A Night at Taft Lodge
Aug 18, 2008 03:10 AM
Our end-of-the-season hike and shred expedition trip almost never happened—too many “for sure, see you there, dude” claims, the possibility of inclement weather, bros getting horse-whipped by their women, or the fact that I woke up in Boston, gnarlified, five hours before the lifts at Stowe closed…230 miles away in Vermont. Miraculously, we managed to meet up at the top of the gondola around 4 pm, boards in hand and backpacks stuffed with sleeping bags and gas station quality food. Our destination was Taft Lodge, an often overlooked, un-heated wooden cabin hidden in the pines near the summit of Mt. Mansfield.
We only had a vague idea how to get there and I don’t recall any of us having a map. From previous hikes up to the summit we determined collectively that the best route to the cabin would be hike until we bumped into the traverse line made popular by hikers. By dumb luck we found a cut trail between the tree line and the summit region. It was snowing considerably hard and there was also a bit of fog, which basically made visibility low and the opportunity for a tourist-lost-in-the-woods scenario ripe.
Following a twenty minute hike in which we meandered along a boot-packed trail, sloped at times and flanked by pines, we arrived at the mouth of a gully that funneled into a series of tight tree runs. Ron, by far the most vocal dude among us, thought for sure that this cut trail intersecting our trajectory would lead us to the cabin. We were over hiking around like Joeys so we strapped in and dropped. Epic turns were made until we hit a wall of trees about 500 ft down. Un-strapping, we pushed our way through the forest. Within two minutes I spotted a trail mark for the Long Trail—out of like 100 million pine trees. It indicated we were close, or heading in the correct direction at least. A few stumbles later were greeted by a wooden building with a green tin roof caked with a think layer of snow. It was a reassuring sight. We quickly dumped our packs and hydrated. Ron reminded us “that we came here to shred” and that those who didn’t hike back up for an evening of low-visibility deathriding were turncoats. So following Ron’s lead, we traced our tracks back up to the summit region.
We spent the next three and a half hours hiking around the summit of Mt. Mansfield, carving lines out of the pow-slush combo, dropping unsafe rock bands, and bonking tree branches. It’s not like we were in remote AK outrunning avalanches or Wyoming slaying massive backcountry jumps with Jon Foy, yet it felt like we were doing something totally…I really hate to use the word…extreme. It also seemed strange to me that after three years of riding and hiking Stowe, I never knew any of the terrain near the Taft Lodge existed.
Before long it started to get dark, and compounded by the fact that the fog and snow were intensifying, we ‘boarded back to the cabin. Upon arriving we set up our sleeping bags and fired up a cooking stove and lamp. We had worked up a mean appetite and were ready to dive into some canned chili and blocks of cheese until a loud thump on the roof aroused our curiosity, and worst fears. I threw on my jacket and walked outside, Leatherman knife in hand (it seemed like it’d protect us at the time), sort of expecting to get a bear claw to the face or barreled over by a renegade moose. Instead I saw Shawn, one of the dudes in our crew. Apparently he didn’t get a strong enough dose of shred during our previous session, because he was waxing stoke like a tweaker as he hiked up a narrow runway behind the cabin. “Dude this roof ride is insane,” he said while pointing to the snow pile blown onto the a-framed structure. I was skeptical that you could get enough speed to make the hit worthwhile, so I watched him strap in and drop. He straight-lined through the branches and aired a violent method, just feet away from the backside of the roof. Shawn’s air was proof that the roof QP was not only legit but 100% gnar dog. Without hesitation we postponed dinner (canned chili and Doritos) a bit longer, grabbed our boards, headlamps, and beers and shredded face until the combination of zero light, our impaired ability to operate a snowboard due to PBR and the Antarctic-temps kicked in.
Not sure who pulled the rip-chord on the session, but finally we all hunkered down for bowls of much-anticipated chili, chips, tea with whiskey and blocks of cheese. Without tearing about like maniacal board savages, it got frigid cold fast. Within a half an hour of lollygagging around Shawn’s kerosene lamp I could feel my extremities becoming ice blocks. We hoped into our sleeping bags, and those of us with inadequate bags (Ron) keep our shred gear on or used jackets for additional warmth. The Taft Lodge fell silent and then just as I thought I was going to pass out Shawn started rambling rural legends about “the psychotic black bear that tore the heads off hikers on Mt. Washington” or the bear “that took four close range blasts to the head before it stopped ripping into the chest of a lost hunter somewhere north of Mt. Mansfield.” We knew he was full of shit so we just laughed it off.
Morning sucked. It was cold as shit and my feet were frozen. Judging by the groans of agony from Ron, Shawn, and the rest of the crew I concluded that I was not alone. Due to the circumstances, it didn’t take long to motivate the crew to wake, pack, and bounce. While we slept it had snowed another 2 inches, which brought the total accumulation puked during the duration of our journey to 4 inches. Our ride down would be pretty awesome for the end of the season in VT.
Back packs fastened to our backs we charged through the sparsely situated pines of Mt. Mansfield until we came upon the empty trails of Stowe Resort, which had been closed to the non-hiking public the previous week. The result of our fortune was fresh tracks all the way down to the parking lot 2,000 ft below. It was pure living in the moment shred hanging. The fact that I had to be in front of a computer screen for eight hours later that day didn’t even register. I just kept my eye on the nose of my Notch as it plowed through the April pow.
Al Engelhart
Rome Warranty Dude