Mount Washington’s Tuckerman Ravine is a springtime haven for snow junkies from all over the globe. Thousands visit each weekend to check out a slope that has no competitor on the east coast. The forty– percent pitches, grueling hike and constantly changing conditions make Tuckerman Ravine completely unique, and one of New England’s most rewarding places to visit.
The weather atop Mount Washington is no joke. At 6,288 feet, it has seen some of the world’s most intense weather. Due to the fronts and weather patterns of North America, conditions can change from sunny to blistering wind and rain in a very short time. The weather is very unpredictable. So what was it that made seven Plymouth State students decide to embark for the springtime ritual the morning after Mount Washington received three inches of rain? D. All of the above.
The morning began at 5:30 a.m. Legs not quite functional yet and eyes still crusted over, one of my roommates and I shuffled around the apartment tossing gear into piles and prepared lunches. Mine consisted of two bananas, some crackers, and half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich made with the folded heal from a loaf of wheat bread. Soon we heard yelling coming from outside in the street. It sounded surprisingly clear and sober, so it had to be our friends packing up the cars. Walking outside, the weather was warm and everything was soaked. Predictions for the day at Tucks were rain ending early, giving way to cloudy skies. We piled into two cars and drove off.
Leaving Plymouth, we saw the Pemi rise high near the road, doing its spring-cleaning. Driving through the Kancamangus Highway, we followed the wide Swift River as it sped along, rambling, tempting kayakers to test their skills. Every so often the sun came through the clouds, shining brightly against some obscure spot, leaving everything else in the shadows. After over an hour of winding roads and munching Irving snacks, we arrived at the Pinkham Notch Visitor’s Shelter.
All seven of us, being veterans of Tuckerman Ravine, got out of the car and started making jokes, “Hey, where’s the chairlift?” “How much are lift tickets?” “Where’s the rental shop?” Of course none of these things exist, but we got some strange looks from other hikers. Five snowboarders and two skiers made our group as we packed and adjusted our gear in a parking lot that was much less crowded than we expected. We attached our skis or snowboards to our hiking packs. Some people did a few stretches while others relieved themselves. Soon enough, we began our 2.5-mile assent to the Hermit Lake Shelter, located at the base of the ravine. The trail started off icy, and poleless snowboarders slid across the slippery surface. If things continued that way, it was going to be a long hike. As it had done earlier in the morning, the sun made an appearance from behind the clouds and softened the ice. Water ran down the trail soaking hikers’ feet, and sweat ran down our brows as we carried our thirty-pound packs up the trail.
Usually, the Tuckerman Ravine Trail is lined with hikers, but weather reports must have kept people away. About 30 minutes into the hike, things became quiet and people climbed at their own pace. Sparse conversation consisted mainly of the Red Sox and bodily functions. Before we knew it, we had reached the Hermit Lake Shelter in just under an hour. Volunteer Ski Patrolmen, Appalachian Mountain guides and three Labrador retrievers lingered around the hut. We tossed down our packs and drank some water. Condition signs boasted low avalanche danger but warnings of deep crevasses along the right side of Tuckerman Ravine, the giant cereal bowl with boulders and jutting cliffs that look like crusty Wheaties that never came off in the dishwasher. A persistent mist sprayed our faces as we cooled off from the initial hike. But the climb ahead was the real challenge. Packs would be discarded and snow gear thrown on (except for one of us, who would hike and ride the ravine in a pair of khakis). Everyone was anxious. The weather was warm and the sun continued to prod its way through the clouds. Tucks was still hidden by a thick fog, but straight ahead of us lied a trail known as Hillman’s Highway. It is just to the north of the ravine and it looked like a good first run. With little discussion we looked at the tiny hikers climbing, what looked more like an interstate to the sky and started off. Again there was conversation at the beginning, mostly about bodily functions. We soon found out that climbing in the deep snow left no room for any talk, especially about methane gas. The only sounds were that of the person digging their feet in ahead of you and your own breath.
After an hour of climbing and resting, we saw a sharp rock jutting from the slope and decided it was a good place to get into our boards and skis and take a ride down the mountain. Hillman’s Highway is fairly wide compared to other routes at Tuckerman Ravine. As we became ready, one by one we headed down into the fog. The snow was like mashed potatoes and it sank down softly under the skis. Turns were wide and round as we glided down the slope in minutes, an hour of work for just a few moments of peaceful satisfaction.
Back at The Hermit Shelter, things picked up a bit. More hikers had arrived and we needed to crowd into one corner to eat lunch and talk about our run. One by one people arrived from the path taken to Hillman’s Highway. We scarfed down sandwiches, trail mix, and pieces of fruit as the sun made a bright and defining presence. Mist coming from a nearby waterfall kept us cool under the blaring sun. After about an hour we decided to head for the headwall.
Although we were all pretty tired and there was talk of not skiing the headwall, when we got there, everyone silently decided in their minds that we were going to conquer the mountain today. Barely any other skiers or snowboarders were in the ravine; a rare chance to choose a route and descend it virtually alone. It was not long before we began gravitating toward the bowl, picking out routes in our minds like children in a toy store. Five of us chose ‘the chute,’ a narrow, fifty–degree run near the left side of the ravine. Two others chose ‘left gully,’ a similar route beside the chute.
Hiking up the ravine is a tedious process, and concentration is a must. It takes over an hour, with skis or snowboard in hand, to climb the wall of snow that man has kicked and dug holes into, in order to reach the top. One by one, we began, keeping some distance between each other. Leaning back or losing your balance for just a second can cause you to fall backward and slide down the mountain, knocking down other hikers behind you. So for over an hour the only sound heard in that giant cereal bowl was the crunching of boots hitting snow and the sound of your lungs working inside you.
We reached the top and looked out at the vast snowfields and capped peak of Mount Washington. The wind picked up and the sun disappeared, again. Granite boulders protruded from an ocean of snow. As we caught our breath and prepared for the decent, I couldn’t help thinking, there is always the possibility while standing on top of this ridge, land falling away from your protruding skis, that a gust of wind can come and spin you away like the bottle cap flicked from a giant’s fingers.
It was getting cold at the top and our soaking bodies would soon feel the effects if we didn’t get moving. One by one we left, losing sight of each other quickly in the fog. As I began my decent, again I felt the soft snow under my skis. I made long, round turns as I accelerated to ‘the chute.’ I couldn’t see very well but didn’t have to because once again I was skiing down Tuckerman’s Ravine, charging at the mountain in a culmination of another great ski season.
Then it happened.
I realized just how fast I was going as I approached the entrance to the chute and tried to stop. I shifted my legs and dug my skis into the snow. I was slowing down but could feel the weight of my upper body being pulled to the bottom of the ravine. My feet remained still and I toppled over. Out of the corner of my eye I could see one of my friends, upside down, just before my head hit the snow for the first time. After that I just remember flashes of snow and a feeling that I had absolutely no control over what was happening to me. Apparently I did three summersaults and flipped right down the middle of the chute like a bowling ball heading for the number one pin. When I stopped flipping ass to tea kettle, I could see the bottom of the ravine and slid down amongst a wave of snow. One of my skis was still attached. I dug my skiless boot into the snow and stopped, more than halfway down the mountain. One of my friends came down the ravine carrying one of my poles. “Holy sh*t!” he said (which I think is the only thing anyone says after they witness something ridiculously stupid yet potentially life threatening). “I’m fine,” I told him as he handed off the pole. Then I looked back up the route I just tumbled down and saw a small stick protruding from near where I fell. Minutes later, another one of my friends came down and dropped of my other ski. “I found this at the top, sticking straight out of the snow.”
I traversed until I came under a large boulder where the pitch was flat enough that I could put my skis back on, collect myself, and finish my run. On the way down I couldn’t stop thinking of how stupid I had been. Why had I not been more cautious? I had undermined the power of the mountain, taken it for granted, and paid the price.
Everyone gathered at the bottom where we left our packs. We were excited and exhausted. We passed cameras to other skiers who took pictures of us. We each drank a cold beer and rested.
Now there was just a short hike down to the Hermit shelter and then a run down the Shelborne Trail. A trail that resembles a blue square at a resort mountain; it is next to the hiking trail and is considerably wider. We bombed down through patches of grass and rocks, over brooks until we reached the point of no snow. Once again we took off our skis and boards and walked the short distance to the parking lot. The sun was out for good now, and we removed soaking socks and gloves, drinking what water we had left. I sat on the trunk of my friend’s car, looking towards the mouth of the trail, and thought, ‘I can’t wait to come back here again next year.’