Random Thoughts

***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!