Beaver Brook Shelter [mile 1409.3; SOBO 390.9]
Quick update tonight because my hands are freezing! I forgot how cold this phone gets. The last couple of nights have been true winter. Well… not winter for the Whites. But winter for Springer! Temps in the thirties, wind chills in the twenties? I’m not sure. Cold enough that even wearing almost everything I’ve got, I’m cold at night. (It’s the air mattress; I’m an abysmally cold sleeper, so I need to get my arctic stuff back.)
Anyway. Hit the trail at 6:50. Could see my breath for most of the morning. The trail was flooded out and boggy—so boggy, in fact, that a NOBO compared it to that Japanese game show Wipeout. And he was right!
And it was a cold day. Blue skies, but chilly and windy. A perfect day for homemade soup or pork and cabbage or something slow-cooking that steams the windows and fills the house with its aroma.
Instead, I had Clif bars.
The trail eventually went down to Kinsman Notch, where a half mile away was a roadside attraction (Lost! River! Gorge!) with a snack bar. I was worried about food again, so I left my pack in the woods and ran down to see what was what. Not much, as it turned out: just some microwaveable stuff. I scarfed a microwave cheeseburger and a bag of chips just to extend the food bag, then headed back, grabbed my pack, and trudged up the bottom half of the foothill of Mt. Moosilauke—my last mountain in the Whites. I’ll actually summit it tomorrow, on my six-month trailiversary.
The trail was steep but stupendous. It flanked a waterfall, a series of cascades that ran rock to rock and basin to basin, liquid diamond that carved that channel right down the side of the mountain for a mile. Water is stronger than rock.
And here I am in my tent. Brrr! Sun’s going down.
Tomorrow: Out of the Whites! No plan beyond that.