We awake early Saturday to head over to Pinkham Notch, as I know it will take several hours to make the top [via Glen Boulder Trail]. 1.5 miles in, we cross a rushing brook by foot bridge. So begins the overgrown thickets of the trail. Things feel wrong, but for some reason I plunge ahead. After .8 miles (do not laugh), I realize we are not gaining the elevation we need to, and we are not switchbacking to the summit. With much irritation, I decide to turn around, and we lug ourselves back up the hills, another .8 miles. Shortly before the aforementioned rushing brook/foot bridge, there is a steep turn off. On the way back, Sierra catches sight of it and starts heading up. I am angry we have hiked so much and done so little to get to the top of the mountain. I am now more resolved than ever to reach the top though. So began the true hike.
After a bit, I notice we have hiked 3.5 miles. I am drenched with the sweat, but Sierra is still looking strong. After about an hour, we reach Glen Boulder (see above), which is a great place for us to rest and get out of the sun after hiking as much as we have done. A first for me though: my thighs are cramping every 5-10 minutes. Sierra is not impressed. I am equally as unimpressed. I hydrate constantly, trying to do the same for Sierra. She seems fine. I, on the other hand, am passed by 4 people over the course of an hour. I begin to recognize that this is my worst showing as a hiker to date.
We begin making our way to the Boot Spur. Now, the guide book I was using was sure to note that Mt. Washington is nicknamed “the rock heap.” At this point in the hike I am placing expletives before its nickname. At one of my “cramping pitstops,” I decide to check Sierra’s feet — since so much of the trail has been rock. To my non-surprise, both back feet are bleeding, ever so slightly. I am now cursing myself. 4 to 4.5 miles into this hike, I am cramping every 3 seconds, Sierra is bleeding, and I realize now that there is only one way down: up.
Safety first! I had packed Sierra’s “dog booties” for a situation just like this, and I place them on her back feet. So begins the every-75-yards-process of turning said booties around, as they would get twisted as Sierra dragged her feet across the rocks on ascents. At each rest, we both seem pooped. I admit to myself that my neo-Thoreauvian attitude is on empty. Sierra and I begin hiking on pure adrenaline (read: rage).
On “the flats” (before the last push to the summit), we pass a trail sign. “Mt. Washington — 1.0 mile” it reads. I am simultaneously elated and heartbroken. The last .5 mile feels the hardest. While I know that is certainly not empirically accurate, my thighs, brain and emotions do not care. We are dragging.
At each “mini-break” on the way to the top, we chat with solo hikers, families of four, and gaggles of Europeans. All who seemingly have the emotional fortitude of Rocky and the wind stamina of Brazilian soccer phenom Pelé. Eventually, the rise of boulders give way to herds of tourists and weather/radio towers. With no wind on top and the temperature holding at a balmy 48 degrees, I feel as though we are rewarded for hiking through this emotional gauntlet: a perfect day on Mt. Washington. Needless to say, it was worth it.
I decide it is best to descend in a van via the auto-road — as Sierra’s front feet also started looking a bit raw. We snap some pics, sit on a bench for a bit, say hello to children and parents who want to pet Sierra, and we wait for our ride down. A challenging hike that I would most likely never do again with a dog (Let that be a note to you dog owner/reader).
That said, we certainly felt like stone cold champions. Sierra was exhausted. I was exhausted. After being bussed back to Pinkham Notch where our truck was waiting for us, we beelined it back to camp and headed home.
Tallest peak in the northeast, “check.” What else ya got?
Happy hiking.
Pictures
