"Nice rhythm," I say as he wings past. "Thanks," I hear, the "s" elongated as he hares downhill, his back quickly thinning out to a rail.
This side of Mount Randolph rises just over 3,000 feet above the eponymous New Hampshire town below. Some two miles to my rear, Mount Crescent pokes its snout a couple of hundred feet higher, and the ridge trail between these two mounts has been a wonder of wander as I've shuffled along. It's even helped me forget the slow agony of the 1,500-foot climb up Crescent's face that shapes the early going of this good-spirited, iconic little trail race in the northern White Mountains.
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