The White Mountains; Berlin Games

In a blaze (or, well many blazes- white ones) of rock-ridden, grueling mountainous intensity, the Whites both drained my body and lifted my soul. The hiking was unlike any I have ever experienced, and included many pole-free hands-on rock face climbs. My legs burned as they haven't since Georgia and North Carolina; at times my pack felt as heavy as when I first began to carry it; daily, I broke into full-body sweats from the exertion despite the cool mountain temps. But, in exchange, the White Mountains offered some of the most spectacular scenery to ever stand before my open eyes.

Our entrance into the Whites, via a cumulative 3,800-foot climb up Mount Moosilauke, was graced with a windy but partly sunny day. Though the climb's photo finish had us clinging to the summit marker for fear of being blown off the 4,802-foot top, the valleys below and mountains to the north, south, east and west made the four of us marvel at the splendor surrounding us. Moosilauke would set the tone for a long stretch where, for seemingly the first time, the rewards matched the effort expended through long days, worn muscles and aching joints. Coupled with mostly clear weather for a small stretch, again seemingly for the first time, we laid eyes and boot soles on the astounding Franconia Ridge and the unparalleled Presidential Range. The hiking, as I said, was of an intensity unlike anything I have previously encountered. Much of the time, though, I barely noticed the strain on my body. My attention was instead captured by the incredible open ridge walks at 4,500 to 5,500 feet. Hiking felt like hiking again: at altitude we escaped most of the constant mudslogging that has plagued so many prior days (weeks, months) of this trip. For stretches in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, this thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail fulfilled the romanticized role it originally occupied in my imagination when Teenie and I first conceived of it years ago-- before I did any research, before I read any accounts or understood, even vaguely, the intensity of physical, emotional and mental labor involved in the pursuit of 2,178.3 miles of mountains. The Whites invigorated all of us four remaining Goonies. In perhaps a smaller dose, we experienced the rejuvenative effects of a vacation to the Presidential Range. Even though 'hiking' turned into 'more hiking' or 'harder hiking' in Northern New Hampshire, a positive change still graced the excursion for sure. I certainly felt it.

This all came at a price-- literally, in that suddenly upon entering the Whites, thru-hikers are expected to pay to stay at the same shelters and campsites we have occupied for free since Georgia, and figuratively in that stringent overnight/camping/fire/visitation regulations and crowded trails detract from the idyllic scenery. Of course, I am glad to share the splendor with everyone out to enjoy the trail(s). But, I do regrettably admit that we have adopted some thru-hiker elitism, and take offense (minor in my case, major in the case of Saint and Rusticus) to being placed on the backburner in favor of weekenders with deeper pockets. The Appalachian Mountain Club hut system, for example, allows limited work-for-stay options for thru-hikers, but has no real lodging available for us. The hut patrons understandably take priority over the penniless thru-hikers, but I think we still hold onto this vain resentment at being shoved into a corner (or on top of a bench or dinner table) after having hiked over 1,800 miles when most of those around us simply drove up and opened their wallets. But, I remind myself, in a previous life I too was a dayhiker and a car camper, and when I return to normality I shall probably become one again. It's the American way, though, that money talks-- that it speaks louder even than 1800 miles of actions and certainly louder than words. It reminds me, as I pass through it, of the duality of astounding natural beauty and its inevitable subjugation to tourism; but also that this tourism generates funds which contribute to its sustenance and maintenance and hopefully the preservation of its natural beauty. I wonder, is this the best or only effective method, the cycle of stay-pay-maintain? As with any not-for-profit endeavor, it relies on a precarious balance of funds, trust, generosity, and hope, but still seems to fall victim to laziness and disregard. I myself often pick up wrappers left behind by careless visitors, while I try to observe "Leave No Trace" policies. I hope that for every careless visitor discarding garbage on the trail(s), there is a hiker willing to bend down to pick it up and pack it out. It is a cycle that requires the active participation of all willing, and certainly forms a delicate stasis. Overall, I try to accept the system as part of the learning curve of this journey. I'm glad to be a part of the Whites and the Presidential Range at whatever cost I am able, on my limited hiker budget, to afford. I, am, after all, also a part of the cycle of visitation.


I have written many times about the value of loved ones in relation to my mentality on the trail. My parents, always spectacularly supportive of my endeavors no matter how unusual, have actively participated in our journey throughout. They visited again in North Woodstock, where they generously rented a condo for two nights and we took a Zero Day after climbing Moosilauke. A few days later, my parents drove up the Mount Washington Auto Road and met us at the 6,288-foot summit after we had climbed it. They brought my grandfather as well, and, under rather unusual circumstances, three generations of Wetherbees united atop the tallest mountain in the northeast and the 2nd-highest point on the whole AT. We lunched at the snack bar, enjoying a hazy but decent view. I had some wonderful conversation with my grandfather about books and writing and goals and the trail. I enjoyed the embraces of my parents. Theirs were the only ones I had had in weeks. I hope, friends, that you have been stockpiling hugs for my return, by the way. I'm deprived.

The composition of this entry occurred (occurs; is occurring) at le chateau Roberge in Berlin, NH. Rachelle and Steve have also been amazingly supportive during my quest, showering me with postcards, packages and well-wishes. They have graciously driven north from their apartment to their shared hometown to host the four of us at Steve's parents' house. I think, by this point, it has become horribly (blatantly; annoyingly, even) obvious that what I miss most from my previous/normal/stationary life are my friends. It means an incredible lot to me to spend time with them, both to share my journey and to share in theirs. The momentary escape from the trail does help reestablish some small (small small small) quota of mental stability. But, this far along, it is the return of social and mental stimulation through meaningful conversation that I crave and cherish. I shall return to the AT this afternoon having enjoyed a full day of food and relaxation, but, more importantly, of support and a little spiritual communion. This may possibly have been my last friend or family member visit until the end. It was a great one. Thank you so much, you two.

We have passed the 300-mile-remaining mark, and start today at about 298ish. We will be in Maine tomorrow, and, excepting Mahoosuc Notch and Katahdin, the hardest hiking is behind us. There's light at the end of the green tunnel perhaps, I think. But, then, I just ran into a fellow hiker who, upon entering Maine, fell and dislocated his shoulder and is unable to carry his pack and unable to continue. Game over. It was a reminder that I'm not there yet, and nor is there any guarentee that I will be. But it's looking better and better every day and every mile.

Love to you all.
Bee
xoxo