On Tuesday, around 3 p.m., I come up with a plan. Some people might call it a stupid idea. Nonetheless, the search for a partner begins.
By 8 p.m., the search was over.
Nighttime is not the time to be outside. Look in any hiking or climbing how-to book and one of the first rules they declare is invariably “be back in camp by dark” or “in case of emergency, carry a headlamp.”
Such rules can be restrictive though. When trying to make school and climbing fit within the same schedule, sometimes it takes a little leniency on both sides to make things work.
So I suggested something to my friend Brian: why not climb Mount Washington at night? We could just run up it Thursday evening and be back in time for art history class on Friday afternoon.
Thursday, 1 p.m.: We load up the truck with packs, clothes, and water. Brian has several errands to run before we are really ready to go. No real worry; it isn’t like we’d run out of daylight.
4 p.m.: Hannaford supermarket. It is time to collect provisions. After filling the basket with Clif bars and ramen noodle packets, we decide to pick up a baker’s dozen of raspberry strudels.
4:15 p.m.: The strudels are all gone.
5:30 p.m.: It’s dark out already. December doesn’t provide much daylight to play in. We start out at Pinkham Notch Visitors’ Center wearing headlamps and full winter gear. There is almost no snow on the ground as we start up the Boot Spur Trail, but it begins to fall 15 minutes later.
7:30 p.m.: Treeline. The snow gets deeper and the trees get much shorter. Brian’s headlamp batteries die. Luckily, he brought a backup. Now the backup is looking rather weak. Awkward snow conditions too. About every three steps I break through the crust, sinking to my crotch. Brian breaks through every step.
9:00 p.m.: It’s hard to follow the trail. The wind is gusting out of the Northeast strong enough to blow us over. Snowdrifts cover the cairns, or stone markers, that indicate where the trail goes. We crested Boot Spur, a knoll just over 5,000 feet in elevation, to find the gusts unrelenting. Supercooled water droplets freeze on our packs, jackets and eyelashes. Brian looks miserable as he fights against the wind, now directly in our faces. By now his second headlamp has died, and he is using my backup. If either mine or his dies now, we’re in for a long night. And I think I’m starting to get a headache.
9:45 p.m.: We’re within 200 yards of the Lakes of the Clouds hut, but I can’t find it. The cairns are gone again, lost for about the fifth time. Brian stands at the last one we’ve found, and I go out about 50 feet in what has to be the right direction. No luck. I try another direction. Damn it. One more time. Found one.
The wind is devastatingly strong by this point. We are screaming at each other just to be heard. The hut has a winter shelter in the basement. If we can just find it, we can melt some snow for water and heat up some ramen noodles.
10 p.m.: Found the hut. It was 20 yards away the whole time. We push the door open, and then we both lean against it to open it, against the force of the wind. The stove and the puffy jackets come out, and the brewing begins.
Then disaster strikes. Or more accurately, the strudels strike. My stomach starts to do summersaults. My head begins to pound. I try to hydrate, I eat, I take ibuprofen. Nothing seems to do the trick. The stove melts enough water to fill our water bottles and then dies. The fuel line must be clogged. I begin to sweat profusely, despite the fact that it’s four degrees out.
11:00 p.m.: Time to move out. I still feel like hell. We both bundle up until only our eyes are showing, and then we crack open the door. The wind has died and the sky is crystal clear. All of this is lost on me, however, as I worry about whether or not I will be able to pull down my neoprene mask in time to blow chunks. Despite the complete calm, I can’t help thinking about what would happen if I were to puke into the wind. I stumble along blindly, no longer caring about the summit. Brian remarks on the beauty of the night. I groan and tell him to shut up.
Friday, 12:30 a.m.: Lions Head Trail. The fastest way down. The lights of Portland are brilliant, 70 miles away. Brian wants to take a picture of them me with in the foreground. I am on my back unwilling to move. He kicks me and laughs at my condition. What can I say? I would do the same to him.
1:15 a.m.: We’re back below the treeline. The Lions Head summer route is still open because there isn’t enough snow to avalanche yet. I feel much better. The strudels had me down but they couldn’t knock me out. The pace picks up for the three miles back to the car.
2:30 a.m.: Back at the truck. Pull off the packs and the boot and toss them in the back. Hop in the truck and head home. I make sure to stay awake to make sure Brian stays awake. Hate to die on the drive home after breaking one of the cardinal rules of the outdoors and surviving.
4:15 a.m.: Arrive home. Thank god.
4:10 p.m.: “Art history: Renaissance to the present.” What I lack in enthusiasm, I make up for in attendance.