Glen Boulder Trail
Trip Report
September 7, 2026
Morrie Gasser, Brooks McCandlish, Tom McDonald, Glenn Ruga, Noa Yaish
The day began like many other early morning White Mountain hikes, but not without a hitch. Morrie was to leave his house at 4:15 am but not alone this time. Instead he was towing two grandchildren—Danny’s son Dylan and Becky’s daughter Noa (visiting from Israel). Dylan had a rough night and ten minutes into the drive not only did he realize he left an essential item back at the ranch (I don’t remember what it was), but he also realized he wasn’t feeling well enough to continue on a two-and-a-half-hour drive and a nine-hour hike. So, they turned around, dropped Dylan off and then set on their merry way north. Morrie and Noa met Tom and I at the Tyngsboro Park and Ride a bit after 5:00 am and the four of us continued up the road to Concord to rendezvous with Brooks at The Works at 6:00 am for our normal breakfast and coffee. Then we all piled into Morrie’s van and continued on the long journey north to the Glen Boulder Trail parking lot just south of the main Pinkham Notch parking.
The four of us—Brooks McCandlish, Tom McDonald, Morrie Gasser, and I (Glenn Ruga)—all in our 60s and 70s, are enthusiastic members of HAM (Hike a Month). We try to hike at least once a month in the White Mountains and have a well-oiled routine. Noa was a welcomed guest member on this hike, and at 24, brought some needed youthful energy. If there was a leader of the group, I think we would all agree it was Morrie.
The Glen Boulder trail is one that we have done many times in all conditions. My first memory hiking this trail with Morrie and company was about 20+ years ago on a cold blistery winter day. So blistery in fact that we could barely open the car door in the parking lot. There was one other memorable time when Morrie, Bob Hansen, and I did the reverse direction on a gorgeous spring day, but not without its own problems-- deep snow in the woods, Bob got lost on the ridge while returning to the trail after a bio-break, Morrie got attacked by some low-lying branches, and I had a 100 degree fever. Nevertheless, we did what we always do, or almost always do, and found our car, had dinner, and stumbled into our beds nearing midnight.
This Labor Day was another gorgeous day—at the bottom at least. The forecast was for sun and heavy winds above treeline. But when we finally got just below Glen Boulder about 90 minutes into the hike, the heavy winds turned into practically hurricane winds. Since the temperature was still quite agreeable, and the sun was out, we braved our way up to and way past the boulder. I should add that this is not just some ordinary boulder. There is a reason why there is a trail named after it. A glacial erratic precariously perched on open talus, and about the size of a backwoods cabin, Glen Boulder soars above the ridge line from the approach below.
The boulder is about a third of the way up the eponymously-named Glen Boulder trail to its terminus at the top of Boot Spur. It was never in the cards that we would go as far as Boot Spur on this day, but neither was it clear where our destination was beyond the boulder. In the lee of the wind on the south side of the boulder, we made a decision to brave the wind and carry on. And carry on we did. The worst of the wind was just beyond the boulder—so strong that it could knock you over if not struggling to stay vertical (this was not the cause of Morrie’s fall hours later.)
We knew there was a wooded section ahead that would protect us from the wind and we all agreed to at least go to the end of this section and re-assess. The mile-long stretch of woods was a welcome reprieve from the constant wind and provided a decent spot to eat lunch—although what the woods gave us in wind protection also took from us what we also wanted—sun. Then onward.
Reaching the end of the woods, we ascended an open rocky incline topping out at Gulf Peak (4770 ft) with spectacular views of Boot Spur, Mount Washington, and the Gulf of Slides. We stopped to take some selfies and a group picture next to a large cairn, many of which dot the ridges in the White Mountains.
Again windy but maybe a tad less than earlier, we decided to continue on until we came to a field of wild blueberries reminiscent of the scene in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy and her hiking buddies came upon a field of poppies. Like children, we just sat down while we plucked them into our mouths and thought life was good, and at that moment it was.
Still early and still sunny we continued on until we came to the junction of the Davis Path (5175 ft) that heads south to Crawford Notch. There was some discussion about continuing a half mile further to Boot Spur and making a loop back to Pinkham Notch, but we would have had to fight stronger winds and a slightly longer hike, so decided to begin the journey back down the way we came up.
The world can change on a dime which it shortly would. Everyone in our team is well aware of the possible dangers the mountains hold and we often recount the errors of many a hiker to be rescued in the White Mountains—too cold, too wet, too windy, too weak, too hungry, no water, too late, no map, no compass, no headlamp—and for as long as we hiked in the White Mountains we prepare for the worst. Always with extra clothes, water, food, first aid kit, hat, gloves (even in summer), and a headlamp. But equally aware is that the slightest calculation can go wrong. How many times do we skip from one rock to another calculating the distance, angle, friction, momentum and in a fraction of a second making a safe landing but knowing that if any of the calculations were off by a fraction of a percent, the outcome might be different. And sometimes it is, which more often than not ends in an in-elegant landing, a tumble into the woods, possibly on other rock, sometime resulting in a bruise or scape. In fact, I often refer to a descent on a mountain trail as a continuously controlled fall. It is rare that any one of us concludes such a hike without a scrape or bruise as evidence of our follies.
I also have in the back of my head that Morrie has said on more than one occasion his neurologist has told him don’t fall due to spinal stenosis in his neck. He has also mentioned that his balance is not what it once was. Morrie in fact often falls, brushes himself off, wipes off the blood, and continue on doing what he loves to do more than anything else in the world—hiking on a mountain trail surrounded by wildflowers, blue sky, bulbous white clouds, hiking companions fore and aft, and looking forward to a beer and dinner before the long drive home.
I was in the lead on the way down on a moderate rocky incline with moderate winds. Ten minutes into the descent I heard some commotion back up the trail. I assumed it was Morrie stumbling off into the bushes again. But no, I heard Brooks say loudly, “he is really hurt.” In a second I knew this time would be different even before I turned around and scrambled up the 50 feet to come upon Morrie face down on the rocks, blood pouring from his nose and Brooks saying that he is paralyzed and can’t feel anything. Crap.
This time none of those calculations added up in Morrie’s favor. Somehow, he stumbled, lost his balance and before he could do anything to brace his fall, his head had already hit a rock and doing exactly what his neurologist told him he could not do.
The fact that Morrie was talking was a good sign. But he was seeing a lot of blood and was scared as to where it was coming from. Fortunately it was from a broken nose and not his head. Then the chaos and scramble to get help. Brooks attempted calling 911 but was having bad reception. I called NH Fish and Game, the primary organization for rescues in the Whites, but on a holiday weekend just got a recorded message. I then called the Pinkham Notch visitors center and explained the situation, and they calmly told me that they couldn’t do anything and that I should call 911, which I promptly did. And this began long and interrupted phone conversations of what could and should be done. We were adamant that we needed a helicopter rescue. The 911 dispatcher took all the info and said someone would call back with a plan. 10-15 minutes later I did get a call back from Mark from NH Fish and Game who would remain our primary contact. Again, I explained everything to him. He said since it was a holiday weekend and a helicopter rescue was not guaranteed. He would need to contact the NH Army National Guard. They would need to find a team of medics, a pilot, and support staff to steel away from their holiday barbecues, assemble from all parts of the state at their headquarters in Concord, and fly in howling winds to Sargent’s Purchase. (God knows where this name comes from other than that it refers to the high ridges of the Presidential range.)
Knowing that a helicopter rescue was not guaranteed, Mark also called into action two teams of volunteers—from the Androscoggin Valley Search and Rescue and the Lakes Region Search and Rescue—for a possible litter (rescue term for stretcher) evacuation that would have taken all night and would have been impossibly difficult for Morrie to endure. They finally assembled nearly thirty volunteers at the Hermit Lakes Shelter at the base of Mt. Washington. (Some rescuers had already reached the summit of Boot Spur when they were finally given the all-clear that a helicopter rescue was successful.)
Mark finally confirmed that a helicopter was on its way. Whew. Meanwhile began the task of notifying loved ones of the situation. Noa and I called Morrie’s daughter Becky. It may have been one of the most difficult calls I have ever made, although Becky accepted the facts and got into action. She informed Karen (Morrie’s partner who was shortly to be moving into a new condominium with Morrie), and, Danny (her brother), who lives in Massachusetts, all with the intention of meeting at the Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center in Lebanon, NH where the helicopter would take Morrie. This was only a 25-minute helicopter ride compared to what would have been at least a 12 hour carry out with a litter with a team of 30 rescuers followed by a 2.5 hour drive from Pinkham Notch to the hospital.
Now back to the injured hiker. One of the standard protocols with someone with a neck or back injury is to not move them because it may cause more damage. Fortunately Brooks is an EMT and was able to assess what the next best steps should be. Leaving Morrie face down on the rocks with blood pouring from his noes and his head below his feet was not a great option either. So eventually we turned him onto his back and made him as comfortable as possible using all the extra clothing that we bring for such cases including a space blanket that Tom was carrying. And then wait and wait and wait. The accident occurred at 2:15 and it wasn’t until 6:00 that we spotted the helicopter rising about the ridge to our east from Pinkham Notch (not from the south where we assumed.) Waving brightly colored hats and jumping up and down, they finally spotted us and headed in our direction.
Very fortunately, the accident occurred in an area with open terrain where a Black Hawk helicopter could land. We were all aware that this could have happened in other areas obstructed by trees or difficult terrain, making a landing impossible. And given the winds, it may not have been possible to hover while hauling Morrie up with a lift line. The helicopter landed in screaming winds about 200 yards from Morrie and two guardsmen immediately jumped off and started coming in our direction with a litter. After a quick medical evaluation, they determined what we already knew—that Morrie was conscious, breathing, paralyzed, and needed immediate advanced medical attention. We managed to lift Morrie into the litter, and the six of us carried him to the waiting helicopter with its ominous rotating blades that soon rose above the clearing and headed south towards Concord.
Meanwhile it was now 6:30 pm and the four us had three miles to hike down a steep and rocky trail with pending night fall. Fortunately, some other hikers had given us some extra warm clothes and a headlamp, so between the four of us, we had three headlamps that we didn’t put on until we descended into the trees just below the boulder. We finally stumbled out of the woods into the parking lot in pitch darkness at 9:00 pm and began our journey home in Morrie’s van. Tom and I dropped Books and Noa at Brooks’ car in Concord, where they went off to the hospital, and Tom and I continued on to Massachusetts.
It is nearly two weeks later as I write this trip report. Morrie is still in the hospital in Lebanon, NH and just yesterday moved from the ICU into a regular patient room, and soon to be transferred to the Spaulding Rehab Clinic in Chelsea, MA. His condition is stabilized with near total paralysis from neck down although the indications are good that over time he will learn to use his arms and legs again. His loving family and partner are with him although Becky and Noa will be returning to Israel soon.
— Glenn Ruga
September 19, 2026
This is a press release from the NH Fish and Game on the accident and their response: