Up and down Hiking New Hampshire's 4000-foot peaks BY DAN KENNEDY

It was mid afternoon on a hot, humid August day two years ago when the four of us headed up the Crawford Path in New Hampshire’s White Mountains, 30-pound packs on our backs, fighting against gravity. Mighty rivers of sweat poured off my head, arms, and legs as I made my way up the steep, boulder-strewn trail. My T-shirt was drenched and dripping. Bugs swarmed. My chest pounded. The only saving grace was that our ordeal was truly Hobbesian — that is, nasty and brutish, but also short. Within a couple of hours we had arrived at the Appalachian Mountain Club’s Mizpah Hut, where we were fed a hot meal (manicotti, as I recall) and had a chance to relax for a few hours before retiring to the barracks-style bunks. I slept fitfully, worried that the next day would bring similar miseries.

What a difference a day made. The morning dawned cool and, after the fog lifted, crystal-clear. We strode easily to the summit of Mount Pierce and picked our way up the steep south side of Mount Eisenhower. It was a climb I had last made in 1968, when I was 12 — the same age as my son, Tim, who was now scrambling ahead of me. We were well above the tree line, and we could see for many miles from the rock-and-tundra trail, blazed by the legendary mountain man Ethan Crawford in the mid 1800s. We arrived at the Lakes of the Clouds Hut, high in the alpine zone, having barely broken a sweat. The following day, with the temperature in the 30s and a hard wind blowing, we put on full winter gear and made the tough but exhilarating climb to the summit of Mount Washington — at 6288 feet, the tallest peak in New England — and then headed north before descending along the Jewell Trail. The pain of two days earlier had given way to a perfect summer backpacking trip.

I’ve never quite been able to explain the allure of the White Mountains, but perhaps that trip gets at it in some way. At its best, backpacking is like a speeded-up version of life itself: hard, sometimes unpleasant work leads to a reward that makes it all worthwhile. Not always; sometimes it rains without let-up, sometimes there’s no view, and sometimes you slip and fall. But things work out the way they’re supposed to often enough that I’ve been plugging away at it now for more than 36 years.

Whether you’re seeking transcendence or just a challenging but fun activity, the White Mountains are an ideal summer destination. They’re just two or three hours west of Portland, depending on what part of the Whites you’re heading to; and there’s no quicker way to plunge yourself into an environment that’s entirely different from the urban landscape. All you need is a sturdy pair of hiking shoes, some common sense, and reasonably good health.

But how to get started? Where should you go? To the uninitiated, the White Mountains may seem like an undifferentiated mass. In fact, there are 48 distinct peaks with an elevation of 4000 feet or higher, which is the height at which trees generally give way to scrub, moss, lichen, and rocks. This list, established by the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) in 1957 as a way of boosting interest in hiking, is admittedly arbitrary, as it excludes a number of interesting peaks that are lower than the magical 4000-foot height — such as Mount Willard (2850 feet), perhaps the ideal introduction for new hikers, especially young kids (see "Four Hikes"). Still, the list is diverse enough to provide for a wide range of hiking experiences, from high (Washington) to low (Mount Tecumseh, 4003 feet), from hard (Mount Madison, the most difficult peak I’ve climbed) to easy (Mount Jackson, to name one) — or, for that matter, from "A" (Mount Adams) to "Z" (Zealand Mountain).

In more than three decades of hiking, I’ve made it to the top of all but three of these summits. With a little luck, this will be the year that I finally join the nearly 8000 people who’ve registered with the AMC’s Four Thousand Footer Club. I’ve lain awake through rainy nights in a leaky tent and enjoyed the luxury of a hot meal and a bunk in the AMC huts. I’ve waded through the snow to the top of Owl’s Head and sweltered during a freak temperature inversion on the Northern Presidentials. Not that you should be impressed. Despite the best efforts of veteran hikers to pull rank and talk down to novices, backpacking is an activity in which experience doesn’t really count for a whole lot. And though I sometimes use the word climb, I’m talking about hiking here, not ropes and pitons and hanging off cliffs. No, thank you. If you’re in shape, if you’re properly equipped, and if you use your head, you can do as well as a veteran.

This isn’t a guide for gearheads. There are plenty of good books for that, and specialty stores such as REI and EMS have experts to help you find what you need (including parking permits for the White Mountain National Forest; don’t forget to ask). For the two easiest routes in "Four Hikes," you can even get away with a decent pair of sneakers, provided they fit properly and aren’t worn out. Whether you need a sleeping bag, a tent, a backpack any bigger than a day pack, a portable stove, and the like all depends on how deeply into this sport you want to get. There is only one specific piece of equipment that you must own: the AMC White Mountain Guide, which consists of more than 500 pages of trail descriptions and maps, and which is the essential travel guide to the Whites.

The most important advice I can give is that you should let someone know exactly where you’ll be hiking and when you plan to return; that you should pack plenty of water (two or three liters is not too much); and that you must bring winter clothes, including a hat and gloves, if you plan to hike above the tree line, especially along the exposed trails of Franconia Ridge and the Presidential Range, long stretches of which are above 5000 feet. Like the trail signs say, "many have died here" — and every one of those victims was a person who failed to take basic steps to protect him- or herself from the extreme weather conditions that can and do come out of nowhere, even in midsummer.

But not to worry. This will be fun.

Columbus Day weekend, 1998. My friend Brad and I, who’ve been hiking together starting with Boy Scout trips in the late 1960s, had set an ambitious agenda: three days, five 4000-footers in the Pemigewasset Wilderness, the wild heartland of the White Mountains. Except that it was raining, and it would not let up until we had returned to my car. It rained as we crossed a stream near Thoreau Falls, tossing our packs to the far bank so that we could steady ourselves as we stepped from rock to rock. It rained as we set up our tent the first night at the junction of the Wilderness and Bondcliff Trails. It rained as we packed up and began our long, sloppy climb over Bondcliff, West Bond, Bond — peaks that are said to offer spectacular views, though we couldn’t see a thing — and, later in the day, Zealand Mountain. It rained as we staggered into Zealand Hut, with darkness less than an hour away — and learned to our great relief that so many people with reservations had failed to show up that we could spend the night. It rained the next morning while we headed out, up and over Mount Hale and back to civilization.

A miserable weekend? Well, yes, of course. But we drove home with a feeling of accomplishment. Brad and I, you see, are devotees of "peak-bagging," the sport of trying to reach the summits of all 48 mountains on the list of 4000-footers. We had not stopped to admire the view, smell the conifers, or enjoy nature in any way. Rather, we had grimly forged ahead for three cold, wet, windy days for the privilege of checking off five more mountains on a list.