The 12 People You Meet on the Trail in the White Mountains
Plus: Pics from the final peak in my NH48 4000-footer quest
If you’ve been reading here for a while, you know that a couple of years back, I decided to undertake the classic peak bagger quest to hike all 48 of New Hampshire’s 4000+ foot peaks. I’d already hiked about a dozen of them when I started keeping count. Since then, I’ve been a hiking fool, driving up to New Hampshire on the regular, sometimes alone, sometimes with pals; sometimes bagging a single 4k peak, sometimes stringing several together. The record was 6 peaks over the course of a two-day hike. I’ve hiked in every season, in temperatures ranging from 6 to 86.
And a week ago, I’m proud to say, I reached my goal: All 48 peaks are now in the books. Woot!
I paired a first with my last, spending my first solo overnight in the woods after reaching the summit of Mount Isolation. It wasn’t nearly as scary as I feared—in fact, it was blissfully peaceful—except when I was woken up by rain plapping on my tent at 5 am and was, for several seconds, convinced it was a axe murderer or a bear. Or an axe-wielding bear. Fortunately it was none of these.
I’ve seen a lot of things over the course of my many, many hikes: sweeping views, Tolkienesque terrain, moss-carpeted forests, and frozen waterfalls. I’ve seen moose poop, pine marten (I think?) poop, bear poop, and human poop. (Once. It was terrible.) I’ve seen gray jays (one of which landed on my hand, then stole my Cliff Bar), pileated woodpeckers, glacier erratics, rime-frosted trees, and mushrooms of unusual size.
And I’ve seen hikers. A LOT of hikers.
The number of people heading for the hills grew exponentially during the pandemic, and some of the most popular trails were downright crowded at times. You see people of all shapes and sizes and sensibilities when you’re hiking in the Whites. But there are certain types of hikers that you see again and again. I give them to you here.
The troupe of earnest, fresh-faced teen boys. Maybe they’re boy scouts. Maybe they’re a summer camp group. Maybe they’re time travelers from the 1950s. I don’t know. All I know is they are very focused, and they tend to be very polite. When you step aside and let them pass, you may get eight or nine “thank you”s in a row.
The middle-aged guy with the hot, much younger girlfriend. Oh boy. This guy. Probably wearing wraparound sunglasses. Frequently finds excuses to take off his shirt. Can be overheard saying things like “careful, watch your step,” and “It’s nice, but it’s nothing compared to the Dolomites.”
The happy bearded dude. Or un-bearded. (But usually bearded). Consider yourself lucky if you run into one of these peppy fellas on the trail because they will take your mood up to an eleven in seconds flat—even when you’re in the midst of slogging up a rock-strewn, 45-degree slope. The happy bearded due radiates joy and positivitity. He is just so psyched to be hiking! He says stuff like “What a beautiful day, huh?” and “Have a GREAT hike!” God bless you, happy bearded dude.
The trail running girl. This is the lithe young woman who, while you’re in the midst of slogging up a rock-strewn, 45-degree slope in your frumpy zip-off hiking pants and wicking t-shirt, zips past you in teeny shorts and a sports bra, fucking RUNNING up the trail. (Or down, because she got up at 4 am and has already summited and is on her way home). There’s a male variety of this “hiker” too. Sometimes they say the kind of upbeat things the happy bearded dude says, but instead of feeling blessed, you just kind of want to trip them with your trekking pole. (Related: The 6-year old who is rocketing past you up the trail without even breaking a sweat. You sort of want to trip them too?)
Those two dudes who are clearly high. Like happy bearded guy, but slower.
The through hiker(s). These are people hiking the Appalachian Trail, which zigzags its way through the White Mountains. You’ll know them by the black and white AT tag on their packs, their world-weary expressions, and, sometimes, their sort of horsey, musty smell. You can also often identify them by their clothing, which frequently doesn’t look like your typical hiking gear. These people, if they’re northbounders, have already hiked more than 1500 miles. The woods is basically their home at this point, and they wear whatever the hell they want. So, if you see someone with a 60-liter pack, unwashed hair, and calves of steel, but they’re wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a pith helmet, pajama bottoms, and/or a tutu, it’s safe to say they’re a through-hiker.
The “Don’t worry, she’s friendly!” Aka the person whose off-leash dog comes bounding up the trail at you out of nowhere, startling the crap out of you, because for several seconds you think she’s a miniature axe-wielding bear.
The Québéquois. There are a lot of these in the Whites, though I think they don’t want us to know. They can be tricky to spot (unless, of course, they’re speaking loudly in French — but they never do this). Generally speaking, if you say hello to someone, and they answer in a sort of very quiet, muffled “hi” or just nod and give you a microscopic smile, they’re probably from Québec. Also, if they’re eating poutine.
The guy peeing behind a tree. We can all see you, you know. The tree isn’t *that* big.
The “how much farther is it?” These folks, clearly exhausted and dispirited who ask you how close a summit or trail junction is, might as well be asking “what is the sound of one hand clapping?” because “how much farther?” is impossible to answer. For me, anyway. I have almost no sense of time when I’m hiking. Was I at the summit five minutes ago? Twenty? Ninety? I have no idea. Go ask the 54-year-old bare-chested guy with the 27-year-old girlfriend. I’m guessing he’ll tell you with 100% certainty.
The dummies. Cotton t-shirts. Sneakers and/or flip flops. 16 oz bottle of Poland Spring in hand. No backpacks. It’s already 3 pm, and they’re heading up the mountain. “Is it, like, all like this?” they ask, huffing and puffing, as you trot past them down the 45-degree, rock-strewn trail, appropriately dressed and carrying a pack with all the stuff you should *actually* be carrying on a serious hike in the Whites (rain gear, lots of water, snacks, matches, a knife, paper map, headlamp, warm hat, first aid kit, etc. etc.) Yes, yes it is. Good luck. See you on the New Hampshire Fish and Wildlife Department Facebook Page with the report of how they carried your dehydrated / hypothermic asses down in the dark.
The ecstatic suburban women in their late forties. They left their teenagers and husbands at home, and they are living their best lives. They look like they just raided an REI. They are snort-laughing, making references to 80s movies, and talking about reels they saw on Instagram, and how no, they are not going to start using TikTok, because enough already, and God, they wish their kids would spend less time online and more time reading. (Insert possible side convo here about how they all read the Flowers in the Attic series when they were wayyy too young, and how fucked up were those books???) They offer each other sunblock, bug repellent and dried fruit repeatedly. You might hear them complaining about how they’re gaining weight around the middle and starting to get jowls, followed by “but whatever, who gives a fuck. We’re in the woods!”
Wait. This is me. I am one of these women.
So, what’s next? Well. I don’t have plans to do any other lists. But I do plan to keep hiking, and hiking, and hiking. Maybe I’ll see you out there sometime.
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This is hilarious and spot on (says she who has easily bagged 48 one-hour hikes in suburban Boston...).
Way to go, Jane! Also, way to capture those people we saw hiking in Colorado years ago-- they must be working their way East.