Peak Experiences: Danger, Death, and Daring in the Mountains of the Northeast

Extremes at the Top of Maine

Johnathan A. Esper Extremes at the Top of Maine A permit, a sizeable fee, and a group of at least four people are prerequisites to spending a night in Baxter State Park in winter. My dad and I needed to climb Baxter and Hamlin Peaks, so we recruited Phil Hazen to join the group. I had met Phil the year before in the Adirondacks, and he had proven to be a suitable hiking partner. Phil found three other friends to join our team, and we applied for and received permission to attempt the summits during a four-day period in February 2000. We all converged on a small town just south of the park, then proceeded to our starting point: a heavily used logging road called the Golden Road. We spent the first day hiking 15 miles on the park road (open to traffic in the summer) that leads to Roaring Brook Campsite. Even though my dad and I were snowshoeing and carrying full packs, we managed to keep up with the others, who were skiing and pulling sleds. That night we slept in a cabin. I awoke as a park ranger was urging us to pack quickly and hike the three miles up to Chimney Pond. It was snowing heavily, and over a foot had already accumulated. By the time we arrived at Chimney Pond, in late morning, everyone was tired except my dad and me, and no one else wanted to attempt any mountain, especially in that weather. That afternoon I explored the South Basin under the Knife Edge, while my dad packed the trail up Hamlin Peak for the group’s future climb. Though capable of summiting, he was forced to turn around above tree line, because park rules mandate a minimum of four for any summit attempt. The next day’s weather proved very windy; it would be poor for climbing, but my dad persuaded the whole group to attempt Hamlin, as Baxter Peak would be even more exposed. Above tree line the wind was stronger, though not yet knocking us over. We were in whiteout conditions, barely able to see in front of us. Leading the way, I thought we were in the clouds but, when I saw blue sky above, I realized it was yesterday’s snow blowing off the ridge. About a third of the way up the exposed ridge, it cleared slightly and I was able to see the 63 t a l es a b o ve t r ee l i n e ridge rising up ahead. It was an awe-inspiring but fearful sight: white clouds of snow blowing over and off the ridge’s crest. In my heart I wanted to turn around from fear, but my dad caught up with me and encouraged the whole group to continue. My fears proved well-founded; the wind got worse, reaching 70 mph. One of my snowshoes kept falling off at the worst locations. I was forced to take my hands out of my gloves and kneel on them so they wouldn’t take flight as I fixed it. The snowshoe itself also would have blown away—if not for its claw gripping the wind-packed ice and snow. I stayed in the lead to the summit, and thankfully did not have to wait long for the others. I noticed a large swollen area about the size of a Kennedy half-dollar on the exposed cheek of one of the climbers, who was quite helpless at this point. My dad took his hand out of his glove to thaw the other’s cheek to prevent frostbite. We’d been above tree line and in the wind for almost 2 hours. Surprisingly, the others wanted to try to follow the broad plateau over to Baxter Peak. I knew the idea lacked sense, considering the risk of becoming disoriented in the deteriorating weather conditions, so I told everyone to retreat before we succumbed to the elements. On the way back down I was again in front. The wind grew even stronger, forcing me to crawl. At times I could not even crawl, but just hung on to the ground or a rock. There was virtually zero visibility, although I could perceive that I was still on the crest of the ridge. I began to wonder if we would ever get back down to the tree line. I found shelter from the wind behind a large boulder, where I rested and waited for...