Blame Canada

After the first night of camping, I developed a policy of dehydrating myself from dusk till dawn so that, no matter what, I wouldn’t have to leave the tent and go pee in some dark and freezing wood. There’s nothing more terrifying (okay, there is, but give me some poetic licence here) than feeling your way through the pitch black to a stinking latrine, desperately trying not to think about the Blair Witch Project and seeing the woods loom around you like arboreal zombies.

So I was pretty grateful when dawn finally came. Not that it made me want to get up – it was freezing out there. My hiking inexperience, if it hadn’t shown already, was definitely making an appearance now. I felt like a slug and was about as slow. As Nina zoomed around making breakfast, I was puzzling over my pack like it was a Rubik’s cube, wondering how I’d managed to fit it all in the day before. Turns out the answer was extreme compression and a willingness to crush the melba crackers.

By the time we got out of there, it was 10am and the sun was high. It was already starting to get toasty and we still had 3000 feet to climb (in just under 2 miles – if you’re feeling particularly Pythagorean you can do the math) to the summit. We could already see the sides of the ravine rising up before us like massive waves of granite. They seemed to challenge us: “Come on, come and get us. Give it your best shot.” And so we did.

The ascent was astoundingly steep, at an angle of about 45 degrees. And our packs weighed between 40 and 50 pounds (about three and a half stone). But looking back, I don’t remember feeling the weight of my pack. I don’t remember feeling tired. I just remember sunshine, adrenaline, incredible views, and pushing myself harder than I’ve ever done before. It was like someone from a motivational poster had invaded my body.

I do remember feeling slightly afraid, but for once it didn’t stop me or make me slower. I just didn’t (couldn’t) look down. Looking across was okay, to our previous night’s camp and the mountains beyond, fading into a pale blue as they met the sky. But other than that, I looked up, to the day hikers and teenagers with their tiny knapsacks as we overtook them. Everyone commented on the amount of stuff we were carrying. And still we climbed. It was, in all senses of the word, unbelievable.

At the top of the ravine, Nina and I took a break and sat down near a patch of wild blueberries. Blueberries are cheap and plentiful in Canada, but the only way you can pick wild ones is to climb to them. So really they’re a special reward for hikers. Delicious, sweet and refreshing, they’re like magic pills that encourage you to keep walking.

And so we pressed on to the summit, up a slightly easier path (which isn’t saying much) consisting of the ever-familiar boulders. People climbing down kept saying “you’re almost there,” and other encouraging things. One guy told us we were looking very refreshed. Once we’d climbed past him a bit, Nina said he was probably just being nice. “No, I really meant it,” said a voice drifting up from 20 metres below. Mountain air carries sound exceptionally well.

With a last spurt of energy and a huge sense of elation, Nina and I climbed over the last few boulders onto the summit of Mount Washington. And were instantly met with cars, motorbikes, screaming kids and loud tourists taking photos. This is the very weird thing about Mount Washington. You can drive up it (or take a train if you’re feeling especially adventurous). People actually have bumper stickers saying “I drove up Mount Washington.” What kind of a claim is that?!

It was all incredibly disorientating. Everywhere there were fat Americans yelling at each other (“SAY, DORIS, YOU GOT THE BATTERIES?”), girls in high heels (I’d almost forgotten what they looked like) and kids with brown goo smeared across their faces. We found a sign saying “Mount Washington State Park” (pictured) where some woman in flip-flops was pretending to flex her muscles for the camera as if she’d actually climbed the thing. I felt like a PhD grad looking at someone who’d bought their degree off the internet. We were surrounded by cheats.

But nothing could take away the fact that we’d climbed a mountain. And when we walked into the summit’s restaurant with our packs, getting admiring looks from all the pizza-munchers, the only pros in a room full of novices, it was even better.

Self-congratulations aside, though, we still had a long way to go. Local restrictions mean you can’t camp above tree-line (with no trees for shelter your tent can get blown off the side of the mountain), so we couldn’t stay where we were. But it was already 3pm, way too late to set out in the opinion of a Mount Washington ranger. According to her, we had two choices: take the train down the mountain or die on top of it.

Nina and I decided to take our chances (there's Nina above, watching one of the last trains disappear down the mountain). Admittedly I took some persuading, but Nina said our original plan (to walk over the next mountain and then find somewhere to camp), was still workable and I believed her. Just to make sure, though, I offered up a quick prayer for a decent place to camp. Nina overheard me.

“Don’t pray for a decent place to camp,” she said. “Pray for an amazing one.” So I did.

Some would call it trail magic, but we called it an answer to prayer. After hiking Mount Adams, we took a side trail down to the valley and got lost. In the best way ever! Our path took us to a perfect camp site, about 200 yards (the recommended distance) from the actual trail. It overlooked the Great Gulf Wilderness, a valley surrounded by the crescent of the Presidential Mountains and completely, utterly, devoid of human life. And conveniently situated nearby was an enormous patch of wild blueberries.

So we set up camp there (pictured). Perfect as it was, though, there is something slightly unnerving about being in complete wilderness. If you break a leg or even twist an ankle, you can die of exposure before help comes. Further down the mountain, under cover of trees, no helicopter can see you. And like I said, there isn’t anyone around for miles and miles and miles and miles.

I can see why some people freak out when they’re on their own in the wilderness. When Nina went off to do the washing up, being alone started getting to me after only five minutes. It didn’t help that there were no tall trees around so I had to hang the bear bag off the nearest cliff (the chances of falling were probably about the same as being eaten by a bear). Once I’d finished, I went to find Nina. She was nowhere to be seen.

“Nina!” I yelled across the valley. No answer.

“Neeeeeeeenaaaaaaaa!” I yelled again, my heart pounding. How could she not hear me??

“I’m washing uuuuuuuuup!” came the cheerful reply a few agonizing seconds later. Thank God – I realized how lost I was up there without Nina, like a kid in a shopping mall. So much for my bravado earlier in the day.

But even when Nina came back, I could still feel the silence and the solitude pressing in on all sides. You don’t realize how much noise we put up with every day until there’s no noise at all. In fact, your mind can’t quite fathom it and starts making up noise of its own. As I slept that night, I swore I could hear a radio blaring far away. And even as I walked the trail the next day, I was constantly turning around to look at chattering hikers who weren’t there. It was all decidedly eerie.