We spent last night in the Appalachian Mountain Club's Highland Center at the head of Crawford Notch and 1900 feet below us now. The wind howled around the eaves and window sash all night. I woke up once a little after one and looked out our window toward the notch. A lonely pair of headlights climbed up out of the defile, gleamed dimly through the blowing rain, and crept slowly past. I wished them well, whoever they were, so late on such a night.

This morning was a little better, but it was pretty obvious from the heat and humidity that we weren't yet out of the woods in terms of weather. Sure enough, before the end of the first half-mile of our climb to the hut, the rain began to fall again. The situation was classic: hope the rain is but a passing shower and get a little wet, or don rain pants and parka? Putting on rain protection in the summer heat, the virtues of Gore-Tex notwithstanding, means you'll be damp both inside and out. But leaving it off may mean clothes so soaked you won't get them dry by the next morning.

The Crawford Path by which we climbed was blazed and cut by Abel Crawford and his son Ethan Allen Crawford in 1819. They clearly knew where they were going: up a steep brook (which decades later supplied water to the Crawford House Hotel); across the head of the brook high on the mountain; and then north along the exposed ridge to the summit of Mount Washington. It's amazing to imagine the work it took to cut the trail, until you consider that much of it was above timberline. It was upgraded to a bridle path in 1840, but long ago reverted to foot travel only.

Mizpah Spring Hut was the last built by the Appalachian Mountain Club in a chain that stretches all the way from Lonesome Lake, west of Franconia Notch, to Carter Notch, on the far side of the Wildcats. It's not the newest hut ­ Galehead was beautifully replaced in 2000 ­ but this one's location means that a hiker can fairly easily travel the White Mountains from one hut to another, weather permitting, in a series of day hikes. Appalachian Trail thru-hikers, hair-shirt types by nature, often make a two- or three-hut jump in one day. But those days are long gone for me. Just the 2.6 mile hike up here was plenty ­ especially in the pouring rain, with the ankle-deep current in the trail running downhill against us.

Mount Pierce, officially part of the Presidential Range, but a minor peak in the pantheon, was originally named Mount Clinton, after DeWitt Clinton, unsuccessful candidate for President in 1812 and Governor of New York, off and on, from 1817-1824. It's still called that by many hikers, though the name was changed to Pierce in 1913. So you've got a choice between an unsuccessful presidential candidate or a very unsuccessful president.

We'd planned to drop our gear at the hut when we arrived and continue on to the summit of Mount Pierce, about three-quarters of a mile farther and 500 feet up. But the mountain was invisible above us in the driving clouds, and the steep trail really slick. So we declined the opportunity, and instead sloshed inside, hung up our wet outer clothes, and picked bunks for the night. Then, as our inside clothes turned clammy and cold on our bodies, we sipped cups of hot instant coffee and watched the spruce tops thrash outside the big, sweating windows. From time to time other hikers squished in, stamped their muddy feet on the metal grate just inside the door, and went off to change into dry clothes. That's not my style; I prefer to carry just one set of clothes (on me) and dry them on me, as well, if possible.

There are a few thru-hikers here. One large, bearded fellow in shorts arrived just after we did, and leaned his huge frame pack against the wall to drip while he dined rather daintily on slices of turkey and provolone on little round buns. Then he picked up, put on his pack, and disappeared into the storm-tossed trees, headed for Lakes of the Clouds Hut, 1200 feet higher and five miles away. Most of those miles are above timberline on an exposed ridge. Alohat (his trail name) was obviously a tougher cookie than we.

Thru-hikers are allowed to stay in various locations around the huts ­ in the cellar, if there is one; on the floor or dining room tables after the paying guests have retired; in out-of-the-way cubbyholes ­ and they sometimes do some work or tell after-dinner stories in exchange for a meal. But mostly they just drift quietly through and disappear before breakfast.

It's now after dinner. The hut naturalist is holding a session up in the library. My friend Jonathon and I have just finished our traditional Scrabble game. (He doubts that "coxa" is a word, as I swear it is.) I'm just about to turn in and spend the night drying out my underclothes by wearing them in my sleeping bag and flipping over from time to time like a pancake. Don't knock it or doubt it if you haven't tried it.