clouds engulf Mt. Adams. The wind ripped through us and at any moment I felt we could have been swept away into the sky like a lost kite. On the other side of the mountain, we looked down at the long and steep descent toward the tree line. It was another rock field which made for a tricky and tiring ascent that required our full focus; no easy feat when you’re finishing out a 20-mile day through the hardest terrain that the Whites have to offer. Nevertheless, we retained our flow as we glanced up every so often to scan for cairns and make sure we were on the right track.

No Plans for the Night

We were so locked in that the tiredness didn’t hit us hard until we reached leveler and smoother terrain. We reached Pinkham Notch around 8 pm and then found my mom.  We had no plan on where we would stay for the night and the daylight was soon waning. The AMC runs a visitor center and the Joe Dodge Lodge, but at nearly $200 for a simple bunk room, the lodge was out of our budget. I was exhausted and dejected. I couldn’t think straight and I just wanted to set my tent up somewhere and fall asleep. I sat with my head down. Having my mom around was nice, but also added another variable to account for.

Hotdog did what people in good partnerships do and took the reins when he saw my condition. He went into the Lodge to inquire about rooms. What followed is what so often seems to happen on the AT; when you’re feeling down at rock bottom, things just seem to turn around and work out. Hotdog walked out of the building swinging around a couple of room keys. A woman came up to him while he was at the front desk and asked if he was thru-hiking. He was flabbergasted when she gave him a pint of blueberries and $100. She was visiting the area and had always wanted to do trail magic for AT hikers. When Hotdog attempted to decline the offer she just replied with, “Don’t worry about it, I’m loaded”.

So, thanks to the generosity of some kind stranger we found ourselves in the Cinnamon Fern room, a small four-person bunk room with little in the way of amenities aside from a small trash can, a box fan, and some electrical outlets. It was all that we needed; nothing less, nothing more. My mom headed out to pick up some pizza in town while Hotdog and I cleaned up in the showers. I laid in bed that night grateful and in disbelief at how the evening had come together.

A Fresh Start

We woke up slowly, hesitant to give up the comfort of our bunks too quickly. Our stay came with the incredible benefit of an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. We drank coffee and ate pancakes, eggs, and every other breakfast food imaginable while we pointed out pictures of the huts on the wall to my mom and reminisced on our experience at each.

Hotdog hung back while my mom and I headed to Walmart In Gorham for our resupply. One by one we walked through the aisles as she looked on in horror at the ultra-processed thru-hiker diet that slowly filled the shopping cart. On the way back we stopped briefly at a museum at the base of the Mt. Washington Auto Road.

The Wildcats

With our packs full of food we were ready to head out on the trail by noon. Sparrow caught up with us due to our slow morning and we chatted and hiked together for a bit. She had a look that reminded me of Frances McDormand. Once the gradient shot up on our way to Wildcat Mountain we distanced ourselves. Wildcat Mountain had been on our radars for some time due to its infamous claim of having the steepest mile on the AT. There were some tough lung-taxing scrambles, but with the benefit of fresh legs beneath us, the climb felt no harder than anything else we had done in the Whites. In my experience the climbs that people excessively hype never feel too difficult, while the under-the-radar seldom mentioned climbs always kick my butt. I think the ability to mentally prepare vs. being taken by surprise plays a large part in the perceived difficulty.

We hiked past Wildcat’s several summits. At one point I sense Hotdog’s mood takes a negative shift and I give him some space. The AT exposes your highs and lows, and we have become deeply attuned to each other’s ebbs and flows. All emotional states and feelings pass in due time. Just as the trail brings out these feelings, it also helps you let them go with each step.

After the Wildcats we stopped at Carter Notch Hut, the final hut we’d pass in the Whites, to fill up our water and take a snack break before carrying on. We met a few other thru-hikers there, one of which was doing a work-for-stay. I was happy we hadn’t planned on expecting to stay the night. With Caffeine running through our system we pulled our way up Carter Dome.

The Carters

We enjoyed great views over the next few miles through the Carter Range. I always come to regret late starts to the day, but my glass-half-full perspective would be that we get to enjoy golden-hour views, something that we deeply enjoyed since our time in the big mountains of the South. As the mountains of green slowly shifted to yellow, as if God was rotating a dial to adjust the Tint of the world, we descended toward Imp Campsite.

Imp! 

Surprisingly, Imp was the first AMC-sponsored campsite we had stayed at in the Whites. After a month of exclusively sleeping outside, it had managed to work out that we slept inside the past 5 nights. Now we were back to our roots. The site only offered wooden tent platforms, which made setting up our trekking pole-supported tents difficult. We used a mix of hooks on the outside of the platforms and stakes wedged between planks to get enough tension on our guylines. Both of our setups looked like sad droopy blobs, but they’d work well enough. Coming on the AT I thought I would become a master tent pitcher, but in reality, we just developed an indifference to discomfort and a better sense of the bare minimum amount of effort needed to survive. If you’re below the tree line and it isn’t meant to storm, what’s the point in stressing out about getting the perfect tent pitch, aside from pride?

White Mountain Finale 

In the morning, as we looked out at the beautiful layers of mountain silhouettes, we wrestled with the realization that we were nearly out of the Whites. Hiking through the Whites was hard, but it was also enthralling, rejuvenating, and generally what I considered to be a transition out of a long bad physical and mental period and back into a good one. Stubborn discipline and consistency had paid off. We faced tough times and I entered the physical crux of the trail at my rock bottom, but I didn’t let the struggles put a halt on my footsteps. Mind and body surrendered to the indomitable human spirit. All parts of me knew that we wouldn’t stop until we reached Katahdin, so there was no choice but for my mind and body to come into alignment with the mysterious force pushing me onward. I found myself balanced and at peace once again.

I took a brief side trail to stop and take a moment on the summit of Mt. Moriah, our final peak within the Whites. I experienced a bittersweet feeling. I was sad to leave such a majestic area, but also grateful for the positive effect it had on me. The end of the road was near, which both spurred me on in excitement and hit me with a feeling of sadness. I said goodbye to Mt. Moriah and Hotdog and I enjoyed an easy cruising descent down toward the trailhead.

Coffee Motivation 

A mile before we reached the parking lot where we would meet my mom to pick up a food resupply, two SOBOs told me my mom was waiting ahead with iced coffee. This news sent a rush of dopamine to my brain, as well as a slight feeling of embarrassment that my mom was sending people out with messages for me. Once we arrived at the trailhead I found my mom and enjoyed my coffee as we discussed our next meeting spot and plans for both a resupply and a package pickup at the post office that was holding my new sleeping pad.

Granite State and Trail Mama 

Hotdog and I took off onto the trail for a nice easy mile road walk. At the next trailhead leading back into the woods, we saw tables of food set up between two cars. We were in for our final bout of trail magic in New Hampshire. The trail angels were Trail Momma and Granite State who had also offered us trail magic about a week prior. The moment felt special. It was as if destiny had brought them in to be our White Mountain stewards, welcoming us in and seeing our safe departure out.

While enjoying a couple of cold snicker bars we met a young female flip-flop hiker and a fit tattooed NOBO hiker named Josh from Southern California who was on the last piece of his triple crown. Josh was a strong hiker who had started the trail well after us in April and had even gone on to finish the Long Trail in Vermont before returning to finish the journey to Maine. He seemed to be going through a motivational rough patch. I empathized with him, but it was nice to know that even the thru-hiking titans weren’t immune to struggling on the trail.

Spare Change 

Hotdog and I yelled in excitement as we saw a bald hiker approach. It was our friend Spare Change who we hadn’t seen since mid-Pennsylvania a month and a half ago. When we had first met him in Virginia he was part of a trio; in Pennsylvania, that trio was cut down to a duo, and now he appeared to be flying solo. We asked him about what had happened to his hiking partner and another one of our friends, Primo, and he told us that he had hiked on ahead with another thru-hiker. Wanting to avoid stirring up any potential drama I avoided probing any deeper into the subject.

New Hampshire’s End

We all shared some good laughs, but there always comes a time when the urge to get back on the trail hits. I felt it and I sensed it in Hotdog as well. We spent the next 15 minutes working out the good ole’ Midwest goodbye until we finally inched far enough away to turn around and position our gaze and steps forward.

It was a particularly hot day, so I threw in a pack of electrolytes we had gotten from Trail Momma and Granite State into both of my bottles. Despite losing what felt like 5lbs of water through my sweat glands, my energy felt great. I took off in front of Hotdog and wouldn’t see him again until the end of the day. Our only correspondence for the remains of the day was the swapping of two pictures of a rabbit we both encountered separately. He was unfazed by the sound of our trail runners shuffling up his mountaintop.

I sat along a pond inlet waiting for Hotdog, and when he arrived we walked over to Gentian Pond Shelter. Despite the quiet and lonely 10 miles since we had left Trail Magic, the shelter was fully populated. There were no areas left on the ground to set up a tent, but we managed to grab the last two tent platforms. The surrounding woods, rocky and made up almost exclusively of pines, had a quiet and relaxing aura. We felt at home within the Northwoods. Sitting on the edge of our platforms we ate our dinners while the light slowly faded away. Then we entered our tents for the last time in New Hampshire.