Thursday, Sept. 1
I woke up at 4 a.m., right on schedule. It’s the time my body declares it can’t withstand the night any longer without giving in to my shrinking bladder. The dawn patrol bathroom run has become a ritual.
The morning run was muggy, the kind of muggy that sticks to your skin and whispers, Why are you doing this? I jogged three miles to the gym, where I’m a regular fixture in the winter but a rare oddity the rest of the year. James, the ever-cheerful desk guy, greeted me with his usual warmth and tossed me a towel without even glancing at my membership card—an unspoken acknowledgment of our routine. I rolled out my calves and quads with a long, torturous plastic tube, stretched with a hint of yoga, held planks to the tune of whatever pop chorus was stuck in my head, and flirted with the light kettlebells. Twenty minutes later, I was jogging along the Charles River, squeezing out another two miles of sticky, humid effort before heading home.
Today was the day: the start of our three-night camping adventure. A flurry of packing ensued, punctuated by frantic searches for missing socks and snacks. By 9 a.m., we were buckled into the fully-loaded Subaru, rain showers in Massachusetts giving way to blue skies as we crossed into New Hampshire. Our first stop: the Flume parking lot for a warm-up hike up Mt. Pemigawasset (a.k.a. Indian Head). It’s a quick three-mile round trip with a manageable 1,200 feet of elevation gain. Little Boy put up the expected complaints but—miracle of miracles—offered spontaneous compliments on the view. We documented the summit, and I stowed away the brief flash of pride before it could scare him off.
After the hike, we head to the campground. En route we stop in Twin Mountain for ice cream at a general store. A sign on the door barred certain named people from entering the store for reasons of “moral turpitude.” Thankfully, we were not on the list, and the owners actually seemed pretty normal. Upon reaching the campsite, we set up the tents, tarps, alcove, and start a fire, and enjoy relative calm and snacks.
Friday September 2
I was fully awake by 6:15 a.m., having spent the night in a tent, waking up just enough times to feel nostalgic for uninterrupted sleep. Little Boy chirped a “Good morning!” as I unzipped the tent, and I hushed him back into his sleeping bag for a few more precious moments of quiet.
Confession: I slept in my running clothes, complete with a semi-suffocating sports bra. Camping brings out my practical side. Sneakers on, I ventured out for a morning jog on the campground’s modest trail system. I had a map, vague memories from five years ago (Little Boy’s first camping trip!), and enough confidence to get lost, which I did. Panicky, I clapped my hands and called, “Hey Bear! Hey Bear!” every few minutes, straying into an ATV trail before finding a sign that pointed me back to HQ—1.5 miles of downhill relief. What was supposed to be a quick 50-minute run turned into 90 minutes of misplaced adventure.
By the time I returned, Mr. P was already pulling a pot of boiling water off the camping stove. Instant coffee has never tasted so good.
Post-coffee, we set out for Mt. Washington. Our goal was Tuckerman’s Ravine. If Little Boy was up for it, we’d push on to the summit, but a 9:30 a.m. start meant no late-afternoon descents. Tuckerman’s would be victory enough.
Little Boy’s relationship with hiking is part Shakespearean tragedy, part slapstick comedy. He’s a reluctant hiker until the promise of candy or the need to spite the trail itself propels him upward. Today’s motivators: Kit Kats and some mildly inappropriate conversation topics. We reached Lunch Rocks—three miles and 2,500 feet up—where we had a proper break, a few snapshots, and started our descent.
After the hike, we return to the campground for a dip in the swimming pond.
Saturday Sept 3
This was to be the most momentous day of the vacation. Mr. P tackled a Presidential Traverse (19 miles, hitting all seven of the Presidential Range’s 4000+ footers) while Little Boy and I would be tackling one of the Presidential peaks, Mt. Pierce. We had tried to time our respective adventures so we would all meet up at the end of Mr. P’s traverse, but we moved a bit too fast and he moved a bit too slow, so we only shared the last 1.5 mile together (and more importantly for Mr. P, the car ride back to the campground).
Still, a great day. We dropped off Mr. P at the Appalachia trailhead early so he could start his traverse at the northern-most part of the Presidential Range, then we headed back to the campground for a lazy breakfast.
Then Little Boy and I drove to Pinkham Notch to start our ascent of the southern-most Presidential peak, Mt. Pierce. This is an “easy” hike for a 4000-footer, less than 3 miles one way and 2500 ft. elevation gain along the nicely-graded Crawford Path. I’ve noticed Little Boy moves much easier when he is with one parent as opposed to both of us. Perhaps he feels more like a hiking buddy and less like he is being dragged into the woods by his crazy parents. We stopped for two Kit Kat breaks along the way but made it to the summit in less than two hours.
We waited. Mr. P projected his arrival to Mt. Pierce before 2pm, but at 2:30pm he wasn’t there. Since I had no cell phone service, I assumed all sorts of bad things. I decided Little Boy and I would start to descend and we’d take it from there.
Then, disaster on the descent: Little Boy, who is normally so fluid and agile on the rocky downhills, slipped on a wet rock and banged his right knee badly. He howled, tears screaming down his face as I hugged him and weighed my options if Little Boy was unable to walk. Could I carry him down? Should I enlist other hikers’ to go radio for help at the nearby AMC hut? Fortunately, after about two minutes Little Boy started to walk — or hobble, rather — down the trail. He couldn’t flex his right knee without pain so he was descending slowly straight-legged, which looked so wrong. My head marinated with negativity; now my son was maimed, and my husband was missing.
Then, Little Boy began to pick up the pace. In fact, he was flying down the trail and I could barely keep up. I even lost sight of him. I began to call his name. I called it a half-dozen times when I heard a noise behind me. It was Mr. P!
We caught up to Little Boy and all my gloom lifted. Sure, Little Boy had a bruise but it would heal. And Mr. P was there, so there was no reason to call 911. Not an unequivocal success, but still a nice day.
Sunday Sept 4
Our last half-day camping. Even if Little Boy could hike with his swollen knee, we knew that he had reached his tolerance level… as had Mr. P, after his Presi Traverse. So they went to the Mt. Washington Cog Railroad while I planned to explore the trails within running distance of the campground.
I started on the Jimtown Logging Road. I had planned to hike up Mt. Crescent and back to the campground on the logging road, but I quickly developed hatred of the route, which was overgrown with meadow grass to the point that walking — let alone running — proved difficult and kinda gross. So I mapped out an alternative plan back to the campground. Instead of going up Mt. Crescent, I would descend to the Appalachia trailhead through a bunch of little-used local trails (all maddeningly labelled “Path”) and take the Presidential Rail trail about 5 miles back to the campground.
On the way to Appalachia, I passed Lake Durand, which was a pleasant surprise. There was a great view of the Northern Presidentials from the lake.
The five-mile jog along the Presidential Rail trail was actually quite beautiful. It felt strange to be doing something so flat in the White Mountains, but compared to the jam-packed trail of holiday hikers, the isolation of the trail made me feel like I was truly getting away from it all.
I returned back to the campground at around 11:30am, which was prime time to snag a hot shower without a line.
After lunch, and breaking camp, and a quick dip in the swimming pond, we headed back home. Bye, summer… we hope we gave you a good send-off.
