Summit

An impromptu escapade can be worth two weeks of planned holidays. I once had a pal at university in South Africa who was the perfect source of impromptu events. Most of these turned out quite splendid. However, there are some events that demand proper basic planning. That much I have learned this past weekend.

The outing started at 17:00 at the office when a colleague suggested that we spent the night at a MIT bungalow outside North Conway in New Hampshire to go hiking to the summit of North Moat the next morning. As usual, I queried for information about the hike - how long in duration, how difficult, the weather prospects. I received rather vague answers, which should have raised my caution over this impromptu event. However, common sense insisted that such a short notice hike could not possibly be too demanding, since that would have required more thoughtful planning and longer notice. How far presumption missed reality would only transpire the next day.

Being an old hand at hiking in South Africa, I took my time to pack my things at home. Based upon initial information, I packed a one liter water bottle and later bought another .75 l of Gatorade - enough for the purported 3h of hiking. A closer scrutiny of the trek would have exposed my folly. Six slices of bread plus six energy bars made up the nourishment.

When we arrived, it was 23:15 and pitch black - new moon. My MagLite pierced the night. My colleague was ill-equipped for night marches with a head light that more resembled some fashion head gear for a disco party. He stumbled forth with four different kinds of bags and containers swung over his shoulders - only one being a proper rucksack. I contained my amusement and quelled my misgivings over the rest of the escapade ahead of us.

The bungalow turned out a very reasonable retreat, well-kept and sufficiently attired. I had a very bad night's sleep. The floor was hard, my skinniness not helping.

The next morning we got out in time and reached the start of the route at around 09:30. Everything started off well enough. We passed the first sign and picked the route to Moat Trail, skipping the more difficult Red Ridge. Half an hour later we were lost. Another hour later we were back at the Red Ridge sign and had little choice left but to approach the summit along that trail.

All went hunky dory until we hit the mountain side. The incline was steep. The terrain was difficult. I was unfit for this trek. Worse, I was at the end of my bottle of Gatorade not even half way up to the summit. We had been on the trail for an additional 90 minutes already. I was out of breath, my glycogen levels were dropping fast. We stopped frequently.

The mountain played the fool with us. Every so often one would expect the summit over the next brow, only to find 500 more feet in elevation ahead. Every so often I would sit down, gather my strength and set off for another few meters of slogging. My colleague was quite patient. Close to the summit a shirtless fellow passed us. He was handsome. It inspired me for a short while until physical realities cut through again.

Eventually, we reached the summit. I had .25 l of water left. By then I could not swallow my food. Only fluids would go down. Great drowsiness came over me.

When it was time to continue down, my colleague was at a lost at first for direction. Ten minutes later we were on the trail down. It was one monotonic descent, with none of the necks and brows on the way up. It was an endless pipe of rock and gravel. At the end of my strength, such descent required all my concentration and experience to stay on my feet.

Dehydration was taking its toll. Nausea was creeping up my throat. Dizziness plagued me and after each rest, getting up again had become a miss and hit affair. My legs were lead. Proper hiking boots preserved my feet and ankles. But tiredness threatened every step.

Down, down, down we went. Never ending was the downward snaking. An odd sense of delirium came over me. There only one vision in front of me - the downhill trail. There was only one goal - to reach my car. Beyond tiredness, my body seemed to have forgotten to quit. It only knew slogging. One foot down, carefully not to twist an ankle. Then the other foot came down. On and on and on it went. And then we reached the river. The water was undrinkable.

The level path along the river went on for an eternity. By then nausea gave way to outright puking. But there was nothing to puke. I gathered myself and set off at a faster pace than ever to get to my car where there was extra water; the end of the ordeal and the hope of reaching a petrol station for some proper nourishment.

We reached the car. I barely reckognised my own voice - my speech slow and the tone subdued. A dull head-ache was taking hold upstairs. At the petrol station I got some Gatorade and apple juice. The Gatorade seemed to begin reviving me. The apple juice came right out within minutes of the first mouthful. A resigned calmness settled in. I was adamant to take my car home that night.

At 23:15 on Saturday night the GTi pulled into Windsor Village. Home at last. Did I mention that the view was spectacular at the summit?