Willem's Yankee Notebook - August 26, 2007 - Mt. Madison

Fear of Falling

MOUNT MADISON, NH It's well-known that the fear of falling increases with age. It's a quite rational fear; old bones break more readily than young, and take longer to heal. Diminishing physical strength accompanies diminishing balance. (I noticed many years ago, working with crews of men in the woods, that the "cattiest" men on rough or shifting footing were the tough little guys with the best strength-to-weight ratio.) Finally, it becomes harder to get back onto your feet. The common joke, "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!" gets a lot less funny as your fear of tumbles increases arithmetically each year.

But when a series of masked men in surgical green has removed and replaced several joints related to ambulation, and in the process has disconnected several major nerves, the fear of falling increases exponentially. So my last couple of days have featured almost nonstop flutters of trepidation and the constant mantra, "Always three points of contact with the earth!" That used to be something we rehearsed when rock climbing; now the rock climbing is horizontal. And trails, like the innocently named Chemin des Dames that climbs loose rock up out of King Ravine, and which at one time would have looked like a lot of fun, now cause an involuntary shudder.

My two hiking partners on this little outing craved spectacular views for their camera, so we chose a trail named the Air Line. It was blazed and cut in 1885 by a quartet of thrill-seeking sadists who also, apparently, craved the views and the exposure. Leaving US Route 2 in Randolph, it is the shortest route up a boulder-tortured ridge toward the saddle between Mount Adams and Mount Madison in the northern Presidential range of the White Mountains. That phrase, "shortest route," reads so innocently in the guide book; as do "becomes very steep for 0.5 mi." and "passes over crags that drop off sharply...." The discerning eye will notice, however, that the distance and the estimated time required work out to about 1000 feet of climbing per mile and an average speed of one mile an hour.

This section of the Whites is perhaps the most troubled by trails; they go everywhere, and if they weren't marked really well at their junctions, it would be easy to waste a lot of time and energy getting straightened out. Besides that, these trails have existed for so long and have been so popular that they're victims of their own attractions. At lower elevations, over a century of hikers' feet have worn deep grooves into the soil; frequent diversions carry erosive water off the trail into undisturbed leaves. Higher up, those same feet have completely worn away the soil, leaving jumbles of boulders that may be exciting for youngsters. But old gaffers, clambering through them, must keep two carbide-tipped poles braced while moving a foot, or two feet braced while moving a pole. That's where the one-mile-an-hour rate comes from. I found myself reducing the view of the trail ahead to about six feet, and occasionally to only the boulders directly at my feet.

On the other hand, the Air Line does indeed deliver what the guide book promises: "very exposed to weather...magnificent views." At one point above tree line, turning to look back down the ridge, I could see the most nearly perfect example imaginable of two valleys formed by different agents. On the left was King Ravine, carved by a mountain glacier and beautifully U-shaped; and on the right, Snyder Brook Valley, cut by a brook and V-shaped. A Geology 101 professor's dream field trip during the unit on glaciation.

The first view of the AMC Madison Hut, only .2 miles away and our destination for the night, was at least as magnificent as those on the trail. The hut was the usual hive of activity climbers coming and going; some, here for the night, hanging out freshly rinsed duds to dry; others standing in the yard gazing up at the dark, rubbly peaks of Madison and Adams rising steeply from the saddle; and one husky fellow soaking a sprained ankle in the icy water of Madison Spring.

We limped inside and signed in. I found a bunk at floor level, almost ideal for my needs. A very pleasant young lady named Caitlin, who had chosen the waist-high bunk just above it, saw me looking askance and offered to trade with me. I laid out my sleeping bag, and rinsed my T-shirt and sweat band and hung them outside to dry. I dug out my trail mix and tiny flask of scotch (rehydration is important) and settled down with my journal in the afternoon sun to await supper.

There were conversations going everywhere. You could join any of them by just standing there or by raising an eyebrow. Three pairs of father-daughter climbers; a group of six buds from near Boston; a few solo hikers; a pair of thru-hikers named Bowleg and Quattro. Bowleg's companion, his black Lab, Bono, was favoring a rear foot. He'd bruised it several days before, and though Bowleg was now carrying both his pack and Bono's, Bono was clearly hurting. Bowleg spread out a small square of foam matting, and Bono fell asleep on the instant, his head resting uncomfortably on a rock. Bowleg moved it and gently lowered the still-sleeping dog's head.

Great supper and early to bed, but it was not a restful night. My bunk was right beside the main trail to the washroom, and shortly after midnight the passage became pretty lively. There were two snorers and one remarkably articulate sleep-talker. So I was up early, writing in the journal by headlight, while my two companions were outside in the half-light, waiting to film sunrise. We were planning to descend to the valley after breakfast by the "milk run trail," the one the hut crew uses to supply the hut. Idly I scanned its description in the guide book: "...most direct and easiest route...to the Madison Hut, well-sheltered almost to the door of the hut...many portions of its upper section have washed, becoming rocky and rough." Uh oh. Three-point contact at all times!