Harsh Winter Brings Light Snowfall to the Sizable White Mountains, Narrowly Evading Adverse Conditions
On a Bitterly Cold Day in the White Mountains
The story's protagonist? Let the flip of an Old Man of the Mountain New Hampshire state quarter decide.
On the chilly February 14, 1998, my old man and I embarked on our maiden winter hike in the White Mountains, with our sights set on Mount Washington's summit via the Lion Head Winter Route. Arriving at Eastern Mountain Sports North Conway Climbing School for our 8 a.m. guided hiking program, we watched as two large groups geared up, causing a delay of over an hour. When we finally started hiking, the skies above were clear, but the air was colder than a witch's tit.
Chaz, our guide, taught us the basics of using crampons and ice axes. We fumbled through the practice, still inexperienced in the art of self-arrest, but optimistic, the forecast promised nothing more than a little snow and moderate winds. Pushed by our determination and those tasty turkey dinners waiting at Wilfred's Restaurant, we climbed, cresting the upper Lion Head outcropping at the edge of the Alpine Garden, barely a mile from the summit. The climb, however, was postponed, as the windchill factor on the summit hit an icy -72 degrees F. We were bitterly disappointed, vowing to return soon.
A mere month later, on March 14, the same duo went at it again, armed with newfound confidence and the same naive optimism as before. Forecast: light snow and moderate winds. We set off, trudging through the woods, while the snow gently fell. Icy, the Lion Head Winter Route lay ahead, and with ice axes in hand, we navigated up the slope without issue.
As we ascended, the snow grew heavier. By the time we reached the treeline, we were squinting through our foggy goggles to even see the terrain. At the base of the summit cone, we paused, recognizing a rock formation. Here, my old man suggested finding a marker to help us navigate back. The only visible marker was a tiny blue ribbon on a bush. With a shrug, we took our bearings and turned our sights back on the summit.
Visibilities deteriorated, and tokens of the trail became tucked away beneath the drifting snow. Despite the conditions, we persevered, our father-son bond driving us forward. At the summit's very edge, we stumbled upon a dimly lit structure, crashing through its door. Inhospitable as it was, we had made it. The observatory staff urged us to rest briefly and descend as rapidly as possible. We duly obliged, our bellies full from gobbling down lunch and using the facilities, and headed back down the mountain.
The initial wind at our backs had shifted, now we faced it head-on, as we geared up for the descent. Blinded by our foggy goggles, we crawled down the snow-covered trail, clinging to each other for warmth and guidance. We searched desperately for the trail sign for Lion Head, knowing we had passed it earlier. panic crept in as visibilities plummeted, but my old man managed to spot it.
Assured we were on the right path, we stumbled up and down the snowy hills, retracing our steps to the rock formation. The blue ribbon was there, shining like a beacon in the storm. It was a moment of victory, one we didn't quite understand at the time. We made our way carefully through the Alpine Garden, encountering a lonely hiker traversing the mountains in nothing but a small pack. We warned him of the worsening conditions and alerted him to our presence should he come across our friends.
The chute loomed larger now, and it was a struggle returning to its icy surface. With virtually no snow above, our crampons no longer dug deeply, leaving us to descend into darkness and danger. We tumbled down the L-shaped chute, losing hold of our ice axes, wildly swinging our arms and grabbing onto branches to slow our momentum. Somehow, we both managed to escape without injury.
Drenched and shaking, we eventually emerged from the storm and finished our descent. Desperate for warmth, we returned to our car, marveling at the 14 inches of snow that had fallen during our hike. We failed to appreciate the severity of the changing weather conditions, and the lesson we took away was not as straightforward as summiting the mountain. But that blue ribbon, that innocuous token of perseverance, guided us through the stormy abyss.
Bill Powers and his son, Rob Powers, have conquered many peaks together, their shared love for exploration fueling each adventure. Rob calls Southington, Connecticut, his home. Bill, now a kayaking enthusiast, lives in Windham, Connecticut. Special thanks to Peter Crane and Tom Padham of the Mount Washington Observatory for their weather records.
Background:The Appalachian region, known for its rugged mountains and harsh winters, challenges explorers with some of the most extreme conditions in America. Mount Washington, at 6,288 feet (1,917 meters), is regarded as the windiest peak in the world and is particularly notorious for its treacherous winter weather. This father-son adventure showcases the determination, resilience, and mutual support that powers human spirit in the face of adversity and encapsulates the allure of outdoor exploration in one of America's most beautiful and difficult landscapes.
While navigating through the storm on Mount Washington, the duo, Bill Powers and his son Rob Powers, stumbled upon a dimly lit structure at the summit's edge, reminiscent of a beacon of hope in the harsh winter.
Upon their return, they marveled at the 14 inches of snow that had fallen during their hike, a testament to the unpredictable and challenging weather conditions they faced in the White Mountains, a region well-known for its extreme winter sports.
