I Can See Clearly Now
“…the rain is gone. I can see allllllll obstacles in my way! Gone are the daaaark clouds that had me blind. It’s gonna be a bright, BRIGHT sun shiny day…”, Wallflower and I belted out the Johnny Nash hit on our ascent of Little Haystack Mountain, the 1st of the 3 peaks along Franconia Ridge. This ridgeline mystically arches its spine above tree line for 3 miles lending to the most sought after, and undoubtedly the most iconic, 360 degree views in the White Mountains.
Not being one for hiking (I know, I know…), I am most anticipatory of the smell of exhaust fumes. This means that I’m within arm’s reach of town. Of an anchovy pie. Of ginger ale. Of electricity. This said, I’ve dreamt of ambling along this winding pavé since I had learned of the existence of the Appalachian Trail and one’s ability to hike thru. I had studied the reels of YouTubers documenting their time on this very ridge as I contemplated my own attempt. The thought of me, ME, Sarah Elizabeth Robison, having resigned from my earning potential, living outdoors for upwards of 6 months, nearly walking the entire length of the Eastern Seaboard, to find myself walking this line? Huh uh. Not a chance in hell. No way.
Yes way.
On September 9th, I found myself at mile 1822.9 of my very own Northbound thru hike of the Appalachian Trail at the mouth of the Franconia Ridge.
With a visibility of 6 feet. At best.
Damn.
The fog was so dense that we were going to have difficulty maintaining our sense of direction, let alone seeing the Presidentials or the Kinsmans. Control what you can and accept what you can’t, I repeated over and over with internal dialogue. Similar to what a bride must do when her garden wedding meets a tropical storm. I was wearing my disappointment, but fictional future plans to return to the Ridge next season began to dance in my head.
On August 31st, my Mother left me a voicemail, asking me to call home when I was able. I knew that something awful had happened before I made the call, as she hadn’t asked this of me since I have been gone.
Between sobs, she muttered, “Sophia passed away.” With my pack now horizontal, I supported its weight with my elbows on my knees and stared at the ground below that was being stained with my tears, plummeting in what seemed like slow motion as they splashed across the mud.
Sophia was the daughter of my cousin, Roxanne (Tim) Tuinstra, and she and I idolized one another for dichotomous, yet beautifully paralleled reasons. Reasons that were blind to our 23 year difference in age. In the words of Chip Minemyer of The Tribune Democrat, “Sophia died at UPMC Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh of a condition known as myelodysplastic syndrome, which strikes the cells in bone marrow that make blood. She had undergone extensive treatment this summer, and had previously been through a battle with leukemia, including chemotherapy.”
Sophia was the jack of all, master of all. Art. Literature. Music. Scholastics. Government. Travel. Community.
Uncomplaining. Grateful. Stoic. And 17 years old.
Too young to die.
I will challenge myself to emulate her essence.
Sophia and I now get to walk together every single day.
The following morning, Wallflower sat at the dining table of Hanover Adventure Tour hostel, the glare from his iPhone putting a spotlight on his watery eyes. “What’s wrong?”, I asked. No response. “What happened?”, I persisted with more urgency. He was frozen. “Do you want to step outside?”, I offered. He rose, and President and I followed.
“My cousin. He’s…he’s…dead. He, he…he took his own life…”, Wallflower wailed. Viscerally wailed, sending echos across the Connecticut River. “He can’t be gone…he can’t be gone…why?…WHY??”. President and I laid our hands with gentle firmness on his back until he was ready to talk.
A.J. Hanna was 24 years old when he decided to die. A father of two who was privately battling depression. A depression fierce and undetected by those closest to him. A.J. felt it easier to disappear than to exist.
Mental illness is real. Life threatening. Inescapable.
The National Alliance on Mental Illness is a reliable resource for education, prevention, and counsel.
We continued our attempts to harmonize, “…it’s gonna be a bright, BRIGHT sun shiny day!!”, as the tune looped on repeat. We were manifesting. Hard.
“Let’s ask them for help”, I suggested, slightly concerned that I may be coming off a bit too whimsical.
We began to have a 2 on 4 with Sophia, A.J., Uncle Walter, and Uncle Eddie- 4 lives taken too soon. But 4 spirits that had never felt so alive. “Part the clouds for us, even if for a brief moment. Please. We’ve walked almost 1850 miles. We’ve earned this view. Earned a taste of that nirvana. We need your help! Please, please PLEASE!!”, we pleaded. Well, begged, actually.
We rose above treeline at the summit of Little Haystack Mountain, bating our breath with hopefulness, and the views of the ridge that snaked itself up the spines of Mounts Lincoln and Lafayette remained kidnapped by the fog.
“Oh well. We tried.”, we surrendered in defeat, feeling a bit deflated and also silly for having laid our requests onto the laps of the intangible.
As the wind picked up, it carried the wispy clouds with it. They passed through us, mystically, unveiling snapshots of the ridge that lay ahead and pieces of views to the East and West. The sun peeked through the mist. Blue skies began to say hello.
The veil parted.
Our sight, unobstructed.
I was on set. I was there.
Over Lincoln we scurried, “This is MAGICAL!! They did it!!”. “I’m so happy! I’m so happy!”, I shouted. And up and over Lafayette we climbed with a renewed fuel despite its challenging gain. “We’re so lucky!!”. As I began my descent off of Mount Lafayette, the fog returned just as quickly as it had made its exit a short 3 miles ago. And with it, dense cloud cover. A light drizzle. The sky, the color of lead. The curtain closed.
Ask and you shall receive.
The White Mountains of New Hampshire are Chanel. Whipped ricotta. Royal sapphire. Austere. Strong. They demand a caliber of respect that one willingly gives without prompt. The pinnacle of the Presidential Range, Mount Washington, stands tall at 6,288 feet and is known for being the “most dangerous small mountain in the world” with its unexpected temperature fluctuations from valley to summit. I summited with winds exceeding 65 mph and temperatures dropping to a windchill of 15 degrees while the town of Gorham lay below at a warm and sunny 70 degrees. According to the AMC, the Appalachian Mountain Club, “If you begin to experience difficulty from weather conditions, remember that the worst is yet to come and turn back without shame, before it’s too late. Most deaths are due to the failure of robust but incautious hikers to realize that winter-like storms of incredible violence occur frequently, even during the summer months.”
Our summit of Mt. Washington was strong, anticipatory, crisp, and sun-filled followed by a descent that was hurdled with rock scrambles, misdirection, and winds exceeding 77 mph above treeline, leaving us unshielded from their whip for a 12 mile stretch. After the sun set, the fog accompanied the darkness to dinner which was the albatross to our progression. Headlamps don’t have fog lights, as your vehicles do. We found ourselves in a sea of white, hovering over rocks the size of sofa cushions, having only our Guthook Guides (my satellite navigation tool) to point us in the right direction between cairns that stood eerily amidst the night’s haze. We were disoriented, at immediate risk of frostbite and fractures. It was horrifying. But there was only one way to go.
North.
The Madison hut was less than a mile away. Keeping our heads cooler than our appendages, we just had to make it there. The AMC maintains 8 huts in the White Mountains. Said huts are fully enclosed, yet sans heat, offering protection from this section’s strong winds. Caretakers are employed seasonally to hike in provisions, and hike out waste, while managing the dailies of the lodge. A night’s stay comes at a steep cost, funding the hydro or solar electricity and recycling toilets that keep these remote huts in operation. Section hikers tackling the Presidential loop most often inhabit these cabins, occasionally leaving space for thru hikers to work for their stay, free of charge.
But not on September 13th.
At 8:45pm, with a cracking voice and shivering core, I begged, “Do you have a place for us to sleep tonight?”. “We have bunks for sale.”, the self righteous, twenty-something barked, with his hand on his hip. “We’ll only be here until dawn…we’ll be comfortable sleeping on the floor. We were just called to do something completely horrifying. We’re frozen. Please.”, I bartered. His attitude soared, “We have bunks for SALE or a tent site a half mile away.” Deborah sat on her hands.
The AMC has earned its nickname.
The Appalachian Money Club.
My climb out of New Hampshire was met with physical challenge that was matched only with weather of the same torment, delaying my arrival to Maine’s doorstep. After a long 3 miles on September 10th, President, Wallflower and I found shelter from the torrential downpour within the walls of Garfield lean-to, avoiding the treacherous descent of Mount Garfield in the storm. We found ourselves the minority amongst sixteen section hikers, cohered in our need to stay warm and dry, in a shelter designed to house only 10. The Appalachian Money Club asked that we pay $10.00 a piece, discounted to the “thru hiker” rate to stay the night. Despite sleeping for free in the woods for the past 6 months, we digressed. As Tom was collecting our cash, an older couple declared that they themselves were, in fact, thru hiking. Skeptical of their slender packs, Tom asked where and when they had begun their hike. “Georgia.”, the silver haired gentleman answered. “In 2005.”, he added.
Dear kind Sir,
Hiking for 2 weeks per year for 16 years, separated by 50 weeks of sabbatical from the trail, is wholly admirable.
But it is not a thru hike.
Sincerely,
Dips
Maine came in like a lion. LI-ON. We don’t “hike” in Maine, we “climb” in Maine. Ravines. Handholds. Treachery. Boulders. Army crawls. Balance. Alpine bogs. Roots. Mud. Tact. Wind. Patience. Rain. Head. Shoulders. Knees.
And f$&@ing toes.
Mahoosuc Notch, reported to be the “longest” mile on the AT for both its difficulty and danger, demands one to slow their roll to yield their safety and their success. It took me 3 hours and 19 minutes to traverse ONE mile. ONE.
Res ipsa loquitor.
I woke up on September 12th with a portion of a Sour Brite gummy worm still in my mouth. This brings to light, multiple fails, starting with the reality that I was, in fact, dining on Sour Brite gummy worms in the first place. The rest, self explanatory. I came across an open cartridge of Nutter Butters atop a trash can in front of the CVS in Hanover, NH. It was healthy, other than being anonymously opened, so naturally…I proceeded to eat them. The shoulder straps of my pack are emanating an aroma of ammonia mixed with mildewed sneakers, sprinkled with pseudomonas. There are mold spores growing along the dorsum of my pack. The bottoms of my feet are coated in callous that mimics the skin that covers your elbow. I have lost all sensation here. No longer ticklish, lucky me. My palms are excoriated, raw, after recently being responsible for maintaining my balance as much as my legs. I have developed a median nerve palsy along my right arm, causing a continuous tingling sensation over my forearm and into my middle finger and thumb. The jury is still out as to the degree of my kidney health after downed bottles of Ibuprofen over the past 6 months. When you see me outside of your local discount store ringing a Salvation Army bell this holiday season, tell them that I was a thru hiker. Attest to my legitimacy. I beg you.
I am in my 3rd phase of metamorphosis, the spiritual and the physical echelon. My body is being summoned to do the tasks of fresh loins after nearly 2,000 miles of journey has tarnished it. I met John, recently retired from the NYPD, on my ascent into Unionville, NY back in August. He asked if I was thru hiking. “Yes.”, I answered. “How many miles a day ya doin’?”, he followed. “Eh…18 is my happy place. I feel accomplished when I do 18. And it’s not too much. When I do more than that, I go rogue. I stop enjoying myself.”, I explained. “You’ll learn the most about yourself during mile 19 then.”, John shared.
I am deep into mile 19.
Franconia Ridge, 9/9.
Sophia Tuinstra, in memory ♥️
December 1, 2003 - August 31, 2021
Wallflower on the 6 string at Green Mountain Hostel, 8/23, in Manchester Center, VT.
8/24, Jean and Hugh. They have lived atop Stratton Mountain for over 50 years as caretakers.
Casa de Jean and Hugh.
This cavern is what they use for refrigeration and when covered with moss, it lowers the temperature.
Stratton Pond, 8/24.
Tortoise, a Green Mountain Club volunteer. She oversees the trail maintenance over Bromley Mountain, 8/25.
Lunch atop Bromley Mountain. The ski lift served as a great sock dryer and picnic table! Surreal to meander around the lift, off-season, when not in operation, 8/25.
The Vermont Long Trail and the Appalachian Trail share a footpath for 100 miles in Southern Vermont, 8/25.
Baker Peak, 8/25.
8/26, Wilderness Bob, a triple crowner, stopped on his way back down the coast to shower us with trail magic and encouraging mantras for the remainder of our hike at USFS 10. He made he and I matching paracord bracelets back in Pearisburg, Virginia 🧶
Wallflower, Wilderness Bob, and President.
8/26, Little Rock Pond.
8/28, Caught the bus into Rutland, VT after descending Mount Killington.
8/28, Yellow Deli Hiker Hostel. Rutland, VT. Owned an operated by a religious cult, they provided free room and board while softly attempting to prey on the minds of vagabond hikers.✌🏼O-U-T.
Grits and cheesy eggs served for breakfast!
Andrew, from the Bronx, hiked with us during his time on the Long Trail.
Community jam session in the living area at Yellow Deli 🎸
Bus ride back to the trail, 8/29.
The Vermont Long Trail splits from the AT at Maine Junction where the LT continues north to Canada and the AT swings east.
I met Christie Bengle (Turkas) in 7th grade and since we had graduated from high school in 1998, I had barely seen her. Reunited initially at our twenty year reunion, it was my journey that allowed us to reconnect. I received a LOVELY care package from her and her family, complete with spiced jerky from her family-owned, Pittsburgh based, Strip District Meats ♥️.
From Christie’s daughter, Madden. We like to hike in dresses 😉👗. Hi Madden!!
9/1, Approaching Norwich, VT.
9/1, Welcome to New Hampshire!
9/1, The trail runs right though the heart of Dartmouth college in Hanover, NH. I had all of my cold gear sent back to me here (rain pants, merino wool sleepwear, buff, wool socks, beanie).
9/2, Breakfast at Hanover Adventure Tours Hostel.
Look what I found in the loaner clothes bin?! Looks just like my namesake 🐈 .
9/2, Wallflower, President and I at Ramanto’s Pizza, offering a free slice to thru hikers 🍕after visiting the record store.
9/3, Shuttle back to the trail in Hanover, NH. Lisa, Sara…what’s your plan for this wig?! 💇🏻♀️
Dartmouth’s football stadium.
A fall care package, courtesy of Mary Beth Czerniak🎃. Sure was a taste of home to receive cinnamon spice hand sanitizer, caramel apple body wash, and festive pumpkin sleep socks!
9/3, An old relic that found a home in Trapper John Shelter 🧵.
9/6, Ascent of Mt. Moosilauke, “The Moose”.
Moosilauke, the 1st of 18 >4K climbs in New Hampshire’s White Mountain range along the Appalachian Trail. Also included are North and South Kinsman, Mt. Lincoln, Mt. Lafayette, Mt. Garfield, South Twin Mountain, Zealand Mountain, Mt. Jackson, Mt. Pierce, Mt. Washington, Mt. Madison, Wildcat D Peak, Wildcat Mountain, Middle Carter Mountain, Mt. Moriah, Carter Dome, and South Carter Mountain.
Reached 1800 miles atop Mount Moosilauke.
9/7, A care package from my mentor, Elena (ref: Das Gear post), received in Lincoln, NH 💌
9/7: Wallflower being resourceful as he opens up a can of Bush’s baked beans with a screwdriver and a stone 💪🏼. Thank you, Faulsie, for your ingeniously thoughtful treats!
9/7: Drying tent in the sun outside of post office in Lincoln, NH.
Resupplying at Price Chopper 🍞!
We raised our “4000 footers” to the peaks that awaited us 🍻!
9/7, Sue gave us a hitch back to Kinsman Notch from the Dollar General. She thru hiked with her father before he passed, 15 years ago. Mt. Moosilauke in the background 🏔.
And what an appropriate license plate she had!
My 5th pair of Lone Peaks arrived, my “summit” shoes. Eeeeek!
9/9, Franconia Ridge, covered by clouds.
The parting of the veil…
There she is 🙌🏼!
Above the clouds ☁️.
Scooping water on top of Mt. Lafayette with my coffee mug to filter through the CNOC reservoir. Slim pickins’!
9/9, Sunset upon descent of Mt. Lafayette.
9/11, Sweeping the floor in exchange for cold, burnt pancakes at Galehead hut.
Homemade coffee cake.
9/11, At the summit of South Twin Mountain.
Soup and bread, courtesy of Zealand Hut.
Little Haystack climb.
Mount Garfield climb.
On 9/12, I reached out to a previous student of mine, Janelle, who resides in New Hampshire when I was desperate for a ride into North Conway for more food rations. She contacted her colleague, Rae, who posted a message on the Facebook page of the New Hampshire Association of Nurse Anesthetists. Ashley (above) was one of many who responded to help his then stranger anesthesia colleague. Completely incredible circle of connection and giving!
9/12, Webster Cliffs.
Cairns (mounds of rough stone, sometimes piled upwards of 5 feet tall) are used when above treeline to guide the way, as there are no trees to display white blazes.
A warning sign posted at the base of Mount Washington that reads, “STOP. 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.”
Lake of the Clouds.
9/13, Mount Washington summit.
Winds exceed hurricane force of greater than 75 mph on more than 100 days per year, as recorded by the weather observatory on the summit of Mount Washington.
9/13, With Mount Washington to my rear, I gaze at Mount Madison.
9/14, Another care package from Holly and Jade in Gorham, NH 💌, which I tore into at the local McDonald’s over a Big Mac, large fry, 20 piece nugget and an orange drink 🥤 🍔 🍟!
Complete with my favorite (and completely unattainable!!) FLOSS!! Praise BE, you two!
Also sending their love was Terrie “bada$$” Fowler, my Mamma, Dara Drue, the Defranco’s, Mary Byrne, Tomas Drabek, Kathy Helfrick (Symchak!!), Gail Corbett, Ang Vitale, Kelly Cannon, Angela Kazan, Arielle Brice, Karen Florian, Marilyn Fisher, Barb Dunn, and the Norton’s! Speechless in my humility, truly.
A series of cairns leading the way along Mount Madison 🪨, 9/14.
View of Mount Washington (peak hidden by cloud cover) from the top of Mount Madison. Surreal to witness the previous day’s traverse from afar.
9/16, Wildcat D with President 🧗🏻♀️. Up…
Up…
And away!
Sophia’s bandana, gifted to me by my cousin Roxanne, has been on my person since I received it after her passing. We’re almost to Katahdin, baby girl.
9/16, Carter Notch Lake.
9/18, 1️⃣9️⃣0️⃣0️⃣!
9/18, Gentian Pond Shelter had a chess board inscribed on its floor ♟.
I may have overdone the sardines… Thank you Fauls!
9/19, Maine arrival!
And with Maine, comes the…rebar.
9/21, Zero day in Bethel, ME at the lovely Bethel Village Motel, courtesy of Angel Jaap!
Now this is what I call fall 🍁 🎃 trail magic!
I spy…MOOSE TRACKS 👣!!
9/20.
Under…
And over…
Lunch with Happy Meal, Hickory, Casper, Crime Scene, T Hug, Bojangles, and Tarzan after the Notch.
9/20, Old Speck Mountain.
Creative water retrieval. As I laid there collecting, I thought of all of the millions of feet that must have walked this very plank over the years…
Aaaaaaand, there went my second set of trekking poles with their replacements on the way to Stratton, ME and the death of my rain jacket after getting mangled by a pine tree with its replacement on the way to Andover, ME. Duct tape earns its rent again, and again.
“A Couple More Miles”, the hops sang 🎶, thank you, Suellen!
9/22, Ran out of contacts before my summit of Baldpate Mountain. Made for an…interesting…day 👓.
Heavenly.
9/23, Pine Ellis Hostel, Andover, ME.
More Pittsburgh love from the Galbraith girls, Joe Triebsch (ref: Das Gear post), and my Fuel 🙌🏼.
My coffee appreciated this taste of home, Molly!
Joe ✨.
