I’d laid out an ambitious plan to tag eight New England state high points in a week. By the fourth full day of the trip I had bagged five. My itinerary showed the two on day five: Mount Washington, New Hampshire and Mount Mansfield, Vermont. It seemed a chill day, as I was just planning to drive up Mount Washington and Mansfield looked like a short (if somewhat steep) hike from a roadside trailhead.
From Katadhin Stream Trailhead I drove to Skowhegan, Maine where I got a room in the Towne Motel for the night. It was nice to stretch out in a bed, and eat and drink plenty of water, and be on wifi for a little while. I showered in the morning and discovered that a block away was Alice’s Restaurant (no relation), so I just had to grab breakfast there. It was so worth it.
I rolled out of Skowhegan by 9am and pushed on toward Mount Washington. It was just shy of three hours of driving, and when I turned south in Gorham it was overcast and dreary. That all turned to rain before I reached the toll gate at the Mount Washington Auto Road where in a thrift of speech a gentleman informed me the road was closed due to ice and would not reopen that day. His tone made me think the road may never open again. Seeing as how I had no real say in the matter I made a u-turn and headed on for Mount Mansfield three more hours west. The Presidentials were obscured by clouds and barred from being part of my road trip in any capacity save as a huge void in my experience.
The peak I seriously underestimated was Mount Mansfield. On the map it seems innocuous. I had a hard time finding a definitive distance for the Hellbrook Trail which I had opted for as my route to the summit. I believe someone somewhere online recommended it as the preferred route. After Katadhin I didn’t expect Mansfield to be hard at all. Marcy on the other hand—the high point of New York—still kept a shadow of attention in my mind. It’s a fourteen mile out and back. But even that seemed doable after Katadhin. The only hesitation I had was in relation to the weather forecast which I had paid little attention to until I was shut down at the base of Mount Washington.
I rolled through Stowe, Vermont and easily found the Hellbrook trailhead along the road to Smugglers Notch. I threw together a day pack, made sure I had a headlamp because I really didn’t know how long it was going to take, and I quickly changed into my thicker baselayer for pants and grabbed my rain jacket. Within a few short minutes I was crossing the road and stepping into the woods.
I passed a sign that said “Hellbrook Trail” with no other information, and I continued up the steepening path beyond. And steepening. And steepening.
To take my mind off the absurdity of the climb I began texting Reynaldo.
[Unprintable]
New England: switchbacks are against our religion.
And they should be against yours too.
The closest thing I saw to a switchback was a 90 degree bend because…a boulder.
I'm surprised they didn't just make the trail go over it.
Wouldn't have been as steep.
Brutal doesn't describe this.
Sadistic comes close.
[additional unprintable statements]
It's like it was an ice climb and some donkeychonk decided it would make a good summer hike.
I'm soloing up a waterfall with blue blazes!
This is no trail.
There is a sign at the bottom that says trail. I didn’t know the brook and the trail were one and the same. And it’s all hell.
It's an actual criminal offense against humanity.
I believe in the death penalty for whomever planned this route.
Illegitimate New Englander raised by wild fellatio adepts!
The name of the trail is Hellbrook. Weel %#?! me. I should have known it was a slog up a steep creek.
Dan Osman would have fallen off this b.s.
Bunch of pig headed goat [redacted] can go take long step off Chimney Top.
I made myself chuckle, which was my ultimate goal. The climb up to gain the ridge north of Mansfield’s summit was ridiculous by any standard.
After what seemed an eternity of high-stepping and hand-grabbing I was abruptly on a flat trail. According to my gps tracker I was almost two miles in. I knew from the map I still had a little ways to go. So this hike would be at least five miles out and back? And not three and a half? As I continued south on the ridge the landscape became distinctly more alpine, and within a few minutes the forest opened up and I could see what I believed was the summit dome of Mansfield, wreathed in a diaphanous veil of blowing snow. I just laughed.
I had been hiking for an hour and a half, and I had about two hours until dark. One thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to descend Hell Brook in the dark.
I felt a sense of urgency, but it wasn’t the pressure to finish this task and move onto the next one. The urgency of the mountains tells you that for your own good you need to keep moving and not linger and let conditions deteriorate around you. I was also excited to make the climb to the summit from the ridge. I passed the last trail junction and could see the route ahead through the swirling snow and I made my way to the base of the rocky, bulbous, summit massif.
The first challenge was a short chimney and then the climb evolved into a more exposed and aesthetic route over easy ledges. Despite the heavy skies, the views to the north and east were amazing. The climbing was smooth and enjoyable. It didn’t take long before I reached what seemed like the summit plateau. I began striding south across the bare rock, scattered with puddles of snow. The wind was stiff, cold, and laden with stinging snow.
And then I was at the summit. I found a benchmark and a triangle carved into the living stone. I looked around laughing and checked the map on my phone. I was definitely at the summit.
I wasn’t there long when I noticed the snow had seemed to be falling lower on the route than it had been when I came up. I couldn’t really see the route back down. The rocks around me were starting to get wet. And just maybe the snow was starting to stick a little bit.
With that knowledge I moved back across the summit toward the descent. From above the route down looked much more dramatic and difficult, but I knew it was mellow. I laughed as I began picking my way down and the snow seemed maybe to be picking up.
The rocky scrambling went easy despite an increase in moisture on the rocks. The views were still incredible despite the…atmosphere. Once back in the alpine trees I paused to look back at the summit and found it almost completely obscured by blowing snow. There was distinct accumulation on the trees. After a short pause I turned toward the car and began making my way down. Heavy flakes fell as I began descending below the crest of the ridge. My knees had begun to ache a little. I consistently found good footing as I goat-stepped down the ledgy gully trying to be a trail. I was aware that any misstep could be disastrous; considering the steepness a trip up could be catastrophic.
The descent seemed to go on forever. When I’d gone down enough I didn’t think I could manage anymore I would look out and see the slope across the valley, the base of which is where I parked, and mark the elevation still to pass.
Light faded from the sky. Fat snow turned to light drizzle and then fizzled out. The ridiculousness failed to fade. I knew from recent experience that the trail would not ease up before it terminated in asphalt. Down and down and down.
It became a race between reaching the trailhead and having to break out the headlamp. I’m happy to report no headlamps were harmed in the bagging of said peak.
I began to hear traffic on the road. It was hard to hear over the rumble in my belly. I tried to move faster, but I didn’t want to risk rolling an ankle.
And then I was back. The trailhead was empty except for my car. It wasn’t full dark, but it was cold and damp. I stretched while the Jeep warmed up despite the void in my stomach. I needed food.
Mount Mansfield was down. It was time to move on toward Mount Marcy in New York.
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