Report on Expedition to Climb Mt. Madison, via North Face, 26 May 1987

Expedition Leader: Rev. H. T. Folsom
Lead Climber: T. C. Saunders
Porters: P. Folsom, P. Saunders

After many months of detailed planning, proposing and plotting, our expedition finally arrived at Base Camp, via Pontiac and rented Chevette.  We immediately named the spot “Appalachia”, inspired by the awesome view of the surrounding peaks of the Appalachian Mountain range, but subdued by the roar of logging trucks on nearby Route 2.  Plus there was a sign “Appalachia”.  Our objective: an unclimbed direct route up Mt. Madison, towering above us, via the precipitous ridge called by the local natives “Dome Rock”.

The difficult climbing started almost immediately: we were halted by tracks across which raced periodically thundering and rolling debris, coming unexpectedly with the roar and force of a freight train: the infamous Boston and Maine avalanche chute.  Cautiously picking our moment, we raced, unroped, across the chute between arrivals.

Thankfully, the climbing eased somewhat, with a lessening of the objective dangers; the only real hazard was blood lose due to being swarms of dangerous flying insects.  We shortly passed the point where, on a previous attempt of the route many years before, our lead climber had taken a long and nearly fatal plunge down the shear and slippery side of “Tommy Falls”.  Other well known alpinists had also met similar fates.

Now the easy going was over, it was all uphill from here.  Forsaking the safety of the rope, we forged on.  The porters were holding up well on the technical terrain, but we knew they would shortly have to turn back, after a job well done.  We reached our first objective, the treacherous and exposed perch of Doom Rock.  Our original plan of attack called for setting up Camp I at this exposed spot, sheltered by a bottomless crevasse that splits the mass of the rock.  However, the day was young, we were feeling energetic, the weather was holding, we wanted to get back for dinner, so we pressed on.  Plus, we realized that Berlin Dynamite and Demolition probably would not be able to extricate a certain expedition member if he became wedged in the Doom Rock crevasse, a distinct possibility.

So we bade farewell to our ever faithful porters, who turned around to descend to Base Camp, with the certain knowledge that the unknown perils awaiting us ahead on the mountain could forever prevent our safe return.

As we climbed, the extreme altitude began to affect our lead climber, causing strange twitching, usually centered around the seeing and hearing of various species of birds.  Of course this was impossible; at this altitude, in the “Death Zone”, no creature can live for long, much less “tweet”.

As we broke out above tree line we discovered a message left by a previous unsuccessful expedition at their highest point.  We forged on, but were then confronted with the terrible possibility that our route had been climbed before!  Stretched out ahead of us, at a spacing of about 50 feet, were small piles of rock, seemingly placed there by human hands.  Upon closer inspection, however, they were revealed to be strange natural rock formations, another example of the myriad mysterious ways of nature.

We progressed slowly upwards, with an occasional stop to restore our oxygen depleted brain cells.  The decision to try for the summit without the additional aid of bottled oxygen was our leader’s, made hastily in the thick air of lower altitudes and better climes.  With numbed fingers and frozen minds we struggled to within 50 feet of our prize: the untrod summit of Mt. Madison, the highest unclimbed mountain in the world (except for a bunch of other easier peaks).  With one last effort, we crawled to the very pinnacle, success at last!  A lifetime dream fulfilled!  How did all these orange peels get up here?

After the obligatory summit photos and congratulations, and a snack of standard expedition fare (raisins and frosted pop tarts), we headed down, fearful of being benighted on the exposed slopes surrounding us.  (And this being 1987 and cell phones not being invented yet, only primitive communications with base camp were possible.)  We realized that our nearly exhausted state would make descent of our highly technical route suicidal, so we chose a bold and previously uncontemplated plan: a traverse of the summit!  We would head down across a series of subsidiary summits called the “Howks”.  The origin of this name is shrouded in mystery: perhaps it was derived from the mispronunciation of our expedition leader’s first name by one of the natives, or the sound our lead climber has been known to make after eating too many frosted pop tarts.  In any case, these nearly vertical spires provided enough challenges to slow our headlong retreat from the mountain considerably.  No doubt our porters, safely ensconced in the comfort of Base Camp, would begin to consider the possibility of our never returning.  Furthermore, perhaps due to our extreme fatigue (or poor RMC trail marking), we became lost on the lower slopes of the mountain.  We wondered deliriously onward, our blood being sucked dry by clouds of flying insects, death from hypothermia only one last birch beer away.

Oh no!  A final horrible fate!  Our porters have deserted us and abandoned Base Camp at Appalachia!  We are left alone, without food or water, on the shoulder of Route 2.  Luckily, through careful preparation, we have stashed emergency transportation (the Pontiac) for just such a catastrophe.  Upon our return to civilization, fame and acclaim will be ours!