My favorite mountain
The memory of a great climb, and why we should share them
It’s happening. Autumn’s cooling breath is creeping back into the night, maple trees up north are fading from green to crimson, and tens of thousands of people with brand new hiking boots that have been sitting in the closet for months are suddenly realizing that their window for going for a hike without snow, ice, or sub-zero winds is closing.
Welcome to the annual northeast Mountain Rush.
“Mountain Rush” isn’t an official event—it’s a name I made up to describe that fleeting last chance to scale a mountain in New England in the most simple, romantic terms. Once we hit November, climbing a mountain becomes complicated, from acquiring the requisite seasonal gear to the variable, often dangerous weather conditions. So I’ve been trying to decide what New England mountain to spotlight this year, in honor of the Mountain Rush. And since Mind The Moss is built on sharing information about trails in New England—trails that some would prefer to keep secret—I’m going to tell you all about a mountain hike that might just be my favorite in all of New England…
A lot of the New England mountaintops that people chase are like observatory decks, where you gaze down at the world around you. But a different, less appreciated type of summit is the podium-style peak, where you’re looking *up and around* at the mountains that surround you. Imagine standing on the pedestal where a conductor stands, facing the orchestra on one side and the audience on the other, and you’ll get the basic picture of what it feels like on top one of these lower-elevation but no less splendorous mountains. Better yet, the lower elevations often cause peak baggers to overlook a lot of the podium-style peaks. And this is what allows Caribou Mountain to fly under the radar while boasting one of the most amazing views in the northeast.
The mountain is hidden in Maine, just barely. It looms above the quietude of Evans Notch, across the state line from New Hampshire, in the far-east limits of the White Mountain National Forest. Crucially, it is not the identically-named Caribou Mountain in Sullivan, Maine near the Canadian border. The Caribou Mountain that you’re aiming for is located close to the town of South Oxford, in a patch of the WMNF called the Caribou-Speckled Mountain Wilderness. This is actually one of the largest patches of federal wilderness in Maine. It might seem improbable given how enormous Maine is, but this points to how much of the Maine wilderness is privately owned. (Roughly 94%!) Better yet, Caribou Mountain is perfectly situated in the middle of several XL-size mountain ranges. From the barren moonscape of Caribou’s summit, you can take in Presidentials and the Carter-Moriah Range of New Hampshire, and the Mahoosuc Range of Maine. Looking into Western Maine, you can also see the farmlands of the Cold River Valley and on very clear days, you might even glimpse the southernmost Rangeley Lakes. Caribou Mountain is a mountain for hikers who want to have it all.
So what do you pay for a climb to Caribou Mountain, in a physiological sense? Less than 2,000 feet of elevation gain, spaced out over the course of a 6.6 mile loop hike from the parking area on Route 113 to the summit and back. And while we’re talking metrics, it’s worth mentioning that Caribou Mountain rises “only” 2,840 feet above sea level, while boasting a big panoramic vista that surpasses the views from mountains twice that tall. But unlike short-yet-stunning hikes such as West Rattlesnake or Mount Willard, the hike to Caribou Mountain is long and remote enough to offer that sense of immersion that many seek from a hike: happily unstuck from our element, and time.
I really needed that sensation of being unstuck during Year One of the pandemic. The last time I climbed Caribou Mountain, I was dealing with two issues—existential dread as Covid-19 tore across pre-vaccine America, and anxiety from a bad back injury that I had incurred a few months before the pandemic. A disc herniation in my lumbar spine (likely the result of chronic core neglect) was resolving with exercise but still causing some radiant pain in my right leg and foot. Once the pain had begun to incrementally improve, I had started easing my way back into hiking that involved significant butt muscle activation. But by the time October of 2020 rolled around, I hadn’t attempted any hike with climbing in excess of 1,000 vertical feet. I was nervous about pushing myself too soon, and at the same time, overcome by the Mountain Rush. The coming winter was going to suck like no winter before. I urgently needed to climb something.
I had fond memories of climbing Caribou Mountain when reporting my first hiking guidebook back in the fall of 2018—memories that carried me through the worst of my injury recuperation, when my foot was on fire and I wondered if I would be able to hike pain-free again. And somehow, revisiting those memories by literally returning to Caribou Mountain seemed like hiking in a safe space. On a crisp October morning, I made the drive north through Evans Notch, nabbed a spot in the small, mostly-empty parking lot, and set off on the Mud Brook Trail into a familiar, comforting tunnel of rustling amber and gold. The Caribou Mountain loop consists of Mud Brook and the Caribou Trail, and while a lot of hikers automatically kick off their loop hike on the latter trail due to its name, I ascended the Mud Brook Trail, for one reason: variety.
The Mud Brook Trail gently tumbles alongside its brook (which is beautiful and not very muddy), warming you up for the real climb. The moss becomes more abundant as you cross across the water on stones, and when the ascent finally intensifies, it’s fun and highly scenic. I boosted myself up rock slabs, initially bracing for nerve pain, and pleasantly surprised when it never came. As the trees get shorter and pencil-thin, partial views of ponds and the wilderness area start to reveal themselves. And then, after flopping over a boulder, I found myself standing on the unmistakable pinnacle of Caribou again—a stark, rolling expanse of granite, with summits and valleys as far as I could see. It was the first of many views that you can take in from the mountaintop. The Caribou Trail departs from here, and it takes its time weaving across the upper heights of the mountain through occasional boreal forest. Caribou feels designed for lingering, and that’s what I did on my last trip there. I stretched my hamstrings, gulped down an entire bottle of seltzer, and I understood that things were going to be okay.
Unlike the diverse Mud Brook Trail, the Caribou Trail is a long, moderate descent back to the parking lot: a bit boring to climb, in my opinion, but ideal for a return journey on the hiker equivalent of cruise control. (Just mind your footing, as there are lots of stones and roots that could snag a boot.) And there are curiosities to be savored on the way—an area near the summit where the trees are dramatically receding, a couple of trailside cascades with Big Enya Energy—the 25-foot Kees Falls is especially pretty— and of course, abundant foliage that’s best admired In October. Plus, during the late afternoon, the fading sunlight flares through the millions of leaves, giving the entire forest an enchanting hue that truly brings out the “golden” quality of the golden hour.
Even as I approached the end of the Caribou Trail, less than half an hour from sunset, the warmth of that light endured. I knew it would be dark soon and I wanted to avoid driving on the remote, wooded Route 113 during pitch black conditions (two words: moose collision) but I still slowed my pace, not quite ready to let go of this moment in the woods at Caribou Mountain. There will inevitably come a day when I can’t climb my favorite mountain, and just as the memories of my first ascent helped me make it through a prolonged health nightmare, I know that the recent memory of returning and climbing Caribou Mountain again will help me, somewhere down the road. I’m storing it like a bottle of Laphroaig 10. Wherever your favorite mountain might be, treat your memories of being there with care. Share them. Because one day, you will need them.
Caribou Mountain via Mud Brook Trail and Caribou Trail
Hike distance: 6.6-mile loop
Elevation gain: 1,958 feet
CLICK HERE for a trail map
Another reason why I decided to tell you all about the wonder of Caribou Mountain is because I’m currently on the road in Europe, and so, I needed to pre-write this week’s newsletter before kicking off the voyage. I’m currently on my way from Edinburgh to Berlin, and I will be writing a hiking dispatch from the latter city. Let’s just say that the foundation of this long-planned expedition is exploring urban trails across the pond.
On a somewhat related note, I spent a good chunk of my trans-Atlantic flight reading a fascinating book by my neighbor Chuck Collins. He’s an activist and policy researcher deep in the trenches of wealth inequality, and his first venture into fiction, Altar To An Exploding Sun, does something unusual—it imagines a climate-ravaged future that’s not purely apocalyptic. The story of several people who gather to remember a late dear friend whose death involved the assassination a fossil fuel CEO, Collins’ story vividly imagines how people will respond to a world of worsening climate disruption and unmitigated corporate power. There will be acts of violence. There will also be attempts toward localized survival, as people turn to mutual aid and re-connection. I’m only a few chapters into the book but I’m recommending it enthusiastically on the basis of how cathartic it feels to read this. Visions of the climate crisis future tend to skew toward extremes and Collins’ feels rooted in actual history and refreshingly real.
One place where the climate future is mostly absent is TV, which is very weird given the dizzying number of shows that are produced each year. The less said about Apple TV’s Extrapolations, the better, but if any of you have seen any shows that intelligtently grapple with the climate crisis, I’d love to know what they are. Thus far, the best show I’ve seen that engages with the issue (and really just the geopolitical conflict side of the crisis) is the Norwegian thriller Occupied. It’s available to stream on Netflix and you can read this Mic piece that I wrote about the three-season series back in 2020.