Was the universe trying to tell me something?

So originally, my backpacking trip was supposed to be a little under 2 weeks long. Before leaving, however, I decided to trim it to 5-6 days, and spend the second week of my vacation at home doing nothing. As it turns out, multiple counts of equipment failure wouldn't even allow that.

The hike itself was fine- I started out from the Joe Dodge Lodge at Pinkham Notch down the short Lonesome Lake trail, which lead to the Glen Boulder trail and onto Davis Trail. From there, it was my plan to climb the adorably named "Mt. Isolation". The effects of the wet weather that day and several days previous made for slow going- at times, I was lurching through knee deep mud- the kind that makes a "thwuking" sound and tries to pull off your boot. Because of this, it would often take 15-20 minutes to go uphill 50 feet. I was willing to deal with that, though- I just made a mental note to wear hiking "gators" around my ankles and calves next time to keep the mud out of my boots.

Making matters worse was the fact the cheststrap on my pack had broken and the pack was now shifting irritatingly from side to side.

Another effect of the wet weather was wet rocks- I lost track of how many times I slipped (and sometimes fell) after stepping on a slick rock. I kept going, though, as I've done shorter hiking trips wherein that was the case.

It came back to bite me in the ass towards the end of Monday when I slipped and fell on a rock crossing a wide brook/mini-river, and a branch yanked off my waterproof pack cover. I was still snagged on the branch, and felt very "turtle-on-its-back", since I was strapped into this 60 pound pack. (Yeah, 60 pounds doesn't sound like much, but try humping it uphill through rocks and "thwucking" mud for 6 hours). As I struggled to free myself, the current in the river yanked away a small nylon bag that contained my tentpoles and tent stakes. Something told me then that I might have needed those.

I finally got free, but my bag cover and tent poles were long gone. It was going on 3:30 in the afternoon, and I was at least 6 hours away from the lodge- I was going to have to camp here- poles or no poles. After finally finding a moderately suitable clearing for a tent (it was fairly slanted, but flat and clear), I MacGuyvered my tent up by using sticks and branches instead of my river borne tent stakes. I still had the main pole that held up the front center of the tent, but no way of holding up the walls. When I finally climbed in, I had just enough room to lay down, as the "ceiling" was about 8 inches from my face.

I had been in the tent for about 2 hours, reading a book, when it started to rain. It was then that I realized that the "waterproof" claims on the box my tent came in may have been false, as the ceiling started to "sweat" rainwater on me. I poked my head out of the flap (whereupon the zipper broke) to see how heavily clouded the sky was and thus, how much more of this rain I should expect. The entire sky was black, which I didn't take as a good sign.

It was then that a large owl landed on a tree branch near me and said, "It's not really my place to comment, but I'm afraid, Kevin, that you're fucked."

I politely told the owl that my name was not Kevin, but he was right about the "being fucked" part. The talking owl lead me to realize two things: first, the old adage about the 'wise old owl' seemed to be correct; and second, those were definitely NOT portabella mushrooms that I ate off the side of the trail earlier.

Ordinarily, I would be fascinated to chat with an owl, but I was tired and wet. Also, the owl (who identified himself as "Quentin", incidentally) was a bit of a bore. He wanted me to go in on his new Internet business idea he had wherein he would try to sell "clean" urine to stoners who wanted government jobs. I tried to close the broken flap and get some sleep.

In the morning, I looked outside the tent and both the rain and Quentin were gone. This told me two things: First, my trip back would be a lot easier; and second, the mushrooms had worn off. I started to pack up what I had scattered about the tent floor- wet clothes, wet food, wet gear, and a wet paperback copy of the (grossly misguided, as it turns out) "How to Identify the Mushrooms and Fungi of New England" guide.

I'll admit, I violated the White Mountain National Forest's "Leave No Trace" rule. My sodden tent was now 3 times its previous weight, and despite the fact that it was clearly a shitty product, I couldn't return it since the website I bought it from had a strict "no return" policy on clearance items. I wonder why. So I left the tent stuffed behind a tree stump, along with two articles of clothing- a quilted shirt/jacket that now weighed 8 pounds or so, and a pair of baggy cargo pants which when wet, had to weigh at least 10 pounds. No way was I going to add 18 pounds to my back, so I left them with the tent.

Some 45 minutes after I set off to return to Pinkham Notch, the left shoulder strap of my backpack snapped in two towards the bottom, and the whole pack swung around, almost knocking me over. You have got to be fucking kidding me. What next? Am I going to be hit by lightening now? Eaten by a puma? I tied off the strap the best I could, but it popped back open multiple times, so every 20 minutes I was taking off the pack to re-tie the strap. Let me tell you, carrying so heavy a pack for so long is bad enough. Picking it back up after putting it down every 20 minutes really blows.

I reached Pinkham Notch mid-afternoon and they had vacancies. I even paid the extra $24 to get a private room. A bit of an extravagance given that the whole trip- equipment, food, and bus fare to NH had already cost me around $500, but I needed room to spread out my sodden stuff and see what I could wear back home the next day (they had no laundry facilities.) Thankfully, the best piece of advice I got before leaving for this trip was my brother suggesting that I bring "extra plastic bags". I didn't think too much of it at the time, but still brought along a few trash bags and large zipper freezer bags. Into one of the garbage bags had gone a pair of jeans and a teeshirt. Thus, that outfit stayed dry.

The lodge has showers, and even though the actual shower sucked, it still felt like the best shower ever- I was like Tim Robbins at the end of "The Shawshank Redemption" when he finally climbs out of the sewer pipe and into the rain, arms flung out and Warden Norton far behind him, none the wiser.

After the shower, I went down to the lodge's library and read the first "Harry Potter" book cover-to-cover. I had never actually wanted to read those books, but it was that or a Readers' Digest "condensed book". It was okay, I guess, but I don't see what all the fuss was about.

Glad though I was that I was indoors and dry for the night, I happened to be there the same night as a school group of some forty 8-13 year olds, who ran wild through the halls playing a game called "Ding-Dong Doorbell", which seemed to involve knocking on a door, yelling "Ding-Dong Doorbell!" and running away. We were on the second floor, and only 2 other rooms than mine contained people NOT a part of the kids' group. During dinner, I found out that the "chaperones" had all taken rooms on the first floor, away from the kids. Smart. I told myself that if the kids were still rioting past 10pm, I was going to set my alarm for 5am and go down to the rooms containing the "chaperones" and pound on their doors, shout "Ding-Dong Doorbell, you lazy bastards!", and run away. Thankfully, however, they shut up around 9:30.

So this trip didn't pan out as I had hoped. Due to a shitty tent and a pack that has seen better days, I called it quits on the trip and hopped a bus home to Boston this morning. I plan to return next year when it is warmer and drier, with a new tent, a lighter bag, and some "bear strength" pepper spray in case any kids in the lodge get any ideas about making noise.

If you ever decide to head up there, make sure your equipment is all in top shape and that there hasn't been a week of steady rain prior to your visit. Also, if you find yourself around the intersection of the Glen Boulder Trail and the Davis Trail, look for Quentin- he'll be the owl wearing the wet baggy cargo pants. Tell him Kevin says "Hi".