In Into the Mountains, Maggie Stier and Ron McAdow record how two University of
New Hampshire students, Derek Tinkham and Jeremy Haas, decided to hike the entire
Presidential Range-- seven summits, including Washington, all named for U.S. presidents--
in January 1994. Although they were experienced winter hikers and were well equipped,
they couldn't have imagined what they were letting themselves in for. On their second
night, the winds rose to ninety miles an hour and the temperature plummeted to --32°F. I
have experienced --25°F in calm conditions and can tell you that even well wrapped and
with the benefit of residual heat from indoors it becomes distinctly uncomfortable within a
couple of minutes. Somehow the two survived the night, but the next day Haas
announced he could go no farther. Tinkham helped him into a sleeping bag, then
stumbled on to the weather observatory a little over two miles away. He just made it,
though he was gravely frostbitten. His friend was found the next day, "half out of his
sleeping bag and frozen solid."
Scores of others have perished in far less taxing conditions on Washington. One of the
earliest and most famous deaths was that of a young woman named Lizzie Bourne who in
1855, not long after Mount Washington began to attract tourists, decided to amble up in
the company of two male companions on a summery September afternoon. As you will
have guessed already, the weather turned, and they found themselves lost in fog.
Somehow they got separated. The men made it after nightfall to a hotel on the summit.
Lizzie was found the next day just 150 feet from the front door, but quite dead.
Altogether, 122 people have lost their lives on Washington. Until recently, when it was
overtaken by Mount Denali in Alaska, it was the most murderous mountain in North
America. So when the fearless Dr. Abdu and I pulled up at its base a few days later for
the second of our grand ascents, I had brought enough backup clothes to cross the
Arctic--waterproofs, woollen sweater, jacket, gloves, spare trousers, and long underwear.
Never again would I be chilled at height.
Washington, the highest peak north of the Smokies and east of the Rockies at a solidly
respectable 6,288 feet, gets few clear days, and this was a clear day, so the crowds were
out in force. I counted over seventy cars at the Pinkham Notch Visitor Center lot at 8:10
in the morning when we arrived, and more pouring in every minute. Mount Washington is
the most popular summit in the White Mountains, and the Tuckerman Ravine Trail, our
chosen route, is the most popular trail up. Some 60,000 hikers a year take to the
Tuckerman route, though a good many of them get a lift to the top of the mountain and
walk down, so the figures are perhaps a trifle skewed. In any case, it was no more than
moderately busy on a good, hot, blue-skied, gorgeously promising morning in late July.
The walk up was much easier than I had dared hope. Even now, I could not quite get
used to the novelty of walking big hills without a large pack. It makes such a difference. I
won't say we bounded up, but considering that we had almost 4,500 feet of climb in a
little over three miles, we walked at a pretty steady clip. It took us two hours and forty
minutes (Bill's hiking guide to the White Mountains suggested a walking time of four hours
and fifteen minutes), so we were pretty proud.
There may be more demanding and exciting summits to reach along the Appalachian
Trail than Mount Washington but none can be more startling. You labor up the last steep
stretch of rocky slope to what is after all a considerable eminence and pop your head over
the edge, and there you are greeted by, of all things, a vast, terraced parking lot, full of
sean pound
(Sean Pound)
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