(or How Three Average Guys Tackled Mount Washington)

By Salvatore A. Barcia Jr. (posted June 19, 2024)

I am not an outdoorsman.  These days if I’m lucky I’ll hike once or twice a year.  A native Staten Islander, I can’t say I have a rugged past – I’m a typical suburban guy.  On a day-to-day basis my most adventurous experiences are with the kids I teach in Brooklyn or driving within the five boroughs.

That said, like many I still thirst for outdoor experiences stretching the limits of the human soul.  Such adventures help you connect with yourself, to find that part of you not always present (in this vein, nature shows topped my watch list during the shutdowns of 2020).

Rewind to the summer of 2008.  For our annual “guy weekend” (usually four or five of us, this year only three), we decided to summit Mount Washington in New Hampshire.  Andy, a more advanced hiker, had suggested we make the trek.  I was able to join, along with another Rutgers University friend, Matt.

The weekend started in the usual style – a couple of beers, some roughhousing, and lots of razzing.  Awakening early Friday, we felt invincible.  We packed, devoured a hearty breakfast and began our journey.  Having taken my only backpack, I was carrying one more suited for the first day of school.  Needless to say this brought on necessary needling from Matt and Andy.

We started on the trail, using the Boott Spur to make our way to the summit.  With about 30 seconds of hiking completed, we hit our first snag.  One of Matt’s boot soles was dangling like the tongue of a thirsty Labrador.

“Problem solved,” Matt declared after wrapping his shoe in duct tape from the main lodge.  The Sherpas would be proud.  Perhaps this is why Andy started calling him “Urm Sherpa”?

As we climbed my lack of prowess was evident.  Most of the climb I was lagging behind.  Luckily we’re not zealots, and we were more interested in sticking together than complaining or pushing too hard.

The steady rain was one of the most difficult parts of our climb.  Of course it resulted in constant slips on rocks, but it also brought the embarrassment of having to break out the plastic poncho from the 99-cent store.  It was nothing more than a trash bag with holes.  After the giggles subsided, Matt and Andy had no choice but to admit it actually worked pretty well.  The lightning rods protruding from Matt’s pack also deflected some of the laughs his way.

We continued to ascend, sometimes walking flat trails and others crawling over enormous rocks.  The rain persisted, and my poncho continued doing its job.  After many hours of climbing, I was in awe.  It’s not often I’ve climbed above a mountain’s tree line . . . seeing things from such an amazing perspective and knowing I got there using my own two legs.  I swallowed some trail mix and took a deep breath, inhaling the wonder before me.

You could understand my amazement as I watched a cloud roll over the top of the mountain, roaring past like stampeding buffalo.  It was a fantastical sight watching a cloud stretch its legs.  Even more staggering was watching, from above, lightning shoot downwards into the ravine below.  Our delight was quickly replaced with fear, however, as the accompanying storm announced its presence.  The forceful winds cleansed the smiles from our faces, heavy rain pelted us, and a seemingly endless barrage of hailstones delivered a taste of the Ten Plagues.

With nothing to hold, all we could do was hit the dirt.  Never sure of the wind’s speed, we later convinced ourselves it was 70-80 mph.  We lay on the ground, Matt and Andy up ahead as usual.  Our attempts to communicate saw minimal success.  I heard Andy yell what I construed as “don’t drown!” – a confusing directive – but conventional wisdom would instead interpret the more obvious “stay down!”

I’d like to get introspective and tell how my life flashed before my eyes, ghosts of the past appeared in the mist, we stared into the abyss . . . but in reality my main concern was protecting my spare shirt from saturation.  After the rain departed, however, we surveyed the slope behind us and realized a loss of footing could have been akin to crossing the streams in Ghostbusters.

And what do ya’ know, the little-poncho-that-could kept me dry.

We continued our ascent, humbled by nature’s fury but strengthened in our resolve to conquer it on this day.  The summit, however, remained elusive.  Each time we believed it was in our sights, more mountain was exposed.  It mocked us and laughed at us.  It demanded we quit while daring we continue.

Finally, after many false promises, the peak at last revealed itself.  One final push and we made it to the top!  While not a comparable feat, for me this was Everest.  I felt like Sir Edmund Hillary or Tenzing Norgay as they completed their conquest.  Still dragging my tired body, I was preparing a savage roar to honor my victory over the natural world.  We had earned entry into Mount Washington’s exclusive club won only through a full day’s toil of sweat and pain . . . and just then I saw a young kid in a white t-shirt scampering to the summit sign as if en route to an ice cream truck.

“What the-!?!?!”

“Oh, yeah, you could drive to the top, and if we want we can take the van down,” my fellow hikers advised.

Still feeling accomplished, at the same time I was a bit wiser.  After enjoying some needed sustenance at the summit lodge, we were preparing for the excitement of the descent.  But my body was – for lack of a better phrase – shutting down (psychological experts might claim my body was reacting to the knowledge of available transportation), and we saw reports of another vicious storm on its way.  We followed the unspoken advice of the white-shirted kid . . . and hopped on the van for our descent.  Victory was still ours, but alas it was only a one-way ticket.

Remarkably unscathed, the next day we set out for easy walks through nearby trails.  It was a leisurely way to round out the weekend.  Waterfalls, rock formations, interesting scenes, and minimal difficulty were on the menu.  Crossing one final stream on the last few yards of our day, I slipped – slamming my leg into a rock.  Blood streamed down, painting my sock red.  A one-inch incision had been sliced into my shin.  Luckily our ad hoc first aid kit consisted of an extra dirty sock to stop the bleeding.

Prudence would have suggested a trip to the hospital for stitches, but the lure of hanging out at the outdoor biker bar won out.  Probably not my brightest decision, but a momentary slip into my juvenile, slightly-more-wild self.  It was part of an overall experience reconnecting with the youthful version of myself not always present as I travel through time.  Perhaps we can all find something in the Great Outdoors, whether living there year-round or simply enjoying an annual diversion.

Just remember to pack a poncho . . . and, maybe a first-aid kit.