Under the Glow of the Buck Moon
My head has always been in the mountains or the clouds. Wherever that place is where the sky and earth come to meet. It could be because I’ve always been a dreamer and feel the greatest sense of self in places far above the world we know. Or because of how small we are compared to the rock giants we scale. It might also be from the proximity to death we feel while clinging to a rock face, gazing at what lies below. Whatever the draw, I found myself in the mountains under the dim glow of a once full moon, ascending peaks in search of an uncertain sunrise.
The decision to hike Mt. Washington came like most of my adventures. Struck with a need to create and a desire to move, it was the obvious choice, given my location. A six-hour drive away and a relatively easy ascent to solo, I soon found myself reopening my gear closet and prepping for the climb.
Mt. Washington first came on my radar during my time in my universities mountaineering club. Winter accents were a common proving ground for the more difficult winter climbs many of us aspired to. It offered an uncertainty I valued and a challenge that felt within the grasp of my current conditioning. Following the Tuckerman Ravine, I planned my route with a one-night stay at Hermit Lake to allow for a sunrise summit. The next day I embarked, gathering a few last-minute supplies for the journey ahead.
I arrived at the base around six checking in with the mountain office to update them on my itinerary and get a reading of the current weather. I was informed of a hiker who recently ascended without preparations for the temperature and succumbed to the elements. I made sure my puffy was in my pack and promptly set off. The route to Hermit Lake was steep but manageable. The section took about an hour, giving me a chance to settle in before the sun dipped completely behind the horizon.
Lying out under the stars on a borrowed pad, I became aware of the incredible luminance of the moon. While the night sky was visible for a few hours, it wasn’t long before the moon rose high enough to drown out the stars with its brilliance. Sometimes even the brightest stars can’t compete with a reflection. Nevertheless, the night went on, and I soon woke to begin the ascent.
Dawn has always been my favorite time. Just before the sun comes up, its dim glow peeking over the horizon intertwining with that of the moon. While the sun was still well below the horizon, you could see the gentle blue forming on the eastward sky while the valley was cast in moonlight.
It wasn’t far into the trail that the terrain quickly changed. Though still populated by an assortment of rocks, the path steepened. Soon the course turned vertical and thin, snaking its way across the rock and water. Making my way through the pines, the sky opened as I came upon the ravine cutting up the side of the mountain. The gorge was filled with flowers, ferns, and evergreen bushes. There’s something incredible about the way life preservers in alpine environments, something as delicate as a flower still pushing roots through the rock.
Turning back, you could see the sky warm as the sun edged closer to the horizon. I continued upward as the winds picked up, and the temperature continued to drop. Mt. Washington is home to the highest winds recorded. A combination of its high and correspondingly low surrounding lands makes it a perfect location for unexpected storms to materialize. As luck would have it, today, I was in the clear.
Looking back out into the ravine, you could see the lake below and the flow of the trail upwards. The sun had just begun to peak over the mountain casting the valley in a warm light before disappearing behind the clouds. Viewing a path climbed in near darkness in the light is always a pensive moment, the scale of accomplishment becoming apparent when the features you overcame make themselves known. There was still half a mile to the summit, and the weight of my pack could be felt in my joints as I hoisted myself over the last few boulders. Hiking over the edge of Mt. Washington carries a certain absurdity when reality sets in that most people just drive to the top. Like any adventure, it reminds you it’s never about the summit or the sunrise but what you overcame and learned on your way to it.
