The Most Villainous, Breakneck Route, chapter 13:

In 1825 William Oakes the botanist returned to Crawford’s after two long days of collecting plants on Mt. Washington. His route off the mountain from Lakes of the Clouds was  "by the most villainous, breakneck route of the Ammonoosuc". I guess everyone has an exit horror story after marvelous days of skiing in the western drainages. Woe to thee who bushwhacks into the setting sun through brush, waterholes, and rotten snow.

We head down Oakes's breakneck route on skis with short turns, sideslips, and snowplows, sometimes swinging from tree to tree like monkeys. Then on the steep with skis strapped to our backs, we kick in our heels going down as we had kicked in our toes going up. Phil was right. It has softened up just enough. The degree of difference in traction from the trip up is appreciable and things go well until Rick steps into the rough and drives his leg, crotch deep, into a spruce trap. Rick has the bewildered look of a guy whose ass is stuck in a bucket. We get him upright, totter on a bit before giving way, very carefully this time, to a young couple packing skis and overnight loads up the trail. They lift up their heads long enough to say hello, and climb on by.

Once off the steep, no one thinks twice about clamping on skis and making the run for the Cog Base. Right where the trail crosses Monroe Brook, Phil stops short near a big guy on the ground who is kind of blocking the trail. He’s putting himself back together from a tangle only possible with free-heel skis, apparently having washed out of the trees from the drainage above. As soon as I get there Phil says, “Hey Paul. This guy just came out of Monroe Brook and he said it wasn’t very good.”

Once the guy is on his feet, I ask him, “What'd you find?”
“One side all ice, the other side mush. Just tough skiing! I go in there a lot and this was the worst.”

We catch up to the familiar group of grinning, sunburnt skiers kicking back in the parking lot. Boots are exchanged for sneakers, we stow the equipment, and draw rations dispensed by Rick from the back of his Land Rover. Most of the way through the beer, I look up at Monroe and ask Phil a question. What would his “affaire du corde” from Chamonix, Ian, have thought of the day? I trusted Ian to speak for Phil.

“He wouldn’t have thought much of the hike over and back to Monroe Brook.”

“Yeh. Neither did I.”

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