Mark Mischke's Weblog

Back to altitude

This past summer, Ali and I spent a week in Flagstaff, Arizona. It was a good time and we did the typical things that a vacation in Flag might entail. We stayed in the center of town, at the historic (and supposedly haunted) Hotel Monte Vista. We hiked in the Grand Canyon, but not too far down because of the heat. We spent a day biking and shopping in Sedona. We saw a herd of wild elk while hiking on Flag's urban trail network. We explored many of the local restaurants. And we climbed Humphreys Peak.

Humphreys was our main goal, although I was quietly skeptical about our chances for success. It rises to 12,600' over a gentle 9.6 mile trail which begins at just over 9,000'. I'd previously been to 14,000', but not for many years, and Ali had never hiked above 10,000'. Neither of us was in the best physical condition (fortunately we've both since turned that around), and going from sea level to 12,000' with only a few days to get used to half that height (Flag is at 7,000') is no mean feat. After steaming up the Grand with surprising stamina earlier in the week, our confidence grew.

We started out early in the day, feeling a bit woozy even at the trailhead. My thought was to take it slowly and steadily. I was concerned that if we pushed too hard, we'd become altitude-sick and be unable to recover. The trail was stunning and it didn't feel at all like the Arizona we'd come to know. We picked up a lone hiker from Canada along the way. He'd been hiking in Colorado, so he had an edge on us, but he apparently wanted company so he kept our pace. We both got on-and-off headaches and Ali had a short bout of nausea. We kept guzzling water and managed to push those effects back. This was my first time at altitude without taking Diamox, which prevents altitude sickness. I wanted to see what it'd be like, but I think I'll have it with me next time.

Before we knew it, we were standing on the summit. It was quite an accomplishment (esp. given that I was 25 lbs. heavier than I am today!). We met some cool folks up top and hung out for awhile before dashing back down to tree-line when we saw the afternoon thunderheads rolling in. The trail itself wasn't too challenging; it was the altitude. I'd rate the trail as moderate if it were in NH's White Mountains; maybe similar to the Garfield Trail. The altitude adds a lot to the mix. All in all, it was a great hike and I highly recommend it.

Getting back to the mountains

It's good to be getting back into hiking.  I'd only been up to the hills once last season, which is a far cry from my twice-a-month average during the five years prior.  This year, I've been out six times so far.

Yesterday, Ali, Abby (our Lab mix) and I tagged Mt. Osceola.  It's an easy 4,000-footer, but since this was Abby's 2nd mountain, we wanted to stack the deck in favor of her success.  Plus, neither Ali nor I had done Osceola before, and we were eager to check off another 4,000-footer from the list.  So far, I've done 26 out of the 48 (9 in Winter).  Ali's on her ninth, I believe (I had a several-year head start).

Osceola's (via Mt. Osceola Trail, from Tripoli Rd.) a nice hike.  The trail is a constant, easy grade, gaining 2200' over 3.2 miles.  If you view it in profile, it looks like the hypotenuse of a perfect triangle.  The summit views are unparalleled.

Perhaps the biggest impediment to hiking more often is the fact that we now live 1/2 hr. farther away from the Whites than we used to.  Now it takes a solid three hours to reach the closest mountains, and that's if we don't stop too many times along the way.  This can create quite an inertial barrier, but once we're in the hills, all of that driving proves to be well worth it.

Town forests

It seems to be a lesser-known fact that many communities in the greater Boston area have forested land set aside for public use.  Many folks regularly visit the Blue Hills Reservation and Middlesex Fells, but a lot of people don't seem to know about the smaller hidden gems within their own towns.  When I lived in Arlington, we had Menotomy Rocks, which was just large enough to provide the feeling of being away from it all.  Now, in Natick, we have the Hunnewell Town Forest.  It's a decent tract of land, which can be appreciated from a Google Earth shot.

I suspect that town forests were common knowledge back in the 1970s.  As evidence I offer the broken-down exercise stations along the trails in Menotomy Rocks.  'Stretch Here'.  'Do Pull-ups Here'.  I remember seeing the same things on trails at UCONN when I was there in the '80s, and they were broken-down then.  People have been moving around a lot over the past decade, or so.  As such, they might ot be aware of things like town forests lurking in their midsts.  That being said, there are a healthy number of people in the HTF whenever I'm there, but not relative to the number of people I see out and about, in general.  Natick is a healthy town.  People walk, run, walk their dogs and stroll their babies.  You can't look out your window for five minutes without seeing someone go by.

One thing missing from our town forest is a decent trail map.  I've walked most (all?) of the trails, as well as the unofficial trails, which look like little more than game paths.  A personal goal of mine is to map them all out with my GPS.  Once done, I'll release it into the public domain.  Our forest is well-maintained.  Blowdowns are quickly cleared.  Natick clearly cares about it, so I want to do my part and create a map.

Digital cell service off the beaten path

I've been raving about the Motorola e815 cell phones that Ali and I recently upgraded to.  Ali was up in New Hampshire's White Mountains over the past few days for a work-related outing.  During that time, we had no real problems reaching each other, even while she was driving to and from.  I don't think that a phone's inability to fall back to analog is a problem anymore.

I'm sure that many areas of the Whites have no service.  All cell phones work on line-of-sight to the towers and mountains like to get in the way of that.  There _is_ some degree of signal 'bounce', though, and that's sometimes enough to establish a reliable connection even if line-of-sight is compromised.

We had one call where Ali was on the road and the conversation stutterred briefly and then died.  A few minutes later, she had a good signal again.  Digital signals don't degrade like analog signals do.  They have a power threshold above which they work and below which they don't.  If we'd been talking over an analog connection at the time, I suspect the conversation would have been overrun by static.  A low signal area is a low signal area.

Analog circuitry is power-hungry.  It also takes up valuable space inside the ever-shrinking cell phone chassis.  It's no wonder that many manufacturers are ditching it.  My primary concern was my phone's ability to function in an emergency situation.  All the data aren't in yet, but my (preliminary) feeling is that a digital phone may be as functional and reliable as a tri-mode (analog fallback) phone in outlying areas.

This also has implications for those who hike with cell phones.  I've previously gone on record as stating that I felt cell phones were a useful part of a hiker's arsenal, provided that said hiker didn't use them as a perceived safety factor in pushing the risk envelope.  I always hike with a cell, and it's always off and double-Ziplocked for protection from moisture.  No one wants to hear ringing or vibrating phones in the woods, and they sure as hell don't want to hear or see people carrying on phone conversations from a mountaintop.  It's just bad manners, and a potential stoning offense. 

On the other hand, cells are light, relative to the potential benefit they can provide in the event of a problem.  If it hits the fan and there's a signal, help will arrive faster than if a cell wasn't present.  If there's no signal, you have to fall back on training.

Modern cells provide an additional benefit in the hills.  Many have decent photo and video short capability.  My e815 has a 1.3 megapixel sensor, which is the same resolution of my first digital camera - and I took that bulky sucker on many a trip.  While I'd wager the e815 lacks the image quality of my venerable old HP PhotoSmart, it's not _that_ bad.  Plus it does movies - with sound!

Climbing safety

Ali just got back from a team-building excursion in which her group went ice climbing (yes, I'm jealous).  Their guides were from one of the most respected schools in the Northeast.  As she was telling me about it, I asked about the guides' focus on safety - primarily harnesses and knots.  She said there wasn't much instruction along those lines.  I couldn't believe it.  They took a group of first-timers out to an eighty-foot ice wall and didn't take the time to cover the absolute basics of climbing safety.  This would include harness fitting, attachment point configuration and proper rope tie-in.  None of this stuff is obvious - especially the rope part, because it uses a special kind of knot.  In my experience, beginning rock or ice climbers (which is where I fit - I've only been a few times), always receive solid instruction on this material.  This includes plenty of hands-on practice, after which the work is checked by an instructor.  Prior to beginning a climb, configurations are again checked by the belaying partner.  There's good reason for this.  An improperly-configured harness or a poorly-tied or incorrectly-selected knot can cause severe injury, or even death, in the event of a fall.  The system is designed to stop you if you slip and only works the way it's been designed to work.

I'm not going to mention the school.  I've personally had great experiences with their programs and instructors, but apparently not all of thier guides pay enough attention to basic safety.  Climbing is becoming more and more popular.  One of the first questions that should be asked when selecting a program is how much pre-climbing safety material will be covered.  If you don't hear an emphasis on harnesses and ropes, call someone else.  In addition, when ice climbing, make sure that the class also includes an instructional session on crampon and ice axe usage.  Both can cause serious injury if used improperly.  It's like strapping a bunch of ninja throwing stars to your hands and feet.  :-)

A comprehensive safety overview doesn't require much time.  It's not going to detract from your time on the wall.  Climbing is dangerous.  I'm surprised that some of the professionals seem to be forgetting that.  My experience is that these folks are the exception rather than the rule.  Most guides I've met really have it together.

The Backhoe Incident

Sunday, May 6, 2001.  A warm and sunny day in New Hampshire's White Mountains.  From the approach roads, the upper sections of Mt. Jefferson looked to be devoid of late-season snow.  All in all, the makings of an ideal spring hike.

Mt. Jefferson (5712'), the third-highest peak in the northeast, is my favorite mountain, and my favorite route to its summit is the Caps Ridge Trail.  Caps Ridge gains 2700' of altitude over about 2.4 miles.  I've climbed this trail more than a dozen times, and I never tire of the terrain diversity.  It starts out as a walk through a bog and a softwood forest, continues over three huge rock formations (the caps), which make for some great scrambling and finishes up as classic Presidential above-treeline boulder hopping.  It's a fast hike, but a lot of fun. 

The Caps Ridge trailhead is located at the high point of Jefferson Notch Road - about 3,000' in elevation.  JNR is one of many three-season roads in the Whites, and its apex is the highest point on any public road in New Hampshire.  JNR is a gravel road, and isn't well-maintained, even in warmer weather.  Unlike many three-season roads - none of which are maintained, or passable, in winter - JNR isn't gated (at least not from the North side).

Up JNR we went, early that morning.  I was driving my Jeep, so I wasn't too concerned about the mud and ruts that can cause problems for cars during the melt season.  We were fairly close to the top before we encountered patches of lingering snow.  I pulled the 4WD lever and glided right over them.  We arrived at the trailhead in no time.  There was plenty of parking.  No one else was there.

The lower wooded sections of the trail were covered in a foot or two of snow, but that faded quickly as we broke out of the trees and onto the caps.  It was a spectacular climb - warm, and almost no wind.  During the day, the sun had softened the snow, and the last part of the descent was hard work.  We postholed nearly every other step.  By the time we reached the trailhead, we were in foul moods and looking forward to a good meal.  We got into the Jeep and headed down the road.

A few hundred feet from the trailhead, the softened snow seemed to grab the Jeep and gently guide us to the side of the road, which was a two-foot ditch.  No one was hurt, but my right front wheel was in the ditch, and there was no getting out.  The snow cover just didn't provide the traction for me to back out of it.  We had everything we'd possibly need to survive unexpected events in the mountains, gear-wise, but nothing with which to extracate the Jeep. 

It was a five-mile walk to the first set of houses, and we had about an hour or so of light left, so we set off.  I was concerned.  I knew that there was no way a wrecker could get up that road and that AAA would laugh at me for requesting service on a 'closed' road (exactly when it 'opens', I don't know).  I was heading to LA in less than a week for a two-week trip through the Southwest.  My Jeep was stuck high on a mountain road, and I had no idea what to do about it.  Plus, my hiking partner had to get back to MA to teach school the next day.

The hike down the road was uneventful, save for a pile of deer fur by the side of the road.  Apparently the coyotes had been well-fed.  Kinda made me nervous.  As we reached the end of JNR, we passed several houses that had too much of a 'Deliverance' feel to warrant knocking on the door, but eventually we found one that seemed OK.  The old couple who lived there were accustomed to helping us silly city folk when we got ourselves into binds on JNR.  The guy loaded us into his pickup truck, along with a tow chain, and we headed up the hill.  The snow patches were still soft, and he cut evergreen boughs to place under his wheels for traction.  We reached the Jeep, but pulling didn't help.  He said we needed a backhoe to lift us back onto the road.

Back at his house, he made a few calls, but couldn't reach anyone.  He gave me the number of a guy with a backhoe, and said that I should call him first thing in the morning.  Then he drove us to a local motel.  He wouldn't accept anything for his services except a 'thank you'.  What a great guy.

After a fitful night of sleep (my Jeep was stuck halfway up a mountain!), I called the backhoe guy.  He was, fortunately, available that day.  He explained that he'd have to soak me for $55/hr.  I held back my amusement.  He could have charged me $1000/hr, and I'd have had to happily pay.  He picked us up at the motel, took us to get breakfast and we headed back to his place.  Needless to say, my friend didn't make it to school that day.

The guy was friendly, but his Dad was the classic New England old codger.  All we heard while heading up the hill was "What da hell were you doin' up there?", to which we responded "We're just dumb city-folk, sir, and we're sure luckly to have found you guys."  The backhoe lifted the Jeep back onto the road with minimal effort, and down the hill we went.  The event had consumed three hours' time, totalling $165.  I thanked them most sincerely and gave them $200.

We were back home about three hours later - early afternoon.  I'd just had one of the most interesting adventures of my life and was about to set out on another in just a few days.

Muscles remember

I got up to the hills for the first time this year yesterday.  Typically, I'd have been up a dozen times by now.  My life has settled down quite a bit this year, and I spend most weekends hanging out with my wife and our dog in the backyard.  This hasn't exactly been a formula for fitness, and my lack of conditioning had shaken my confidence as a hiker.  We've begun training for a half marathon on Prince Edward Island, in October, and the increase in activity has made me once again feel the call of the mountains.

Hiking in the White Mountains is tough work.  Even when I was running thirty miles a week, bagging a peak would leave my legs feeling beaten up.  Now, I'm just beginning to build my wind back up.  Years ago, I'd typically hike at 75% of book time.  Death marches would sometimes approach 50%.  Needless to say, I didn't expect to hit 75% yesterday.  Surprisingly, I did.  I huffed and puffed slightly more than I used to, and I felt like I had a little less spring in my legs, but I was strong and steady the whole way.  I experience the same thing whenever I start running again after a lapse in training.

I figure that my body just 'knows' how to run and hike.  Some of it may be technique, but that alone can't explain the muscle stamina that I wouldn't expect to be there without training.  I see this as being different from the way we remember how to ride a bike after years of not doing so.  That's mostly coordination.  This is muscles 'remembering' how to function efficiently under conditions of lowered mass and cardiovascular efficiency.  I don't have an explanation for the phenomenon, but it does seem to be real.

Extreme ironing

This is hilarious: www.extremeironing.com. I won't bother to explain the link. Just go there.

It does beg one key question. Although many men possess the skills required for extreme activities like marathoning, mountaineering or base jumping, how many men know how to _iron_?

I think the Brits have too much time on their hands. Maybe they need some new colonies, or something... :-)

Lions and tigers and BEARS, oh my!

I just returned from a testosterone-filled week of excitement in Glacier National Park, in Montana. My God - what a place! I may blog more on Glacier, but this entry is about... bears.

As part of this trip, I received a first-hand education on the degree to which bears are misunderstood. Five years ago, I was deathly afraid of walking in the woods in bear country. I knew nothing about their habits, the differences between the various subspecies or how to alert them to your presence so that they can slip away before you see them. I just assumed that they were all waiting to ambush unsuspecting hikers for a quick meal.

After reading a few books on the subject, my perspective changed dramatically. It became obvious to me that, like many others, I grew up with a very inaccurate picture of what these animals are all about. I learned that the continental US is home to two subspecies - black bears and grizzlies. Black bears are by far the most common - they're nearly everywhere. Grizzly ranges are limited to Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks (more on that in a minute). Black bears are very timid, mostly vegetarian and rarely kill anything bigger than a mouse. Hiker attacks are very rare. The vast majority of these cases result from hikers not following basic bear safety guidelines: don't surprise the bear, don't get between a sow and her cubs and don't let your dog run loose in the woods (dogs sometimes aggrevate bears and run back to their masters with the bear in tow). Every time you hike, black bears will see you, but you can hike for twenty years and never see a black bear. If one is encountered, they're easily frightened off. I really don't give bears a second thought anymore when hiking in New Hampshire, except for maybe a clap of the hands before rounding a bend on a trail. I hope to see one some day.

...and not at a dumpster. I want to see a REAL bear, not a DUMPSTER bear...

Glacier is home to both black bears and grizzly bears. Grizzlies are a little different. They're bigger, meaner and more carniverous. They'll occasionally take prey as big as elk, and hiker attacks, while still very rare, are statistically more common than attacks by black bears. Still, the same rules apply. Make noise so that you don't surprise them. Give them the opportunity to leave you alone. That's what they prefer to do. There are about 350 grizzlies in Glacier, and although I figured the chances of entering one's territory on a day hike was slim, we took the necessary precautions. One of our intrepid troupe wore a bear bell (at his wife's insistence), and we clapped or bellowed a 'hey bear' every minute or so. Needless to say, we didn't encounter any bears.

What I got a kick out of was the fact that my compadres were much more like me five years ago than me today. There was a genuine and omnipresent concern about 'a bear charging out of the brush'. Having been in their shoes just a short time ago, I fully understood the concern. The bear bell probably wasn't just for the wife. Actually, I'm glad we had it, but the amount of noise that four guys make on the trail is probably more than enough to alert any nearby bear. I offerred a steady stream of information that I'd learned from my reading, but at the same time, I recognized that my friends would need the same amount of time that I needed to change their perspective on bears.

I was fairly confident that we wouldn't encounter a bear on the trail, but I was really hoping to see one foraging in a ravine or on a ridge or on the side of the road. I'm beginning to wonder if they really exist at all... :-)

Another death in the White Mountains

Just last week, a couple of experienced hikers set off on a day hike up Mt. Lafayette. They chose the Old Bridle Path, which is the most common and direct route to the summit. Bad weather came in, and they were stranded above treeline in extremely low temperatures for two nights. The husband barely survived and his wife died.

By all accounts, they knew what they were doing, and they were well-equipped for a winter day above treeline. They weren't prepared for a night above treeline, however, let alone two. Still, they used their heads, built a snow cave and did their best. The bad weather outlasted their endurance.

One of the downsides of winter hiking is all the extra stuff you have to carry for emergencies that almost never arise. Carrying a tent or bivvies, sleeping bags & pads, extra clothing, a shovel, extra food and a stove for melting snow adds a lot of weight to an already heavy pack. The thin margin for error in winter hiking makes this extra load a necessity. If it means that you need to hit the stairmaster with a 50 lb pack for the weeks leading up to your trip, it's worth it. If these folks had these things, they might be OK. Dry clothes, a warm, dry sleeping bag and Nalgene bottles full of hot water make a huge difference.

I did an overnight at the Liberty Springs tentsite three Aprils ago. Apparently no one tells the mountains that April is Spring. :-) We had a beautiful first day - warm and sunny. The deep snowpack was so soft that we decided to leave the crampons in the Jeep and just go with snowshoes. We summitted, set up camp, made dinner and hit the sack. I awoke in the middle of the night to hear freezing rain on the tent (Doh!). I tapped the fabric, and it was solid! I wasn't worried. We were warm, dry and had plenty of gear. I knew that we could Gore-Tex up, break camp and descend, while keeping dry. Fortunately, the rain stopped by morning, but the trail was a sheet of ice.

Crampons would have made the trek a snap, but they were three miles and three thousand feet of elevation away. My Denali snowshoes were certainly up to the task, but my partner had rented recreational shoes, which weren't so good on ice. I gave her my Denalis and wore the crappy shoes, figuring that my greater weight, combined with stomping would give me the traction I needed. I fell on my ass a few times, but it worked.

My point is that this was a minor (and common) weather glitch, and we needed every scrap of extra gear we'd brought along. I'll never again trade crampons for weight savings.

In the winter, you have to expect the worst and hope for the best. I always carry a full compliment of overnight gear. The only time I don't carry some kind of formal overnight gear is on summer (or late spring/early fall) day hikes. Even then, I carry a ground pad, fleece tops & bottoms and one of those emergency 'space blanket' bivvies.