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John C. Goding A Case of the Umbles Our eclectic group met on occasion to share adventures, chief among them hiking. Carl was a strong hiker, to put it mildly, someone who, for fun, might hike 50 contiguous trail miles—covering Liberty, Lincoln, Lafayette, Garfield, South Twin, Crawford Path to Mount Washington, out via the auto road, and up to Pinkham Notch—in 17 hours. He had been turned back twice from a winter ascent of Whiteface, but was convinced that the third time would be the charm. Mike and I answered the call to join in such a worthy quest. We’d done our share of hiking in the Whites and in Baxter State Park, and had dabbled in the Adirondacks. But neither of us had much winter hiking experience or had ever used snowshoes. Undeterred, we prepared our gear at the Downes Brook trailhead on a near-perfect winter day—crystal clear sky and no wind, but very cold. Carl instructed us on securing and using snowshoes. The technology of the time was a woven wooden shoe with leather straps, looking like something one might see Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble wearing on a wintry day in Bedrock. Knowing the route well, Carl took the lead, breaking trail through deep snow, with Mike and me following, flailing about with our snowshoes flopping in different directions and our arms thrashing, trying to keep our balance while crossing ten streams. Carl was blissfully unaware of the spectacle behind him and the sinking odds of success—save for the howling and cursing. But for this group of intrepid hikers, howling and cursing weren’t unusual. After a good while, Mike and I negotiated an uneasy truce with the snowshoes. The spastic flailing had subsided, for the most part, but the snowshoes clearly retained minds of their own and neither Mike nor I knew when we might again be clutching the air and floundering. Still, we were settling in and gaining some confidence that we might pull this off. Carl was unaware how lucky we had been to have made it so far, well over halfway to the summit. But our luck was about to change. Now the terrain rose sharply while, to the right of us, the mountain 120 pe a k e x pe r i e n ces fell away to a stream with large sections hidden under deep snow. Carl reminded us of an earlier lesson, to swing our lead shoe into the bank of snow for purchase, and up we went. This new wrinkle proved to be a great challenge—for each step up and forward, Mike and I would slide sideways and downhill a bit, toward the stream. We were working considerably harder, wasting energy, and making painfully slow progress. Behind me I heard a thud, followed by cursing. I turned to see Mike splayed out in the snow. He struggled to get back on his feet and back onto the trail. Until that point, I hadn’t really noticed that Mike was wearing jeans and a heavy cotton shirt—nothing waterproof. Then again, neither of us had expected to be engaged in a battle of wits and wills with an old pair of snowshoes. We continued on another dozen steps or so, and thud. More cursing, this time involving varied animals, parts of the anatomy, and certain actions that would curl the eyebrows of a U.S. Marine. A few more steps—thud. “Mike,” I said, “you really should brush yourself off before that soaks through.” He answered with a glare that said, Shut the hell up and keep walking. When I turned at what would be the final thud, Mike had fallen and slid, facedown, almost into the river. By the time he’d struggled back up to the trail, he was spent, wet, and covered in snow that caked his clothes and eyeglasses. Carl had heard the commotion and descended to check on the situation. We brushed wet snow off Mike. At first, we had thought it was just a fall—but it quickly became clear that it was more than that. “I can’t feel my feet.” Carl and I looked at each other. We noticed that Mike was shivering markedly. Combining that sign with his degrading coordination, we realCliff Note Experienced hikers say “cotton kills” because only wool and synthetics retain their insulating value when wet. Cotton absorbs moisture and does not wick sweat to outer layers; it takes longer to...

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