Wrong!  The four of us on today’s hike approached Franconia Notch from two different directions under skies clearing in a robust breeze.  But as we climbed up into the notch on I-93, the ceiling suddenly came down on top of us, and a light rain misted our windshields.  The branches of the hardwoods along the highway tossed on the wind.  The day began to look exciting.

Our goal was to ascend the beautiful Falling Waters Trail to the summit of Little Haystack Mountain, where, if the weather permitted, we’d turn left, cross Franconia Ridge to the summit of Mount Lafayette, and descend via the Old Bridle Path.  A little less than nine miles, and about 3600 feet of climbing and descending.  A piece of cake, even with our late start – once upon a time.

If ever there was an aptly named trail, Falling Waters is it.  The sound of water is hardly ever absent all the way up, and the videographic possibilities are very attractive, which is why we came here.  But for every yang, as we know, there’s a yin.  The yang in this case is the spectacularly  falling water.  So is the yin, because there are at least five stream crossings on the way up, crossings too wide for bridges.  Crossers must hop from rock to rock or teeter across pretty thin, slippery, bare logs.  With all the rain we’ve had recently, most of the hopping rocks are under water, and both they and the logs about as slick as eels.  Thus it was with a certain thoughtfulness that I started up the trail, recalling the mantra given me by the last pair of orthopedic surgeons – You must not fall! – and pretty much deciding I’d just slop across, get my feet wet, and let the Devil take the hindmost.  My hiking sneakers suddenly appeared to be very low.

I was surprised at how many other hikers there were on the trail today, even in this lousy weather.  Single climbers, couples, a pair of serious types loaded with tent and camping gear and headed for Mount Washington.  Franconia Ridge is a very popular climb.

My companion on this hike was Gary Moore, a well-known Renaissance man from Bradford.  This was our third hike together, and probably our most ambitious.  Gary is in great shape, a tough hiker.  More important, he knows CPR and first aid.  At my age, a valuable comrade!

The guide book description of the trail can be a bit puzzling; for example, “At 0.7 mi. it crosses Dry Brook (use care if the water is high)...”  Dry Brook was anything but dry today.  I viewed it with distaste and foreboding.  As I did, a young solo hiker came up behind us, running.  He took one look at the crossing possibilities, skittered across a six-inch-thick wet spruce log, his arms waving like a unicyclists’, and ran off into the woods on the other side.  Pretty depressing.  I found a boulder crossing only a few inches under water, hopped carefully across, and followed the runner at a trudge.  Gary had wisely worn high boots and came across dry-footed.

There are three main falls – Stairs, Swiftwater, and Cloudland – all of them pretty spectacular.  Climbing the bank beside each of them was made more exciting by a thin coating of wet, dead leaves on the rocks.  But up we went, closer and closer to the bottom of the thick clouds above us and waiting for the promised clearing weather.  We ate a quick, damp lunch at the head of the third falls, where the two branches of Dry Brook converge.  A description of what follows: “The trail continues steeply on the north bank of the Mt. Lincoln branch, soon crosses to the south bank, crosses back to the north side, climbs to and follows an old logging road, and recrosses to the south bank at 1.6 mi....”  Key words: steeply, crosses, crosses, and recrosses.  But I must admit it seemed to be getting easier.  The grip of my shoes was really great, and I was wet enough not to care any more about casual immersions.

Once many years ago the summit of Little Haystack presented me and five Dartmouth undergraduates a keen ethical dilemma.  On a warm September day we had bushwhacked up the east side of the mountain from the Pemigewasset Wilderness, and were dying of thirst.  Just as we reached the bare crest of the ridge, I spotted something shiny.  Unbelievably, there were six bottles of beer stashed under a big flat rock.  They’d been there a while; the labels were fading and falling off.  There were six of them; there were six of us.  Should we do it?  Our dilemma was solved when one of the students produced a bottle opener.

No such luck today; and far from dying of thirst, we were more likely to drown.  We plugged on until, just before our agreed turnaround time, 1:30, we met a sturdy character coming down.  “Not much fun up there today,” he said.  “The wind’s blowing at least fifty, you can’t see a thing, and Lafayette is covered with rime ice.”  Sounded like a harmonic convergence to me.  We turned our steps valleyward, descended the steep, slippery, rocky stretches very carefully, and finally, after the last stream crossing – I was getting to be an old pro at it by now.  Wet, maybe, but professional – we were able to stretch out and just walk for a change, slowly trading the constant roar of falling water for the roar of truck tires on the Notch parkway.  Already I’m planning the next ascent.  Next time, Excelsior! all the way around the loop!