Last Friday I embarked on an adventure that – precisely one week out – remains vividly fresh in my mind. My good friend Adam had approached me about the possibility of a night hike in Crawford Notch. Not one to shy away from a challenge, I instantly jumped on board. While no stranger to hiking at night, I’d never intentionally set off up a mountain under the cover of darkness. Factor in single digit temperatures, next to no moonlight, and… well, I knew I was in for a treat.
We met at Crawford Notch a little after 10pm, and within minutes were on the trail en route to Pierce. The woods around us were utterly silent, save our occasional chatter and the crunching of our boots on the cold, hard ground.
To shamelessly digress – yes, I was in boots! And yes, it was terribly awkward after spending the entire summer dancing around in my trail runners…
A light dusting of snow coated the trail almost from the onset, increasing in density (and slipperiness) as we gained elevation. The wettest portions of trail had turned entirely to ice, and barebooting (not so) nimbly from rock to rock quickly became a chore. I soon lost patience and elected to put on my microspikes. Adam, the agile devil that he is, decided to continue on without traction.
Every now and then we’d switch off our headlamps, pausing momentarily to take in the wondrous beauty of the silent world around us. The stillness of the air, biting and cold as it entered our lungs. The sheer blackness of the woods. The indescribable brilliance of the stars, burning fiercely in the absence of the moon.
As the tree cover thinned, I could sense that the summit of Pierce was near. Much to my surprise, I was not at all tired given the late hour. Uncommonly hyper would be a much more fitting description of my state, as is evident in the summit shot below.
Given the near perfectness of the conditions, the decision to venture over to Eisenhower was not a tough one. Up the Crawford Path we went.
There is something wonderfully mesmerizing about hiking above treeline in the dead of night, with nothing but the stars and the glow of your headlamp to show you the way. Nearing the summit cone of Eisenhower itself, we started to encounter some fairly significant snow drifts. Not only that, but we also happened upon – gasp – a spruce trap. In October? Tell me it isn’t so…
Punching through knee-deep snow, our pace slowed a little as we made our way towards the summit cairn. For some reason, neither of us felt a strong desire to linger atop the broad, domed peak. After shooting a few pictures, we slowly headed back towards Pierce, the trail enveloped by darkness.
Even if unspoken, we both knew that the hike wouldn’t feel complete without a trip over to Jackson. Proceeding towards Mizpah Hut, the trail quickly became an icy mess, prompting Adam to put on his microspikes as well. The journey was not fast, but nonetheless seemed to fly by thanks to excellent conversation. Fortunately, we made it up the slick, icy steeps of Jackson without incident.
2.6 miles to go, 2.6 miles to go…
…on the dreadful Webster-Jackson trail. The footing was at its worst as we carefully made our way down from the treacherous summit cone. I took a bit of a nasty fall whilst descending one of the steeper sections, which resulted in a banged-up knee and a huge loss of confidence. It became apparent that my microspikes had dulled considerably with just one season of use, as they did not grip the ice even half as well as Adam’s. Slowly and surely we went, the seasons transitioning as if in real-time. Winter’s grip on the mountains steadily gave way as we quietly descended into the valleys below. Reaching 302, it was autumn once again.
