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Winter above Tree Line
- University Press of New England
- Chapter
- Additional Information
Guy Waterman Winter above Tree Line November 1968’s snowfall, as measured on the summit of Mount Washington , was already 87 inches. December added another whopping 104 inches to the pile. . . . That amazing winter, the total snow accumulation very nearly reached 50 feet! On the trails that led to and connected the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) huts, a party of four chose to divide their resources to facilitate a winter traverse: one pair would start from Lonesome Lake and work eastward toward the Presidentials. The other pair would start at the Presidentials, do a standard Presidentials traverse, and then keep going. The two parties would meet roughly halfway. From then on the going would be easier for both groups—because their trails would be packed. Or such was the elegantly worked-out theory. On December 24, 1968, the first pair, Dave Ingalls and Roy Kligfield, started from Franconia Notch. With huge packs laden for the lengthy journey, they snowshoed up to tree line on the Franconia Ridge, crossed over the alpine zone and Mount Lafayette, and camped at Garfield Pond on that first night. Bitterly cold temperatures and high winds greeted their efforts next morning, but they laboriously chugged on over Garfield and the ups and downs of that ridge, reaching Galehead Hut for a cold Christmas night. Ingalls had partially frozen a few toes the year before, and that night he noted ominous signs of recurring frostbite. Still determined, they took off from Galehead Hut and climbed South Twin. On the high windracked ridge beyond South Twin, the snow had drifted so deep among the stunted trees that it was hopeless to find the trail. Repeatedly they sunk in spruce traps and had to struggle out of their enormous packs to extricate themselves. Ingalls realized his feet had lost all feeling. In desperation they opted to return to the lower and more sheltered elevation of Galehead Hut, where the temperature that night sunk to –24 degrees Fahrenheit. The next morning, December 27, the two climbers began a desperate flight for survival. They headed down and out of the mountains, constantly losing and re-finding the trail along the Gale River, physically worn and defeated, and with the certain knowledge that Ingalls’s feet were in bad 7 t a l es a b o ve t r ee l i n e shape. By late afternoon they slid down the last snowbank to the plowed road. They didn’t try to hitch a ride; instead, they walked out in front of the next car and forced it to stop. Ingalls elected to be driven to Massachusetts General Hospital, in hopes of receiving more knowledgeable medical care than might be available at a smaller facility. After a long recuperation, he walked back into the world with several toes lost forever, victims of frostbite. The other pair included the author of this account and his then sixteenyear -old son, Johnny. Their attempt to complete the traverse was just as fruitless as the Ingalls-Kligfield fiasco. . . . The raw power, the malign destructive force of a mountain winter fully impressed both father and son. Their tale—which almost became a tragedy—is worth retelling for the lessons it teaches about the hazards of winter camping and climbing in New England’s mountains. On the day after Christmas, 1968, the father and son duo struggled into huge packs, donned snowshoes, and began slowly plodding through a couple of feet of fresh snow up a mountain trail called the Valley Way. Whoever named this trail had his terminology backward: “Valley” Way climbs nearly 4,000 vertical feet in less than 4 miles, up into the northern end of the Presidential Range. The hikers’ objective was to traverse the peaks of the Presidentials and, if possible, to continue across other mountain ranges to the west. They never got near those western ranges. They covered about three miles that first day. Their packs were jammed full of enough winter equipment and food to last ten days. As this was before the days of lightweight gear, the packs weighed more than 80 pounds each. The fresh, unconsolidated December snow, plus the weight of those packs, meant that at every step the lead man sank in about 2 feet. It was absurdly slow going. And they got a late start. Lesson 1—Don’t count on moving rapidly in winter. Trail conditions can make half a mile per hour an exhausting speed. The Appalachian Mountain Club suggests, “Guidebook travel...