WHY DO IT?

A hiker’s confession

By Jerry Bisantz

OK, so this is the newest in my “try to figure out why Jerry does stupid stuff all the time” writings. And this one will be about my passion for climbing.

I must blame my buddy Steve for this one.  I never knew anything about hiking and climbing until I went for a little “trek” at the Lynn-Fells Nature area in Stoneham, MA. I liked it so much I was done for.

Buying hiking and climbing equipment, and a tent for overnighters, I became obsessed with challenging myself on any of the forty-eight 4,000 ft mountains in NH. I started on small mountains to get used to climbing. … Mt Wachusett, Pack Monadnock, Mt Watatic. My first 4,000-footer was Mt Pierce. Did it with my buddies Phil, and Steve. The view at the top was extraordinary, and the effort was worth it. Of course, that was 13 years ago, and 33 mountains ago.

So, imagine my surprise when I found myself, this September, halfway through the 9.2 mile, three summit climb that is called the Franconia Ridge Trail, facing the third and tallest of the mountains, Mt Lafayette, and literally holding back tears, and, not because it was so beautiful (and trust me, it is breathtaking)… but, because I was so miserable.

Breath. That’s what it was all about. Breathing. I was sucking wind with every step. And there was NO turning back. I wasn’t about to re-climb Mt Lincoln and Little Haystack, only to attempt to go DOWN the Falling Waters Trail.  I had no choice. I made the mistake. I was the stupid person who forgot how difficult it could be.

A side note: I had completed this same climb 11 years ago. It’s easy to forget how hard it was then. But now, at the ripe old age of 70, I thought I could still do it. And I was learning quickly how naive I was.

If you have never climbed in The Whites, let me tell you what makes them stand out: ROCKS. Millions of them. At all angles, shapes and sizes. Jagged edges, small cracks, any opportunity to turn an ankle, or break a leg. No easy, manicured trail or switchback, no.  You look for the trail marker and you say to yourself “that can’t be a trail.”  Even the Ridge, almost three miles of exposed trail above tree line, even that is filled with nothing but rocks.

I got to the point where I would climb for five minutes, sit down and suck wind for three minutes, and repeat. People were passing me like I was standing still. I kept looking at my watch, making sure that I would have enough sunlight to complete the climb. Praying that I had the energy to at least get to the AMC Greenleaf Hut that looked like an inviting little postage stamp on the Western side of Mt Lafayette.

That little speck seemed to get further and further away every time I stumbled over rock after goddamn twisted, misshaped rock on the descent. They say that most accidents occur on descents. That’s because good old gravity has it’s say. Fortunately, hiking poles can be used to cushion and slow yourself down with each step. My water bottle was empty, tongue beginning to swell, I slowly made my way down the torturous path to the Hut.

Where was that feeling? That overwhelming feeling of being one with nature? That feeling that I, at 70 years of age can still do this when so many of my friends are content to suck down a beer and watch TV or are unable to do it due to bad knees, ankles, or medical conditions.  Nope, that feeling was not there. Not at all. Just tired, boring plodding along. Occasionally I would trip on a jagged rock, catch myself with my poles. My thighs were screaming. I didn’t dare look at the view if I was moving. Each rock, each step had to be analyzed as to where to put my feet.

I had stepped into the water above Cloudland Falls on the Falling Waters Trail. Up to my knees. I literally squished my way to the top of Little Haystack. Now, on the descent, blisters were beginning to arrive.

Who needs this crap? I started thinking of my stupidity. “Challenging” myself to do this difficult climb. A climb that literally killed a hiker two years ago. “Mr. Macho,” huh? Yeah, right. I started questioning myself, my body, all the dumb decisions I had made in my life.

No cell service. At least if I can make it to the AMC Hut, I may be able to assure my wife that I was OK. But, where the hell is this hut? Why is it taking so long? I summited Lafayette an hour ago, and I am still not there. My mouth felt like sandpaper, my feet were killing me, and I was running out of gas. Big time.

As luck would have it (all bad so far) I had to climb again. Almost 200 more feet to reach the Hut. Climbing at that point was pure torture. I finally turned a corner, and there it was: the AMC hut. Many hikers were lounging in the sun, taking a break.

I wearily went inside, pulled off my boots with much effort and changed into dry socks for the rest of the descent. I helped myself to a brownie, filled my bottle with ice cold water which I drank greedily. Not moving at all was a pleasure.

The hikers were all very nice. One thing about climbing, it’s hard to find a jerk on the mountains. Everyone was just happy to take in the scenery and rest for a while.

I stayed about 20 minutes at the Hut and plotted the next part of this interminable hike. The Old Bridal Path Trail would take me back to my car.

It certainly couldn’t be that hard, after everything I had been through. I spied a very interesting young lady who was about to begin her descent. Her name was Alex. She looked to be about 25 years of age. What really set her apart from everyone else was the fact that she was barefoot. Yes, ya got that right… barefoot! When she told me she was from my hometown of Buffalo, NY I knew that I had to descend with her. Fortunately, she was cool with an old coot like me hanging with her. Ya gotta love a fellow Bills fan.

Angels come in crazy packages. Alex was my angel. Her nonstop conversation, her ability to find just the correct rocks to trust helped me on that interminable last trail.

When we got to the bottom, over 7 hours after I began, we took a “selfie” and promised to keep in touch.

I called my wife, told her I was safely off the mountains, and headed to The Woodstock Inn for a steak and a beer.

Where was that incredible feeling? That feeling of being on top of the world? Of seeing that 360-degree view of all the beauty of the mountain tops, the soaring eagles that flew beneath me?

I didn’t feel it.

I felt tired, I felt old. I felt stupid. I overdid it in a dangerous way.

As I sit here typing away, my sciatica has grounded me. Perhaps it’s for the best that I take a little break and be a bit more aware of my limitations. A challenge is one thing. Stupidity is another.

Is 70 the “new 50?”

Not when it comes to The Franconia Ridge Trail.

Not by a mile.