Random Thoughts

The landing was anything but smooth. I landed, surprisingly, on my two feet by my momentum continued to carry me forward towards another set of jumbled, slippery boulders. I reached out to grab hold of something, anything. I found some stray tree branches that slowed me down for only a second. The tree branches in my hands snapped free. I careened head-first down the slippery rock with no way to stop. In front of me was another icy cave. I reached out to another boulder in front of me and stopped myself. My sunglasses didn’t fair so well and they flew off my face and into the icy darkness, never to be seen again.

Regaining a sitting position, I looked into the black hole for any sign of the five-dollar sunglasses, but there was nothing. Not wanting to waste anymore time, I continued my boulder journey and almost immediately slipped and fell head-first again. This time my leg was caught between two rocks and began to twist in an unnatural way. The weight of my body pushed me downwards. I could feel a striking pain run through my leg as if it could snap any moment. I quickly reached up and untied my hiking boot. My foot popped out and I flew down the slippery boulder, landing on my backpack.

I brushed myself off, grabbed my boot, put it back on and continued on my way. I was dirty, sweaty, tired and I had lost my sense of humor, probably back where my sunglasses had flown off my face. I was annoyed at what seemed to be complete ineptitude. I had taken on boulder hikes like this before, especially up on the Presidential Range. I could remember several instances of slipping and sliding in precarious situations. In those adventures, I had been with several other people. This time I was alone.

I finally came to a clearing which gave me my first 360-view of the Ice Gulch. It was both beautiful and disheartening. Surrounding me on both sides were sharp cliffs that gave way to giant boulders that tumbled into the ravine where I was standing. It looked like a massive bomb had exploded on the landscape and all the remained was a scar on the Earth and thousands of boulders strewn everywhere.

The view spot seemed like a decent place to stop and take a break. I thought about the progress I had been making and it was slow. Just out of dumb curiosity, I pulled out my guide book and read the trail description once again. Stupid me should have read closer. The book specifically stated that the “trip through the gulch itself is one of the most difficult and strenuous trail segments in the White Mountains, involving nearly constant scrambling over wet, slippery rocks…” blah, blah, blah. Looking at the map, I noticed that it took me over 45 minutes to go about two-tenths of a mile. Strangely enough, it had taken me the same amount of time to cover the 2.8-mile distance on the Cook Path to the head of the gulch. I was moving at a snails’ pace. I was thrilled.

Continuing at my slow pace, I began thinking doomsday thoughts. What if I got seriously injured, how long would take for rescue to arrive? Would the rescue team be able to get me out of this mess? Would it take a week? Am I an idiot?

I had just finished reading “Between a Rock and Hard Place” by Aron Ralston, the hiker who was trapped in a Utah slot canyon for over six days with a crushed arm. He had been hiking alone and hadn’t told anyone where he was going. It was supposed to be a routine hike, but a freak accident caused a boulder to smash his arm against a canyon wall, trapping him. On the last day, exhausted from no sleep and extreme dehydration, Ralston made a do or die decision. He decided to amputate his arm by snapping his radius and ulna bones and then cutting off the rest. I was putting myself in a very similar situation. I had my own visions of what could happen to me. In my head, I began to write the sequel.

I was alone and had told no one where I was. My girlfriend knew I went for hike, but I was not specific. I had thought about leaving a note on the dashboard of my car detailing my plans, but I never did. If I did get seriously hurt and couldn’t get myself out, no one would probably know I was missing until that night when my girlfriend would be trying to call me from her home in Vermont.

The state police would probably be searching all over the White Mountains for my black Honda Accord, but it would probably be another day until they found it at the trailhead. Then they would dispatch a rescue team to pull me out and, considering the difficulty of the terrain, it would probably take another day and a half. That would be nearly four days trapped in the gulch. I was trained in wilderness medicine. I had even gone on some rescues in the Green Mountains. An injured person can be a heavy load on a hike out. I’m told that a dead body is even heavier.

I stopped and surveyed what gear I had in my backpack. It was a pretty light load since it was only a day hike. I had a fleece pullover, a first-aid kit, some extra water and some Chex mix. I would be OK if the worst did occur. I was happy to see my knife in their as well. At least I would have the option of chopping limbs off if push came to shove.

I quickly pushed those thoughts aside. I was determined not to become another Aron Ralston. Plus, he had just written a book and was getting national acclaim. If I hurt myself in a similar episode, I would be branded by the media of jumping on the Ralston bandwagon. I probably wouldn’t even get a book deal or an inspirational speaking tour. I didn’t that.

And so I pushed on, focusing on each climb and descent over the huge boulders, eventually working into a rhythm. I slipped a couple times and had a few close calls, but eventually I freed myself from the gulch. I sat for awhile and took a break, looking back up towards the boulder maze I had just crawled through. There were more boulders to count and I knew that the gulch stretched much farther up the tree-covered slope than I could see. I was glad to be rid of it. It was a wild adventure, however, and I began to see the positives of the ordeal. I even thought of one day returning, except the next time I would make sure I was not alone.

On the easy two-mile hike out to the road, I passed a hiker with a Labrador retrievers. I told him that the gulch was very difficult and that the dogs might not be able to make it through. I remembered that there was a dire warning carved into a trail sign at the head of the gulch. It read “Do Not Take Dogs.” I told him of the sign but the man brushed me off, telling me that his dog could get through any challenge. After all, the hiker informed me, his dog had climbed Mount Washington. So had I, I thought to myself. I wished him luck and he headed towards the gulch. The hiker didn’t get two steps in when he suddenly slipped on the trail and careened into the woods, bumping his head on a tree. He got up, brushed himself off, and continued on with his hiking partner. I guess my warning hadn’t been enough. Nature stepped in. For me, it was the bird. For him, a giant birch tree. Nature will always find a way to smack you upside the head.

***So that's it. The first essay I wrote for a graduate class I am taking. It's still a work in progress and, hopefully, my work will steadily improve over the next few years I'm in school. Any thoughts, questions or comments any readers have is greatly appreciated. I appreciate being given the "shit sandwich." You know, positive critisizm followed by negative critisizm, ending with a little more positive critisizm. As always, there will be more to come.***

***This is a draft of a piece I'm working on for a class. It's almost finished, except for a few things I'll want to change around. But whatever, you'll get the picture. Much more to come...***

At this one moment, I knew I was in over my head. I was deep in the Ice Gulch and there was no easy way out. I was sitting on a slippery, moss-covered boulder that hung over a 10-foot drop below me that disappeared into darkness. The cold air that flowed from chasm made me question if there was a cold pool of water hidden in the darkness below. In front of me was the rest of the “trail;” a large rock that looked too far to successfully jump towards. I couldn’t climb up or down the right or the left side since the brush was too thick and there would be even bigger boulders to deal with. I sat for a few minutes going over my options. I could turn back, but I that would mean climbing back up the steep boulders I had just climbed down.

I decided to continue. I had a plan to get out of my problem, crazy as it was. In a leap of faith, I jumped…



It was going to be a pleasant afternoon stroll on a warm summer day. Instead, it turned into a difficult scramble over glacial erratic boulders that tended to be much larger than me. The ancient boulders had lived in this remote ravine for thousands of years. I had been in there only 30 minutes. I was hoping to avoid becoming a permanent resident.

My destination for that day was a geologic feature in northern New Hampshire known as the Ice Gulch. The hike would be a nearly seven-mile loop and it seemed like a pleasant hike for a warm summer afternoon. I was interested by the Appalachian Mountain Club’s “White Mountain Guide” description of the trail. It promised extensive views, mountain springs and caves that kept ice hidden deep throughout the year. I parked my car at the Cook Path trailhead off of Randolph Hill Road in Randolph. The Cook Path headed due north over two miles to the head of the gulch.

I had looked at other hikes to do that day, especially in and around the Pinkham Notch region. Most of the shorter ones I had already done in the past and I didn’t have time to tackle one of the high Presidentials. That was a problem I had noticed as of late. I was running out of trails to hike that I had not done before.

I had been a hiker as long as I could remember. My first hiking memories consist of many hours of getting bounced around in a backpack being carried by my father. The hikes were generally family affairs, with my two older brothers always running on ahead and my Mother and Father taking their time on the trail. When I outgrew the backpack, I was always helped up the trail by my parents, making sure I could tackle the rocks and roots. I don’t specifically remember what hikes they were, but I can always remember the view and the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that rewarded my hard work.

As my growing years progressed, I began to take on the bigger summits of the White Mountains. First it was the big one, Mt. Washington. After that, it was the rest of the Presidential Range and then on into the wilderness for the more remote mountain peaks. By the time I graduated high school, I had covered most of the highest White Mountain summits.

In college in Vermont, I became a wilderness leader, guiding students and staff on long backpacking trips all over New England and parts of the western United States. In fact, I had just returned from the week before from a long backpacking trip in Grand Teton and Yellowstone national parks. I was used to long, arduous trips over high mountain passes and rough terrain. I considered myself experienced. I knew when a hike could pose a danger to myself and my clients just by looking at the weather or trail conditions. However, the warning sign at the beginning of the Cook Path was new to me.

I was less than 10 minutes into my hike when the little bird flew in front of me, rounded a birch tree and collided with the right side of my skull. His wide turn and my quick hiking speed must have totally thrown off his trajectory. The bird fell to the earth and, after shaking off the experience, flew back off into the woods. I rubbed my head, laughing about the odd moment the bird and I just shared. It was a strange warning to be sure. Looking back, I guess it was nature’s way of smacking me upside the head and telling me to turn around. I thought about that as I flew through the air, preparing for a crash landing.

End of Part 1. Stay tuned you might miss something!