Hike with Shakespeare in the Valley Actors

WVAIA Treasurer, Susan Hammond [left], on the Welch Ledge with the Shakespearean actors, who, naturally, pose very well.

 

A BIG TURNOUT FOR THE JULY FOURTH PICNIC

Good food, good weather, good company...
click on the video below and hear the goodness...

NATIONAL TRAILS DAY on the Welch Mountain Trail

 Volunteers from the WVAIA [ the official Welch/Dickey Cooperator, in partnership with the United States Forest Service] and the Chiltern Mountain Club [trail "adopter"], joined forces to tackle the very difficult task of mucking out the water-bars and drainage ditches along the opening section of the Welch Mountain Trail. The trail, without question our busiest trail responsibility, and therefore, our most vulnerable trail, received the full treatment, as four members from the WVAIA, and four members from the Chiltern Mountain Club,  wielded four grub hoes and two fire rakes, a well as a shovel, some loppers, and two saws, to do the job. In an effort to curb the "walking" of the trail on the traverse below the Welch Ledges, volunteers also did extensive scree work. At the day's end, there were muddy boots and tired bones, as well as the pleasure of renewed friendships and the feeling of a job well done.

Our next trails Day is scheduled for Saturday, July 16. We meet at the Town Square gazebo in Waterville Valley at 8AM. If you want to come along, send us an email at wvaiatrails@gmail.com.

Hope to see you there!

Goodrich Rock

Undaunted by cloudy skies, humidity, rapacious bugs, and the threat of thunderstorms, ten hikers started their Memorial Day weekend at Waterville Valley with a hike to Goodrich Rock.    In addition to having a really cool ladder (yes, everyone climbed the ladder), this hike is of geologic interest because the Davis Boulders and Goodrich Rock, itself, are among the largest glacial erratics in New England.                                                                                                                                                                      

Pictured, from left to right are Brenda Concklin, Cheryl Moak, Roy Loiselle, Matt Adams, Ellen Adams, Marilyn Clarkson, Bill Weeks, Susan Wood, and John Bibas.  Not pictured is hike leader Gary Moak. 

It didn't rain, and the trail was totally dry, thanks to the great work done by the WVAIA trail crew earlier in the month.  Despite the overcast, the valley view from the top of Goodrich Rock (2250') was spectacular.

SPRING SKI & SHOE ADVENTURE

Join us for APRIL BACKCOUNTRY SNOWSHOEING AND SKIING

Saturday, April 9 on The Scaur Ridge Trail

and the North Slide

Whether you are a skier or a snowshoer, or both, this is an extraordinary day. One can ski or shoe up Livermore Road and Livermore Trail, which, after two hours, arrives at the Scaur Ridge trailhead. Another hour, hiking on a sun baked logging road, with a spectacular view of the North Slide, and the trail merges with the Pine Bend Brook trail, where one can see a magnificent view of Mount Washington. From there, skiers continue on the Mount Tripyramid trail, and snowshoers, after a leisurely lunch, can descend via the route of ascent; and, if they want, stop and watch the skiers, who eventually can be seen through the naked branches of the trees skiing down the North Slide. Skiers can be telemarkers skinning up the whole way, or snowshoers with alpine gear. The North Slide is very steep, a bit steeper than True Grit and Bobby's Run at Waterville Valley, but not as severe as Tuckerman Ravine. Due to the fact that the group will split, sufficient numbers in both parties will be necessary to ensure everyone's safety. Weather conditions will be even more of a factor than normal for the skiing portion of the day. If you are interested, or have any questions, email us at wvaiatrails@gmail.com.

1. We meet at the Town Square gazebo at 8AM
2. No charge for members, or guests [who might entertain the idea of becoming a member.]
3. Bring lunch and snacks and plenty of water. This is an all-day adventure.

SPRING SKIING ADVENTURES

Gema Gema

on the Kancamagus Brook Ski Trail

April 2, 2011

[click on photos to enlarge picture]

Gathering for a short break at the junction where the Kancamaus Brook ski trail diverges right off the Greeley Ponds Trail, a few skiers unpack their skins in preparation for the sustained ascent, others are peeling off a layer of clothing, despite the occasional snow shower, and one says a short prayer, looking skyward to the ski gods, then it's time to get going.

"Gema, gema," Lisa says, with a happy face. "Let's go!"

Despite some blow-downs early on, we make good progress. The brook is barely visible among the snow-laden trees. Although the way is ensconced in white, the trail is distinct, maintained as a cross-country ski trail by the US Forest Service, and marked by blue diamonds.
The thick wet snow that fell the night before makes the ascending easier than usual. After the switchback, the trail gets steeper and we gain elevation quickly, stopping for a rest and a peek through the trees at Painted Cliff on East Osceola. 

Painted Cliff

And soon, having reached the saddle between Flume Peak and North Mount Tripyramid, the daunting North Slide looms above the trees, beneath the unsettled skies.

The North Slide

After lunch at the junction with the Livermore Trail, we begin the descent, successfully negotiating a perilous brook crossing not far from the lunch spot, and then we're moving smoothly and sliding as we're kicking and gliding through the balsam fir trees that line the trail, as we pass near the site of the old Flume Brook logging camp, and then downhill, we don't stop, until we reach the civilized groomed slopes of Livermore Road, where we stop for a photograph, and then continue toward home.

TRAMPING RECORD

A GRAND FINALE

ON THE FLETCHER CASCADE

19 March 2011
[click on photos to enlarge pictures] 
 

Happy trampers at the Drake Brook
parking lot under blue sky

The fearless leader with an unusual growth
of snowshoes on his back

A peek at Noon just after 1:00PM

New member, Bill Weeks,
prepares to do the limbo across Bowlder Brook

The cascade, bubbled with ice, looms above Marilyn

That's Nadia, Brenda, Jim, Suzie,
Marilyn and Bill on the trail

Blowdowns hinder the approach
at the base of the cascade

Bill negotiates the steeps
in the trees climbing around the ice fall

The view from Fletcher Cascade

Views from March 19 Fletcher Cascade Hike

Mt. Osceola

Mt. Tecumseh

Mt. Tecumseh and Mt. Oseola

MOUNT MORGAN HIKE

On February 19, 2011, a group of seven WVAIA hikers climbed Mt. Morgan on a beautiful, winter day.  The group led by Gary Moak, and included Cheryl Moak, Brenda Conklin, Marilyn Clarkson, Gig Babson, Bill Weeks, and Richard Klepper.  The summit was reached without difficulty.  The view of Squam Lake was breathtaking, as was the frigid breeze, which made lunch on the summit short, but sweet.

RANDOM WINTER PHOTO GALLERY #1

A break along the Flat Rocks Overpass Feb.12

Green Mtn Logging Road Jan. 8 [Noon Peak in background]

The WVAIA raffle and Annual Meeting Feb. 5

TRAMPING REPORT

the search for A PASSAGE

among the Brooks and Boulders of Bald Knob

26 February 2011

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.”

Deep in the Gauntlet

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.

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!”

A look back at Black Mountain and the Sandwich Notch

                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.”

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.

TRAMPING REPORT

A Small Tribe of Wayward Grazing Goats
Wandering along the High Brook Ravine
22 January 2011

 

The sun is sparkling and winking behind snow-laden trees as it begins to sink behind the prodigious rise of the Acteon Ridge to our south; while we, a humble group of six, step our small steps into the deep snow, tramping in the shadows along the High Brook ravine. It’s cold, and the time is wandering away from the day; and so, I turn the group off the old Jeep Road, heading for what seems like the last patch of sunlight left in this part of the ravine. It’s a beautiful wood: hemlock, maple, beech and giant yellow birch trees. I’m looking for a log on which to sit, but there is no such place in the sun; and so, we stand, happily, and drink hot raspberry tea, eating nuts and fruit and chocolate, talking about the tramp: how it has been just great, winding our way through the few blow-downs that blocked our route, talking and stopping, the sky, a bright hard blue, and the snow-whitened hemlocks and pine trees, indicative of a windless day, standing still in the coldness. We are a sylvan community of man and vegetable, enough to make R.W. Emerson smile from somewhere very far away, as we stand snow-lit, the sun twinkling, and the shadows dancing in the current of the universal being.

As we begin our descent, losing the sun almost at once, catching it again fifty yards downhill, we weave through the seams of light and dark, the frozen brook now on our left, almost totally ensconced in snow and ice. Occasionally, a skidder road, coming down the hill on our right, offers a potential ski run for another day. The forest is quiet. Following our own tracks back, we talk about the joys of tramping off-trail, of cutting a new path in the snow, being pioneers with each soft step. On returning, there is a different feeling, a sense of ease and comfort that we are where we have already been, and we walk with confidence now, no uncertainties, no trepidations; but rather, we are content beneath a snow-drooped canopy of conifers, snowbound, and heading down a trail of our own choosing, our own making, toward home.

At the beginning of the hike, we came up through a former clear-cut, with the mountains of the western rim of the Mad River valley at our backs; but now, as we emerge from the woods, descending, the view of Welch and Dickey, Foss Peak, Green and Tecumseh, bursts across the sky in front of us, and I am struck by the irony of beholding the view at the bottom of the hike, rather than at some illustrious summit. This seems somehow profound, but I can’t quite put my finger on it: something about beauty revealing itself where it pleases, so that after we’ve reached our destination, and have somewhat reluctantly begun the journey back, our spirits are lifted once again by the mountains in our eyes, and we rise to an even greater height, a veritable snow-phoenix, born again out of it’s own white ashen powder; when in fact, all we did was walk up into the woods about as far as we could go, sort of doddle and linger a bit, then turn around and retrace our steps back down the slope, like a small tribe of wayward grazing goats…

Submitted by Dan Newton

TRAMPING RECORD

AMONG THE STONES AND POETS
Somewhere off the Dickey Mountain Trail

8 January 2011

 

“Years ago,” I tell the group, “My dog and I wandered off the Mt. Dickey Trail and found a wonderful outlook over to Cone Mountain.”

A somewhat worried face in the back says, “And there’s a nice view?”
“A fantastic view.”
“Course it’s snowing,” someone else says. “Too bad it's snowing today.”
“So do you know where we are now?” asks a concerned citizen, one of eleven intrepid wayfarers on this particular day.

I explain that we’ll continue like this for a distance and then begin heading uphill with more earnest, and eventually we’ll come to a paradisiacal place where we can see the mountains all around.

A very serious man mentions the “Importance of Being Ernest,” and others mumble things about how Wilde ones who wander off-trail can resist anything, except temptation; and with that, we continue deeper into not too distant fairy lands where mountains and men meet and find peace behind the busy days of lives.

Winding through a classic northern hardwood forest of Beech, Yellow Birch and Sugar Maple trees, mixed in with a towering company of Red Oaks, we come across the remnants of an old stonewall; and soon, having crested a small hill, we discover another stonewall. The proximity of these two stonewalls to each other forms a ghostly road between them, now grown thick with trees. Remembering as best I can the words of Tom Wessels, I explain how there are two types of stone walls: those built with small stones, which suggest that these were agricultural plots, because the stones were simply stacked as they came up from the ground with the spring tilling; or, those built with larger stones, which means they were fences to keep in the livestock, particularly sheep.

“Or maybe they’re just to delineate the borders of the people’s land?” suggests a woman from behind her scarf.

“Good fences make good neighbors,” someone else says.

And with that, we resume our tramping, chanting mellifluous fragments from a number of Frost’s pastoral poems: “Mending Wall,” “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening,” “Birches,” and “West-Running Brook.”

The grade steepens, and, with a few trampers right there with me, we look down along the white-powdered rocks and the frozen effluences of springs that coat patches of the hillside as if to freeze time, and see the brightly colored jackets of the rest of the group winding through the grays and browns of the tall trees below us. It won’t be long now. Soon we’ll be there.

We have just one place to find, one nook in the woods that will give us passage to our day’s summit; and yet, as is often the case when hiking these woods, the summit yields not without a fight; however, working together as a team against the seen and unseen forces of the universe, we eventually find our Providence, it seems, with the cliffs on Cone behind us, and the invisible sun beginning to set behind the tumultuous clouds in the west. And so, after a photograph, feeling like conquerors of some great Himalayan peak, we smile, and begin to descend.

…with miles to go before I sleep…

TRAMPING RECORD

ON A DAPPLED MOONSCAPE
Tramping to the Tecumseh Brook Ledge

1 January 2011

An enthusiastic group of ten trampers convened at 12:30PM in the Town Square, and, after signing in, amidst a flurry of well-wishing for the new year, we departed, reconvening 5 minutes later at the Livermore parking lot. We then walked with our snowshoes in hand up the Tripoli Road. The snow cover was thin, yet ubiquitous. We continued past the Osceola Campground turn-off, and after cresting the hill and walking a short distance, we knelt, as if in prayer, to don our snowshoes. 

Angling off the road, we tramped up the gentle-grade of an old logging route, moving well, as we headed into a sea of hardwoods that afforded expansive woodland views ahead of us; and, over one's shoulder, through the branches of the trees, the Tripyramid peaks against a steel-gray sky.

To our surprise, the farther we ascended, the thinner the snow became, so that we found ourselves searching for avenues of snow among the leaf-covered pillows and cradles of the forest. It soon became apparent that we would have to amend our plans, because, as the snow receded, armies of low-slung hobble bushes, that would normally be buried in snow, began to muster their forces and hinder our progress. Turning south, we came over a rise to find more snow, and, happily, some craggy scaurs that seemed familiar to the fearless leader; and sure enough, moments later, the Tecumseh Brook ledge rose into view, signaled by a thick twisted widow-maker, bent-over at a ninety-degree angle, bridged to the top of the rock. After the ensuing chorus of ooh’s and ahh’s [who knew rock could be quite so beautiful!], we moved in next to the ledge, marveling at the healthy appearance and concomitant size of the rock tripe lichens that cover the wall. The biggest of these lichens is significantly larger than my outstretched hand!

After some munching, and the gurgle of uplifted water bottles, we noticed a nest-like tangle of branches at the top of a nearby beech tree, discovering that a bear had been up the tree some time ago, when it was full of beech nuts, and broken the branches in toward the trunk, so that he or she could eat them without “going out on a limb,” and; in so doing, get the nuts before they fall and the deer and other ground feeders can eat them. They’re called “bear-baskets,” because the broken-back limbs, plus the tenacious brown leaves of the beech, which often remain clinging to the branches well into the winter, make it look like a basket up in the tree.
 
Descending the near side of the ridge we had come over, we found consistent snow to bring us home, angling back in a northern direction across what came to look like a sort of moonscape of dappled white and brown terrain, until we returned to the precise spot on Tripoli Road at which we entered the woods, feeling quite pleased at the good exercise, the good conversation, fascinating flora, and the interesting sign of fauna we found on this short, moderate ramble through some of Waterville Valley’s local unknown woods.

Dan Newton

Neither Snow nor Rain....

... nor heat nor gloom of night stays the WVAIA trail crew (i.e.- Dan and Gary) from maintaining the network of trails that make Waterville Valley the rich place for hiking that it is. Pictured here are Dan Newton and Gary Moak clearing a pair of widow makers near the junction of the Snows Mountain Trail and the Greeley Ledge Trail, on December 11, 2010.

Welcome

Welcome to our Blog. We hope you will post comments, trip reports and trail conditions that you find while hiking in and around Waterville Valley. We welcome all comments and suggestions as to how we can make the blog an effective tool in managing our trails.

Wilderness First Aid Class

On November 6 and 7, the WVAIA held a Wilderness First Aid course here in Waterville Valley. Sixteen outdoor enthusiasts with experience levels ranging from casual to an experienced AMC Trip Leader took part in the comprehensive wilderness first aid program. It was taught by Gerry Brache, a highly qualified instructor from SOLO (Stonehearth Open Learning Opportunities) of Conway, NH. The participants hailed from all over New England including six from Waterville Valley.

A small sample of the subjects covered were-

·  Backcountry Essentials

·  Survival Skills (including lightning)

·  Patient Assessment

·  Rescue Plan

·  Spinal Cord Injury Management

·  Sprains & Strains

·  Trauma-Musculoskeletal Injuries

If you spend any time out on the trails, whether it be hiking, x-country skiing, mountain biking, or just out for a walk, these skills could prove invaluable and potentially life-saving. WVAIA will offer this course again, so please sign up for the next class.