OK, I admit it.

You understand how painful it was, don't you now gents?! And you ladies, stop the snickering, please.

Yes, occasionally life gets a little bit crazy and a man teeters near the edge, breaks down and―gulp!―asks for directions.

You see, it was like this...

I was rooting around the backroads of Shelburne, NH last Sunday, there in the hinterlands along the Maine-NH border, looking for a particular trailhead.

Mt. Cabot, a lofty 1,500 footer with nice views of the Androscoggin River and the Moriah Range, so I was told. With the added bonus of a side trip to the Crow's Nest and more looking out to be done.

Sounded good.

All except I couldn't find the way in. Hunted up and down the North Rd. Drove miles into the forest on logging roads searching. Even likely trespassed some in pursuit of anything that resembled a boot print or a broken twig, much less a paint blaze or a full-on trail sign that might indicate a parking place and a path to hike.

Nada. One hour. Two hours. Still nada.

I ate my lunch in the car, scouring the trail map and trying to find something in the guidebook that would give away the secret to the starting point for the illusive Mt. Cabot.

Not even the hint of a clue.

I was in the right area; it had to be somewhere in and around the Philbrook Farm, but there was no secret entrance to be found, no magic abracadabra to let me in.

Note to the AMC White Mountain Guide folks: On page 604 of the index, the page locations for descriptions of "Cabot, Mount (Pilot Range)" and "Cabot, Mount (Shelburne)" are juxtaposed. There's plenty to be said about the big 4,000 footer, but hardly a helpful mention of my lowly Mt. Cabot.

The day was getting on and I was fast running out of steam. Maybe it just wasn't to be today.

Come to think of it I was getting mighty thirsty and there was football on. And I was just a short jaunt over the border to Bethel and the homey confines of the Sunday River Brew Pub.

It was settled then. I put the vehicle in drive and headed up the road back toward Route 2 and a refreshing pint of ale.

Alas, I hadn't gone far when I came upon a woman walking briskly toward me on the opposite side of the road. Someone who looked like she might know her way around these parts.

My mind went into high gear, calculating furiously: 1. Should I stop and ask directions? Period. The horror of taking that fateful step alone weighed heavily. 2. What if she actually knew where the trailhead was? Then I'd have to give up my new plan for beer and football and actually do some hiking!

What to do? What to do??

I pulled over.

And {gasp} asked the kind woman if she knew where the trailhead to Mt. Cabot was?

"No. Never heard of it."

I was halfway to a beer.

"But I do know there's a trailhead just up the road. A white picket fence and a turnstile. Leads up to Mt. Crag from Austin Brook."

I looked at the map in my lap. And yes, there it was: Mt. Crag. With a connecting trail to Mt. Cabot. {sigh}

"Thanks," I said to the nice woman who had just cost me an early afternoon seat at the bar. "I'll check it out."

And there it was. White picket fence. Turnstile. Trail signs galore.

A severe case of cottonmouth came over me. But I was here now and I would dutifully go hiking and enjoy the day. Dammit.

And so it went.

It was an easy walk beneath hemlocks next to Austin Brook on an old woods road. Then left into the woods, climbing through a colorful forest of beech, birch and oak. Steeply at first, then more gradually as the trail curled around the back side of the peak. Views north to Mt. Success and the Mahoosucs opened up.

Finally the path swung back to the south, climbed a short steep stretch and peaked out atop a wide open cliff edge revealing broad two-state views of the Androscoggin River valley. From Evans Notch to the Moriahs to the Presidentials. All fabulous as I plunked down on the warm rock in the bright sun and enjoyed.

View into Maine from the summit of Mt. Crag, Shelburne NH.
Carey Kish photo

I feasted on Gatorade and a granola bar instead of a frothy ale and beer nuts. OK, I thought, this hiking thing, I can deal with it.

The White Mountains from Mt. Crag.
Carey Kish photo

Doubling back to the trail junction I continued cross-valley toward the elusive Mt. Cabot. Trail markings were intermittent to say the least, and with a plethora of side trails, skidder tracks, woods roads, slash piles and log yards, navigating the way was, um, interesting.

Crossing Austin Brook on the way to Mt. Cabot.
Carey Kish photo

But I was determined now. The day would not be complete without bagging Cabot. The "yellow" trail finally led me to the "blue" trail. And up I went, winding for a good mile and a half, finishing with a rocky scramble that left me off at the wooded summit.

The limited views thru the trees were a bit disappointing, but the walking had been fun. The goal had been achieved, a new place visited. No complaints.

On the trail to Mt. Cabot.
Carey Kish photo

I turned down the other side of the mountain, directly into the chill October wind, and descended quickly, on the "red" trail now.

On the valley floor gunshots were going off all around me (you can hunt in NH on Sundays), a little too close for comfort. Not the least bit excited about getting peppered with buckshot, I declined to retrace my steps back thru the woods.

Instead I bolted down a pine-carpeted woods road and was soon out out the North Rd. Right next to Philbrook Farm. Exactly where I had been diligently trailhead-searching many hours earlier.

Go figure.

I paced it up the road, afternoon shadows falling across my path, to the waiting car.

Off came the pack, on went the comfy bar duds and I was road-bound eastward, late for a date with Dan the Barman at the Sunday River Brew Pub and a tall, cold, frosty one.

Actually I wasn't late at all. Right about on schedule really. All because I stopped and asked for directions. That simple act changed the outcome of that entire day. Imagine that? It worked so well I might even try it again in the unlikely event the need should arise.

See ladies, we guys can learn new things!