The Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) hut nestled below its summit cone, Lakes of the Clouds, is the flagship facility of the AMC hut system. Your first stay at Lakes is an unforgettable experience. Mine certainly was, but not entirely for all the best reasons.

On my first-ever hike in the Presidentials, we slogged all the way from Highland Center to Lakes of the Clouds—about 9 miles and 4,000+ feet of elevation gain—on a roastingly hot day in July. And I did it with a hangover. Memorable, yes; intelligent, no. Clem and Steve were the faster hikers and went on ahead; I was of medium tempo and trudged along by myself, pushing a little too hard for the conditions and my conditioning. Verna and Thomas lagged behind, going slowly but at a pace that suited them. The result was that everyone made it, some feeling better than others, and some later than others. I arrived in Lakes in time for dinner, which had been my greatest worry, but the effort of making up for the late start cost me a little heat exhaustion and, I'm guessing, some excessive hydration as well. I met some folks on the trail who noticed this and passed word down the ranks of hikers. "Have you seen the guy in the red hiking shirt? He's in bad shape." Actually, I wasn't THAT bad, but I admit I don't do well in the heat, and it didn't help that I had sucked down a bunch of energy food (Goo, Cliff Shots) that I would learn that day make me sick. From then on I swore to stick to real food. Tuna was my go-to trail snack for several years. Smelling like Eau de Friskies was a small price to pay for not barfing en route.

The low point for me on that inaugural White Mountains adventure was encountering two much older women who offered their advice: "Ooh, you better hurry along." Lie to me, ladies, please.

I woke up early at the hut, before breakfast, and hoofed it up to the summitb ecause we had decided to head down the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail shortly after breakfast and meet the hiker's shuttle. In order to do so, we needed to leave just after eating. I wasn't about to miss the summit on what turned out to be a clear day, and by going up that early I caught a good view of the sun hitting the summit of Monroe before reaching down to the hut.

The summit of Washington is pretty alien as far as terra firma goes: breathtaking, but overburdened by buildings and the crowds who either drive up the road or ride the cog railway. At 6am I was alone, however, and I was able to appreciate as a solo experience one of America's original tourist meccas, as you can see in this illustration by Winslow Homer from 1870. I felt a certain timeless communion with those corseted climbers and necktied ladies and gentlemen of yore. Tip-Top House, visible in the background of the print, still survives.