Allow me to set the scene for you. The weather forecasters advise you to stock up on canned goods and road salt. Coworkers head home early (I won't identify them, as it was a few minutes in advance of the federal government's permitted 59 minute early dismissal in advance of adverse weather) to prepare for the "major winter storm" headed our way. We battened down the proverbial hatches and waited. And waited. And then disappointment turned to self-disgust, as another all-but-blizzard manifested as 90 minutes or so of rain followed by near-freezing temperatures. OOH! So cold! How could we be duped again by the meteorologist hucksters? It never gets cold or snows here.
So we took matters into our own hands on MLK weekend, loaded our spankin' new snowshoes (thanks Pop) into the trunk, and headed north. We arrived in Jaffrey Center, New Hampshire late afternoon on Saturday, checked in to an 1830 country inn there, and then took a quick hike up Mount Monadnock. Those 35 or 40 minutes in the quiet, cold dusk, surrounded by silver snow and with the ever present hope of spotting a moose, were so restorative. I could have returned to New Haven then and been quite satisfied.
But I'm glad we didn't. The next morning a cold snap moved through. Hallelujah! Not a real Wisconsin-style cold snap, but better than we've had since living in Connecticut: high of only 18 degrees, and it didn't seem like it ever got quite that warm. We started our day hiking up toward Temple Mountain along the Wapack Trail in southern New Hampshire. It was so cold that we had to keep taking breaks to put our mittens back on as we assembled our snowshoes (well, I did. John didn't take any breaks ... he's impervious to cold).
Shortly after we set off, I started to have to p, which, of course, in the cold weather I decided to ignore until the last possible minute (knowing full well that this was a waste of the energy that my body needed to keep warm). Finally, I could stand it no longer. As any other gal who has had the need to p in the wilderness knows, there's an art to it. You find a good spot where you can easily lean back, thus avoiding splashes on your pants or boots. Often this involves grabbing hold of a sturdy tree or shrub to brace yourself. I had my spot all scoped out, but I was in a bit of a rush at this point. I dropped trou (trow? Not a phrase I usually type) and grabbed hold of my chosen shrub. Alas, an unattached branch was masquerading as a shrub, and my naked ass went tumbling back into the snow. No fun at all. And so. Very. Cold. This situation was made even more awkward by the fact that I was surrounded by hard snow with a slick glaze of ice covering its surface, so I thrashed around for what felt like minutes before I could haul my now beet red tush off the freezing snow.
But even that unfortunate accident could not dampen my enthusiasm for the hike. It was frigid, clear, and quiet ... not a soul on the trail with us, and before long we had sweeping views of the surrounding hills, and at one point could make out the Boston skyline on the horizon. Even the woods dazzled us with their austere peacefulness ... the quiet was interrupted by nary a chipmunk or bird.
When we were chilled through to the bone, we headed back to the car and drove southwest to Northfield, Massachusetts. It was almost enough time to warm up. A short hike up Crag Mountain was similarly snowy and serene, and brought us views of peaks in the Berkshires, Mount Monadnock, and the Green Mountains in Vermont where, from our vantage point, a blizzard appeared to be brewing.
Cold and snow. Yay. We only had to drive a little over two hours to get it. I guess I can quit whining.
OK, maybe that title was just to get your attention. Or perhaps a wee bit of sour grapes. We spent a recent jolly weekend at Greenfield State Park in New Hampshire. Never heard of Greenfield State Park, you say? It's lovely, but perhaps more importantly, it's within 20 miles of Mt. Monadnock and had campsites less than a week prior, when we actually got our act together to make plans. We met Tracy B., formerly of our front stoop, now of Somerville, Mass. She proposed a hike up the Pumpelly trail to the summit of Monadnock, thus avoiding the ant-like procession of people up the trail from the park. In the end, we wisely avoided the summit altogether, because for the entire time Mt. Monadnock was in our view, it was covered with people. Plus, we were tired. Work smarter, not harder. Intrepid hikers:
Mountain Laurel along the trail, which seems more legit than the bigger white variety in our backyard:
We had one of those charmed camping weekends where the rain holds off until just after dark when we'd just finished our dinner Saturday night, and stopped before we woke up Sunday. Unfortunately, it being dark, I neglected to notice that my hiking boots were outside the tent. You know what that means: boot slugs! Aaaaagh! The very most treacherous kind of slug:
Sunday morning, an owl flew right through our site, and hung out on this perch for the longest time:
After we broke camp, we stopped by Monadnock Berry Farm on our way home, and loaded up on New Hampshire raspberries.
