[Cover story in the Dartmouth Alumni Magazine, November, 1999]

60 crazy college students. 53 miles of trail. 24 hours of mind-numbing, grueling, bipedal locomotion.

“Only half of you will make it all the way to Moosilauke,” announces Ted to 60 energetic Dartmouth students in the basement of Robinson Hall. As the organizer of the hike, Ted’s trying to dissuade some of them from participating. “Look around this room, look at the people sitting next to you. Some of you will drop out as soon as it gets dark and cold. A lot more of you will drop out at dawn, strained and sore. Another bunch of you will drop out at breakfast, totally exhausted. I am glad so many people are excited to do this, and I wish all of you luck. But I’m telling you right now, if you have any doubts–if you have bad knees or weak ankles, if you have a big paper to write this weekend, or if you just aren’t in good shape–don’t go on this hike. I don’t want to rescue you.”

Silence overtakes the room. Each person is wondering the same thing: “Do I really know what I’m getting myself into?”

We have all decided to follow the Appalachian Trail’s white blazes from Hanover to the Mount Moosilauke Ravine Lodge. We will climb six mountains: Moose Mountain, Holt’s Ledge, Smarts Mountain, Mount Cube, Mount Mist, and Mount Moosilauke. Total distance: 53.4 miles. Elevation gain and loss: 18, 000 feet. And we will do it in about 24 hours. Think of two very hilly, unpaved marathons, half in cold darkness.

Since 1963, Dartmouth Outing Club members have subjected themselves to the grueling 24-hour hike. Back then students hiked from Kinsman Notch (just north of Moosilauke) south to Hanover. In 1984–the 75th anniversary of the DOC–the hike changed direction. Though uphill from Hanover, the Ravine Lodge seemed a more logical and appropriate destination. On the first weekend of October, we have come to follow in the footsteps of many before us.

The hike attracts the toughest, craziest, and most dedicated outdoorspeople, and has made a few legends. In 1984 Martin McCarter ‘87 and Bernie Waugh ‘74 decided 53 miles wasn’t enough, so they started 22 miles back in Vermont and hiked all 75 miles of Dartmouth-maintained Appalachian Trail–in under 30 hours. In 1996 Jim Hourdequin ‘97 ran the trail in 11 hours and 15 minutes, earning the speed record. Most of us, however, will not be aiming to break records this weekend. We just want to make it to Moosilauke.

It’s Friday morning and Robinson Hall is packed with hikers preparing their feet. Moleskin, duct tape, Vaseline, plastic bags, and socks lie scattered on the floor. Success on this hike is highly dependent on the condition of the feet–a blister by mile 30 and it’s probably over. Most of us will try to pamper our feet with a fresh, dry pair of socks every ten miles. Some, though, have already accepted the fact that their feet will suffer. They try to create a protective barrier from the elements–basically a moon boot. You do not want to be near these people when they finally remove their shoes at Moosilauke. Trench foot is not pretty.

“You’re guaranteed to hallucinate,” is the motive most hikers cite first when asked why they want to hike so far in a single day. But there are other reasons: some do it to witness the spectacle of the New England autumn, while others, such as Dan Becker ‘00, are psyched for a good, clean challenge. According to Dan, “The hike is not about will power, it’s about will endurance.” A select few hikers are just plain nuts. I once heard Kevin Hand ‘97 propose going the whole way with only a gourd (as a water bottle) and iodine. One hiker this year, Frode Eilersten ‘99, is going after Hourdequin’s speed record. Regardless of motive, there isn’t a soul who won’t wallow in pleasure after the walking is over.

Mile 1: The journey begins in clusters of four and five. Our packs are light; we are carrying only water and snacks. A glance across the Green at Baker Tower reveals our starting time: almost 1:30. The Appalachian Trail wanders up Hanover’s Main Street and across campus to the Chase soccer fields on the east side of town. As we enter the steamy forest beyond the fields, we look back and wave goodbye. The autumn colors are more developed here than anywhere on campus, even in the day’s gray drizzle. Under the soft, even light, the yellows and reds seem brighter than usual. With all my schoolwork, I had forgotten the beauty of this season.

Mile 5: We start working on our 10-pound hunk of Cabot cheddar cheese, passing it around among the five of us. We are building up our reserves of energy for later use. Nikko complains that the duct tape holding his sneakers together has already disintegrated. His feet quickly become wet and mushy, and remain that way for the next 48 miles. We move quickly while the sun is still high.

Mile 9: Cheery volunteers greet us with bananas, granola, and cookies. At roughly 10-mile intervals, volunteers at rest stops will provide us with warm food, plenty of water, and any supplies, clothes, or treats we have stashed for ourselves. Without these breaks, the hike would be much more difficult. The rest stops also perform a more important function–each hiker signs in so that everyone is accounted for.
At this stop Ben and Dan let me in on their secret to success. Each is carrying two packs of cigarettes, even though neither has ever smoked. They think that smoking will help keep them awake when the going gets tough. Matt has with him even better goodies: caffeine tablets and ginseng pills. These guys are prepared. One year Amanda Eaken ‘99 carried $16 worth of chocolate-covered espresso beans, while others brought Jolt soda and dozens of tea bags. Right now, however, our concern is finishing off the rest of the cheese. After only a few minutes, we press on, taking advantage of the last few hours of daylight while we still have it.

Mile 17: Amy is already questioning whether she’ll make it to Moosilauke. The trail is too quiet, too dark, and too lonely. She wants to continue, but cannot handle the overwhelming hush of the forest. As she nears the Skiway: left, right, left, right, left, right the dried leaves whisper to her, driving her crazy. Her thoughts about quitting at mile 19 bring her close to tears.

Mile 19: The Dartmouth Skiway is the first important rest stop. The day has become dark and cold, and we put on headlamps, fleece jackets, and warm hats. But we are restless because it is still early. We fill water bottles, grab some warm food, and try to get back on the trail as quickly as possible. We know that rest stops are like black holes: they can suck you in and never let you go. Stay too long and your legs will cramp up, your feet will swell, and you will fall asleep. It takes great will power to escape from the comfort of the rest stop to face ten more miles of darkness and another mountain.

Amy has changed her mind, and will continue hiking. But Dorothea has had enough. Tom stops here as well. Two down.

Mile 20: A pickup truck drives by and we are tempted to hitch a short ride. The trail here consists of a dirt road for about a mile, before it cuts north and ascends Smarts Mountain. We turn off our headlamps and make use of some moonlight while we can. I am not tired yet. Twenty-one miles are not much if you are planning on 53.
With the lights off, I forget that I’m on the Appalachian Trail in New Hampshire. I feel like it’s Halloween in Maryland, and I am walking around the block with friends and a pack full of candy. On Halloween I walk thinking of the end–massive reserves of candy–while now I walk because I enjoy the means. I’m walking because I like the tough parts, because I like to struggle sometimes.

Mile 21: McKinley, the first dog to attempt the Hanover-to-Moosilauke hike, has no problem finding the trail up Smarts, which follows a gentle granite ridge in and out of the trees. For us, finding the way is tough at night, especially tonight’s fog and mist. McKinley picks up the scent of the group ahead of him, and barks as he runs ahead, announcing the way to the rest of his group. Constantly running ahead of the group and then doubling back, McKinley has probably walked 40 miles in our last 20. But he has a huge advantage: he doesn’t have to strain his eyes searching for white blazes, nor does he end up staring at the ground under his nose. Sniffing his way along the trail, he walks with his eyes closed, and soon each of us will envy him for being able to do so.

While scrambling over boulders, Pat injures his knee badly. Kate, Nikko, and Jesse help him walk back to the Skiway, and then continue on–that’s four bonus miles for their good-heartedness. And three down.

Mile 25: Our pace is slow up Smarts because the four of us only have three lights. “I think I need new flashlights for my battery,” declares Megan as her light fades into nothingness, leaving us with only two lights. A full minute passes before someone realizes what she has said and corrects her. “You mean you need new batteries for your flashlight!” We’re only halfway to Moosilauke, and sentences are becoming garbled. The delirium has begun. We are moving no faster than a crawl. My neck hurts from staring at the feet in front of me.

I wish batteries grew on trees.

Mile 26: A frigid wind blows through the Smarts fire tower around midnight. We have reached the summit, and since many hikers are too tired to climb the extra 80 feet up the ladder, they wait down below, unaware of what they’re missing. Last year from this vantage I beheld more stars than I had seen anywhere else on the east coast. This year the view is impeded by a cold mist, and I descend through it, disappointed. I am frozen through by the time I reach the ground, and I remain cold for the next mile. I yearn for the sun’s warmth and light. Dawn seems distant.

Mile 27: The trail down Smarts is unusually muddy, and now the back of my skirt is, too. Hiking in a rayon skirt has been a fun change from the normal, but I never anticipated what a nuisance the drag from a muddy skirt could be. Dodging the deep puddles is difficult and slow going. Dan’s right boot comes off in a mud puddle, and his right foot oozes into the cold brown goo. He finds his boot, and sticks his soaked sock back inside. His frozen foot takes a toll on him during the descent.

Mile 30: Hikers wander into the third rest stop, at Jacob’s Brook, between midnight and 3:30 am. While searching for his water bottle, Mike finds a stapler in the top pocket of his backpack. “Geez, I can’t believe I’ve been carrying this stupid thing 30 freakin miles!”

Except for a pot of hot chili and a small fire, there is little incentive to hang out here, since even the volunteers have gone to sleep.

Lindsay decides to do the same. Four down.

Mile 33: “Woohoo!…Oh, wait, never mind, ” yells someone up ahead. Mount Cube is teasing us with false summits, and we are not amused. I wonder if we haven’t been following a loop trail around the summit, over and over again. I’ve had enough of Cube. Painfully squinting at my watch, I wonder what the rest of the world is doing at 4:58 am. In retrospect, it will feel like most of the 53 miles were spent wandering around up here.

Mile 35: My vision blurs in the predawn light. The switchbacks down Cube are very steep and in bad shape. The trail goes one step at a time, and it takes concentration to place my feet carefully between all the roots. More than anything else I just want to close my eyes. Dan Becker’s adage about will-endurance makes more sense to me now.

Dullness surrounds me. My companions have stopped talking, and all I can hear is the endless thump of feet on the packed trail. Everything around me is a uniform tint, like I’m wearing night-vision goggles. I miss seeing the color in the leaves.

Mile 36: The Atwell Hilton, a rundown abandoned house (not a luxury hotel), is our salvation. Breakfast at this rest stop has been the focus of our thoughts for miles. We sit down on a bench and throw sleeping bags over us to keep warm.

“Hot chocolate?” a volunteer asks.
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God.Yes.”
“Yes, please.”
“Pancakes?” she asks.
“I love you!”

Last year Sebastian, Jackson, and Tom passed out while sitting here, their heads actually collapsing into the pancakes they had just received. I had never witnessed such complete exhaustion. A few years earlier some hikers arrived and were informed that the pancakes were gone. Apparently the stove had caught fire, and the volunteers had extinguished it with the pancake batter. I do not want to imagine the hikers’ disappointment.

Dan, Wendy, and James call it quits here. Seven down.

Mile 38: Mark has been dragging his right foot sideways since breakfast, to keep the pressure off the blisters on his toes. I can’t believe he is still walking. It’s 10:00 a.m. and I am beyond tired. I feel weak. I am not at all hungry, but I eat a chocolate bar because I know I need sugar. I am sleepwalking, waking up briefly every time I trip. I have no recollection of the last two miles of trail.

Mile 40: Nikko leans against a tree and falls asleep for a few seconds. He has accumulated maybe five minutes’ worth of sleep in the last 24 hours in this manner, more than most of us. Liz keeps having visions of people sleeping on the side of the trail. I think she wants to join them. Chris thinks he sees two 18-wheelers parked side by side on the trail near here; many years ago hikers reported seeing school buses and playgrounds trailside as well. Yikes.

Mile 42: Mount Mist is miniscule compared to Smarts or Moosilauke, but climbing this hump of earth is ridiculously challenging. I am nothing more than momentum–mass and velocity. It takes more energy to stop than to keep going. I am making progress without any conscious effort. We spy the triangular summit of Moosilauke. I have lost all feeling. Go legs go.

Mile 45: Angie looks into the forest and sees McKinley. Once again, it’s only a log. The real McKinley is up ahead, napping. Amanda stops for a break, and leans up against a tree.

“Hey, I’m not a tree!” Mike exclaims. It doesn’t even matter anymore.
Steve, hobbling on a knee he twisted a couple of miles back, stops here. Eight down.

Mile 48: Great Bear cabin is the ultimate of the black holes. The porch swing, friendly volunteers, hot macaroni and cheese, and comfy mattresses sing out like the Sirens of Titan, luring me in. I must close my eyes and plug my ears, pretend not to notice the luxuries. Someone offers me a back massage, and I decline. I have to. I need to be on my way. I have one more mountain left.

Only Sally is drawn into the trap. Nine down.

Mile 50: After a 3,300-foot climb up Glencliff trail, we reach the bald summit of Mt. Moosilauke. It’s 2:30 and sunny, but darn cold in the wind. I notice a few smiles, a few pictures. But there is little glory because nobody is looking forward to the descent to the Ravine Lodge. Liz’s knees hurt so much that she cries all the way down Moosilauke. For many, this is the hardest part.

Mile 52: Angie, Maggie, and Amy, already late, make a wrong turn at the base of Moosilauke. They spend an hour bushwhacking, and the sky grows dark. They are so close! Luckily, Amy still has a headlamp.

Mile 53: I lie down in peace inside the Moosilauke Ravine Lodge. It has been 26 hours since I began walking. Right now, there is no place I’d rather be.
I am so tired I have trouble staying awake long enough to take off my shoes. My body decides to take a nap before dinner, and it is amazingly stiff when woken up. I need more rest. Where’d that massage person go?

I fall asleep leaning my forehead on my fork only a few minutes after someone serves me a plate of lasagna. When I awake a piece of chocolate cake has taken the lasagna’s place. “Wow, what good service,” I think as I focus my droopy eyes. I eat most of the cake, and then fall asleep on the fork once more. When I awake a second time, the plate and fork are gone for good. The guy sitting next to me laughs. He suggests I forget about the silverware and seek a pillow.

Angie, Maggie, and Amy finally stumble in to the lodge at 9 p.m., 32 hours after they began. As they are taking off their shoes and passing out, Ben and Dan are trying to pawn off the cigarettes they never smoked. Marc is sitting downstairs scrubbing 11 blisters on his right foot with Iodine. Liz is so sore she is being carried up the steps to her bunk. McKinley’s paws are so tender he won’t walk on the wooden floor. Only a couple of folks are square dancing on the main floor– on any other Saturday night the floor would be packed. Most people lie passed out by the warm fireplace in their sleeping bags. And most people agree it was well worth it.
Herculean strength and effort, remarkable pain tolerance, and a significant dosage of Advil enabled Frode Eilersten ‘99 to beat Jim Hordequin’s time by 10 minutes and set an incredible new speed record of 11 hours, 5 minutes. I saw Frode the following day in Hanover, hobbling around on crutches. He told me he was so sore from the run that it took him 20 minutes to get out of bed.

Another record was also set this year–more than three-quarters of the hikers made it to Moosilauke. It’s nice to know that the number of crazy people at Dartmouth is growing.

I ask Ben Fuller ‘99 if he enjoyed the hike.
“No! It was absolute misery the whole way!” he screams at me.
“Yeah, but didn’t you feel great when you got to Moosilauke?”
“Of course. That’s the worst part–you’re so exhausted that your forget how miserable it was!”

I pause and think about it. In a way, he’s right. And I’ll probably see him on the trail again next year.