Dub or Professional on Mt. Washington
THE ANNUAL WINTER TRIP
A RE you a dub or are you a professional? With this question I was greeted by three knowing in the person of "Link" Page, "Beaney" Thorn and "Sher" Guernsey. There were eighteen of Us on a slewing coach headed for Gorham. I hesitated a moment before answering these three obvious "pros," and then (secretly hoping I would be refuted) modestly answered that I was doubtless a dub.
Any hopes of refutation I may have cherished were sadly dashed for there seemed to be a striking unanimity of opinion that my judgment was right. In fact it afforded excellent opportunity for Ted Johnson, the leader of the trip, to give an account of the worst spill he had ever seen on skis in which I soon discovered that I played a most important part. After the laughter had subsided, I asked to what use this rating was to be put. Already a race was being planned on the descent from the Halfway House on Mt. Washington to Joe Dodge's cabin where we were scheduled to stop.
Soon after the chart for the race was drawn up, the train gave a final shiver and snort; all grabbed packs and skis. We had arrived. A thirteen mile jog in Joe's trucks brought us with a flourish to the Appalachian Mountain Club huts. Supper was ready and after Beaney had filled himself (we also ate) everyone headed for bed.
It is bad enough to be called at 5:30 A.M., but when a shout is raised at 5:25 it's just cause for a massacre. Bob St. Louis started the riot by throwing his ski boots at Kelley who seemed to be making the most noise. When the smoke had cleared and the debris shoveled away, Bob was found muttering incoherent tilings under his breath. (He remained in this state all the rest of the trip.)
By seven o'clock all were on their skis with packs, snowshoes and crampons strapped on their backs. Special wax had been used to keep the skis from slipping backwards. The steep shortcut up the Jackson road was taken which branched into the carriage road about a mile from the starting place. It is said that Latshaw had put his wax on the wrong way and had to go in reverse for the last mile to the Halfway House. I did not witness this incident and cannot vouch for its accuracy, but I can truthfully state that on the return trip I saw him backing into snowdrifts far more often than going head-on.
At the Halfway House we left our skis and dug out heavy clothing and parkas. Johnson rather succinctly, and I might add prophetically, remarked that the easy part of the trip was behind us and that we could expect to work for the next four miles to the summit.
I started out confidently with the "pro" hikers and maintained my position at third for almost a hundred yards. From then on I battled to stay with the first group. We had hardly rounded the first turn when we ran into a wind which required all one's strength to stand up against. Rests were frequent. And as the carriage road is very winding, there would be long stretches where one would be compelled to run because of the force of the wind on one's back. It was a novel sensation for me to run up a mountain—especially so when I found that I could enjoy it.
I ABANDON THE PROFESSIONALS
About a mile and a half from the summit I suddenly decided I was no longer a professional, and took my time while I waited for the dubs to catch up, a thing which they seemed to find fairly easy to do. After one particularly hard fight with the driving snow and wind we settled behind a heavy drift and began to philosophize. Between munches on a chocolate bar Beaney suggested the possibility of holding an inverted outboard motor with an airplane propeller instead of the conventional water propeller in front of us and by tying the gang together have it pull us to the top. We speculated and debated the proposition and ended up by discarding it, not, as you might think, because it would blow our parka hoods off, but rather because no one could be found willing to hold the motor if we had had one with us. We trudged on.
Finally as all were beginning to lose hope of ever casting our eyes upon the summit we rounded a curve, and saw sharply outlined against the sky the Tip Top house, Camden Cottage, the Stage Office and Stage Barn. The Summit House could be seen just east of the brass plate which marked the highest peak. A terrific gale of wind carried us the last quarter of a mile on the dead run to the foot of the stairs leading to Camden Cottage which was to be our headquarters.
Here we found Pam Kent digging in his pockets for some chocolate to give him enough strength to navigate the last hundred yards. He must have found it, for he blew in shortly after we arrived. Two photographers from Swampscott had come up on Thursday planning to return Friday, but because of the heavy gale had decided to remain on top until Sunday. They had the cabin well heated, so one by one we hunted for bare spaces on the floor to stretch out and recuperate.
For the next hour and a half we were permitted to rest and eat our lunches while a few of the more energetic brought in shovels full of snow to melt for drinking purposes. Jack Cunningham was official melter, and with a kingly air doled out the icy water by swallows till all were satisfied. Most of the men were struck by the bare appearance of the summit, and when they commented on this, the photographers explained that when they had come up, all the buildings and rocks were covered by snow feathers, but these had been ripped off by the heavy gales of the last two days. That also explained the constant barrage of ice which continuously rattled on the outside of the cabin.
DECENSUS AVERNO DIFFICILIS EST
By three o'clock the wind had increased and it was thought best that we should start back, so we donned our heavy clothes once more. Any illusions which we may have held that the downward trip would be easy were quickly shattered in the first quarter of a mile. The wind was so strong that every few minutes the whole crowd would be forced to lie down to keep from being blown off the road.
It was lots of fun for the rest of us to watch Johnny Martin, president of the senior class, get carried off his feet, and be blown over the stone guard fence where after a drop of several feet he stopped by hitting a bowlder. All my humor suddenly deserted me, however, when shortly after that I blew for twenty feet across an ice field to have a similar experience which lamed one hip considerably. With the aid of four of the fellows taking shifts holding my arms, I safely navigated the next mile till we got below the worst of the storm. The hike to the Halfway House though downhill was not easy because of the icy crust. However, everyone got there safely enough.
I doubt if we could have found any faster snow for the ski race than the last four miles down. The road was packed solid, and strangely enough most of the curves were banked the wrong direction because of the drifts. For a dub I can imagine nothing much more disconcerting than to suddenly round a corner and see in front of him four or five deep holes in the snow obviously dug by the body of a professional. A certain psychological urge grips said dub, and the inevitable result is another break in the crust. The more curves we rounded, the truer this law seemed to be.
By five-twenty the last man had reached the cabins to end what was considered by each to have been a marvelous experience. When Ross and Batch yelled "chow" at six o'clock there was not a face missing. By ten that night when the lights were out, and all were tiredly dropping to sleep the only sound that any who chanced to be awake could hear was the sleepy muttering of Bob St. Louis who still was cussing Kelley under his breath.
SKIING DOWN THE TUCKERMAN HEADWALL ST. LOUIS WATCHING PAGE START THE DESCENT
T. Johnson '31, A. Laughton '31, J. Verity '31, D. Kelley '31, and G. Conklin '31, on the Woodsville platform. The cannon is the famous Moosilauke summit cannon
Ted Johnson—Ready for the climb from the Half Way House to the summit. Note the Gas Mask
THE START Kelley, McElvoy, Page, Danforth, Laughton, Chamberlin, Guernsey, Johnson, Pierce, Martin, St. Louis, Thorn, Batchelder, Dingman, Latshaw, Conklin, Whitehill, Cunningham
Climbing the carriage road at the seven mile post—Note the blowing snow and ice. The wind velocity doubled on the descent
