the search for A PASSAGE
among the Brooks and Boulders of Bald Knob
26 February 2011
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| View of Welch and Dickey from Bald Knob |
I'm suddenly sure that I’ve gone too far, and this astounds me, because I was here just two days ago, and I established my landmarks, so that I’d be sure not to miss the spot to turn off the trail, but everything looks just a little bit different after the snow falls.
Dan is tramping right behind me, stepping in the alternately unstepped-on places in the path, creating a nice footbed for his wife, Beth, and our new friends, Dennis and Richard. We’ve made good time so far, and as we approach the intersection with the brook-bed, I check my watch: 12:40PM.
“Is this the brook-bed?”
“Yes.”
“So this is where it starts getting steep?”
“Yes.”
Turning up the slope, which, without hesitation, begins to ascend dramatically, we step past an enormous blown-over root ball of a big old hemlock tree. This is the gateway. From here we just have to follow the brook. Through a labyrinth of hardwood trees, Bald Knob looms above us, its wrinkly rocky snow-covered face protruding from the trees high on the summit cone like the ominous albino brow of Moby Dick himself. The brook is in the hemlocks, and as we ascend, keeping a fairly brisk pace, I’m explaining to everyone about the mystique of the Knob, how there are strange sylvan powers that reside in the field of boulders scattered down the hillside above us, and they draw in beleaguered trampers tired from the relentless quality of the ascent: the steepness, the undulations, the trees; and these powerful unseen forces urge intrepid hikers to move away from the hemlocks, away from the brook, into the wide open hardwoods, toward the Knob, which, once you're out of the trees, seems so close, so attainable.
But this is a fatal mistake.
“So the key is to keep following the brook?” asks Richard.
“Follow the brook” I say, “and look for a big fat split rock, which is The First Boulder; and then, hopefully, we can find The Second Boulder, which is a tall leaning sharp-pointed chunk sort of, somewhere below the col between the Knob and a second sort of peak to the east.
“Hopefully?” Dennis asks, having taken off his hat now, feeling warm and happy.
“I couldn’t find it the other day,” I say, continuing upward, at times, stepping down into the brook, but finding it congested with snow and deadfall; and so, we weave up alongside the snowed-over water, undulating as we ascend, slipping back on eight inches of snow sliding on a crust beneath it. “It was the power of the Knob, calling me toward it."
Beth asks, “So what happened?”
“We got stuck in the boulders, just like in the spring, with Gig and Roy and Gary. I couldn’t believe that I made the same mistake again.
Dan is tramping right behind me, stepping in the alternately unstepped-on places in the path, creating a nice footbed for his wife, Beth, and our new friends, Dennis and Richard. We’ve made good time so far, and as we approach the intersection with the brook-bed, I check my watch: 12:40PM.
“Is this the brook-bed?”
“Yes.”
“So this is where it starts getting steep?”
“Yes.”
 |
| Deep in the Gauntlet |
But this is a fatal mistake.
“So the key is to keep following the brook?” asks Richard.
“Follow the brook” I say, “and look for a big fat split rock, which is The First Boulder; and then, hopefully, we can find The Second Boulder, which is a tall leaning sharp-pointed chunk sort of, somewhere below the col between the Knob and a second sort of peak to the east.
“Hopefully?” Dennis asks, having taken off his hat now, feeling warm and happy.
“I couldn’t find it the other day,” I say, continuing upward, at times, stepping down into the brook, but finding it congested with snow and deadfall; and so, we weave up alongside the snowed-over water, undulating as we ascend, slipping back on eight inches of snow sliding on a crust beneath it. “It was the power of the Knob, calling me toward it."
Beth asks, “So what happened?”
“We got stuck in the boulders, just like in the spring, with Gig and Roy and Gary. I couldn’t believe that I made the same mistake again.
 |
| The Existential Moment |
As we tramp on, I reiterate the importance of not turning left too soon. Turning left too soon means we’ll get trapped in the boulders beneath the cliffs. What we need to do is trust the brook. Stay with the brook, when everything is telling us to turn toward the Knob, because it's less steep, and it’s open, and it’s heading right toward the Knob, right where we want to be, it would seem, but don’t do it. Stay with the brook.
Dan asks, “What’s the name of this brook?”
“It has no name,” I tell them. “We should think of one.”
“How about Hemlock Brook?” Richard suggests.
After a brief discussion, it is agreed upon with great happiness by each of the pioneers, that it is now Hemlock Brook, and then we’re not talking because we’re breathing hard, the terrain getting steeper, and steeper, and steady: up and up and up, and I’m choosing the best way to approach each swale, each boulder, switching-back to mitigate the grade when it’s too too steep.
“The First Boulder!” I shout enthusiastically, as the disciples shuffle in behind me on small ledge of flat ground, “See the one that’s split in two?!” I check my watch. Almost 1:00PM. I tell them that the other day how my watch mysteriously stopped somewhere between the First and Second Boulder.
“Was that the power of the Knob working its evil against you?” asks Dan.”
I turn around, deadly serious, “That’s exactly what it was.”
“The brook will protect us,” Dennis says in a comforting tone.
The snow is not as deep beneath the hemlocks, and despite the steepness, is surely easier than the other day, with Ryan and Sarah, when we sank deeply in deep deep snow; whereas now, we’re only dropping in 6 inches or so… and so, we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past… leading the group deeper and deeper into a remote land, thinking about Gatsby, and how he risked everything for his dream and ended up floating face-down in his pool... hm... I decide not to share these thoughts with the group, but to just keep moving, keep putting one foot in front of the other, and then the poles, and I step up, breathe, step again, plant the poles, breath and step, breath and step, stop and wait. Drink and keep going, keep going.
“There it is!”
“What?”
“The Second Boulder! It’s in the trees! I was right over there the other day,” I exclaim, pointing to the boulders on our left, “I can’t believe that I didn’t see it! It’s in the trees! The Second Boulder is in the trees!”
I look at my watch. It’s 2:10PM. My turn-around time is 2:30PM.“So now what.”
“We keep to the brook for 15, 20 more minutes before turning toward the summit cone.”
And so we beat on, upward and then up, and up some more, weaving in between the rocks and shoulders alongside the brook, and then it begins to open up a bit, as we reach the edge of the col, and the line of the brook disappears beneath the snow, so I try and stay close to the cliffs, which are closing in on the hemlocks, but not too close, because the slope beneath the cliff is steep, smooth-snowed and slippery. As we move deeper into the col, the pitch levels off, but is replaced by a thick community of spruce and balsams, no taller than we, and they’ve netted all the windblown snow so that we are now in really deep, sinking into air pockets, sometimes two or three feet, up to our hips in the snow, the branches in tight to our faces.
To distract my now thoroughly weary wanderers, I ramble on about how the key to our success lies in finding this break in the rock of the summit cone, where, in the spring one time, I found it replete with a carpet of wet moss, and I was able to scale the stepping-up-a-ladder steep terrain, by grabbing onto the moss and kicking little foot-holes.
“If we can find that, we’ll make it.”
Soon, ensconced in a patch of wilderness, which we’ve named, The Gauntlet, a flat and snowy plateau of the col, we come up alongside a break in the rocky summit cone. “Wait here,” I suggest, “and I’ll just head up and see if this is it.” So I start up, and the closer I get, the more sure I am that this is the elusive chute. I haven’t mentioned to the group that I’ve only managed to find it once in three attempts, figuring this would be counterproductive, because we’re so close. I don’t want to look at my watch because I know it’s getting late, that we’re going to have to make a push for the summit, because I can taste it, and we’ve worked so hard, but we’re going to be late getting there. Looking at the snow before my face, the steepness of the mountain now tipping up in front of me with authority, I climb up and then look; and now, the closer and closer I get to the little ravine in the rock, the more and more sure I am that this is not the beloved chute. I call to the others, and then begin traversing the steep slide-like terrain right at the base of the cliffs, while the group traverses below me; and soon, we are back down in the deep and billowy snow of The Gauntlet. I better find it soon. Trust the brook, I think, trust the brook. I lead on, keeping the snowed-in brook-bed in my eye to the right, and the cold cliffs of the summit in my sight to the left, while the balsams slap me in the face, reminding me to take care, because we’re in the danger zone at this point. Any kind of injury, would be a serious issue, so trust the brook and don’t turn to soon… remember that chute? how it had a long cut slab of rock like a wall along the left-hand side—is that it? I tramp another step, ready to call out the note of victory in my soul, but I wait. I need to be sure. I keep going, through a thick stand of trees, sinking in thigh-deeply, pushing branches out of the way, and climbing up unknown humps of white, that could be rocks or trees or root balls, but beneath all the snow there’s no telling; and, around another tree, I look up and see the cut slab of rock. I call to my disciples, now spread out below, a distance away from me. Through the trees, I can see Beth’s bright salmon colored jacket, and Dan below her in blue, and Dennis, a darker blue, and Richard, a bright cheery yellow.
From that point on, there is more adventure, more beauty, and the feeling of accomplishment as Tenney, Stinson and Carr rise up from the south and west to greet us, and we continue on the final trudge to the summit; where Welch and Dickey loom into view close to us across the Mad River valley, and we stand behind a small white pine tree and have some hot raspberry tea; but in retrospect, it was the search for the chute beneath the cut slab of rock and will stay with us, until we pass this way again.
Dan asks, “What’s the name of this brook?”
“It has no name,” I tell them. “We should think of one.”
“How about Hemlock Brook?” Richard suggests.
After a brief discussion, it is agreed upon with great happiness by each of the pioneers, that it is now Hemlock Brook, and then we’re not talking because we’re breathing hard, the terrain getting steeper, and steeper, and steady: up and up and up, and I’m choosing the best way to approach each swale, each boulder, switching-back to mitigate the grade when it’s too too steep.
“The First Boulder!” I shout enthusiastically, as the disciples shuffle in behind me on small ledge of flat ground, “See the one that’s split in two?!” I check my watch. Almost 1:00PM. I tell them that the other day how my watch mysteriously stopped somewhere between the First and Second Boulder.
“Was that the power of the Knob working its evil against you?” asks Dan.”
I turn around, deadly serious, “That’s exactly what it was.”
“The brook will protect us,” Dennis says in a comforting tone.
The snow is not as deep beneath the hemlocks, and despite the steepness, is surely easier than the other day, with Ryan and Sarah, when we sank deeply in deep deep snow; whereas now, we’re only dropping in 6 inches or so… and so, we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past… leading the group deeper and deeper into a remote land, thinking about Gatsby, and how he risked everything for his dream and ended up floating face-down in his pool... hm... I decide not to share these thoughts with the group, but to just keep moving, keep putting one foot in front of the other, and then the poles, and I step up, breathe, step again, plant the poles, breath and step, breath and step, stop and wait. Drink and keep going, keep going.
“There it is!”
“What?”
“The Second Boulder! It’s in the trees! I was right over there the other day,” I exclaim, pointing to the boulders on our left, “I can’t believe that I didn’t see it! It’s in the trees! The Second Boulder is in the trees!”
 |
| A look back at Black Mountain and the Sandwich Notch |
“We keep to the brook for 15, 20 more minutes before turning toward the summit cone.”
And so we beat on, upward and then up, and up some more, weaving in between the rocks and shoulders alongside the brook, and then it begins to open up a bit, as we reach the edge of the col, and the line of the brook disappears beneath the snow, so I try and stay close to the cliffs, which are closing in on the hemlocks, but not too close, because the slope beneath the cliff is steep, smooth-snowed and slippery. As we move deeper into the col, the pitch levels off, but is replaced by a thick community of spruce and balsams, no taller than we, and they’ve netted all the windblown snow so that we are now in really deep, sinking into air pockets, sometimes two or three feet, up to our hips in the snow, the branches in tight to our faces.
To distract my now thoroughly weary wanderers, I ramble on about how the key to our success lies in finding this break in the rock of the summit cone, where, in the spring one time, I found it replete with a carpet of wet moss, and I was able to scale the stepping-up-a-ladder steep terrain, by grabbing onto the moss and kicking little foot-holes.
“If we can find that, we’ll make it.”
 |
| Dan on the Knob, Dickey Ledges over his left shoulder |
Soon, ensconced in a patch of wilderness, which we’ve named, The Gauntlet, a flat and snowy plateau of the col, we come up alongside a break in the rocky summit cone. “Wait here,” I suggest, “and I’ll just head up and see if this is it.” So I start up, and the closer I get, the more sure I am that this is the elusive chute. I haven’t mentioned to the group that I’ve only managed to find it once in three attempts, figuring this would be counterproductive, because we’re so close. I don’t want to look at my watch because I know it’s getting late, that we’re going to have to make a push for the summit, because I can taste it, and we’ve worked so hard, but we’re going to be late getting there. Looking at the snow before my face, the steepness of the mountain now tipping up in front of me with authority, I climb up and then look; and now, the closer and closer I get to the little ravine in the rock, the more and more sure I am that this is not the beloved chute. I call to the others, and then begin traversing the steep slide-like terrain right at the base of the cliffs, while the group traverses below me; and soon, we are back down in the deep and billowy snow of The Gauntlet. I better find it soon. Trust the brook, I think, trust the brook. I lead on, keeping the snowed-in brook-bed in my eye to the right, and the cold cliffs of the summit in my sight to the left, while the balsams slap me in the face, reminding me to take care, because we’re in the danger zone at this point. Any kind of injury, would be a serious issue, so trust the brook and don’t turn to soon… remember that chute? how it had a long cut slab of rock like a wall along the left-hand side—is that it? I tramp another step, ready to call out the note of victory in my soul, but I wait. I need to be sure. I keep going, through a thick stand of trees, sinking in thigh-deeply, pushing branches out of the way, and climbing up unknown humps of white, that could be rocks or trees or root balls, but beneath all the snow there’s no telling; and, around another tree, I look up and see the cut slab of rock. I call to my disciples, now spread out below, a distance away from me. Through the trees, I can see Beth’s bright salmon colored jacket, and Dan below her in blue, and Dennis, a darker blue, and Richard, a bright cheery yellow.
 |
| Dan, Beth, Richard, Dennis, and Friday, 40 yards from the summit |
From that point on, there is more adventure, more beauty, and the feeling of accomplishment as Tenney, Stinson and Carr rise up from the south and west to greet us, and we continue on the final trudge to the summit; where Welch and Dickey loom into view close to us across the Mad River valley, and we stand behind a small white pine tree and have some hot raspberry tea; but in retrospect, it was the search for the chute beneath the cut slab of rock and will stay with us, until we pass this way again.
