The Great Gulf Wilderness is the ravine below the summit, on the left side of the picture. The Headwall is in shadow.

Except for a couple of easy day hikes in the wilds of New Jersey with the Scouts, I’d done practically no hiking at all.

I never wrote this down until now, so it is a tale told from memory. But the memory is vivid, and a quick look at some on-line resources refreshed my recollection of various place and trail names.

In the summer of 1977, I worked as a lab tech in my University’s Organic Chemistry prep lab. It was a fun and easy job, and I learned a lot of practical chemistry. The other tech and I, Gary, a chem major, were supervised by a senior chemist, an older gentleman who had once worked at Los Alamos, doing plutonium chemistry for the Manhattan Project.

One day Gary asked me had I ever done much backpacking, which I had not. Except for a couple of easy day hikes in the wilds of New Jersey with the Scouts, I’d done practically no hiking at all.

So, in early August, Gary invited me to join him and a handful of other friends, whom I already knew from chem classes, on a multi-day packpacking and camping trip.

In New Hampshire. Up to the top of Mount Washington, and back down the other side, in one day. It would be, as Gary said, “Fuckin’ epic.”

I said yes, which, as it turned out, was not my big mistake. Not by a long shot.

Gary had already secured the necessary permits for us to camp and hike in the White Mountain National Forest. I went shopping at Herman’s World of Sports for things I had never before needed, like a good sleeping bag, a large external-frame backpack, a lightweight tent and decent hiking boots.

And so we went, four college kids and a bunch of kit crammed into Gary’s van, making the long drive from northern New Jersey to northeastern New Hampshire and one of the world’s most dangerous mountains. We left early and made it to our first night’s stop, the Hermit Lake shelters, with daylight to spare. It was a short and easy hike from the parking area to the shelters, but my new boots were stiff and hurt my feet a bit.

The next day I fully learned the folly of making a long, strenuous hike in brand-new boots.

We woke up just past dawn the next morning; it was going to be a long day. Our plan was to climb Tuckerman Ravine to the top of Mt. Washington, then descend to the bottom of the glacial cirque called the Great Gulf Wilderness, taking the Great Gulf Trail back to the road, then walking or hitchhiking back to the lodge to spend a night sleeping in real beds before heading home.

As we readied ourselves for the hike, we were treated to a strange and beautiful sight; thick fog was pouring like milk over the ridge above our heads and down the valley of Tuckerman Ravine. It was on our route, but was predicted to burn off as the sun rose. I had blisters on both heels. Not great, but not terrible. They would twinge a bit if my feet twisted or pulled a certain way, but nothing too bad. Certainly not enough to call off my epic hike and retreat to the lodge while the others completed our adventure without me. So we began our climb.

As you climb up Tuckerman Ravine toward the summit of Mount Washington, the trail gets steeper. And steeper still. Eventually you are scrambling up boulders, using your hands as much as your feet, frequently slipping on scree, moss or wet rock. Some places are well over forty-five degrees pitch; a fall backward would be very bad. And all this time, with all the jumping, sliding and slipping, my blisters were getting worse. Contact between my skin and socks was bad enough, but soon the blisters broke open, allowing nice salty sweat to come into contact with the raw flesh beneath. It seemed that every step hurt a bit more. During one rest break, I took off a boot and was treated to the sight of the heels of my white socks dyed a brilliant red. By the time we were crossing the final rocky fields to the summit, every step was a new experience in acute pain.

It was bad. It was going to get much worse.

As is often the case on Mt. Washington, it was cold, windy and blustry, with intermittent drizzle. We wandered around the summit a bit, taking in the scenery. We were entranced. To the east, Wildcat mountain, itself over 4000’ high, stood like a wall of granite. It was five miles away, but in the clear mountain air it seemed much closer. To the north we saw…whiteness. Clouds and fog filled the Great Gulf Wilderness.

Our planned route back down the mountain to the road was through the Great Gulf. At the top we would first descend into the Gulf via the intimidating Great Gulf Headwall, which gains (or in our case, loses) 1600’ in only half a mile. That is an AVERAGE drop of about 31 degrees. Some places are much steeper. In the picture at the top, the headwall is the area in shadow at 9:00 o’clock.

We stood near the trailhead, a bit nervous, but determined to press on, when a lone figure appeared from below, emerging ghostly from the fog. A hiker who had just climbed the Headwall. As he passed us, we greeted him and he us, as hikers will. He was older than us. He looked experienced. He asked us if we planned to descend into the Great Gulf the way he had come up. When we told him yes, he said simply, “don’t.”

He told us that the cold north wind had turned the fog and rain into ice, making secure footing and handholds far too few. He’d nearly peeled off the headwall and tumbled down the rocks to the base of the headwall numerous times. And going down, placing our feet onto places we could not see, would be far more treacherous than climbing.

As he walked off, we held a conference. Oddly for four young males, we unanimously decided to take his advice and skip the Headwall completely. There were other trails from the Great Gulf that intersected the Mt. Washington Autoroad. We could walk down the road, downhill, and take another, less insane route down into the Great Gulf. Or we could just stay on the Autoroad until it delivered us onto NH-16, which would even take a mile and a half off our trip back to the Lodge.

So we walked, or in my case, limped, through the fog and damp, down the Autoroad to the first trail junction. With each step I realized that walking downhill hurt more than walking uphill. Every shift of my feet within my boots was like a pin stuck into my heels.

The first trail was only a mile and a half down the road, and getting there didn’t lose us much altitude. We peered over the edge into the Gulf and could see only clouds, feel the biting wind on our faces. We stayed on the Autoroad and kept walking.

It was another mile and a half to the Chandler Brook Trail. As we continued our descent down the Autoroad, the weather improved remarkably, a common thing in the Presidential Range. The clouds thinned, then parted. The rain stopped. The wind lessened. When we reached the trailhead, we were below the cloud deck that shrouded the summit, and could see all the way to the bottom of the Great Gulf. There was even some sunshine peeking between the broken clouds. It looked good, so down we started.

What we didn’t know was that the Chandler Brook trail, although shorter, was nearly as steep in spots as the Headwall.

That descent was agony. Frequently, we had to jump from one boulder or ledge across, or down, onto the next. With each leap, my boots either rubbed across the blisters (the socks were no help at all), or pulled the socks off the blisters which they had adhered to. Over and over, as we descended, every step was like fire, a hot coal pressed against the back of each foot. Again. And again. For an hour.

At the bottom, it wasn’t over. That trail has no easy spots. It’s a maze of fallen trees, loose rocks, boulders and tricky stream crossings. I didn’t talk, didn’t banter, just resolutely put one foot in front of the other. It took all of my concentration to not whimper my way back to the highway.

It is about four miles from the start of that descent to the highway. I don’t know how long it took us, but I am sure that it felt a lot longer. By the time was saw the pavement, I was done. Spent. Miserable.

We faced a hike of four miles back to the Lodge, but walking was just too painful. I was going to stay there while the rest finished the trek, and Gary would drive back to pick me up. Luckily some wonderful person came by in a van and took us to where that terrible day could finally end in showers, a hot dinner and sleep.

Some White Mountains hiking info:
https://lostnewengland.com/2023/04/great-gulf-mount-washington-new-hampshire/

https://sectionhiker.com/hiking-a-chandler-brook-wamsutta-trail-loop/

https://www.trailfinder.info/trails/trail/mount-washington-great-gulf-trailhead