That autumn, the leaves flew down out of the trees, and the sky shone a crisp October blue. Choking down the inevitable fear felt like taking a shot of hard alcohol. Out of desperation, I started free soloing. I collapsed on a plastic, striped camp mattress and tried to pass out. He didn’t say much, nodding his flashlight toward a row of dirty brown dorm rooms. That first night, I roused a grumpy security guard at Pinkham and asked where to sleep. The AMC chiseled room and board in Pinkham’s communal bunkhouse out of my already meager paycheck, but Cathedral Ledge was right down the road. Their storehouse was located at Pinkham Notch Visitor Center, the bundle of low-slung buildings that mark the trailhead for Mount Washington. Without any other job offers, inventorying supplies for eight bucks an hour for the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) seemed like a fine option. At places like Turkey Rocks, I’d overhear their stories of guiding out of North Conway’s International Mountain Equipment in the 1970s, of runout 5.11, of sandbagged routes, of scary ice, of evenings hanging in swami belts on Whitehorse or Cathedral Ledge. A few of the older climbers out west, legends like Jimmie Dunn and Bryan Becker, had all hung out at the crags around the Springs. I’d come back east after graduating from Colorado College, in Colorado Springs. The wind whipped against the dark trees the fog and dampness and the memories of being a child here rushed in, my nostrils filling with that humidity. I’d grown up in New England-hiking here had been my first exposure to mountains. In autumn 2008, I arrived in New Hampshire’s White Mountains at midnight, driving fast. Heading out the door? Read this article on the new Outside+ app available now on iOS devices for members!
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