Alpine Adventure: Getting lost on epic day hike to Switzerland's spectacular Lake Macun plateau

Switzerland's 'Lake Macun' plateau from an overlooking ridge.

I've been hoping to post notes of a day-long solo hike high up above treeline in the Swiss Alps, a highlight of this summer's visit to Switzerland.

Of special interest: way above treeline, I lost the trail, nearly went down the wrong valley, and had to embark on a high-altitude bushwhack that was unnerving if ultimately successful.

Now it's Labor Day weekend, so better get something up before it all fades. So here goes.

Please note that many of the photos are of scenery on a grand scale. I encourage you to click on the images and view them as large as possible.

Wednesday, July 23: Dawn at Zuoz, a small town in the postcard-perfect Engadine Valley of southeast Switzerland. The weather? Rain all week—tough luck for an area that boasts more days of sunshine per year than any other part of the nation.

But this morning, the sky is blue. Sunshine kisses the bare peaks high above. Updated forecast? Broken clouds, with rain moving back in by mid-afternoon.

So it's a go. I throw on my pack and head out, descending cobblestone streets to the small town's train station. But then I realize I don't have my raincoat.

Up and back, and already I'm feeling winded. How do I expect to make it to 9,600 feet? Same as always: one step at a time.

Today's journey is a through-hike up to an area called the Lake Macun plateau. An unusual basin above treeline, it's home to a network of high-altitude ponds and tarns fed by snows and run-off from surrounding peaks.

The trail through it—starting in Lavin and ending in Zernez—is 23 kilometers, or about 14 miles, and includes an altitude gain of about 5,000 feet along the way. A guidebook's one-word description: "Challenging."

A chart showing the altitude profile of the trail. Like everything else, I did it backwards, from right to left.

The red train of the Rhaetische Bahn (a private narrow gauge rail line that serves this part of the country) pulls into Zuoz right on time: 7:27 a.m.

And off we go, rolling across the verdant valley floor. Craggy peaks tower above us on either side, their rocky and snowy high points catching more and more of the morning sunlight. I'm feeling hopeful.

Sometimes the train acts like a streetcar, such as here in the town of Poschiavo.

Though we're in rural Switzerland, the train functions like a subway, stopping at all small towns along the line. (Hourly service, no less!) We pass through Zernez, where I will catch the train back tonight if all goes as planned.

The Lavin Train Station. Not exactly bustling this morning.

At 8 a.m., I step off at Lavin, which seems deserted. Signs direct me through the quiet village center and down to cross the Lower Engadine River on a covered bridge, of all things. Wow, just like home in New Hampshire! Except for the public transportation and good signage and...well, don't get me started.

Lavin's covered bridge.

Now begins a steady climb that will fill the entire morning. Roads give way quickly to footpaths that ramble through pastures and forests. It's a working landscape: occasionally I pass through gates to keep livestock penned in. But I encounter no one—neither human nor cattle—this quiet morning.

The path in the early stages—all quiet!

Not far above Lavin, a white ribbon across the path steers me up a steep rocky ravine. I get far enough to realize this can't be the route, and if it is, I'm done.

Back down at the path-blocking ribbon, I now see that the trail continues (obviously) beyond after you unhook it and pass through. It takes a while to understand the etiquette of hiking through a working landscape.

And up we go, steadily ascending on what I would call a "Class VI" road, meaning a road in New Hampshire no longer maintained as a public way. Whatever you call it, it's still way better than most trails in the White Mountains back home.

I pass a summer upland cabin that appears unoccupied, then a hairpin turn reorients me back toward the valley I'm supposed to be headed for, according to the rudimentary map I've torn out of the Lonely Planet guide.

And up I continue, ascending through a mixed hardwood forest, occasionally dodging cow flop on a path that maintains a steady grade, even if that requires the path to be hewn from bedrock in some places. Good engineers, the Swiss.

Typical backwoods gate found on Swiss trails.

I stop for a water break only to find that the two two-liter bottles I bought the night before are not plain water, but sparkling (and salty!) mineral water. Ugh! A prolonged shaking removes only some carbonation, but I eventually drink, as hydration is important. For the rest of the day, I feel bloated and ready to belch on command.

The rising sun now reaches into this side of the valley, causing flies to stir. After a week of damp overcast, they're especially lively, and I soon attract a sizable swarm. So I stride along, using my hat to continually swat the top and sides of my head, giving myself an unexpected arm workout.

So far, I've been accompanied by the sounds of Lavin from below: church bells, a tractor engine starting, a train rolling through town. Now I notice that all is quiet as the trail levels out and enters the mouth of the high valley leading to the Lake Macun plateau.

Bridge PLUS gate.

After crossing a brook via a wooden bridge, the trail—surprise!—hits a fully maintained gravel road. Above is a rustic farmhouse. I'm a little non-plussed to see a van parked right in front. After two hours on foot, just how remote am I? And did I just take the long way? Thanks, Lonely Planet!

Hey! Who put this farmhouse in my landscape?

Also, coming up the road is a group of three hikers, clearly headed the same place as me. They pass while I stop to photograph the farmhouse, all the while under attack by aggressive flies. As they pass, I use my high school German to try joking, referring to the flies as the "Luftwaffe," to which the three do not react at all. Oh well!

Hey! Who are these people crowding my landscape?

With them ahead, we pass the farmhouse (again, deserted) and make our through a series of muddy upland pastures, home to a sizable herd of cows—perhaps a hundred in all, and all wearing those tinkling cowbells, making it sound like you're hiking through an area filled with pots and pans catching raindrops.

Heading up into the cow pastures, things begin to open up.

Further up into the pastures. Those clouds ahead look ominous.

The trio of hikers ahead of me enters cow country.

The trail zigzags through the pasture, and seems to attract livestock with no intention of moving out of the way. So, after a prolonged cow stare-down, I go off trail and climb directly up the slope, ending up way ahead of the group of three, who get hemmed in on a switchback.

We now bring you Close Encounters of the Bovine Kind...

In that last photo, the path is marked (like all Swiss trails) with a white and red blaze.

We're now in open area, not quite above treeline but in a landscape that's mostly grass sprinkled with the vibrant colors of alpine flowering plants: intense pinks, yellows, and blues. Above us rise craggy peaks that pierce an intensely blue sky. On the opposite side of the valley, a stream tumbles dramatically down the escarpment.

in the last photo, looking back down the valley, you can see the three hikers now behind me. Click on it to see it larger, if you want.

Though clouds are forming to the east, still no sign of rain, and no wind. It's turning out to be a beautiful day.

After clearing the cow pastures, the trail veers up a pile of scree that requires careful attention to footing. So it comes as a surprise when I look up to see patches of snow in areas below me.

Then the trail goes through an area still covered by a substantial snow drift that's frozen into a solid mass—a mini-glacier. In fact, it's been there long enough to start pulling away from the wall of ledge shadowing and protecting it. This allows hikers to pass through a narrow corridor between the ledge and the ice, with some scrambling.

Click on this photo to see the people climbing the ridge above.

A couple ahead of me have just negotiated the first snowdrift of the day.

But this much snow already? What have I got myself into?

The trail keeps climbing regardless, over a series of barren scree piles. It eventually levels out, the valley walls fall away, bringing me into full-on bright sunshine as I stride along the brook, now right alongside the trail. The air is warm, the wind light, the sky bright blue.

Several of these photos, if enlarged, show the tiny figures of the hikers ahead of me, which provide a sense of scale.

We're there. All around me, the landscape looks like the most barren part of the Scottish Highlands, or perhaps New Hampshire's Presidential range above treeline, but surrounded by dramatic rocky peaks that look like they're from a rendering of Middle Earth. Snowdrifts persist in shady places, but the blamming sunshine lights up the rocky peaks like they're on a movie set. Everything seems to sparkle.

Why don't I let the landscape itself do the talking?

Above is where I came from...

...and this is what lies ahead.

I rock-hop across the brook, then arrive at a sheltered signpost that looks like a bus stop in the middle of nowhere. It marks the official boundary of the Swiss National Park, which the trail now crosses into. A couple that I've been slowly gaining on depart just as I arrive.

Some color is still present, but not for much longer.

With them leading the way, the trail meanders through a treeless alpine moonscape that would surely be forbidding if it weren't so open and well lit, and if the weather weren't so warm and welcoming. As it is, I feel almost giddy. It might be the thinning air: we're already above 8,000 feet, and heading higher.

We follow the course of the burbling stream, then veer to the right and up to reach the official Lake Macun plateau stop: a stretch on the alien shore of a perfectly still alpine tarn that I recognize as the classic Crayola color of blue green.

It's exactly 11:30 a.m. A signpost, with typical Swiss precision, says it's 4¼ hours to the Zernez train station.

The couple ahead of me had already found a spot on one side of the pond, named "Lai d'Immez" in the native Graubunden dialect of this part of Switzerland. (They're in the second photo above.) They seem to want to be on their own, so I stand away and embark on a 360-degree series of shots. These were later stitched into a single wrap-around panorama by Andrew Mason, a talented colleague at work. Click on the image to see it large:

I also snap this very limited self-portrait while taking off my boots and changing my socks.

The bump is where I broke my big toe years ago. There, now you know everything.

And then it was over a small wooden footbridge and up, up, up. Though the air was mild and the sky above was still blue, a gray and white overcast continued to boil in the east. Time was now a factor: if I was going to get socked in by clouds or rain on above treeline, I had hoped to get up and over the ridge (and the day's high point) that I still had in front of me.

I begin to encounter people coming the other way, off the ridge and headed toward Lavin, where I started. Most are dressed for colder weather than me, it seems, but they say the ridge is fine.

The trail is now up-and-down as it traverses the rocky plateau. Surrounded by barren peaks on all sides, and with none of the green lower valleys in sight, I really have the sense of being somewhere other than Earth. The Planet Macun, perhaps. After awhile, all color vanishes. I was now in the black-and-white (but mostly gray) world of rocks and gravel and shady spots that sheltered snowdrifts that survive in late July.

In that last photo, you can just barely see the little "T" on the ridge.

After crossing several deep snowdrifts, the trail begins a grinding final ascent straight up a steep embankment of loose rock. Way, way up above, sticking up from the ridge top, I can see a little "T" silhouetted against the overcast. If that was the ridge, then that was another signpost, probably marking the trail's exit from the national park. (At this point, I find myself kinda hoping it's the top of a chairlift that I can ride down.)

A view directly up the final climb.

With the thinner air at this altitude, each step takes all my concentration and quite a bit of effort. Plus, I had just arrived from the U.S. two days ago, making jet lag was a factor as well. So I stop frequently, to the point where I'm taking only a handful of steps before having to rest for at least a moment.

Here's the part I expected would come: when I ask myself what the hell am I doing here? Of course, I had no good answer. For now, my whole world was focused on getting to that "T" up above, and then coping with whatever challenge would follow.

The final push seems to take forever, but when I finally reach the "T," the world opens up. It is the ridge, and the "T" is a sheltered sign marking the national park boundary. And all around me, the earth drops away: behind me down to the rocky plateau I just crossed, and ahead into deep green valleys far, far below, and then snowcapped peaks to the horizon.

It feels like I'm looking out the window of an airplane. It feels like I'm flying. One word comes to mind: vertiginous.

We're at a place called Fuorcletta di Barcli. It's 9,120 feet above sea level, and a good solid one mile above the valley floor below. The clouds have withdrawn, the sun is shining, and I feel like I can see forever. And I now have a good answer as to what the hell I'm doing here.

I drink some salty water, and make small talk with a middle-aged couple while holding back the urge to belch. They came up from Lavin, and that's where they're heading back to now. Really?

"Yes," says the man. "To go further, it is much too scary for me."

And yes, I'm not done yet. To continue requires one to go higher, up and along the narrow ridge crest for about a quarter-mile, finally topping out at 9,660 feet at a summit called Fuorcla Baselgia.

The trail is no longer a trail, but a series of rock scrambles over a narrow and completely exposed ridge. A sudden gust of wind could turn me into a human kite!

But a large family is making its way down towards us as we speak. How scary could it be?

There's virtually no wind right now. The rain is at bay. The rocks are dry. The worst thing that could happen, I think, is that I could trip or get a sunburn.

So up I climb. As the altitude increases, packed snow persists right up the lip of the ridge's shady side, sometimes forming a shelf as high as my shoulder.

It takes a half-hour, but I finally reach the high point, which I have to myself. No one else is around.

And I have one of those moments where I can't believe I'm actually standing where I am, on perhaps one of the five days of the entire year where the conditions are like this: warm, dry, calm. Pleasant, even! Remember, this is a totally exposed ridge studded with avalanche barriers high above the town of Zernez. Blizzard conditions probably prevail here nine months out of the year.

There's Zernez down there, where I have a train to catch.

At the same time, I am listening to the part of me saying: You're hiking alone in a strange country, and this part of the journey is where you're most vulnerable. I mean, I'm standing there in shorts and a t-shirt. Sir Edmund Hillary didn't relax at the top of Everest. Neil Armstrong didn't dawdle on the lunar surface.

You know, it kinda does look like Mount Everest or the the lunar surface up here. The last pic is of the actual summit of Mount Baselgia: self-portrait of me and my bag, excluding me.

In other words: take in the view, but get down while the getting's good. Which is what I did.

And therein lay the seeds of my coming misadventure. Once I began descending, I might have been going a little too fast. Because of that, more than ever I was watching where my feet were landing, as the trail was extremely steep and full of loose dirt and gravel.

So it was with a slight sense of alarm that I looked up and could not find any evidence of a trail ahead of me. No marker. No red-and-white blaze painted on a rock. Nothing.

A trail seemed to continue down further, but the slope around me was full of worn and washed out sections that might (or might not) be a path.

Unwilling to drag my aching feet and legs back up the steep grade and crumbling turf, I pressed on, gradually realizing that yes, I was not on any kind of trail at all.

In fact, I was in the wrong valley. Far below me was not Zernez, but—well, nothing. Steep open slopes disappeared into what looked like trackless wilderness.

So what to do? Climbing back up from whence I came seemed unsafe and dangerous. And I knew, from dead reckoning and a map I had, that the trail (and the valley to Zernez with the avalanche barriers) was somewhere to the right of me.

So I would go right. But first, I had to go down farther, to an area that looked a little more open and easier to navigate across.

All the while, I'm on a 45-degree slope that's either tufts of grass or crumbling rock. There's nothing below me for maybe a couple thousand feet, so one false step could have serious consequences.

So I take it slow, knowing that if something happens, it will likely be a long time before anyone finds me.

(Please note the lack of pictures of this part of the day's activities, as I was using both hands to hold on for dear life.)

And I make my way down step by step, further postponing my turn to the right as steep ledges persist on that side. I begin to wonder: will I ever get out of this chute?

I finally come across a reasonably safe route that unfortunately leads me straight into a thicket of weird spiked weeds that rise to my chest.

I back out, but decide it's now or never. Unwilling to go any lower, I clamber above the spiky weeds, using all fours to brace myself on a crumbling shelf with no clear footing. The phrase deep shit comes to mind, but I make it.

I then cross a field of loose scree at a steep angle. Nothing moves. I feel like I'm playing the old board game "Avalanche."

Just as I'm saying "that went well," I step onto what seems to be a solid tuft of alpine grass. The whole thing gives way, sliding out from under my feet and sending a flurry of rocks and gravel bounding down the slope below. I slide with it, but fall on my ass and grab at a branch to keep from going further.

I stop and listen to the rocks still tumbling down the slope below me. A large one hits something solid and bounds up in the air before rolling down to infinity. I almost wish there were someone below there that I could yell at, because I've never felt quite this alone.

How far to the trail? Did I go too low?

Over yet another ledge, and then another pile of scree, then along a very steep and uneven grass embankment. I lose my footing again, this time landing on my ass without sliding. Turning onto my stomach to get up, I find myself staring straight into an enormous black hole in the turf. And my right hand is on a pile of freshly dug dirt outside the entrance. There is animal scat in the grass next to me.

So I'm up and out of there before I have time to think what comes next.

And what does come next, to my great relief, is the trail, right there basking in the sunlight. Yes!

I remember it was Winston Churchill who was quoted as saying there is no more exhilarating feeling than being shot at and missed. Back on the trail to Zernez, I kinda know what he meant.

The trail now zigzags among the avalanche barriers on the open slopes high above Zernez.

These look small, like little fences, from down below. Close-up, they're massive steel structures—anchored in concrete and as big a row of two-story houses. Dozens are set up at strategic locations to keep the town from being wiped out.

The trail switchbacks among these curious structures, and in some cases directly through them. And I was surprised to find that on warm afternoons, they produce noise!

Really—the heat of the sun makes the metal expand, causing a series of popping sounds at the time I happened to pass through.

Multiply this over several dozen structures, and it sounds like a popcorn machine. I found myself wondering what movies were playing in Zernez.

With the sun still blasting away (no clouds at all now), it takes awhile to reach treeline and its promises of shade.

But treeline also finds the trail morphing into a maintained dirt road that offers no less than an on-call taxi service down to Zernez, which a sign said was still two hours away on foot.

I'm tempted to call, but that would be cheating. Sore feet or not, my plan was to hoof it all the way.

But the trail now follows the road, which makes absurdly leisurely loops through the forest as it winds its way down the slope. I think it adds at least an hour to the hike! And it doesn't help to have to occasionally get out of the way of the "taxi service" (actually a van) plying its way up and down the road.

I was never so glad to find the trail finally breaking off from the road and heading straight down to Zernez. Still, the last part of the hike seemed to take forever—I'd walk for a half-hour, and be no closer to Zernez than before.

Finally, at about 5 p.m., I marched through a field and into the courtyard of Zernez's Catholic Church. After skirting the cemetery (how poetically appropriate), I was now on the tidy town's sidewalks and crosswalks. The rest of my journey I would complete as planned: by train.

Tramping up to the Lake Macun plateau represents the limit of intense day hikes—at least for me. So I think I really lucked out in being able to make this journey.

Consider: The weather held for the entire day. (It would turn out to be the only day of our stay that it didn't rain.) Conditions way up on the ridge were superb. The salty mineral water didn't taste great, but probably aided in hydration.

And I didn't kill myself.

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.

Losing an hour, gaining momentum: Prepping for a return to activity

This image was posted with a Bloomberg article about how middle-aged men should avoid triathalons. See comment below.

Hi everyone! Long time no post.

As you might expect, it's mostly a function of too much to do and not enough time. That's true not only for posting, but also for the activities I'm supposed to be writing about.

As a consequence, my exercise record has been spotty at best. Did some cross-country skiing and running in February, but not enough to keep the fitness level from deteriorating.

So it's time to reassess and take some steps to get back into things. We set our clocks ahead this weekend, meaning we lose an hour (bad) but we gain a lot of evening light, which is good for outdoor activity.

The prior post (from JUNE of last year) had a lot of thoughts about bike itineraries for when the weather warms up and the days lengthen. All that is still true, and I hope to accomplish it all before mid-summer, when interior New Hampshire really starts broiling.

As for running, I have about two years left before my self-imposed deadline of May 14, 2016 to finish running in all of New Hampshire's cities, towns, and unincorporated places. So that means I have to get busy on that score as well. Expect to see some notes on that in the near future.

Thing is, there are precious few races in places that I haven't already run. I just checked www.coolrunning.com and found just three or four out of more than 100 races coming in 2014. So I have to move forward with running "do-it-yourself" races in towns where races aren't held. We'll see.

And I hope to move forward with bagging a few more locations in the "all 50 states" challenge. Right now it stands at 16 out of 50, so I'm just about one-third there. These seem to come in spurts, and after being dormant since last year, I'm ready to color in a few more. Utah is in my sights with a day-trip to Salt Lake City on Tuesday, April 29. Will probably bag one or two New England states as well.

And what about triathalons? After flirting with this form of endurance event in 2012, I haven't pursued it. And now I'm seeing articles like the one referenced in the caption to the above photos. It's scary to contemplate dropping dead while exercising, but what are you doing to do? Stay home and stay worried, or get out and feel the wind in your hair. I vote for the wind in my hair, especially since I still have hair.

Well, it all sounds good. The trick will be to ramp up to it while staying motivated, and not getting injured. Oh—and not dying. Wish me luck!