The hut sits here at the base of the summit mass of Mount Washington because of an all-too-common hiking calamity that occurred here 109 years ago. On June 30, 1900, right in the middle of summer, two athletic young climbers headed up the ancient Crawford Path for an Appalachian Mountain Club meeting in the summit house atop Washington. Against advice and lightly clad, they continued climbing into the teeth of a terrific sleet storm. The first died not many yards from where I’m writing, the other almost at the summit.

It was obvious that some sort of shelter was needed along the exposed southern approach to the mountain. The AMC built one the following year, designating it as a refuge for emergencies only. But hikers began using it instead as an overnight camp, with the usual negative impact. So in 1915 the club built an enclosed stone shelter for 36 people and a caretaker. Since then, it’s grown like Topsy to its present size, with solar- and wind-powered lighting and refrigeration, bunks and blankets, running cold water, and two big meals a day served to guests.

At the moment, as the clatter of dishwashing dies away in the kitchen, one of the hut crew (“Croo” in AMC parlance) is sitting down to regale about 40 people with tales of the ghosts that inhabit this part of the mountain and, it is alleged, this hut, as well. Some hikers, clearly stiff and exhausted from their day’s exertions, sit on benches leaning against the wall or a table, chatting or simply staring straight ahead. There’s a game of euchre at one table; three Canadians needed a fourth, and persuaded a hiker from Atlanta to join them. Lights-out is at 9:30, and as soon as the last guests have shuffled off to their bunk rooms, the thru-hikers will roll out their mattresses and bags, being careful not to lie on the floor between the bunk rooms and the washroom.

There are six of us in our bunch: a television crew of three (cameraman, producer, and sherpa), two old friends (John and Kay Morton of Thetford), and I. We set out some time after nine this morning from Pinkham Notch to record the fantastic scenery of the great eastern cirque of Mount Washington, Tuckerman Ravine, the rocky tableland above the crest of its headwall, and the alpine setting of the hut. The first 2 1/2 miles climb steadily up an old road traveled during the winter by sno-cat and hundreds of skiers. I hadn’t been up it since 1956, and was surprised to see it had grown steeper during the intervening years. The Hermit Lake Shelter at the end of that stretch was the scene of some wonderful parties and songfests during what was called College Week – an annual gathering of northeastern college outing clubs – half a century ago.

From Hermit Lake we climbed steeply up on a beautifully stone-paved and stepped trail to the floor of the cirque. This was the spot I’d been reading about in the guidebook – “climbs very steeply up the rocky slope on the right side of the headwall. Many of the rocks are in unstable positions...If you do accidentally dislodge a rock...” – and dreading for weeks. But there were other hikers all over the place: a 68-year-old grandma descending serenely; a group of women with a wire-haired terrier the size of a rabbit; and a thru-hiker from the Island of Guernsey whose visa was about to run out. So I sort of adapted the twelve-step program’s motto to my progress – one rock at a time – and almost before we knew it, we were emerging onto the lip of the tableland where just 70 years ago a 19-year-old Austrian downhill ski racer named Toni Matt accidentally created a legend by failing to check at the top of the headwall and instead schussing its entire length.

I was looking forward to an easy one-mile stroll across level ground to the hut. But the glacier that scoured the top of Mount Washington millennia ago, and the extreme weather that followed its retreat, created huge boulder fields, boulder “nets,” and boulder trains – lots of rocks, anyway, no matter how you look at it or what you call them. So I hopped, teetered, and shuffled from cairn to cairn – the only way to find the trail in winter or cloudy conditions – until at last, coming to the edge of a little ledge, the hut and its ponds lay in the saddle below us.

Now, as the dusk deepens over the massive rock pile and its towers rising more than 1200 feet above us and a mile and a half away, I’m already thinking of tomorrow morning’s climb up there. I’m hoping I get a view, and that the clouds won’t still be blowing past, because they always fog up my specs on the downwind side. Around me in the hut, there are already fewer people up and about; the most tired are brushing their teeth and slipping off to their bunk rooms. The bunch from Atlanta are still chatting animatedly, and a few other smaller groups and pairs are murmuring their way toward looking at their watches and saying good night. I’m reflecting on how gratified I am just to be able to be here, in spite of age and injuries, and in the company of good friends. The end of this page means it’s time to dig out my dental floss, put on the wet polypro T-shirt I washed when I got here (unpleasant, but it dries on me during the night), and lay me down to sleep.