Winter Peakbagging, Part XLV

Yesterday, an 11-hour trek up the aptly-named Mt. Isolation. Other than a few (very few) trail markers, I saw no evidence of humanity all day. Despite the general dearth of snowstorms this winter, a great deal of snow is lurking in the mountains above 3,000 feet. I snowshoed through deep drifts, and cut around one as high as my chin. The route included a stretch of bushwhacking, which by chance took me through a spot as beautiful as any I’ve seen in these mountains: an enormous, sloping, open glade of birches, gorgeous against the snowy floor and deep azure sky. It had the feel of a vast orchard, as if someone in the ancient past had decided to farm birches in the most inaccessible possible spot. This place is on no trail, and in no guide-book, and has no landmarks to reach it. But I think I could find it again, and I’ll take you there if you want to go (bring skis—it looks perfect.)

Later another trail climbed a long ravine to a ridge, where the forest grew gnarled and the trail indistinct. I wandered and poked, frequently backtracking, sometimes circling, trying to find the way, aiming for a trail junction where I needed to make a turn. Beyond the junction, several blow-downs obliterated the trail again, forcing hands-and-knees tunneling to continue on. Each one led to a thought of turning back, dismissed with effort. A final scramble up a steep, deep pitch brought out the ledgy summit, fierce wind, and a spectacular view.

The last time I stood on Isolation I was with College Roommate, in August ’98, the day after we nearly came to grief on Mt. Washington. I reflected on the changes in life since then, and realized with pleasure that I was dressed head-to-snowshoes in our college colors (red and black). Need to give College Roommate a phone call.

Arrived back at the car at twilight, with blisters on both big toes. I’m out of commission for a few days until they heal.