The Beaten Path
First published January 25, 2012
The mountain’s latest victim was 46-year-old Patrick Scott Powers of Mansfield, Massachusetts, an experienced hiker and climber who succumbed to injuries sustained in an 800-foot fall down the icy slopes of Mount Washington’s notoriously steep Tuckerman Ravine. Powers, hiking solo, set off on a day-trip to the summit on the morning of January 9, and is believed to have reached the mountaintop sometime early that afternoon. What transpired from that point on remains a mystery, but what is known is that at about 7:45 p.m., the caretaker at Hermit Lake Shelter at the base of the Ravine reported observing what appeared to be a headlamp moving down a cliff at the top of Tuck’s at a high rate of speed. Assuming the worst, the caretaker set into motion a search and rescue effort, and though Powers was seriously injured but still alive when rescue personnel first arrived at the accident scene, he died before they could get him down off the mountain.
Given the inherent dangers of any trek into Tuckerman Ravine during the winter months, one can only imagine what it’s like there this year since snowfall has been minimal and severe icing has been an ongoing concern. The fact that Powers was either trying to descend through the ravine, or was attempting to skirt its headwall—in the dark, no less—automatically prompts one to question his judgment. And makes one wonder how he got into this situation in the first place.
By all accounts, January 9 was hardly an ideal day to be climbing the Rock Pile. Weather records from the summit indicate that the high temperature for the day was just 10 degrees, with light falling and blowing snow and sustained winds in the 40 to 50 mph range. Most reports I’ve read indicate Powers was properly equipped for climb, though he apparently did borrow some gear (ski poles and goggles) before beginning his climb. He was also no stranger to the mountain, as his father told the Sun Chronicle newspaper of Attleboro, Mass., “He hiked all the time. I think it may have been his fifth or sixth trip to Mount Washington."
If Powers did get to the summit by early afternoon, the immediate question that comes to mind is why did it take him five or six hours to hike down to the lip of Tuckerman Ravine, which is little more than a mile from the mountaintop? There’s the possibility, of course, that he got misdirected by the snowy, windy conditions and wandered aimlessly above treeline for hours before being overcome by darkness. Eventually he found his way to the top of Tuck’s, but somehow lost his footing at the top, and plunged to his eventual death.
There’s also speculation that from the summit of Mount Washington, Powers may have decided to “bag” nearby Mount Monroe just to the south, and then had made his way across Bigelow Lawn (in the dark) to the top of Tuckerman Ravine, where he accidentally fell.
Some unsubstantiated online reports I’ve read have also indicated that Powers may not have actually been properly outfitted for the conditions and as a result he became hypothermic in the course of his hike. If so, his route-finding skills would have been greatly diminished and the onset of darkness would have only made things infinitely worse, especially as he neared Tuckerman Ravine.
I think it’s safe to say that the preferred descent route of Mount Washington in winter is decidedly not the Tuckerman Ravine Trail. The Lion Head winter route is the most popular ascent and descent route from the east (or Pinkham Notch) side of the mountain. Because of ongoing avalanche concerns, Tuckerman Ravine is far less popular in winter than in summer and fall, and would certainly not be my choice as a descent route, even on the best of days, and certainly not after dark.
Despite repeated warnings over the years, Tuckerman Ravine is, unfortunately, no stranger to tragedy, especially in winter and spring. Since 2001, in fact, six persons have lost their lives in the ravine, and overall, Tuckerman Ravine has claimed more than 30 lives, or more than 20 percent of all deaths that have occurred on the Presidential Range. In other words, its reputation as a potentially dangerous place to be is well deserved.
U. S. Forest Service officials, who are responsible for all winter rescues in the Cutler River drainage—which includes Tuckerman and Huntington Ravines—note that Powers’ death was preceded by several other close calls in the 10 days leading up to January 9. Those incidents included two involving avalanches, one of which required a rescue after an ice climber injured his leg. The other was caused when a backcountry skier triggered an avalanche, which he managed to survive unscathed despite a 500-foot slide.
It is events like these that remind us all that as friendly and as intimate as these mountains can be, they also have a dark, unforgiving side to them, especially this time of year. In winter, the best laid hiking plans can, and often do, go wrong, sometimes with tragic consequences.
Published January 4, 2012
As the snow continues to pile up here in the White Mountains, with nary of a sign of spring in sight, I can’t help think back to a few of the more memorable winter snowshoe treks I’ve been a part of over the last 20 years.
Many of these unforgettable trips took place between 1986 and 1991, when I was feverishly pursuing the Winter 4,000-Footer peakbagging list, which required ascents of New Hampshire’s 48 highest peaks during calendar winter. As some readers may recall, it took me about six seasons to finish off the list, with the final peak being Mt. Jefferson in the Northern Presidentials. Certainly this climactic end to my winter quest ranks among my very favorite hikes of all time; truth be told, however, it was winter only in name as the sun shone warm and brightly on the near windless summit, and the temperature hovered closer to 40 degrees than the more seasonal 10 to 15 degrees. Compared to some of my other winter 4000-Footers hikes, the Mt. Jefferson trek was a walk in the park.
If I had to pick the three toughest winter peakbagging trips of my career, I’d rate the hikes up Mount Carrigain, Mount Moriah and Mount Osceola at or right near the top.
The Carrigain trip, on a bitter cold February day, proved to be a true test of stamina and endurance for myself and hiking partner Steve Smith. As I recall things, we started up the Sawyer River Road in Hart’s Location full of vim and vigor, shrugging off the fact that we had a two-mile road walk ahead of us just to reach the start of the Signal Ridge Trail, then five additional miles through the deep snow to the summit. It didn’t seem to bother us either that the temperature, already a chilly 10 degrees or so, was expected to fall as the day went on.
The walk up the road, packed hard by snowmobile traffic, was easy enough. But things got decidedly harder as soon as we reached the Signal Ridge Trail about an hour after our start. The trail had seen no foot traffic for weeks and the thought of just the two us breaking snow for five agonizing miles was nearly enough to send me scurrying back to my car parked back near Route 302.
Trudging first through breakable crust in the hardwoods below 2500 feet elevation, we made steady, albeit slow progress. Trail conditions changed the higher we climbed though, and by the time we got about a quarter way up the straight, mile-long stretch of trail that has long been the bane of Carrigain-bound trampers, we hit the proverbial wall, barely able to move through the unbroken knee-deep powder that covered the path for as far as the eye could.
Just as we were about to abandon our summit attempt, maybe halfway up the Signal Ridge Trail, three other hikers who we’d passed earlier in the day as they skied their way up Sawyer River Road caught up to us from behind and offered to share trail-breaking duties the way of the way.
Having those couple of extra bodies made all the difference, and five hours after leaving the relative comfort of Sawyer River Road and striking off into the woods along the unbroken trail, we finally gained the summit, where we were greeted by sub-zero temperatures and harsh northwest winds. Somehow, Steve and I managed to remain at the summit for a half hour, while our trail-breaking partners lasted two, maybe three minutes. As Steve would write later in Appalachia, Carrigain “is a tough nut in winter.”
Under somewhat similar conditions the following winter, I found myself working my way up Mount Moriah with Steve and new winter hiking convert Creston Ruiter. On this day, it wasn’t a case of the temperature starting out mild and dropping as the day went on. It was damn cold right from the moment we stepped out of the car and onto the Carter-Moriah Trail in Gorham. I don’t believe it got above zero at any time during out eight-hour hike. Complicating matters further, at least on the ascent, was the fact that someone had recently attempted to climb the trail without snowshoes, and had post-holed his way for what seemed miles and miles. With snowshoes on, the postholes made for absolutely abysmal climbing conditions. Because of the snow cover, though, we had no choice but to leave them, so we climbed ever so slowly, cursing the hiker before us with one breath, and wheezing in the cold with the next.
For completely different reasons, I’m forced to include the Mount Osceola climb to my “most memorable” list, not because of bitter cold conditions or waist-deep snow along the trail. No, it was the severe lack of snow in the woods, and the concrete-like texture of the trail, that made this winter ascent one of the hardest and least enjoyable of my peakbagging career.
It was the winter of 1986-87 and up to that point in time (late February) we’d had very little snow to speak of, even at the higher elevations. Because Tripoli Road (between Woodstock and Waterville Valley) is closed to traffic in winter, eliminating the possibility of climbing the mountain by way of the easier summer route, we had no choice but to ascend the two peaks of Osceola from the Kancamagus Highway end of the Mt. Osceola Trail.
For the first couple of miles, Steve (my hiking partner, again) had no trouble negotiating the trail, but once we started up the steep east face of East Osceola, every step up was a struggle as the well-packed trail had no give whatsoever, forcing us to frequently step off into the woods beside the trail to avoid especially difficult pitches. Another major obstacle to be challenged was the so-called “chimney” which marks the start of the climb up to the main peak of Osceola from the col between it and East Osceola. Somehow we managed to wriggle our way up, and later, down the chimney. Likewise, we miraculously creeped warily down the steep slope of East Peak without breaking any limbs or blowing out any kneecaps. This, we accomplished, even as we dared to slide down the most treacherous section of trail on our butts, praying that our momentum wouldn’t take us head-first into the nearest trailside tree.
Now that I think about it, I guess there are probably four or five other winter hikes that were just as memorable as the three I’ve just recalled. There’s no time for more storytelling now, though. I’ve got a driveway full of snow to shovel, and the rest of this incredible, unending winter to dream about seasons past.