Each, At Our Own Pace
After seeing the hut, I admit I was impressed. The beautiful blond wood was inviting and cozy. And a few weeks later, some wheelchair hikers trekked up to the hut. I couldn’t argue about one guy who tucked his legs underneath his torso and negotiated the river crossings on his hands. He earned that ramp, in my book.
The Galehead summit is about a half-mile away from the hut. It is, without a doubt, one of the most boring summits I’ve ever seen. It is essentially a 10-square-foot bare patch of dirt with a small cairn.
Any views are blocked by the trees that encircle it. There is a fine outlook, however, just below the summit, extending out to North and South Twin and the Pemigewasset Wildnerness.
But with no views to gawk over, we high-tailed it out of there and headed back down.
Some sightings and encounters along the way: A guy with a guitar strapped to his pack. Hmmm, that’ll surely come in handy in an emergency. What’ll he do when the weather turns nasty -- perhaps strum out “Here Comes the Sun”? However, after seeing him speak rather intently to a female hiker, the usefulness of an instrument became quite apparent.
We passed a guy carrying both his pack and that of his wife or girlfriend as she glared at him from behind. Sweat dripping, her chest heaving from aerobic exertion, I could only imagine the foul mood she was in right then. Even with two packs on, he didn’t seem to care. I’m sure he was just thrilled to be in the woods.
I struck up a brief conversation with a thin-pole of a man from the French Pyrenees who had spotted the Andorra patch on my pack. He was finding the hike particularly difficult, explaining that the paths in the Pyrenees make use of switchbacks that gently weave their way up _ while the White Mountains prefer a more direct, and steep, approach. Sorta sounds like the difference between the French and the Americans: We like to barrel our way through life, while the French prefer gentle, scenic meandering. Whimps!
The most amusing encounter? We had stopped for a snack, and we were talking with a group of three hikers. One of them asked where I lived.
“Boston,” I said. “How about yourself?”
“Melrose,” he said.
“Well, actually that’s the town where I’m living,” I said. “Where in Melrose are you?”
“West Wyoming Avenue,” he
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