3:16AM

Time to rise and shine.

The day begins with nothing unusual: french press coffee, apples cut up for the post-hike hunger, water flasks filled, double-check shoes, gaiters, extra layers of clothing.

Check, check, and more checks.

Everything needed for a fantastic day out sprawled on the wood floor and waiting to get all loaded into the Subaru.

The frost crackles under my tires as I depart, down the driveway and eight miles further into town. As I gaze at the starlit sky above – the memories flood into my mind banks: twenty eight years ago this journey began..

- 1991 -

As a youngster we took “family vacations” every weekend; camping, exploring, and backpacking several nights with the end goal of standing atop Mount Marcy. We were also frequent visitors of Algonquin and Giant Peaks, high peaks in the Adirondacks. These New York high peaks were playgrounds for my sister and I growing up, fast forward twenty five years and I would finally be worthy of sewing an Adirondack 46er patch on my weathered packs!

One by one the boxes of once unattainable milestones began being checked off. First, my father, our friend Wendy and I hiked all 46 peaks above four thousand feet in New York State. Shortly after this feat, I stood atop several twelve and thirteen thousand footers while out west.

At the conclusion of my first cross country hiking excursion, I found this little mountain in New Hampshire called Moosilauke. Having ascended this peak via the infamously steep Beaver Brook trail, I fell head over heels (luckily only figuratively) in love with the landscape of New Hampshire – their mostly unsigned summits ringing of an untamed wildness that was not found in my native Adirondacks.

Soon after moving to New Hampshire, weekends consisted of trail running and butt-sliding down places known as: Cannon Mountain, the neighboring Kinsmans, and north to Cabot; continuing a tradition of backpacking, car-camping and all-around exploration of White Mountain National Forest areas.

To me, hiking in Maine always seemed so distant, lightyears away from home. I had heard of these peaks, but as a 7 year old hiker – they could have existed on another planet for all I knew; growing up, we often did not make it past our neighboring Vermont or Massachusetts for family outings.

Continuing my drive to “check off” new things on my invigorating quest of health and well-being, following my first marathon and just two weeks later, running my first (of many to follow) 50K – I wanted more than anything to pay a birthday visit to this jagged peak so far away that I had heard ruminating tales of, in far northern Maine: Katahdin.

I was still not convinced that I would traverse all of the subsequent 4000ft summits of Maine, in my mind I was still just, “out exploring and seeing new places”.

Then it happened; early autumn 2019 saw my Subaru and I embarking on a 3am spur-of-the-moment trip to Saddleback, the (at the time) closed ski resort in Rangeley, Maine. Deeper and deeper I was falling in love with the mountains and old, sleepy ski villages of Maine, the autumn colors on the mountainsides were of oranges and yellows from birch trees in ways I had hitherto not yet witnessed.

The planning continued on and on; the following weekend saw me spending a frosty, 28° evening in the back of the Subaru. A first (definitely not last) for me and my beloved car.

I had planned for a lofty day, which, to my surprise, concluded by meeting some incredible new friends at the summit of the Mt Redington bushwhack. The following day, I would meet and greet more amazing folks as we stood at the old fire tower base located on Avery Peak, soaking in the sunrise, in complete disbelief at the lack of wind – true luck for sure during that weekend in Maine as I stood atop Bigelow West, my 114th four-thousand foot summit of the Northeast 115.

Then, only one peak remained unclimbed.

That peak welcomed me at every thought to come run and frolic on its slopes and eventually stand to peer around, celebrating at its lookout tower which stands at roughly 4,700’.

We had accumulated a light layer of snow at the lower altitudes, so I truly did not know what I was in store for this morning as I would be climbing Mount Carrigain. The season had not dove into winter enough for most folks to begin posting trail condition reports online yet.

Into the Subaru, I packed all I thought I would need, just in case of surprises. The forecast was calling for clear skies, low winds and unseasonably chilly temperatures on Saturday for my trek in the Pemigewasset Wilderness.

To my elated surprise, the seasonal gate leading two miles to the trail head parking lot down Sawyer River Road remained open; I followed two other cars down this narrow and winding, old logging road at 7am.

Plenty of water was stuffed in my 12-liter Salomon running pack, several extra layers, compass, headlamp, map – all of the ‘extras’ that I hoped I would not need were neatly stowed on my back as I grabbed for my trekking poles, fixed gaiters to running shoes, set my GPS watch to record my journey in ‘trail run’ mode and was off, bounding down the trail.

Oh, wait.. before I could rush out onto the trails, I was bombarded by a very enthusiastic man standing about eight feet tall with chatty friends who looked straight out of the 1980’s Campmor catalogues standing nearby: “looking for the JASON Group.. or just hiking solo today?!”, the man questioned. “Solo, brother.. have a great day!” I replied as I was honestly unsure if he was ever even talking to me.

Now, my hike officially began: at a moderate pace to begin, I was quickly reminded of trekking along the old railroad grade of Lincoln Woods once again as I swooshed past several other hikers - I certainly had much less gear than most other hikers on the trails that morning.

Just shy of two miles I slowed to a halt; with a chatty group of boys and fathers trailing, I adored the fun they were having but was ready to climb up and away from their raucous that echoed through the still morning air. Now, face to face with Carrigain Brook; while I would not consider the water as high, the rocks were frosted over and a dunked foot this early into the day would certainly be a wrench in my plans.

Following what appeared to be an old herd path briefly down the right bank led me to a logged crossing – slick, but easily manageable.

Once across, my pace as well as the altitude began to increase steadily. Switchbacks up onto a mini-ridge doubled back along the wooded ridge – I was totally loving this trail so far. I wanted to run, but didn’t want to sweat too much until my return from the open summit air.

My Lone Peaks continued to put the first tracks of the day onto the mountainside, until out of what seemed like a bushwhack became... crampon prints in the snow?

What I saw and followed did not make a lick of sense to me. Unless the owner of these tracks were into complete overkill. The trail thus far contained merely packed leaves and, in places, about 3 inches of powder – no need for snowshoes nor full crampons up here.

I watched the tracks traipse from down the middle of the trail and dive deep into the thick of forest just straight into the woods - a strange bushwhack, perhaps?

Again, the set of tracks emerged from the trees and when I could finally recognize the imprint of a pad I knew I was following something a bit more hunched over and four legged than a human – there certainly was wildlife up in these hills.

The switchbacks continued and the climbing never ceased until I came to the first lookout at 4.5 miles, atop Signal Ridge. For all I cared, this could have been my summit and I would have been beyond thrilled to experience this beauty: the frosted trees framed in some of the finest views of the far distant Presidential range, all the avalanche scars well-masked behind a glaze of white powder.

I could have stood here all day just gazing at this incredible blue and white mountainous view. Around the next bend the iconic view up to the summit cone and lookout tower atop Carrigain came into view – my next and final destination.

Down the col and henceforth back up higher now, past the rickety old bucket at the well and up a few pitches over some basketball-sized boulders, there I found my objective, another twenty feet away.

Poles and gloves were tossed aside as I found no wind to speak of at 4,700’ as I looked at my watch; 9:24AM and I now stood alone atop my 115th northeast high peak.

Ten, perhaps fifteen minutes must have passed as I stood and soaked in the views from every angle – it was time to begin my return jaunt before the hoards of weekend warriors made their ascent up the tower steps as well, and my silent summit would be brimming with activity, life and laughter once again.

With delicate steps I made quick work of the descent and within just minutes found myself staring back up the final slopes of Carrigan: “I was just up there. I did it. That really did just happen!”

I met the same familiar faces as I began the switchbacks to lower ground, “dang.. you made quick work of that!” one hiker exclaimed as I boogied past and wished them a terrific ascent as well.

Stopping for a moment to say good morning to a woman making her solo climb up, she told me all about the three other occasions she had summited Carrigain and how this was not her first pick of the day; I felt like after today – this would be my first pick any day!

After several minutes and also wishing her a lovely bluebird day in the mountains, I heard from the distance: “HEY WAIT! I have a question for you!!“, she yelled back through the trees to me. I began walking back up that hill toward her, “did you actually just say this was your NH48, NE67, AND NE115 summit?!”

I assured her that she had heard me correctly and just then she went absolutely ecstatic with enthusiasm, perhaps with even more than I had tried to contain. I could have hugged the kind soul for all the congrats she gave, but she was too far back upslope.

I must have passed at least 35 people from the time I departed the summit of Carrigain to the moment I returned to my car at the trail head – these folks really picked a gem to hike on this windless morning.

Shortly prior to reaching the brook crossing for the final time, I reached the party of dogs and folks heading up for a friends’ Grid finish, that was when I heard: “HEY!… I remember you from the Adirondacks!!”

What a small world it really is sometimes. The friend I ran into at the Upper Works trailhead in the Adirondacks, who, at that time was having a PBR for breakfast prior to heading off to Mt Marshall for his finish of the Northeast 115. We were both now living a sober life and onto many more positive endeavors when him and I crossed paths again, this time on my NE115 finish.

It was so good to see old friends and talk to so many friendly hikers, especially on a day when I assumed it would be me alone, keeping myself company.

The crossing of Carrigain Brook was easy this time, knowing where to go and where to step on that frosty log, the remaining two mile trek out was one of the most satisfying snowy trails that I had ever ran.

I brought along Hillsound spikes, but never actually needed them, I figured they would have just been dulled on the bare rock more than helpful. The Altra’s performed beautifully, despite not being waterproof they did great in the powder with thicker Darn Tough wool socks, traction was not an issue.

Back at my car, I dove straight into the bananas and apples. What a truly pleasant day in the forest; I accomplished what I set out to do, and had way more fun than I ever could have imagined going into it.

What a truly beautiful group of people us hikers, trail runners, backpackers, and forest hermits can be. Such an incredible journey spanning the past twenty eight years this has been.

What began with a seven year old kid who found solace in solitude atop Mount Marcy to an old guy standing atop Mount Carrigain breathing in youth – may the mountains and our love of adventure forever grow in size.

Happy Climbing!

– Erik, NE115 #1013

NE115: Mount Carrigain

Plymouth Mountain

Wolf Cub