Welch-Dickey
After the difficulties I experienced last September climbing the twin mountains, Welch-Dickey, it was my thought that I'd never be able to manage a climb like that again. Irving had far less trouble than me, he managed very well, although it's a tough grind to climb Welch, go over the coll to Dickey and then down the mountainside for a 4.4-mile circuit that is given a Class 5 rating for difficulty, right up there with some of the toughest ones like Mooselakie and Washington (guess Lafayette must be a 6, since to my memory it was infinitely longer, a much greater height and is really a physical challenge for casual climbers like us - which of course it is.
The evening before I had suggested that we give it a try. Particularly as the day would remain cool and there was no chance of rain; perfect weather for climbing. So we were both in agreement, checked our backpack: light hooded jackets for us; fresh water for the dogs; first-aid kit, halter and leashes for Riley and Button if needed; orange juice, insect repellant, sun block and a small towel. Hey, three months before our 70th birthdays off we went, feeling pretty good about our decision. We stopped to pick up our state forest permit for the week then parked at the trailhead.
A few other vehicles were parked there; others succumbing to the same lure and impulse. Ravens circled above harshly cawing as we set off, both dogs off leash and snuffling furiously at the sides of the trail. Welch first on the circuit for us, since we prefer to do the shorter then the higher peak. Near the trailhead we see some wonderfully peculiar fungi resembling undersea sponges; others like vertical, many-folded corals. The trail rises steadily and steeply alongside a mountain stream. I had forgotten there were so many large oak, beech and yellow birch growing there, along with the hemlock, spruce and pine. Goldenrod and asters the only wildflowers.
By this time last year, crossing the creek over great boulders to regain the trail, my lungs were already gasping for air, my chest constricted as we stopped often of necessity. As we rose now, stepping over roots, around rocks, we both felt really good, but warm, so we shed our long sleeves, stuffed them into the backpack. Miraculously, we find Button and Riley keeping pace, not lingering, having to be urged on. They're interested in the climb, glad like us to be in such a beautiful place on such a splendid day. An hour of rising, twists and turns and we know we're approaching the alpine ridge, halfway to the top of Welch.
A young woman accompanied by her mother has approached behind us. We were forewarned by Riley's sudden attention and his growls well before they were upon us. We stop briefly and talk. Everyone is glad for the opportunity to recover breath. From that point to the alpine overlook we walk together, talk together, gain the ledge to the delight of the 50-year-old fit and attractive (like her daughter) mother who stretches in luxury on the hard granite as we gaze out over a horizon's sea of forest down below, clear blue sky above, and one mountain peak after another in the near and far distance.
After drinking their water to satiation Button and Riley wander off for a sniff-test, imperturbably going beyond the areas closed off with branches to prevent hiking boots from trampling tender lichens on the granite face. We had greeted a seated man and woman sharing lunch, themselves drinking in the glory of the incomparable scene before us. They're young, visiting New Hampshire from their home in Scotland and their brogue is a delight to our ears. We sit all six companionably, talking, taking photographs. Comfortable in the sun, the breeze, the arras.
Riley takes pains to ingratiate himsef with everyone, behaves brazenly, sweetly in exchange for their admiration and pettings. Button, older and wiser, abandons the nice strangers as soon as she has ascertained they had nothing palatable to offer, and resumes her wandering. Soon we bid our farewells - mother and daughter to head back down, to daughter's dismay. We file through narrow defiles in the rock, the trail well indicated by yellow markers on the granite face and the bark of trees flanking the trail, the occasional small rockpile.
There are blueberry bushes galore, their tiny pointed leaves already turning red. Dogwood too, their leaves limned in red, their red berries alight. Also in the undergrowth azaleas. As we climb the twisting trail the trees become more stunted, their trunks distorted by the prodigious effort to survive a climate hostile to their flourishing. Bluejays flit about. We see tiny red squirrels slipping furtively past. Pine siskins and juncoes flit noiselessly here and there among the trees.
Greater effort to surmount rock outcroppings is now required of us. We must now on occasion lift the dogs to greater heights than their little leaping legs can manage, and we manoeuvre ourselves up those same rocky challenges, resting in between heaving efforts. Stopping and turning as we mount higher and higher on the wide open sweeps of bare granite rockface we feel exposed and vulnerable, but exultant. We marvel at the sweeping spectacle of the mountain tops beyond, and the forested valleys below. We offer the dogs water again. We take it slow and we take it as it comes; easy does it.
Easy enough to go beyond a trail marker, set off on a false trail that other climbers over the years have impressed on the terrain. We maintain a sharp lookout for trail markers and the increasing presence of cairns kindly set in place over the years by committed mountain trail volunteers. When we finally summit the first peak, we sit and rest, offer water and dog biscuits to Button and Riley, which they wolf down. Button scrabbles in the loose gravel beside stunted pines and settles herself into their meagre shade, as exhausted as we feel ourselves.
Riley's attention is behind us again and he's growling again. Soon we see the young Scottish couple approaching. He is lean and sinewy, she is shyly pretty, large and fleshy. He is concerned about her welfare and comfort and chivalrously assists, proferring a helping hand as they progress. We greet and they seat themselves. We resume our conversation. He is interested in emigrating. The U.S. or Canada, he says. He is a biologist, working toward his doctorate. We talk about our youngest son, a biologist living in British Columbia, and I scribble his name on a small bit of paper, give it to the young man so he can look up his papers on the Internet. She is an elementary-school teacher, and we tell her that her profession is well remunerated in Canada.
We are seated directly beside the trail where it descends steeply to the col between the two summits. Only a few feet from the descent. The trail cannot be seen, only a precipitous and impossible-looking drop, from our seated perspective. It looks intimidating to anyone not familiar with it. To me too, despite my familiarity with it. Even standing before it, one is given the impression that the steep descent looks impossible. We advise them how to proceed, and they depart, he holding out a steadying hand to her. We follow soon after. A bit of an ordeal until we finally reach the secure footing of the col. A large well-recalled cairn stands there and I search fruitlessly for a stone to place upon it.
Finally I succeed in unearthing a distorted pebble and it does the trick. Off we go, enjoying the brief pleasure of the short flat walkway. Then we enter a dense forested area, where many years ago we had come across two ripely-inebriated young men who had erected a small alpine tent in a tiny clearing beside the trail, intending to spend the night, and generously welcoming us to their place of respite.
Too soon, we begin another ascent and our legs groan with the effort. But on we forge, the dogs alert and up to the challenge. We - I, that is, take a wrong turn on the trail, realize the error, re-trace our steps and regain the trail proper. We squeeze through another narrow stone passage, hoist the dogs and ourselves to another ledge, leading in turn to another vast open and bare-to-the-sun rise to the second summit. We stop to rest, proceeding as far as our legs permit before resting, thrusting ourselves upward again and finally hurrah! reach the summit of Dickey. And there is a large hawk, skimming the clear azure sky.
After a brief rest, knowing our ascents are all but completed, we begin the descent along sheer, vast rock ledges, one after another after another, with an occasional side-venture into the forest, then back along the seemingly interminable ledges with their spectacular wide-sweeping horizons and mountain vistas. We're tired, but we feel good, celebratory, heady with the views and the pleasure of our efforts rewarded.
Finally, we reach another and final long stone ridge, forested mountainside on the right, sheer drop-off and never-ending vistas on the left. And, after traversing its long sweeping spine, we delve into the forest with finality. Throughout this expedition Button, trotting ahead for the most part, has unfailingly chosen the correct passage - our guide - doing a far better job of interpreting the trail markers than I. Or more likely it is her superior sense of smell, leading her where others have gone before.
Our descent is long and tedious, the danger of a stumble, a misstep high. Difficult to stumble onward with a sprained ankle, a scraped and bruised knee, so we remain alert to the dangers inherent in negotiating roots, bypassing rocks, slithering helplessly downward thanks to the shale detritus on the trail as we steeply descend. Our knees feel slightly wobbly, but this year our hiking boots haven't disappointed us, our feet feel pounded, but fairly good.
Onward and downward. Wearily. Triumphant. We did it! Again!
We're proud of the dogged (ha!) determination of our little, cosseted dogs.
posted by Pieface @ Wednesday, September 20, 2006
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