There is such a thing as being too cold to read, and I think it starts around freezing, which is often the temperature inside the mountain huts of New Hampshire in winter–or colder, if inside Doublehead Cabin.
The cold usually doesn’t stop me from packing a book, as I did the last winter weekend of March. I always think I’ll be able to read. And this book seemed especially appropriate: Ty Gagne’s Where You’ll Find Me: Risk, Decisions, and the Last Climb of Kate Matrosova, a retelling of the doomed 2015 journey of a New Yorker who trekked into the high peaks of the White Mountains in winter. A review in Appalachia said of it: “I wondered why anybody would push so hard in such extreme weather, but also felt a kind of kinship, a sense that, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I.’ After reading the book, I realize I need to go deeper within myself to better ensure safety in future adventures.”
That was a fair warning to not attempt anything big this weekend, when the wind would gust up to 110 mph on Mount Washington and the temperature would drop to -6 degrees F.
Our long weekend started north of Doublehead Mountain in Pinkham Notch, where Jenna and I, my uncle Steve Brown and his son Aidan, and the Mystic mailman/madman Phil Plouffe met at Wildcat Mountain. After riding a chairlift to the summit, we could see across the notch toward Mount Washington’s southern flank with the snow-filled bowl of Tuckerman Ravine and the steep walls of Huntington Ravine. In the below photo, I’m pointing toward the Sherburne Ski Trail lacing through the forest, which I would soon be racing down with Orbit, our four-legged companion.
Photo by Jenna Cho
That morning’s drive from Connecticut to New Hampshire had been rainy and at times pouring, but the sky began to clear as soon as we parked at the base of the mountain and by mid-afternoon the clouds lifted from the high peaks. According to the Mount Washington Weather Observatory, the day had a total of 150 minutes sunshine–and I believe we were skiing for all of them. The day also had a max windspeed of 105 mph and average of 54.1 mph, though we hardly felt it 2,000-feet below the Observatory on Wildcat.
By afternoon, we were all shedding layers to stay cool under the balmy sun.
Photo by random stranger
We all stopped skiing at 4 pm, Uncle Steve and I shared a tall can of IPA in the parking lot, and drove south 20 miles to the town of Jackson, home of the 3,054-foot-tall Doublehead Mountain. This was our second year in a row spending St. Patrick’s Day weekend at Doublehead Cabin. We wanted to double our Doublehead, as those old Doublemint Gum ads advise.
I also wanted to do a little reading, though bringing a book to Doublehead is no light decision. Reaching the U.S. Forest Service cabin entails a 1.8-mile trek with 1,500 feet elevation gain. Built in the 1930s, the eight-decade-old cabin lacks electricity, water, and heat aside from a convalescent woodstove, meaning that we had to pack in our own water and fire logs, along with all the usual food and overnight supplies. Adding a book to the pack might seem like the straw that broke the camel’s back.
At the same time, perhaps a book might provide extra kindling for warmth, if necessary. Last year in the cabin, I’d discovered: “As the temperature dropped into the single digits, I started cutting logs that had been collected by previous tenants. They burned poorly, and I got more heat from the exercise than from the fire, but it was something.”
Photo of Doublehead Cabin by Steve Brown taken in March 2018
We loaded five Duraflame logs into our packs and began up the trail. Uncle Steve and I skinned up on telemark skis, while the others tromped up on snowshoes. Within 90 minutes we were all inside the cabin, a fire was lit inside the woodstove, and a spread of cheese and crackers was on the table. Phil, who usually survives on a spartan diet of ramen and oatmeal, had this time brought organic goat cheese and organic crackers–nearing retirement, he seemed to have embraced a slightly more healthy diet to stave off aging, although his bag of Donettes mini donuts probably neutralized all those organics.
As we unpacked, Uncle Steve spotted my book on the table. I was the only person who’d brought something to read. All the others read avidly, most of all Phil, who told us he’d finished like 80 books in 2018. I think I was just the only person willing to lug a book into the freezer box of Doublehead Cabin.
Uncle Steve flipped open the book and began reading at a random place:
Crouching and bracing herself against the 80-plus-mph headwinds pouring over the ridgeline like a dam break, not only is she unable to climb the 144 feet to the summit, she can make no forward progress at all. Her first bailout point, Gray Knob Cabin, a walk of about fifty minutes from the summit of Mount Adams, is unreachable. From where she is, with a ground blizzard in full force, she is also unable to see the buildings atop Mount Washington, which for her might be a reassuring sign of civilization. This is the hiker’s version of being alone and stranded on Mars.
I’m not sure if Uncle Steve was thinking it, but I remembered how I’d led him and Aidan–then only 12 years old–into similar conditions five years earlier. On February 16, 2014, we’d set out from Gray Knob for a five-mile loop to Edmonds Col and around Mount Adams through Thunderstorm Junction and back down to Gray Knob, despite a forecast for “winds gusting well over 100 mph” and a warning that “Search and Rescue efforts that arise anywhere in the White Mountains will be very slow going or possibly delayed.”
That initially pleasant winter hike became nightmarish. While traversing around the north side of Adams along the Gulfside Trail, visibility dropped to several dozen feet and the path-marking cairns completely disappeared under the snow, leaving us wandering through white-out conditions as we searched for the way home. Aidan at one point wondered if we’d make it out alive, saying to his dad: “I want to die with Mommy.” Historical weather data bears out the intensity of the conditions that day: the temperature dropped to -16 degrees F, the wind peaked at 91 mph (and averaged 63 mph), and there was a grand total of 0 minutes sunshine.
Now inside the relative warmth of Doublehead Cabin and reading about 32-year-old Kate Matrosova’s death, we perhaps all felt a sense of reservation about heading up any bigger summits this weekend, given the blustery forecast. According to the Mt. Washington Weather Observatory, the following day (March 16) would have an the average wind speed of 67.5 mph and a max gust of 97 mph, and the temperature would drop to 2 degrees F.
Photo by Jenna Cho taken in March 2018
In the morning, Uncle Steve and I “telemarked” down the Doublehead Ski Trail, which was built in the 1930s by FDR’s Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) as part of a larger project to develop backcountry ski runs in the region, including the Sherburne Trail on Mount Washington. The snow was so icy and hard-packed that we couldn’t do much more than skid. On snowblades, Jenna had the most graceful ride, her short skis allowing her to make the sharp turns in the narrow trail.
Reunited in the parking lot, we all decided on a more tranquil Saturday of cross-country skiing at Jackson XC, which claims to have the largest network of trails in the eastern US. By afternoon, however, the trails were slow and mushy. So at 3 pm, while the others finished their runs, Orbit and I drove back north to Pinkham Notch, which is about 1,500 feet higher in elevation than Jackson. Within those 20 miles, the temperature dropped by 10 degrees and down to freezing–putting me back on firm snow.
As Orbit and I began walking/skinning up the Tuckerman Ravine Trail, the temperature dropped further and the winds picked up, to the point that after 2.5 miles there was little visibility at Hermit Lake Shelter (elevation 3,875 feet). I stripped the skins from my telemark skis. As I pointed the tips down the Sherburne, Orbit smelled the barn.
Skiing with a dog is one of the great joys of life. Now off-leash, Orbit hurtled down the Sherburne with me telemarking after him. When I’d pass him, he’d take it as a challenge to race after me, and we traded the lead the entire trail down to Pinkham Notch. Unlike at Wildcat the previous day, we had the Sherburne and its pillowy snow all to ourselves.
We still had one more uphill. By the time we drove back to Jackson, the sun was setting and the temperature was freezing, turning the Doublehead trails into a hard-packed ice sheet. My skins lacked the traction they’d had the day before on softer snow, and now I found myself slipping backward and repeatedly stumbling and cutting my hands on the upper crust of icy snow. As I struggled and groaned with effort, Orbit patiently waited at each bend in the trail, his black coat standing out against the white snow. At an especially steep section, I removed my skis and trudged the last quarter-mile to the cabin.
Orbit and I were both exhausted. In the sleeping bag that night, I managed to read one short chapter of Where You’ll Find Me before zonking out.
Photo by Jenna Cho
The wind picked up into Sunday, waking me from sleep as it rattled the metal roof. (The Mount Washington Observatory recorded a peak gust of 110 mph on March 17 and a low of -6 degrees F.) While the first night at Doublehead had been a balmy 40 degrees inside the cabin, the second was frigid, with all our waterbottles freezing up. In the morning, Orbit’s waterbowl froze within an hour of filling it.
It was cold. But it was a lot better than being on one of the exposed high peaks, the way Kate Matrosova had spent her final night alive.
Huddling around the fire in March 2018, and sweeping the fireplace in March 2019.
We went home without tagging any major peaks, although I was hardly empty handed. While driving through North Conway on Friday, we had stopped at the gear shop IME. As I was milling about, the owner Rick Wilcox walked into the room rolling a steel frame Nishiki “Custom Sport” road bike. “Anybody want a free bicycle?” he asked. I quickly said, “I do!” Rick responded, “It’s yours. The only caveat is that you can’t bring it back.” It seemed like a gift from the mountain gods. My own road bike–20 years old and with only one working gear–faced imminent retirement.
Back in New York City, I pumped up the Nishiki’s tires and pedaled over the Brooklyn Bridge and into Manhattan, up the West Side bike path and to work at Columbus Circle.
