White Mountain Molly: Chapter Two

So Mt. Madison, the beast, was slain. Hot cocoa and cold oatmeal in their bellies, Toastface and a distant Six Slash headed out to face the juggernaut, Mt. Washington. The temperature? High 30's. Visibility? Nonexistent.

The climb wasn't terrible, actually. Granted, I was so glad to be alive that maybe anything would have seemed decent (what song got me over Madison, you ask? "She'll Be Comin' Round The Mountain," sung at a feverish tempo probably 20 times back-to-back into a howling vortex of white mist).

Towards the top of Washington, the cloud problem started getting real. I could barely see to the next blaze. In the Whites, they use the cairn system- piles of rocks marking the way when blazes aren't always visible.

I knew I should be at the top because I'd passed a guidebook marker, but I (literally) wasn't seeing anything. Then, out of absolute nothingness, a t-shirt-and-jean clad hoarde appeared. It was as if a giant had picked up Walmart and shook it's human contents onto the top of the mountain. I was shell-shocked. 

I sort of staggered around for a few minutes before the obvious, simple thought "go to the place with pizza" blinked on in my brain and I wandered into the visitor's center. I hadn't looked at myself that day, and the mirror was a somewhat rude awakening. Seeing as I was wearing every piece of clothing I had, including socks on both hands and feet, I don't know exactly what I was expecting. But I looked frightening. 

Pizza was purchased. I headed towards one of two open tables. Next to me was a mom, grandpa, and three boys. When I sat, they moved to the other unoccupied table. I took this as an opportunity to claim space.

After lots more hot cocoa, I finally worked up the will to leave. The biggest of the huts was coming up, and I felt certain they'd have leftovers. 

I was soon caught by Six Slash, whom I'd lost at some point. Six Slash is from PA, and he has a very clipped accent that I came to enjoy and have come to miss.

Toastface! What the fuck! This is bullshit! My hands are fucking freezing! I hate this!

And he was off, leaving me to wander alone, occasionally singing Janis Joplin, but mostly trying not to wipe out on the rocks.

When I came to the hut, Six Slash was outside. He'd gotten us work-for-stay and I could have thrown him a damn parade. Neither of us knew what was expected of us, but we knew we'd have a warm place to stay that night. 

Ben, the manager of the hut (THEY ARE ALL NAMED BEN. EVERYONE ENPLOYED BY THE AMC IS NAMED BEN OR NICK. IT'S A CONSPIRACY), told us to go ahead and have a seat on the bench in the corner. We'd have dinner in a little.

"A little" turned out to be four and a half hours. We sat on a lone bench in a dark hallway with three other thru-hikers because we weren't allowed in the dining hall. We listened to the guests eat dinner. We listened to the crew schmooze the guests. We listened to a program on weather patterns in New England. We listened to the crew eat dinner. Finally, around 8:30 (on a normal night we would have all eaten and been asleep by then), they called us in to finish off the leftovers.

Did I mention before that the crew has to carry the leftovers off the mountain on their backs if we don't eat it? It's definitely symbiosis. Not that we deserve one of the $100 bunk slots, but considering that we did the evenings dishes while the crew took shots of Hennessey, I feel we could AT LEAST have had some soup during the wait.

Thru-hikers are allowed to sleep in the dining hall, which is a common space for the guests. "Lights Out" (#perpetualsummercamp) is at 9:30, but several families were still playing card games at the tables. We made our presence known by setting up and falling asleep within minutes. Several of the hikers snored. The guests hastily wrapped up their card games. We had won the battle, but the war would never be ours. 

I awoke at five in the morning to sunlight and faint rustling. I sat up. About ten people were milling around the dining hall with cups of coffee. 

There have been several times in my life to date when I've felt like an honest-to-god park bench homeless person, but this took the cake and sat on it. The coffee guests completely ignored our presence. I unzipped my sleeping bag. A waft of stale fart assaulted the neighboring atmosphere. A woman reading her kindle got up for another coffee and did not return. I, in filthy sleep clothes, stumbled through the LL Beaned to the bathroom, where I took a cat bath using a kerchief and hand soap. And honestly, I was proud. Of my filth, of my shamelessness, of the way I didn't need a mug of coffee to climb a mountain. I felt    a weird self-respect. 

Six Slash and I skipped breakfast and headed on into the bright, cloudless morning.

And that's where I'll leave you for now.