Reflections from the Mount Lafayette Summit
The White Mountains have always felt like my place. Even as a child, I knew that there was something about them that promised great magic and wonder; something about them that I was destined to explore. “The mountains are calling and I must go,” my mind would echo, as preservationist John Muir would say. When it came to the White Mountains, I truly understood what Muir had meant in what this short phrase of his neglected to capture, for he continued, “and I will work on what I can, studying incessantly” (Wurtz, 2021). Not only did Muir view the wilderness as home, but he took great pride in understanding it so he could best preserve it.
While John Muir frequented the Sierra Nevada Mountains, my favorite place to reflect is the Old Bridle Path that summits Mount Lafayette. Of the forty-eight four-thousand footers in my state, this was the one that spoke to me most. Over the years, I’ve established a little routine; take the Bridle Path up, summit Mount Lafayette, Mount Lincoln, and Little Haystack Mountain before heading down the Falling Waters Trail. I have always done it this way, for the indescribable feeling of breaking through the treeline as I near the shelter on Mount Lafayette is something I yearn for with each visit. It is always in that moment that I am offered so much to think about; how grateful I am that this is my home, how truly lucky I am to be able to experience something as magical and extraordinary as this, a plethora of feelings come flooding in, as I stand there, awestruck.
The air has gotten cooler since I began, having started my adventure with a five AM wake up call. I stand there, unmoving, feeling every breath settle into my lungs. After holding it there for a moment, I release it, watching the ephemeral misty cloud of carbon dioxide dissipate in front of my eyes. I always take my time at this spot, stepping forwards off the path, allowing other hikers (if any) to pass me. I want to be able to hold onto this feeling for as long as I can, as I know I only feel it in a place like this.
Eventually I carry on with my trek, the trail seemingly void of other human life. I have seen a lot of hikers opt to summit Little Haystack first, then cross the ridge to Lincoln, finally summiting Lafayette. Rather than doing the loop, however, they turn around, taking the same path down. The Falling Waters Trail is always far busier for this reason, hence why I summit Lafayette first. I know that while it is of greater difficulty, I will have the opportunity to fully take in the wilderness around me, without bobbing and weaving through other tourists.
I start to feel tired by the time I reach the shelter, as Mount Lafayette is no easy climb. It’s about five miles to the summit, the entire loop totaling roughly thirteen miles. The final push, beyond the shelter, is exclusively uphill, navigating loose rocks and small boulders that become the trail. I start to see more people as I near the top, and hear them cheer me on as I scramble through the last three-quarters of a mile. I’m almost there. Of course I am excited to reach the top, as the next part of my trek includes traversing the Franconia Ridge, which is just as magical as the trail that now lays behind me; yet part of me wishes that time hadn’t slipped by so quickly. The feeling is fleeting, as I look around me; nothing beats the panoramic realization that you are surrounded entirely by mountains. It never ceases to amaze me, reminding me that I, one human, am a part of something so much greater.
I press on, leaning into my excitement as it powers me up the steep terrain. Despite temperatures in the forties, I am sweating profusely through my shirt; I can feel it clinging to my skin, as the hiking pack pressed against my back offers no opportunity to breathe. This feeling has always been satisfying to me; as a former competitive athlete, the overwhelming feeling of fatigue tells me that I’ve worked hard. I’ve earned this.
After another twenty minutes or so, I reach the top. My legs are burning, as I high-tailed it up the remainder of the trail upon sight of my exact destination. I take a moment to catch my breath, and as I stand there hunched over I spot unoccupied space by the cliff’s edge, looking out over the forest. I quickly hurry over, weaving in and out of the congregation of tourists and hiking groups to take in the spectacular view. I sit down with my North Face backpack and pull a peanut butter and banana sandwich from my bag. It’s a bit more beat up than it was when it had originally been packed, but still remains the perfect lunch after a few intense hours of hiking.
I finish eating, place my now-crumpled ball of aluminum foil back into my backpack, and look onward at the trail outlined along the ridge, painted against the sky. At that moment I felt connected to preservationists and transcendentalists alike. This is home. My home. I will forever be grateful to people like Muir and Audobon, who saw the wilderness and the sublime for its beauty, and fought for its preservation. Like Thoreau, I felt as connected as ever to the higher powers that be, standing there, on that mountain. How lucky I am to get to experience something as extraordinary as this, in my own backyard.
I summit the following two mountains, Lincoln then Little Haystack, my feet feeling light as ever as I practically skip along the trail. No matter how many miles I had already trekked, overwhelming feelings of gratitude and joy overtook any ounce of fatigue in my body. The most at home I’ve ever felt has been here–the happiest I’ve ever felt.
After a few more miles of walking, I finally dip back below the tree line. I feel a twinge of sadness, knowing that I am headed back towards the trailhead, but already look forward to my next adventure. The Falling Waters Trail is beautiful, and makes for an excellent finale to a day's worth of adventure. As I distance myself from the Little Haystack summit, the sound of rushing water hits my ears, growing in volume with each step. Not long after, the path parallels a stream, and eventually leads me to crossing it, winding back and forth as I follow the trail markings. I know what lies ahead, as I look forward to it on every descent; the waterfall. Another reason why I leave the Falling Waters Trail to the latter end of my excursion. My body usually begins to tire by this point, and I know that I can always count on the sight of the cascading torrent to distract me from the onset of fatigue.
Before I know it, I spot the little wooden bridge marking the near-end of the trail a few yards away. I walk briskly towards it, knowing that I’m near to the junction of the Falling Waters Trail and the Old Bridle Path. A few more miles brings me back to Mount Lafayette Campground, where I had started my day nearly six hours earlier. I climb onto the shuttle that miraculously arrived at the same time I had completed my trek, and exchange memories with the driver in the short drive to where I had parked my car. We both agree that we get to live in a pretty remarkable place, a place that changed both of our lives in more ways than we’d ever be able to articulate.
References:
Nash, R. (2014). Wilderness and the American mind. Yale University Press.
Wurtz, M. (2021, May 24). What Muir really meant by 'the mountains are calling'. Adventure Journal. Retrieved November 16, 2022, from https://www.adventure-journal.com/2018/08/what-muir-really-meant-by-the-mountains-are-calling/