Pemigewasset Loop in a Day
Someone in my family recently asked me about the ‘why’ of doing big day hikes, and that seems to be a reasonable question to consider at the start of a photoessay about hiking the 31-mile Pemigewasset Loop in a day. Traversing over 8 of New Hampshire’s most spectacular 4,000 footers, the loop requires about 9,000 feet of elevation gain on top of the mileage, and thus a voracious appetite for hiking is necessary, regardless of whether you choose to do it in a day, or more. It’s also complicated, as I sit at home struggling to go up and down my stairs, to try and tell you that I am just a glutton for punishment. What follows is my argument for why I think that it is fun to hike that much, and photo evidence to prove it…
The easiest and most basic reason, is just the pure aesthetic of being in the mountains. Layer upon layer of ridge lines receding into the horizon, or the unusual weather always interacting with light in marvelous and brand new ways, it just looks good, and I want to get out there to see it. Also, by choosing to do a lot of miles, it kind of is a back handed way to force myself to wake up at 2AM to be able to see the sunrise on the first peak. A brief consolation for the punishment I am about to subject myself to.
Looking East across the Pemigewasset Wilderness towards Mt. Bond, one of the last peaks of the day’s journey, from the summit of Mt. Flume at sunrise.
Watching the day dawn on what is to come over Mt. Liberty (left) and Franconia Ridge (back right) from Mt. Flume.
Being a Saturday, I knew that the trails would be quite busy by mid-morning, though I did not expect to run into so many before dawn. Many of those who I ran into were also doing the loop, which almost requires an early start to finish before dark, so we ended up converging on Flume and Liberty as the sun rose, before exchanging encouragements and carrying on.
By traversing several miles of trail and coming to a viewpoint, I like to be given an overview of the ground I’ve just covered, and this visualization is a powerful grounding force for me. It is both humbling to see the vastness of the planet laid out, and empowering to consider how far I’ve come. I don’t think we are often granted that opportunity in other parts of our lives, so the sensation fascinates me.
A classic image of the Mt. Liberty summit in early morning sunlight, with Lincoln, NH obscured by undercast in the valley below.
Setting out from the summit of Mt. Liberty, you are given a spectacular glimpse at the alpine wonderland you are about to traverse. With Franconia Notch and Cannon Mountain (left) to the West, and the Pemigewasset Wilderness to the East, the Franconia Ridge (right) is rightfully one of the most famous ridge lines in the Northeast.
Greenleaf Hut sits high above Franconia Notch about a mile West of Mount Lafayette.
Climbing up Mt. Haystack brought me right to the Southern end of Franconia ridge, where I met the Falling Waters trail that clamors up the steep mountainside from the floor of Franconia Notch. If you were to take this trail, follow the ridge over Lincoln and Lafayette, and descend towards Greenleaf Hut and the Old Bridge Path, to finish where you started (or vice-a-versa), you would have hiked the Franconia Ridge Loop, which is one of the most popular hikes in New England. Beautiful summer weekends like this one can see hundreds of people traversing the ridge in a day. Even as I was reaching Mt. Haystack by 6:45AM, there were half a dozen groups of hikers already climbing the ridge ahead of me towards Mt. Lincoln.
The very summit of Franconia Ridge, Mt. Lafayette, creating its own weather in the early morning sun.
What a spectacular mile. The energy amongst folks I saw along this section of trail was ecstatic! When I made it to the summit of Mt. Lafayette, I ran into a runner I had seen earlier that morning on both Liberty and Haystack, so we enjoyed the summit for a few minutes, and then carried on down the trail together towards our next objective, Mt. Garfield. We eventually split as the tree line overtook us, but it was great to get to know another runner, and casually have a conversation with plenty of space between us, a steady breeze, and mountains around. It was a needed break from the anxiety of painted lines and the suspicious quiet of other public spaces in 2020…
Looking North from Mt. Lafayette towards my next objective, Mt. Garfield (right).
There comes a reckoning on every long trek. A moment, or series of long moments, when your spirit darkens quietly, and the pain and tiredness grips you. On this trip, that reckoning came slowly, and is evidenced by a lack of photos in the three hours after this moment, when I was heading down Mt. Lafayette towards Mt. Garfield. Garfield felt alright, but somewhere between there and the halfway point at Galehead Hut, I crashed. The 1,100 foot climb in 0.7 miles to South Twin immediately after the hut was even worse. It wasn’t until I was on the way from South Twin to Mt. Guyot that my headspace started to improve. It is likely that the water refill and burrito I had at Galehead Hut helped, not to mention the entire bag of Reese’s Minis I crushed on the summit of South Twin. Regardless, being at the halfway point, and also the farthest point from my car, it was disheartening to feel as low as I did.
Some might also expect me to say something like, “since I like hiking so much, why wouldn’t I hike all the time?” Well, you wouldn’t be wrong, and that is certainly part of it, but it’s more complicated than that. If you’ve ever walked for a while before, you likely understand that it can start to hurt, and sometimes, a lot. Especially the more you do. There is something of a ‘point of diminishing returns’ with hiking, and yet I still find myself going way beyond that. There have been times where I’ve hiked so much that I have actually injured myself from the overuse of my knees, ankles, and hips. I can’t really tell you why I do this, but I have a sense that it has a root in the lessons learned from challenging oneself and learning from mistakes. I’ve gotten better at preparing to hike these distances so that they aren’t beyond my fitness level, and each trip seems to become something of a meditation on emotional struggle, that prepares me for the next bigger and ‘badder’ adventure, or maybe even in wrestling something in my personal life.
I am fortunate to spend a lot of my life in my comfort zone, where my basic needs are met, I feel safe, and I feel a part of a community, still we all come to turning points that challenge and threaten to break us. Thus I fully appreciate having the privilege to take advantage of the beautiful landscape around me, and head out there in search of ways in which I can put myself under pressure, and then learn from how my body and mind reacts to distress. I couldn’t tell you if it truly works, because life is often throwing curve balls, but it helps to have moments to reflect on what I’m capable of, that might inspire me to push on.
Finally heading down Mt. Bond towards the last peak, Bondcliff, this is the last photograph that I took of the day. A long winding trail to the horizon, stretched out ahead of me, and my car sitting ‘just’ on the other side. In that moment, it seemed like a pretty painful simplicity, but now that it’s done, what I see is a reminder of the last few rewarding hours of that awesome slog. Running into a friend along the trail and catching up, the dog that ran with me down the bottom half of Bondcliff, submerging myself in Franconia Brook then immediately getting a charley horse, and the McDonalds milkshake that I drove 30 minutes out of my way to get in Lincoln afterwards; It’s incredible that each of those memories occurred within the frame of this landscape, just hours after it was taken, and I am so grateful to have a reminder.
Finally, community is often one of my strongest motivations in life, and meeting people out on the trail and sharing in those experiences feels like the output that brings all of this icky self-gratification into a shared space of affirmation and familiarity. I made some quick friends on this trip, saw a few old friends as well, and talked to dozens of tired and excited people, all out there humping themselves over rocks and mud puddles, each for their own damn reason. If that ain’t beautiful, what is?
This journey and the accompanying photographs were taken on land indigenous to the Abenaki and Wabanaki communities.
They are still fighting for their full rights as nations and stewards on their own land.