I Like Ike
Sometimes the mere mention of the “presidentials” sends shivers up your spine. It’s serious terrain, serious exposure, serious mountains named after serious people: some of our better known presidents: Pierce, Eisenhower, Monroe, Madison, Jefferson, Adams -- and, of course, Washington.
I settled on Eisenhower, No. 11 on the 4,000-footer hit list. It stands at 4,780 feet, hugging the southern presidentials along the Appalachian Trail’s Crawford Path.
I had a yen to be in the presidentials before winter settled in, and since I was going solo, I wanted to attempt one that gave me significant tree cover until the last little jaunt -- a security blanket in case the weather turned ugly. I figured I could poke my head above treeline and make a quick decision about turning back around if things got sketchy.
The Edmands Path is the quickest route to Eisenhower. Named after J. Rayner Edmands, a pioneer trail-maker in the Whites, the path is broad and only moderately steep. It’s not at all technical and it provides a nice walk in the woods before approaching serious White Mountain terrain.
His work is nearly a century old, and it still serves as a testament. I was about to be a witness.
Broad flattened logs make for easy brook crossings, and at one section, horizontally sawed-off logs were imbedded in the trail, looking a bit like a makeshift patio.
Within about 2.5 miles, I started to get some views, spying the Cog Railway chuggin’ its way up to Mt. Washington, carting along tourists and spewing them with soot. It sure looked unappealing to me! I’d much rather get up into the mountains on my own two feet.
Then, I heard this bizarre whirring sound. At first, I figured it must be wind. But I didn’t see any trees swaying and I certainly didn’t feel any breeze. It was perfectly still out.
Then, I looked out toward the valley and spotted it: an ultralight plane gliding amid the mountains!
Just then, I reached one of those ominous signs scattered about the rougher sections of the White Mountains: “STOP,” it reads in big, bold, capitalized lettering. “The area ahead has the worst weather in America. Many have died there from exposure, even in the summer. Turn back now if the weather is bad.”
OK, I'd been duly warned. It was a tad gray ahead, but no signs of wicked weather. I'd brought a pack filled with scads of gear: Gore-Tex shells (top and bottom), expedition weight fleece, even some winter gear: my balaclava (no, not the Greek dessert; it’s a cozy head covering), gloves and the like.
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