Without things to reach for, life can have a serious lack of meaning. I would argue that despite this axiom, a majority of our time on this earth is spent meandering…grappling with daily minutia…worrying about one trivial thing to the next. When my brother and I left Wakefield on the morning of September 7, I felt the anxiety of being very close to accomplishing something meaningful. We were heading for the Lincoln Woods Trailhead on scenic Route 112 to make an attempt on Owl’s Head.
Owl’s head is one of forty-eight four thousand foot mountains in New Hampshire. Its location nine miles into the middle of a desolate wilderness makes it a peak that is sought by few; usually those who are attempting to summit each of the 48, also known as peak baggers. I didn’t start off as a peak bagger when I started hiking a long time ago. I hiked for the solitude, the challenge, and the reward of a remarkable view from the top. But before I knew it, I had hiked nearly half of the mountains on the list and I thought it would be a fine idea to reach for the other half. I thought that by the end of my journey, I would have a lot of really remarkable experiences and photographs to look back on, as well as a keen idea of which mountains were worth a return visit. We left at 6am on the 80 mile journey to Lincoln. We arrived by 7:30, and were on the trail by about 7:40. The weather was nice for hiking, with the temperature hanging around 60 and a very slight breeze. Clouds were in the sky as a tropical depression was dissipating, but not before it had dumped a good deal of rain overnight. We had a total of 18.2 miles to hike, and so far things were looking good. The hike was rumored to be quite a mixed bag since it included river crossings, 8 miles of railroad grade walking, and a 1.1 mile unmarked trail to the summit. Within the first 3 hours, everything was holding true. We forded the first river with our boots tied together hanging over our necks, socks stuffed deep inside. The rain had given the river a good deal of strength, the rocks were rough on the bottoms of our feet, and the water was cold against our shins. But it was not too much of a task. Two more times we crossed the river without incident. We kept on the trail, looking for the mysterious cairn that was rumored to mark the start of the unofficially named “Owl’s Head Path”. By the time we reached the cairn, we’d gone about 40 minutes without speaking a word to one another – not because our conversation fizzled out, but because I think we were both focused on tearing through the first 8 miles quickly. We did those first 8 in less than 3 hours.
Reaching that cairn was important. Just about every hike I’ve ever done has been guided by a map, a compass, and trail signs or makers. The wilderness that Owl’s Head is located is regulated for protection and conservation, and therefore does not allow for the mounting of most signs. We were depending on finding the trailhead by estimating our pace and by hoping that the cairn had not been dismantled by anyone. The sight of the cairn reassured us that we had arrived properly at a benchmark on our journey – we were 1.1 miles from the summit of Owl’s Head. I was just about 1 hour from reaching my goal of summiting all 48 of New Hampshire’s 4000 footers. All that was left to do was climb a rockslide and find our way through an non-maintained footpath. When talking to fellow travelers about Owl’s Head, most said “bring a machete and your GPS." I didn’t own either item, nor did I plan to procure them. I was excited to be at the cairn even without those two things.
The rockslide was tough. Going from relatively flat terrain (8 miles of it) to a steady climb that gains over 1000 feet in just over a mile can really play with the body’s response to exercise. Aerobic movement turns more anaerobic, and everything starts to ache. The rain made the rockslide a bit slick and its individual pieces very lose. Neither of us mentioned it on the way up, but afterwards we both remarked at how scary a prospect the rockslide would be on our descent. The view back toward the Franconia Ridge was sitting in a cap cloud from about 3000 feet up, and soon the rockslide disappeared behind us. The push to the top of the mountain was a blur at first. The trail was so grown in that it was hard to keep. In my excitement to reach the summit I practically fought the wet vegetation that overtook just about all signs of human activity. The moisture saturated my nylon pants, then my wool socks, and then my boots. My pack barely fit through some of the gaps between immature pines and other sturdy trees and it too was soaked completely. The amount of water that can be simply picked up by brushing against trees is remarkable. There were several points where the trail seemed to end, but a closer look revealed a possible continuation. As we pressed on, the unofficial tail started to look as though it had less official sister paths. These detours told me that there had certainly been some folks up on the mountain with those machetes. Finally, we reached the terminus of the trail – another small cairn and a small sign made with pine and a wood burning kit that simply said “Owl’s Head”. It felt good to arrive at the top, and although our hike was only halfway done, the accomplishment warranted a handshake and celebratory lunch.
The walk back was swift and without incident. My brother and I talked reflectively about our childhood, mixing together the good components and the bad into the kind of analysis that happens when you spend time isolated together in a wilderness. We talked about political theory since neither of us cares about the who’s who conversation. We talked about our lives. Since I began hiking a long time ago, the way I hike has changed. I used to always hike with a friend named Ben, who was great for an intelligent conversation or a challenging political debate. Eventually, we hiked together less and less and I began to hike a lot on my own. Talking to myself, singing, and whistling off-tempo versions of random songs became the norm. Then, my camera became an essential (and decidedly heavy) piece of equipment, and using it slowed my pace significantly. I had feared that I’d end up hiking number 48 on my own, humming a song while trying to take a self portrait at the summit. I was so thankful that Josh was with me. We spent our childhood building forts and adventuring together, and I was more than grateful that he was there to help find the trailhead in the middle of nowhere, to push up the rockslide, and to keep the trail when it was convoluted and nearly untraceable. In the course of a lucky man’s life, his brother is often a beacon. Life certainly does not lack meaning in moments like ours at the top that day – and we were so very thrilled to arrive safely back at the car at 4:30 that evening. We drove into Lincoln to get energy drinks and food to have over more conversation on the ride home. And even though the weather didn't permit any great photo opportunities, it was an occasion that is as clear as any picture in my memory.
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