Little did I know that preparation styles for a demanding hike along the Appalachian Trail in the White Mountains’ Presidential Range could differ so completely between two people. When I discussed a trip to the Whites with a family friend named Scott, I agreed to plan our trek by studying the guide books and reserving the high huts for our lodging and main meals. Scott eagerly volunteered to find a motel near our starting point, make sure we had food for breakfast, and secure a ride to the trail early the next morning. Scott and I had already hiked compatibly to Dragon’s Tooth, a massive, obelisk-like rock that jutted up at a peak along a section of the AT near Roanoke, Virginia. For our first day in the Whites, I decided that we would hike 11.2 miles, a particularly long distance because of the difficult terrain. We would need to start at 7am for the ten-hour trek to reach our first destination, the picturesque Lakes of the Clouds Hut nestled among glacial ponds 1.4 miles below the summit of Mt. Washington. By staying in the high huts which supplied bunks, blankets, pillows, dinner, and breakfast, we would each only need to carry a light pack with rain gear, warm clothing, extra socks, lunch and snack food, a flashlight, extra batteries, a compass, safety whistle, personal items, and two liters of water. I would carry the first aid kit and an emergency blanket.
I expected Scott to be as exacting in his planning for our trip as he was in his cases for his major Washington, DC law firm, but I was repeatedly disabused of that assumption as the first 24 hours unfolded. Instead of leaving the Washington area near dawn to reach New Hampshire by early evening and get a good night of sleep before our strenuous day, we left at 11:30am because Scott decided to work for a while. Later that afternoon when were finally zipping up the I-95 corridor, a down pour slowed traffic to a crawl in New Jersey that delayed us further. When we reached southern New Hampshire around 11pm, Scott decided he wanted to detour past a lake he had visited as a boy. Despite my protest in favor of rest for the next day, I had to endure the ride because he was behind the wheel. At 1:30am we checked into a motel with a vacancy; Scott had not booked a place.
Morning came a meager five hours later. At 7:30, half an hour later than originally planned, Scott left me at the trail head while he went to get food, drop off the car at a safe place, and return to the trail head. Because time was of the essence and he was to have made arrangements for a ride, I expected him to be back within half an hour. Eight o’clock passed, nine, then nine-thirty. Hikers I met around 9am who were heading up the trail to the hut we intended to skip tried not show their concern, but more than one said, “You will be really pushed.” Around nine-thirty, thru-hikers heading north passed by. When I asked where they were headed, they replied, “The first hut.” I started to think that maybe we should scrub the trip, the likelihood of reaching our destination by nightfall declining as the sun rose higher. We did not have reservations for the nearer hut which I knew we could reach, and the Appalachian Mountain Club was strict about not allowing hikers to change plans mid-hike. My stomach grumbled with hunger. The black flies started biting, too, leaving their itchy, little bloody calling-card welts. I suddenly wondered if Scott had had an accident. About ten o’clock, Scott hopped out of a car holding a blueberry muffin and smiling as if nothing mattered. I scarfed down the muffin, trying to swallow my annoyance at the same time. We were starting two and a half hours late, faced having to hike the hardest part of the trail in the heat of an unusually hot day, and risked a hike at night above tree line by flashlight. We would also miss our supper. I was not happy, a bit scared, but thought that if we had to hike at night, we would hike at night.
We went up the steepest path I had ever climbed, gaining about 800 feet per mile for three miles before reaching the Webster Cliffs. On the way, the foliage changed dramatically from soaring leafy birches to twisted, wind-whipped bonsai-sized pines. Mosses and lichens formed patchwork patterns on the large rocks; scrubby growth and stones filled the gaps. At times we ascended hand over hand scrambling up and over big rocks in the rutted tread way, the sparse, scratchy foliage scraping us as well as the coarse rock. Half way up, I was sweating so profusely that I quickly changed out of my trousers and into shorts. “Switchback” and “level” apparently did not exist in the trail builders’ design book given the terrain. We stopped a few times for snacks and water. When we reached the cliffs, stupendous views unfolded of the wilderness to the south and the barren hulking summits to the north. A few wispy clouds floated high above. A dizzying, 3,000’ drop looked down on the thin gap and road below. Scott wanted to linger, but when I glanced at my watch and realized that we were only moving at a mile per hour, I told him that we had to get going. We would likely not reach Lakes of the Clouds until eight o’clock at the earliest.
False summits strain the mind as well as the body. The mind tells you to press on for the success you will feel making it to the top, and the body tells you to keep going for the sudden relief it will enjoy upon reaching flat or descending trail. But how many false summits can one trail have? It seemed like we climbed and climbed, up and up with big rocks or loose gravel underfoot making each step a major exertion. I stopped to sip water periodically and nibbled on food, but conscious that my daily ration might also be my supper, I did not eat as much as usual. I also realized that the late start, lack of sleep, the heat, and rigor of the trail were taking their toll. My legs felt heavy, and my hips, shoulders, and eyes begged for rest.
At 4:15 we reached the Mizpah Spring Hut with 4.8 miles to go, meaning four- to four-and-a-half more hours of strenuous hiking. From a faucet at the hut, I drank like there was no tomorrow. I suddenly realized that I did not feel like eating, a warning sign along with my tremendous thirst. Given my physical condition, I did not think I should go on. The first leg would be the hardest because the guide book said, “A.T. continues…climbing steeply through woods beyond hut to alpine summit of south peak of Mt. Pierce.” Based on what we had covered so far, I had learned that “climbing steeply” meant a sharp incline on a narrow, rock-piled trail with roots or short tree branches poking in from the sides.
Scott and I agreed that the best plan would be to stay at the Mizpah Spring Hut, that our need bordered on an emergency. While I rested, Scott talked to the manager, but as I expected, the man categorically said “no.” I took over and pleaded my case by explaining that the trail had taken far more out of me than I anticipated, especially because of the heat, adding that I sincerely doubted I could make it all the way to the next hut. The manager again said no, that people often underestimate what they can do. He volunteered to call the Lakes of the Clouds Hut to let them know we would be arriving late. I replied that a call ahead would help and politely thanked the man for his assistance. After a deep sigh of resignation, I knew that we had better start hiking again, but in light of Scott’s demonstrated lack of preparation I decided that Scott and I should inventory our daypacks…to make sure Scott had extra flashlight batteries. Not only had Scott not packed extra batteries, he had not packed a flashlight! Fortunately the hut sold flashlights and batteries, which Scott bought while I sat on a bench, scowled, and tried to regain my composure as well as some energy. We refilled our water bottles and took off.
The next part of the hike started with its promised steep climb. I hoped that we would pop out onto relatively level terrain as the elevation profile seemed to indicate and then zoom along, but that was not to be. More rocky, rutted path rolled out ahead, gradually ascending over the stark landscape with massive, cone-shaped cairns marking the way. Several times we crossed alpine bogs. Once, my foot slipped off a bog plank into one of the muddy patches, and although it looked like a large benign puddle, the putty-gray paste was so dense that I had to pause and scrape off the excess weight. Despite our good pace, I gradually felt worse. To keep going I counted sets of eight steps: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, repeat…Around six o’clock I hoped that we neared or had passed the mile-and-a-half mark because at the hour mark we had passed a trail junction .9 from the hut, but whether we were going more than mile an hour by now, I could not tell. We were to pass a spring at the 1.7 mile mark, but water from many places trickled into the trail, the runoff of rain from the night before. Every step took me considerably more effort.
My mind struggled, too. I fumed inside, “Didn’t that man at the hut see how badly we needed to stay there?!” My anger turned on Scott for what seemed to be his careless attitude, for getting us to the motel so late, for not having arranged a ride in advance, for making us set foot on the trail mid-morning. I also had to own up to my part in taking the risk for our current situation, for not having scrubbed the hike. I kept walking but my legs felt as if someone kept slipping weights into the soles of my boots.
Then the nausea hit. I bent over, shook my head, and suddenly belched up the air I had unconsciously been gulping. My focus narrowed, and my eyes could only take in the little flowers growing in the cleft of a rock. I shouted to Scott, “Stop!” I stood in the middle of the trail, then doubled over, my gut wrenched. I eased my way to the ground. Exhaustion—I knew it, having had it many years before in the Smokies. I hoped that if I did as I had done then—sat still, drank some water, ate some food, let my body calm—I would be all right. After a full five-minute rest and feeling slightly better, but still not wanting to eat, I stood up and hiked again.
Not much later I sat back down. This exhaustion felt more severe, like the time I had food poisoning and had to go to the emergency room to be rehydrated. A crazy thought flashed through my mind, “If I could only have two bags of IV fluid, I would be fine.” With all good intention, Scott tried to coach me on, telling me that we were making excellent progress and the terrain had improved. Indeed, the terrain had become relatively friendlier, but I knew that another climb lay ahead. I assessed the situation: I didn’t know if I would recover enough to make it to the next hut even by midnight; I did not think it in my best interest to spend part of the night exposed on the mountain above tree line with only an emergency blanket for shelter and warmth; I worried about Scott because he had not even packed trousers, only a sweatshirt made of cotton, what hikers called the fabric of death for its lack of insulation properties. Sickness or death from exposure was an all too real possibility in the Whites. I said to Scott, “Go for help.” I knew that I would be ok for a while: I had water, warm clothes, a flashlight, and the emergency blanket.
I lay down in the trail and curled up in a ball, my head on a stone. Using the stone reminded me of the scripture and sermon I had heard the week before about the biblical patriarch Jacob as a young man. Jacob had just tricked his elder twin Esau out of his birthright and their father’s blessing. Jacob was hot footing it out of Canaan to save his life, heading far north, six hundred miles to his uncle Laban in Haran, where he was also to find a wife. Desperate to go as far away as possible the first day, Jacob simply stopped at sunset in no predetermined place. “Taking one of the stones of the place,” Genesis 28 says, “he put it under his head and lay down in that place.” I suddenly realized that I had done the same: I had stopped in my tracks, lay down, and took a stone for my pillow. Unlike Jacob, however, I was not having a dream of a ladder or stairway connecting earth and heaven with angels going down and up it. In a morbid moment tinged with humor, I hoped that I would not see myself climbing such a stairway to heaven sooner rather than later. I tried to sit up, but felt wretched and lay back down, my head gently returning to the stone.
The Genesis story went on to say that God stood beside Jacob and renewed the great covenant that God had made with Abraham and Isaac, that Jacob’s descendants would grow numerous and all the people of the earth would be blessed through them. I was not feeling particularly blessed, but neither did I completely despair. Although my body trembled periodically, I did not fear a wild animal coming to attack me above tree line. As I lay with my head on what I now called my “Jacob’s pillow,” it occurred to me that God did not stand accusingly over Jacob at that place but beside him, nor I did not sense God standing in judgment over me. But beside me? I wondered if it ever crossed Jacob’s mind that he might die in the place where he suddenly stopped for the night. It crossed mine when I looked at my watch and saw that a few minutes of lying on the ground and waiting for Scott had turned into forty-five minutes. I had semi-slept, my body on the ground, my head on the stone, my mind somewhere between dreaming, consciousness, and the space where you ask questions of someone you can’t quite see but you believe can hear you. A psalm verse sounded in my head: “Behold, the Holy One who keeps Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps” (Ps.121:4). Had I, like Jacob, discovered that God had been in this place all along but I had not known it? Was it a Bethel as Jacob had called it, a house of God?
I heard voices, male voices. Scott appeared with three men, one in his late fifties and two in their mid-twenties. The older man knelt down and said he was a doctor. He quickly examined me, took my pulse, checked my eyes, my throat, basic neurological functions, and said that I had clinical exhaustion. He looked around as if searching the skies for a helicopter and said, “It’s too bad we can’t get a couple of bags of fluid into you now because that’s what you need.” I laughed a little because of my earlier thought. He asked me if I could walk, and I tried, but my legs started to weaken after six or seven steps. His sons, placed themselves on either side of me and I draped my arms over their shoulders. We walked along the narrow trail, one angling in front, one in back, and me hanging on between. Scott switched out with one of the brothers after a while, and the men began a rotation. I had not wanted this to happen. I had been working out in the spring and summer to get in shape for this hike, walking in my neighborhood with more weight than required for this trip and seeking the steepest hills in the hottest time of the day. I felt bad about putting these men through this extra work, changing the nature of their hike to the hut, but I gave thanks for them.
The doctor, a kind man, asked me where I was from. When I answered, “Charlottesville, Virginia, where the University of Virginia is,” he responded with a note of joyful surprise, “That’s where I did my surgical residency!” I asked, “Where are you now?” “Back in New Hampshire, in Portsmouth, where I was from.” What was the likelihood of a UVA professor being rescued by a New Hampshire doctor who had done his residency three decades earlier at UVA?
My monastic friend Brother Benedict’s term came to mind: a non-coincidence, a moment of grace that arises from a peculiar intersection of lives. Perhaps that stone on which I had rested really was my “Jacob’s pillow” and that place was something of a Bethel after all. Maybe that New Hampshire doctor and his sons were my angels who appeared not in a dream but in waking life to take me down the staircase as it were, past a series of rock cairns, back through the trees, and over the rocky terrain. My legs became a bit stronger as my energy returned and I could walk more by myself. As we neared the final downward scramble to the hut, one of the brothers hustled ahead to explain our situation and to beg a place for Scott and me for the night. I told the brother to tell the hut manager that I would be more than happy to sleep on the floor or a table.
When we arrived, the hut manager welcomed me with a blanket and immediately ushered us to a table that had a plates of food ready for all five of us. Scott, the doctor, and his sons tucked into their dinner, but I could only nibble. Fortunately the hut sold Gatorade, and I drank a bottle while slowly taking in the nourishment of the simplest of the foods, stewed apples and mashed potatoes. While I ate, I could see people poking their heads around the corner to take a look at the people who arrived late with the freak emergency. The hut manager saw what was happening and gently steered the onlookers away. When the doctor and his sons finished their well-earned meal, they bid their farewell and headed to their bunks. I thanked them profusely and wished them the sleep of the just.
The next morning I felt better and ate breakfast. Scott and I faced the decision of whether to continue with the trip more or less as planned because we could make it to our next destination. I decided, however, to halt the trip at Mt. Washington, an easy egress. My body had taken a severe blow and it needed to recover. The hiking that morning greeted us with sunny skies and cool temperatures. The scramble up from the hut did not seem so daunting. We made good time without trying and headed to the frequently photographed Lakes of Clouds Hut sited near small glacial ponds. When we arrived there, we took our share of pictures, studied the biological experiments underway, and went inside to see where we would have spent the night had all the events of the previous day aligned differently. Satisfied, we departed and climbed Mt. Washington, taking careful note of the warnings about death at any time of the year. We toured the summit with its official visitors’ center, weather station, and remains of the old hotel. The “Stagecoach,” a specially engineered twelve-person van for the infamously steep ride up and down Mt. Washington, provided our transportation to Scott’s car. On the way down, we passed cars filled with people who had pulled over to stop and cool their car engines or brakes. Angels descending and ascending? Not exactly, but they looked angelic enough for me.