              |
Written by Sally Manikian.
May 18-25, 2007 When you are used to a stay of 11 days and a season of 5 months, the speed of calendar time catches you unawares with a stay of 7 days at the end of two months. This is the effect of 'caretaker time.'
Perhaps this is me trying to come up with an excuse for when I forget calendar events that matter to good friends of mine, such as birthdays, bar exams, or departures for South Africa. I don't consider myself a particularly scatterbrained person, but I have some problems with conventional measurements of quantified time. Long philosophical story short, the past 7 days went by quickly. They went by quickly also because they were very different. Sure, the surroundings continue the progress of change-snow rests in dirty patches of ice (the snow stake abandoned in a puddle of water), green grass now sits beneath the porch of Crag, and lichens distracted the caretaker along the Perch Path-but the past 7 days were different in particular because 'people things' went on. A long weekend had guests around until Monday, and the RMC's prepwork for the summer began, which translated into a trip to the valley, a helicopter, a visit from the field supervisor, and lots of cleaning. Unfortunately, the long weekend of Canada's Victoria Day (traditionally a busy weekend in the cabins) arrived with horrible weather, rain (3.2" on Sunday) and cold and even a dusting of snow and ice Monday morning. There were only 5 guests that weekend, and the exciting news was that, for the first time, THERE WERE MORE GIRLS THAN GUYS! 'Ooo, sounds like an exciting night up there!' Bill Arnold replied when I conveyed the news over the radio. And it was, I got to enjoy some quality girl-talk and girl-time, complete with tea, chocolate and talking about men.
Monday broke with snow and cold, the waterfalls slowed and iced over, moisture stiffened the trees. The incomplete cover of snow and ice could be poeticized to winter's dying gasps, or a perhaps a slightly less gothic picture of winter's passing, but I was just glad for the chance to play with frozen trees. By mid-day, the sun came out, and the melting began. The French Canadians made it up to Adams in clearing skies, with 'the view' that they had been looking forward to patiently all weekend before heading down. I also enjoyed 'the view' as I took the long way to the Perch, over Adams and down to Edmands Col. Oh, and yes, taking the long way is another aspect of caretaker time. On Tuesday I took the long way back to Gray Knob from Crag, going around the block via the Spur Trail and Lowe's Path over Adams 4. Spring, in particular, is a season that is also especially encouraging of languid caretaker time, as the (guest-less) days reach into 15 hours, enabling spontaneous 'long way' hiking decisions and slow moving mornings on the back stoop in the sun and a fierce sense of accomplishment when the cabin is swept and the poo is stirred by mid-morning. On Tuesday I was given permission to abandon my post, which I did with a dollop of reluctance (Who would want to leave timberline on such a clear day? Who would watch the sun set in the evening and the birds in the morning? Who in their right mind would want to go up and down those icy trails for no pressing reason?). Word got out that I am good at cleaning with bleach and I was invited to help clean the Stearns Lodge to prepare it for the summer. Of course, this ulterior motive was cloaked with the notion of seeing RMC faces I've never seen before and also promises of being treated to food by Al. Thanks, Al. I knew sometime this week that a helicopter would be flying to Crag to drop a load of heavy stuff. The RMC snuck a load of their own in with the AMC's fly schedule (for price of course, but a price much lower than if the RMC hired a bird by themselves). I thought it would be Tuesday. I found out Tuesday night at Stearns that it was going to be Wednesday.
Later that night, I was joined by Chris Fithian, summer Field Supervisor. He was kind enough to bring me two of the things I most desire as a caretaker: beer and oranges. In exchange, I made him chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast the next morning. We spent Thursday around the camps, Chris making a long list of things gone wrong and things needed in his milkman's notebook as we dealt with outhouses, grey water, and screens. After Chris left, I got a little sentimental when I found myself alone on my last day. I felt the pressure of 'last times', as I headed off on the long way to The Perch. Thankfully by the time I reached T-storm junction, I had shaken those nagging thoughts. The pressure of 'last times' can become like that prison of 'shoulds'-they're not pleasant feelings and can interfere too much with the present and have no place in caretaker time. The next day was hot and hazy, 62F by 7.30 AM. Mt. Wash gave visibility as 8 miles. I had to pack, to clean, to watch the birds, and to leave a long note for the summer caretaker. It was time to go. So this is it. Thanks are due. Nameless thanks. To the RMC for making it so easy for me to do my job. My crush on the RMC has developed into full-blown love. Spend some time with this organization, in the camps on the trail or as one of their lucky employees, and you'll see why.
May 4-15, 2007 In considering the past 11 days, there was something about them that seemed…well…normal. When I refer to 'normal', I don't mean 'boring' but something else. Further considering that feeling of 'normal' brought me to the startling realization that the past 11 days felt normal because they were so much like summer. Since New Hampshire's summer is the season I have seen the most of in the past 7 years, the sights, sounds, symbols, and signs of summer are a familiar experience. The standards of normalcy are tempered and conditioned by the familiar, after all.
The visual fields of terrain and topography are changing, most readily apparent in the snowmelt. The snow stake dropped from 46" on May 4 to 19" on May 14. Every day brought new patches of rock and ground, new pieces of trash, and even a few blades of green grass by the end of the week. A tree that I snapped off the Perch Path on Sunday because it was thwacking my knee was at chin level by Friday. Tiny Star Lake has melted free, and the tinier Storm Lake isn't far behind. The sheer drifts of snow that had previously hid the trail to The Perch have dropped away, breaking into wide crevasses on the slope down from Adams 4. On Tuesday when I hiked out, a cursory glance around the cabin proved to me that Ground was edging out Snow in the Field of Vision contest. Water rushed everywhere, roaring down Castle Ravine in a waterfall and forming a puddle on the Gulfside Trail that I grew especially fond of. A few nights of below-freezing temps would turn this mountain-wide flow into ice, glazed melt on the snow but also frozen drips on the trail. I have a fascination with everything that flows, and freezes ('oh look, more photos of drippy ice', a good friend used to tease me). Of course, this snowmelting fiasco was a result of temperatures that soared into the 60s for a few days, and refused to drop below 40 during the night. And, I might add, it was sunny for 11 straight days. On Saturday May 5, sitting on the back stoop drinking my coffee and greeting the day as I do every morning I thought to myself, for the first time this Spring, 'Sally Ann, you have too many clothes on.' These past 11 days I hiked in shorts, wore cotton t-shirts (cotton! cotton in the backcountry!), sunburned my shoulders, and slept in the 40 degree bag that I had been using as a liner bag earlier in April. Things became easy, as I flitted around barefoot outside and stopped reaching for my coat as I walked out the door. It was a warm and hazy week. When things get warm and sunny, Crag's porch is the place to be in the morning. Many people will attest to that, and I have become a recent convert to the magnetism of that space. A bit of time there will put anyone in a good mood.
This was also a busy week for guests; more accurately, this was a week where I wasn't alone much. In 11 days there were only three nights without someone at one of the camps. I even found people at The Perch (!!!!). One lady named Bonnie (oh, it's always great to have another girl around) gave me quite a laugh when she showed me the 'biohazard' bag she uses for her used TP. She and her companion Dan shared their Gouda with me on Crag's porch. Notably we saw the arrival of Marcel, who comes to Crag every year to celebrate his birthday (May 12) with his favorite classic rock tapes, fizzy adult beverages, and lots of hanging around. He put up the screens in some of the windows at Crag, went for a few hikes, but mostly enjoyed the sunshine. Happy Birthday, Marcel. In addition to Marcel, the week before saw the arrival of a group of guys who refer to their tradition as the 'Annual Crag Camp Beer Fest.' They should alter it to 'Beer and Peppermint Schnapps Fest' because one fella drank an entire bottle of the stuff. And, most importantly, I had
FRIENDS visit me. This is exciting because I don't have many
friends who hike. On Cinco de Mayo I was joined by Catherine
and Peter, and a lovely dog named Precious. They made a dinner
appropriate for the occasion (faijitas and fresh salsa and guacamole
and my goodness margaritas with fresh squeezed limes) and stayed
around for a few runs of skiing the next day. Thank you for visiting
guys, I will (someday this summer) visit ye both in Portsmouth.
I listened to the whole thing. It was mostly praising the new guide, mentioning the differences, etc. Standard stuff. The only remarkable part was when a caller, Bruce from North Conway, mentioned '[The Guide is] helpful when you're approaching dark, wondering if you'll reach your destination, whether you'll reach GRAY KNOB or THE PERCH in time.' And, I'll admit it, I cheered. This was the only reference by name to a backcountry facility in the entire hour-long show. Three cheers for Bruce! In other news, I've acquired a new hobby. I've decided to give this peakbagging thing a go. I decided, having heard about this newfangled '48 in 12' (hiking the 48 4,000 fters in every month of the year), that I would climb Mt Adams in every day of the week. Or, 5,774 in 7. Right now, I just need to get up there on a Thursday. I was considering bringing champagne to celebrate, but I feel perhaps Perch water would be more appropriate. Wish me luck! Unlike my entries of weeks previous, this stint did not include any semi-traumatic events. This is another testament to the normalcy and familiarity that reigned over the past 11 days. The trails melted free, there was no fierce weather to break things, and water even started flowing out of the spring pipe. Perhaps the most irritating is the ice flow that Lowe's Path has turned into, requiring sharp pointy things from just beyond the Forest Protection Area sign by Gray Knob all the way down to the switchback beneath the Log Cabin. Moreover, that which wasn't covered in ice was vulnerable exposed new ground, requiring a delicate tread. It was a slow hike down that day, laden with an empty propane tank and also the majority of my cold weather gear that I needed back in April that I deemed no longer necessary. Traveling down from treeline is always an exercise in difference and change, and this time I noticed the buds at 3,000 feet turn to nips of leaves at 2,500 feet and then even open flowers at the base of the trail. It's only a matter of time before the season of hiking in shorts and sneakers is upon us. April 20-May 1, 2007 'For time past is not believed
to have any bearing on time present or future, in that golden
land where every day is born anew.'--Joan Didion. I can not stress enough that week of straight sunshine, glorious high pressure, which allowed for me to spend a great deal of time outside on the summits, and also hike over to Mt Wash (where I was sorry to miss Mike Pelchat, but former RMC fall trail crew Mike Finnegan was kind enough to offer me lunch and allow me to hijack their internet, and they sent me home with oranges and homemade cookies). Walking back along the ridge, the snow was melting everywhere. Water rushing in torrents down through the sedge grass of the tundra, over rocks. A constant sound that had replaced the roar of winter's wind and the clatter of snow against the window. I took a picture. On Sunday April 22 I witnessed
a proposal on the summit of Adams. Ok, didn't 'witness', but
I was the first person whom they told. They were guests from
Crag the night before, members of the hiking community named
Seema and Brian. I encouraged them to eat lunch with me on the
roof of one of the Madison hut, where we were joined by three
other hikers. Chance and connections appeared quickly among them,
as two strangers recognized each other as former employees of
Lucent and the social network of the AMC and the RMC was inevitably
aroused, in that col beneath the summit in the sunshine and light
winds. This is a small community. As I mentioned earlier, that last snowstorm that turned the mountains into piles of marshmallow fluff and gave me an insecurity complex when the window blew out at Crag also managed to totally bury the Crag outhouse. Saturday April 21 found Al and I staring at the drift like slack-jawed yokels. 'This is your project,' he said. Little did we know, that I would
not be the one digging out the outhouse, rather it was a young
French Canadian named David Giguere. I hoped he was right. Al went
back down to the valley, and I went off to finish digging out
the spring. One hour and 6 feet of removed snow later, we had
water flowing. It took, eventually, a trip down to the Randolph Path, which I then rapidly followed straight to The Perch. I would like at this point to offer my profound gratitude and profess my eternal love to J. Rayner Edmands, with his trails that always rise (never steeply), and who carved order out of chaos for those ladies in their wide woolen skirts. Thank you for your work. At The Perch, I stared amazed
(my general state of being as a caretaker) at the buried shelter
and then reached for the shovel underneath. I flagged the trail
most of the way from The Perch to Gray Knob, and with each trip
since I've removed a flag or two as the snow has melted and begun
to reveal the trees that guide the trail. The rain persisted throughout the weekend, with a series of wild variances that included thunder, hail, sleet, high winds, foggy calm, occasional sunshine, and then turning to snow towards the end of Monday. With 1 ½ inches of fresh snow on the ground Tuesday morning, I headed to the valley, passing from snow to the beginnings of the usual ice flow around the Log Cabin and then down to a mud flat below The Link. Trails may be warm and muddy at the bottom, but winter still blows cold at timberline. Spring is here, in all its wet and cold and sunshined glory. Bringing every day, anew. April 6-17, 2007 Some might consider spending a week in California's arid and sunny Central Valley before moving into Gray Knob in April a bad idea. The morning I went to hike in, I was already cold before I left Southern New Hampshire, colder still when I pulled off 93 to get gas in Lincoln, and thoroughly chilled when I emerged above the Notch despite patches of sun and it being above freezing. Thank goodness for the delightful hike that is Lowe's Path. It warmed me right up. From my experience in the Whites, I have come to expect the unexpected. Or at least expect things to be cold, stormy, and occasionally sunny. All this came to pass in my first 11 days, which included lows in the single digits, a single bluebird clear day, two snowstorms, and also a fair bit of intrepid hikers for company and general merriment.
'Eggs for breakfast', he said. There was one crystal clear blue day, April 11, which I spent 8 hours above treeline, tooling around the Northern Peaks, heading over Jefferson and Adams, and considering Madison, but deciding to just hang out on the Sam Adams snowfields in the sunshine instead. It being the middle of the week, I was the only person up there. I didn't see a soul. (I also sunburned the underside
of my nose, the one spot that I missed with sunscreen. I came
to regret this during later snowstorms that had me inside, reading,
the moisture of my exhalations irritating the already irritated
and chapped skin.) The end of my first 11 days
was a 3 day snowstorm that started on Sunday and howled through
until Wednesday. It left nearly 50" of new snow by the end
of it. I woke up on Tuesday and found darkness in the caretaker
room--the snow had completely covered the west-facing window.
Things get dark when you don't have lights to turn on. Crag Camp, on the other hand,
was not as weathertight at the time. I was going out into the
storm twice a day to shovel out the inside of Crag, because there
was a patch job on a broken window that had been letting in tons
of snow. A question I often receive as
a caretaker is 'aren't you scared up here all alone?', and with
confidence I answer 'no.' And usually that is the truth. But
Monday night, that Monday night, I was scared (and angry) when
I returned to Gray Knob; I cursed myself for not doing something
about that window before the storm, cursed myself for feeling
unable to do something about that window immediately, and resolved
to do something about it in the morning. I cooked my dinner,
talked to Bill on the radio, and then quickly shut my eyes after
blowing out the candle, trying not to think about the snow that
was filling Crag. A very successful and gratifying
first 11 days. Expect the unexpected, and maybe save the trips
to California for summertime.
|
Of
course, caretaker time is a bit different from calendar time.
One of the indulgences of the caretaker is the power to establish
your own routine and your own rules of time. I find myself approaching
time in terms of 11 days and 3 days, weekends within those 11
days, and of course by Wednesdays when Bill Arnold requests trail
conditions. These markings of time can get confusing, say when
there are long weekends when guests show up midweek, when someone
else does radio call, or when you only stay up there for 7 days.
In those cases, a slight disconnect happens.
These
few guests were a good group, inviting me to share in their dinner
(and their potent liquor made by French monks that I have never
tried before and don't intend on doing so again), bringing me
a water container that I had left behind, and also joining me
on my walk to the Perch. Friday a solo hiker Matt and I enjoyed
a fantastic undercast with those rolling and turning clouds coming
up the valleys and patches of blue sky flying open up above.
On Sunday two French Canadian ladies, Christine and Milan, braved
the rain and waterfalls-formerly-known-as-trails with me.
When
on Wednesday? They had no idea. So I decided to camp out at Crag
that afternoon and wait. I watched the helicopter fly into Madison
Hut for a few hours. I flipped through my fashion magazine, called
my mother, stared into space, tried halfheartedly to read Slaughterhouse
Five, followed the sun across the sky, and then when I was sitting
with my toes in the grass talking to a junco, I looked up and
the helicopter was coming right at me from across King Ravine.
So,
perhaps not so much 'normal' as 'familiar.'
On
my first day back, I started hearing the rumble and roar of helicopters.
The AMC has begun their season of supplying their backcountry
facilities, a common sight of spring but also a poignant reminder
of summer's approach. The wind turbine had returned to the roof
of Madison Hut, sounds of the blades welcome the hiker down from
Adams. Mt. Washington's summit buildings also opened up this
week, the familiar plume of smoke and echoing whistle from the
Cog a constant. This patch of wood and rock, mountainous, will
be very busy soon. The quiet weeks wait until September.
I
turn on NPR sometimes to see what the voices are talking about.
If I find it interesting, I listen. Mostly I turn it off. On
May 10 on The Exchange, I heard, as I was putting in my contacts,
the words 'White Mountains.' It was about the AMC's White Mountain
Guide, new edition.
After leaving the
mountain in a snowstorm, in returning to the mountain in sunshine,
warm breezes, and crystal clear blue skies, I was definitely
returning to a different place. For the next 7 days, it was sunny
and warm with a high of 58. One day it was a balmy 63 degrees
inside the cabin! Spring had sprung. By the end of 11 days, after
all the sun and the rain that followed, the snow had returned
to a more manageable level of 4 1/2 feet.
This was around the
time that Al and I had finished staring at the drift, but still
were standing around slack-jawed and dumbfounded. Al joked to
them that that if they were up for doing some digging...it's
a great way to work on a suntan! 
During these rainy
days, I read a lot in the mornings, started listening to NPR
but could only take the voices for a half an hour at a time,
it just started getting too loud and noisy for me, used to silence
in the cabin rather than disembodied voices, completed 9 crossword
puzzles, watched the white winged cross-bills give way to juncos
and kept close attention to the developing patches of ground
around the cabin. Afternoons I would devote to being outside,
whether working slowly at the (blissfully and fragrantly thawing)
composting toilet or clearing all those silly trees that fell
down in the wind and rain and snow of spring storms (trees are
brittle this time of year, they haven't had water for a long
time). 
I
saw 35 people in 11 days, 28 of which were men. Now maybe I'm
just preoccupied with gender, being a woman alone in the woods,
but it sure seemed like a lot of dudes. As for more numbers,
as a quantified measurement of the unquantifiable experience
of being up Gray Knob, I read four books, ate a pound of bacon
and half a pound of butter, made it over to the Perch 9 times,
spent 3 hours one day chipping at the frozen cones of the outhouse,
dug out the cabin from snowdrifts that covered the first floor
windows 4 times, talked to one boreal chickadee and one bard
owl, packed in a propane tank while breaking trail, met a set
of peakbaggingwinterhiking twins who included me in their video
narrative, fixed a broken radio by dropping it on the ground,
and received two chocolate Easter eggs from guests.
I spent the days
reading, drinking tea, watching the wind scour the trees out
the window. Went out into the storm to the top of Gray's Knob
to feel it's strength, white. I was sorry that I was going to
have to leave in the middle of the storm on Tuesday. Gray Knob
was perhaps the best place to be in that storm, for not only
is it a sturdy little cabin, there is no power to lose, pipes
to freeze (well, except for that spring pipe), or roads to slide
off of. I was reluctant to leave on Tuesday.