Pre-Dawn Navigation by Meggie Stoltzman

The sun was shining and the sky was partly cloudy as Ashley and I hiked into the Great Gulf Wilderness, toward the Madison Gulf Trail, which leads up to Mount Madison. Only slightly unnerved by the signs at the trailhead warning of recent bear activity, resulting in stolen food and backpacks in the Great Gulf Wilderness, we continued on our route. The first few miles passed by quickly along the wide, dry, and gradually climbing trail. Just past the junction of the Great Gulf Trail and the Madison Gulf Trail, the trail climbed steeply and steadily along a narrow ridge-top. Thanks to the precipitous cliffs on either side of the trail, we were able to glimpse a few sweeping views of the Presidential Range and dark and foreboding clouds filling the sky to the north and west. Ominous rain clouds were nothing new to us in the White Mountains, so we continued on, unfazed. The trail grew steeper, boulders loomed larger, and the river roared louder. Reaching our destination, the third point of our route, we set the point in our GPS, noted the nearby landscape features and otherwise documented the location in preparation for our point count and vegetation survey early the next morning. Since the trail was growing increasingly steep and rocky and daylight was in short supply, we needed to make a difficult decision: A) hike up to set points one and two, to avoid hiking back up the steep terrain in the dark to set up a late camp (after setting points four, five, and six), making a pre-dawn hike necessary for the point counter the following morning, or B) following our normal protocol, hike down to set points four, five, and six, and finish the evening at point one in order to find a camp convenient to the beginning of our point count—despite the steep and rocky terrain that did not provide the promise of good camp sites ahead. Weighing our options and our levels of fatigue, we chose option "A," deciding to delay the dark hiking for the morning and finished our work for the evening by setting up camp at a designated site between points five and six under overcast and stormy skies.

Thinking of the "bear activity" warning signs for the Great Gulf Wilderness, I was especially careful in choosing my bear-hang site, and after securing our food for the evening, Ashley and I both retired to our respective tents. Exhausted from a long day in the field, I slept soundly until loud noises of crunching and trampling woke me around 11:30. Suddenly alert of every cracking branch and rustling leaf, I strained my ears in the direction of my bear-hang, hoping that our food would stay undisturbed through the night. After making loud noises myself, trying to alert whatever had chosen this evening to browse around my tent-site of my presence, the midnight marauders finally moved on around 1:00 a.m.

A mere two hours and fifteen minutes after I had fallen back asleep, my alarm went off and I tried to brush the sleep out of my blurry vision as I prepared my point count equipment by headlamp at 3:15 a.m. I let out a quiet cheer when I saw our food still hanging where I had secured it the day before, from a high thin branch of a tall balsam fir tree. Though we had gone to sleep under the clouds, at 3:30 the next morning, as I set off up the trail toward point one in the dark, I could see twinkling stars through the tree canopy and a clear sky overhead. Still thinking of the mystery

visitors around my tent that had interrupted my slumber through the night, I decided to sing a breathless song to make my presence known through the dark and quiet woods. Only the sounds of the wind howling through the mountaintops and the river, rushing and spilling over boulders, accompanied the sounds my footsteps and singing. My legs felt shaky and unsteady as I began the first of the seven river crossings to follow. With the water surging black and bubbly under the light of my headlamp, I stepped cautiously from the safety of solid ground out onto the closest boulder, now surrounded by the dark moving shadows of the river moving by on all sides and the deafening sounds of the river rushing filling the silence of the night woods. I stepped carefully from slowly from rock to rock and on to the other bank, feeling a surge of adrenaline from completing the first of the obstacles on my journey, and with a little extra boost in my step, I picked up my pace and sang a bit louder as I climbed up toward the next river crossing.

Having begun my hike in the pitch darkness, wearing all of my warmest layers to keep warm in the cool mountain air, by the time I crossed the river for the last time, I was flushed and sweating in just a Tee-shirt and my hiking pants, my body heated from the exertion of the climb. Knowing that I was getting close to point one, I checked the time and smiled when I saw that it was just 4:15, almost fifteen minutes earlier than my usual start time; I would have time to eat breakfast before the birds started singing! I began to scan to woods and the trail for the landmarks of point one. I knew that I was getting close, but still hiking in the dark by the light of my headlamp, nothing looked exactly right. Then the trail crossed a small stream that I couldn't remember if we had crossed the day before, and followed a series of log boardwalks over a mucky stretch. Turning around when I saw a ten-foot tall boulder that I knew I would have remembered had I seen it the day before, I hiked back over the boardwalks and the small stream, to find the signs of point one that I now knew I must have missed. Frustrated and confused, I sat down in the general area where I knew point one should be to eat a snack and try to refocus. Scanning my headlamp back and forth, I searched the dark woods for clues and checked the time to see that it was just a few minutes before 4:30, time to start my point count. Then suddenly, just feet from where I was sitting, I saw a the three snags and the large quartz rock glimmering white and silvery in the darkness, that I marked the spot and I realized with joy that without even knowing it, I had sat down to find my whereabouts right where I wanted to be: at point one! I quickly finished my sandwich and pulled my clipboard and binoculars out of my backpack. And as I recorded the temperature and cloud cover, I heard the first bird call of the dawn: a Bicknell's Thrush calling out from a sea of balsam fir, calling an end to the quiet of the night and a beginning to the morning's dawn chorus.