In which Zahnna climbs North Twin (#32) but South Twin summit (#33) proves elusive

Zahnna near the summit of North Twin, gazing at the unattainable summit of South Twin in the distance.

Today (Saturday, Aug. 30, 2014), Zahnna and Inca trekked to the summit of North Twin Mountain, 4,761 feet above sea level. This put Zahnna at #32 on the list of the 48 N.H. peaks above 4,000 feet, so she's two-thirds of the way there.

Zahnna and Inca did not, however, make the summit of nearby South Twin Mountain. Ledges between the two peaks proved too much for a 12-year-old German Shepherd to traverse safely, either up or down.

So we turned back. We'll get South Twin some other day, some other way.

Eventful hike: three dramatic river crossings in the first few miles, and then a mountain fly that divebombed straight into my right ear and stayed there. Finally came out, but for awhile I swear it was still in there, trying to burrow further. Yeesh!

Weather: warm, dry, and sunny—but that would change as we climbed.

On the river crossings: I'm told these are potentially the most difficult of any White Mountains trail, and I wouldn't be surprised. Even in late August, at low water, the Little River comes rushing out of the mountains with impressive power. (Who picked that name, anyway?)

Inca hadn't ever encountered that much water moving so fast. After nearly getting swept away by the current, she realized the value of rock-hopping, at which she proved pretty good.

"That's one sure-footed dog," exclaimed an older gentleman on the opposite bank who watched us hop our way across. (Zahnna, true to form, just waded through.)

A great view is no competition for a good smell.

Typical for the Whites, trail just below summit goes over a tough escarpment that proved impossible for Zahnna. So I tied Inca to a tree above and scrambled down to give a boost that turned into an exercise in muddy full-body canine lifting.

Zahnna doesn't like being picked up, especially on a narrow ridge at 4,600 feet. So the poor dog freaked. She got over it quickly, but this used up everyone's patience for any more such escapades.

Summit area of North Twin packed with gnarled krummholz. The place looks like a Christmas tree farm just gone to hell. Trail follows level flat area on ridge, which (when you could see) seems like the crest of an immense wave of stunted pine trees that fall away on all sides.

At the North Twin summit: #32 for Zahnna, #4 for Inca.

No view at summit cairn, but great outlooks nearby via side paths. From these, you could see South Twin summit, just over a mile away.

Well, sort of. Blue skies still ruled above, but low-level overcast was blowing from the south out of the Pemigewasset wilderness, up and over South Twin, putting the open summit in and out wind-driven clouds.

And where we were, a stiff wind was gusting probably to 30 mph, pushing scraps of clouds and chilly fog up from the valley below and directly past us, like a fog machine in a theater. Sudden realization after sweating our way up to the ridge: it was cold! So hypothermia was another factor in our eventual decision to turn back.

Also, time. Later-than-planned start got us to the trailhead at 8:30 a.m. We made it to the North Twin summit sometime shortly after 11 a.m. Getting to South Twin and back would add at least two hours, and we were due back at home base by late afternoon.

Still, I figured we'd push on. What sealed the "turn back" call was what happened next: heading south off the summit on the "North Twin Spur," the trail ran over two rocky ledges that were difficult for Zahnna to handle, causing her to grunt loudly each time she landed. Not a good sign.

And then we found ourselves staring down a "chimney," meaning a steep pitch of bare rock that requires a hiker to use all available limbs to ascend or descend.

It looked like 30 feet to the bottom, where the path twisted away at a weird angle to God-only-knows what next. There was no way Zahnna could make it down safely, never mind up. So that was that.

But no biggie. I have to keep reminding myself it's amazing we get as far as we do on these adventures. With an aging German Shepherd, any trail at any time is liable to be a dead end.

So returned to the North Twin Summit, but not before having to boost poor Zahnna back up the two ledges she'd just scrambled down. Ooof! But with time pressure no longer an issue, and with the wind letting up for the moment, we settled onto a vertiginous ledge for snacks and water.

Inca explores the North Twin summit ledges.

And there it was again, behind us, and now in the clear: the bare peak of South Twin, 4,902 feet (eighth tallest summit in the Whites) rising from the krummholz, some distance away but close enough for human silhouettes to be visible moving about the summit. Maybe next time. As they say, the mountain will still be there.

Lower part of the North Twin trail is mostly on a former railroad bed, making it a real racetrack. So, on the way back, after finishing the last river crossing, we ran the final mile or so, getting us to the trailhead at 2:30 p.m.

Mooch in silhouette: You got any food on ya?

Peak #31: High-altitude toad encounters highlight a trek to summit of Mount Waumbec

Inca explores the ridge area between Mount Starr King and Mount Waumbec.

The day's target: Mount Waumbec, one of the more obscure summits on the list of New Hampshire's 4,000-footers.

At 4,006 feet, it barely qualifies. Also, it rises north of the main jumble of White Mountains peaks. And there's no view. So it's kind of a rebel.

Cast: Zahnna, an 11-year-old German Shepherd; Inca, a four-year-old hyperactive terrier mix; and yours truly as chauffeur and chaperone.

Dogs on the trail. "Hey, got anything to eat?

Weather (on Saturday, Aug. 23): cool for August in New England, dank at dawn but with promises of sunshine later. One of those mornings where the ground fog hangs in the lower valleys, with high clouds keeping it from burning off.

Upon arriving at the modest trailhead parking lot in Jefferson, N.H. at 7:30 a.m., both dogs celebrated with expansive and elaborate bowel movements. Hooray!

But then smooth hiking ensued up via the Mount Starr King trail, which climbs steadily up the flank of this subsidiary peak on the way to Waumbec, a total of 3.6 miles one way.

By White Mountain standards, it's in pretty good shape—not much erosion, moderate grades, and few rough patches, but worn enough to be easily followable.

About an hour in, Inca pounced on something in the leaves. A toad! How it got that far up a mountain is beyond me, but I allowed the dog to sniff it a few more times to satisfy her curiosity without terrorizing the toad. Then it hopped again, startling her, and on we went.

Dogs on the trail in profile, if not quite awake just yet:

One nice thing about the Starr King Trail is that about two-thirds of the way up the mountain, it runs by a reliable spring that flows out of rocks just below the trail.

We came upon it just when I sensed the dogs needed water, so they enjoyed splashing around and tanking up.

I'm of two minds with dogs and water: I know the risks of giardiasis. But then the dogs are just being dogs, and will start lapping from any dirty mudhole if they feel like it. To have to keep pulling them away would be a serious downer, as most trails are full of dirty mudholes and the like.

So I let them drink out of springs and running brooks, but try to keep them away from really skanky standing water that you sometimes find in the Whites, especially close to summits.

I remember my mother always stopping at mountain springs and having us kids cup our hands to taste how great the water tasted! I thought it wasn't nearly as good as, say, root beer. But now I understand what she meant: treated municipal water isn't the same at all. (Now we have Dansani.)

Anyway, we lived, but I don't feel like getting an intestinal parasite just now, so in the woods I refrain from drinking in anything but the scenery.

Interesting that the trail came up on a side of Mount Starr King that doesn't seem to get a lot of sun. We passed entire logs covered by smooth green moss that resembled the stuff they use on billiard tables.

Before long, we approached the Starr King summit, preceded by the inevitable one piece of ledge that threatened to stump Zahnna. (The smaller dog just hopped up in one leap.) But she managed it on her own, without need of a boost. It was just barely 9 a.m., and there we were.

At 3,907 feet, Starr King's summit once hosted a structure that's long gone, except for the chimney (still there) and a clearing that does offer a limited view of the northern Presidential peaks to the southeast.

I didn't have the phone/camera out, but here's someone else's pic of the fireplace.

Fog was not only still hugging the valleys, but banks of clouds at random elevations were being pushed from the northeast and grazing the high peaks.

Weird: in the 1960s, there were plans to create the "Willard Basin Ski Area" on the northern slopes of this peak, complete with aerial tramway and summit hotel. The plan also featured that great 1960s transport-of-the-future, a monorail. It never happened, and this morning it was just us and a few birds and the old chimney up there.

An artist's rendering of the proposal Willard Basin Ski Area in the 1960s, complete with Monorail.

I recall reading how at one point someone planned a mountain railway to the summit of Mount Moosilauke, and another rail line to loop around the northern Presidential peaks. Someone should compile a book of "White Mountains Attractions that Might Have Been." For now, here's an interesting online list of ski areas that never happened.

Okay, moving on: To get to Waumbec's summit, you trek about a half-mile across the forested ridge between the two peaks.

It's just high enough to be that kind of weird sub-Alpine landscape that you often find at these altitudes: a kind of New England terrarium of oversized ferns, enormous mushrooms, weird flowering plants, and roots and rocks sporting spectacular growths of lichens of all textures and colors.

One small area can host a panoply of exotic fauna, such as this patch of lichen that's not content to hug the ground but wants to grow skyward.

The light is different, too: the trees are thinner and fewer, filtering the sun (when it's out) as if you're in an enormous greenhouse. And because you're on a ridge that's substantially higher than the land on either side, there's always some sort of breeze blowing.

I really enjoy passing through these ridge landscapes, which to me feel so different from much else in this part of the world. With the abundance of unusual flora, at times it seems like you're on some other planet.

Zahnna waits for us to catch up on the ridge.

The ridge leading to Waumbec was a classic of its type, traversed by a path that zig-zags among plants that I may or not have never seen before. I certainly couldn't identify them.

For instance, this deep blue berry-like thing:

Whatever it was, it was growing everywhere. Anyone know?

Waumbec's summit was, as advertised, completely anticlimactic: a featureless flat spot in the forest without views. The trail rises, then evens out, and only the presence of large cairn announces you've arrived. (The time was 9:45 a.m.)

A guy at the summit, one of the few people we encountered all day, was nice enough to take the above picture. He also said if we went about 100 yards beyond the peak, a clearing offered more views of the northern Presidentials.

The trail beyond the peak will take you 20 miles to...forget it!

So we went, and there they were: the rocky peaks of Mounts Madison, Adams, Jefferson, Washington and Monroe, lined up and in and out of the scudding clouds. Unusual because I've never seen these summits from this angle.

Zahnna looked out with a gaze tinged with anxiety, I thought. The three northern Presis—Madison, Adams, and Jefferson—are the three toughest left for her to get if she ever hopes to complete the quest for all 48 peaks in New Hampshire that rise above 4,000 feet. And at 11, she's not getting any younger.

Zahnna ponders the northern Presidential peaks.

Well, bagging Waumbec gets her up #31, so she's at least a little closer.

The trek down was highlighted by yet another toad encounter. (How do they get up so high? I know—hopping.) And near the end, the trail runs above a noisy brook tumbling its way down into the Israel River, which drains into the Connecticut.

I found a relatively open patch of forest that allowed us to bushwhack down to the water, giving the dogs a chance to tank up again and wash off accumulated trail mud.

Cooling off, canine style, on the way down.

Reached the car at 12:30 p.m. That's #31 for Zahnna, #3 for Inca. Not sure what's next, but I know we'll be doing a few more as I prepare to trek on Kilimanjaro in January.

Official summit photos below:

Peak #30, Mount Garfield: Can an aging canine defy the odds and bag another 4,000-footer?

We got this far, or else the picture wouldn't have been taken. But did we make it to the top?

Hey, there's life in the old blog yet! Resuming posts as I work to get ready to trek Mount Kilimanjaro this coming January.

On Saturday, Aug. 9, drove two hours north to attempt Mount Garfield. Two support dogs along: Zahnna and Inca. Not sure if they understood the mountain was named not for a cat, but an assassinated president. Either way, they didn't seem to mind.

Note from later: as a marketing idea, maybe all N.H. peaks can be renamed after popular cartoon characters. We've already got Garfield. How about Mount Spongebob Squarepants? Okay, back to reality.

I say "attempt" because Zahnna, our German Shepherd, is now 11 years old and subject to hip and joint problems.

A few years ago, I had her on trails pretty regularly, with the idea that she might summit all 48 of the peaks that rise above 4,000 feet in New Hampshire.

I would tell people it was Zahnna's desire to accomplish this goal on her own, and I was just along as chaperone, and to drive her to the trailheads.

We got up to 29 peaks by 2011. But then the climbing stopped while our family began the very different adventure of taking care of my mother in her declining health.

So when Zahnna hit 10 years old in March 2013 and was having trouble getting up the stairs at home, we figured her mountain-climbing days were over.

But this summer I've been taking her on short hikes with Inca, our much-younger "back-up" dog, and Zahnna hasn't had much trouble at all.

So early Saturday morning, I threw caution to the wind, and threw Zahnna and Inca into the car. Off we went to attempt what would be Zahnna's 30th summit out of the 48. She might not be done after all!

Mount Garfield from a distance, with its pointy, barren summit. Image from SummitPost.org.

I thought Garfield was a reasonable target because the trail is a fairly steady climb with only one really steep pitch right at the top. Total distance up and back: 10 miles.

For Inca, age 4, it would be only her second high peak. But I wasn't worried as this is a dog that can leap from a standing position right onto a kitchen countertop.

We found the parking area for the Garfield Trail already crowded before 8 a.m.—vehicles would later overflow up and down the road for about a quarter-mile.

The going was fine: a half-mile on a path carved to link the parking area with the old trail, which follows the remains of an access road for most of the way up the mountain's fairly gentle northern slope.

The ground was wetter than I expected, but then this trail is close to water for almost its entire length, which helped keep the dogs happy.

Along the way, we met a guy named Ralph from Londonderry. I later found out we have several mutual acquaintances, and have probably been on hikes together in years past. We saw him on top, and on the way down. Hi Ralph! Sorry I didn't recognize you on the trail.

(And geez, later I found out that I scaled nearby Mount Lafayette with Ralph as part of a wedding celebration in 2010. What a clod I am to have spaced that. It wasn't that big a wedding, so you'd think I'd remember.)

As we ascended, I was watching Zahnna for shaking in her hindquarters, a tell-tale sign of fatigue that would have been the signal to turn back.

But it never came. Up we went, gradually, and entirely in the cool morning shade and with virtually no bugs harassing us.

I keep both dogs leashed, but Zahnna is obedient enough to be allowed to wander slightly ahead of us if no one's around, which simplifies things for everyone. As soon as I hear people ahead, though, I signal for her to get back, and she does.

But once in awhile Zahnna gets a little farther ahead than she should. And because she's an all-black German Shepherd, it's not uncommon for people who spot her on the trail to think they've come across a bear.

"Oh my God!" I heard more than once, knowing exactly what was going on ahead of me.

"It's not a bear, it's just my dog," I'd call ahead, just to put everyone at ease.

And sooner than I expected, we found ourselves in the back-and-forth switchbacks that bring the path up the Garfield Ridge Trail.

Would Zahnna make it? Looking good...

Soon the trees were getting smaller, a sure sign we were getting up there. After 4.8 miles, we gained the Garfield Ridge Trail, meaning we were nearly there: less than a quarter mile to the rocky bare summit.

But, right ahead of us, the last pitch was virtually all vertical scrambling. After applying sunscreen (me, not the dogs), we moved out—and up.

And you know, even though we scrambled up a veritable wall of rock, there was always a way for Zahnna to hop up, over, or around to keep gaining altitude.

One by one, obstacles were conquered. And before long, we broke onto the bare rocky area of the summit to find blue sky, virtually no wind, and views to the horizon in all directions.

Chalk up Peak #30 for Zahnna!

But before she could truly claim to have summitted Mount Garfield, the poor dog faced one final barrier. Weirdly, the very top of the mountain is a large flat slab that rises about four feet above the surrounding rock. And there really wasn't any way for a dog like Zahnna to get up unaided. So, for the only time that day, I had to give her a boost.

The official Summit Photo: Mount Garfield; Saturday, Aug. 9, 2014; peak #30 for Zahnna, at right.

We arrived at 11:15 a.m., so it took only about 3½ hours. We camped out on top with a bunch of friendly people. Inca, who has resisted attempts at socialization, surprised me by openly and attentively begging for food from total strangers. For her efforts, she scored part of a peanut butter sandwich and some salami.

On the summit: Inca (above) gets distracted by food, while Zahnna relaxes and wonders how the heck she's going to get down.

The trip down? It took just as long, as I need to be careful about foot placement when I'm solo hiking and responsible for two dogs.

Also, we were slowed down some by a near-constant stream of climbers heading up who got a later start than us. Honestly, we encountered at least 100 people on the return. Clearly, we weren't the only ones who decided the day was perfect to get into the woods and above treeline.

As expected, Zahnna slowed somewhat on the way down, but never got to the "vibrating leg" state I was concerned about. Nice!

Reached the car at 2:45 p.m. Once underway, my pooped canine companions settled in for the ride back home.

What's next? These adventures seem to come in cycles, so with this momentum, we'll probably try tackling a few more before the weather changes. The only truly tough peaks on Zahnna's list are the three northern Presidentials (Madison, Jefferson, and Adams) and maybe a few oddballs such as Cannon, where trails were laid out by sadists.

Will she get all 48 after all? We shall see, but we're not pushing it.

P.S. Update from Monday, Aug. 11: Zahnna was a little sore the next day, but seems fine otherwise.