When you climb all 48 of the New Hampshire mountains that are 4000′ or higher in elevation, you get to apply for a patch. One of the requirements is that you write an essay of your journey. The following is the essay I wrote in 2014 after climbing Mount Madison.
I was thirteen years old when I climbed my first mountain. Little Haystack Mountain, which ain’t so little, is a 4760′ shoulder off of Mount Lincoln on the east side of Franconia Notch. The trail we took that day, the Falling Waters Trail, is one of the best trails in the White Mountains. Its three waterfalls and rushing stream is enough to whisk the heat away from the fiercest midsummer day. Past the last waterfall, though, it becomes more rugged, a steep climb through evergreens, until you reach the alpine treeline, a mere 5 minute walk from the summit.
I used to bring people up there for their first climb in the Whites, as it was mine. One can do much worse than the Falling Waters Trail and its mix of bucolic beauty and rugged, rocky climb. It was a primer to all that the White Mountains can provide, all in one trail.
That hike was a major milestone in my life. It occurred during the first family summer vacation after my grandmother, Mémère Robert, passed away from cancer. Prior to that, all of our family vacations were spent at “Mémère’s Trailer” in a trailer park in Gilford, NH, a stone’s throw from Lake Winnipesaukee, a name which translates to “Smile of the Great Spirit”. The woods and shoreline of the surrounding area was my playground and the playground of my brother and cousins for many summers.
In spite of the recent memories of her fight with cancer and the sale of the trailer to help pay for my grandmother’s hospital expenses, no one wanted to break with tradition, so my mother and her siblings planned a family outing to White Sands motel and cottages in Gilford. As the kids were all entering teenhood, it would be the last of the combined family vacations.
For me, the highlight of the trip was the planned mountain climb. For as long as I can remember, I’d known that my father was a mountain climber. I remember fondly his hardcopy editions of the AMC White Mountain Guides, with their lists of the 46 peaks above 4000′. (Two would be added later.) Both his 1966 and 1969 editions contained dated entries for the peaks he conquered and I remember, as a boy, the names of the peaks, the dates of his climbs and wondered why some peaks had multiple entries and some were missing. I remember taking the folded maps out and looking at the topographical symbols and the dashed lines with the trail names beside them and trying to find the peaks that he had climbed. And I wanted to be like him, cool and badass and tough, though I didn’t quite think of it along those lines at the time.
I can still remember many details from that first climb. I remember the 5 gallon canteen that everyone wanted to carry initially, until the nylon strap broke. After that, everyone drank from that one canteen just to cut the weight of it. I remember an alpine summit full of tiny white flowers, and my father’s admonishments to “stay on the trail”. I remember the curious little bees that flew around our faces as we made our way through the krumholtz near the summit. I remember the elderly woman who was solo hiking with her upright posture and wooden walking stick and the boy scout troop who were dragging their asses up and complaining the entire way. And I remember my dear, departed cousin Denis, who tripped on a root and fell onto a thick evergreen bush that saved him from a tumble down the mountainside.
When we returned to the motel, I stayed in bed while everyone else played and swam in the lake. My legs were so sore, I laid down practically writhing from the pain. I don’t remember how long I stayed in bed, but it felt like forever.
My first official 4000’er peak was Cannon Mountain, that hulking granite cliffy mass of a mountain just “across the street” from Little Haystack. (Back then I-93 didn’t go through the notch; it was US Route 3.) On that hike, I was only 18 years old and it was my first summer with a car. I talked my brother into going, borrowed one of my father’s military packs and up we went, full of newfound freedom. I remember how hot it was and how thirsty we both became after running out of water at the summit. It was a long hike down, stopping at every minor spring and wondering if the trickling water was safe to drink. When we arrived at the Lafayette Campground at the bottom, we more than drank our fill from the camper’s faucets.
From that point on, we both had the bug and included our mutual friend, Gary Lawson, to hike with us. The three of us spent almost every weekend driving up north and hiking. And when my brother joined the military and Gary pursued other interests, I kept going, solo if I had to.
There is so much of the mountains imprinted on my mind. I remember the Air Line Trail up Mount Adams, hiking solo on a ridge line trail in cloud so thick you could drink it. I remember the wind driving the cloud out of King Ravine to my right, up and over the ridge I was on, and sending the cloud into the valley to my left. I remember picking my way from cairn to cairn discerning a trail through nothing but alpine rock, completely enfolded in guncotton gray.
I remember hiking the Tripyramids and having my lunch foiled by swarms of black flies in the hot June air on both North and Middle Tripyramid. I remember finding a rocky promontory on the descent from South Tripyramid, protected from the bugs by a steady breeze, and finally eating and taking a nap, alone, quiet, at peace.
I remember my first mountain sunrise, when it seemed like the Earth was being rent open by a thin sliver of molten glory, bright beams flashing while the valleys below were asleep in their misty cocoons. I can still taste the instant oatmeal in my steel handled cup and wondering if life could ever get any better.
I also remember a very public fight with my first wife on Mount Tecumseh while on a hike with friends. In the middle of a frustration so overpowering, I snapped a maple walking stick in half and tossed it aside, a walking stick that I had cut and shaved myself and had taken with me on numerous hikes, vowing to never hike with her again, a promise I kept for years until my son was a child, when the mountains were smaller and I no longer cared about anything I was doing. That vow, coupled with a lack of support for my need to hike solo, kept me from the mountains for a very long time.
It was hiking that brought me out of the gloom that enshrouded me for those many years. At first, it was occasional, annual trips, “hooky hikes” with my dear friend, Gary Braxten. Then came the Flags on the 48 memorial hikes, giving me an opportunity to hike, perhaps, twice a year, and visit those peaks that I had long feared I would never see. Finally, a blooming relationship with Claire was matched by a blooming hope that I might be able to do what my father did not do and complete the list. Best of all, it was a shared desire, full of love and reinforced by shared experiences.
In the end, what can I say about the hike up Mount Madison? It was long and sweaty and tiring, like any other hike up a 5000’er in summer. There were cooling breezes and 360° views at the summit. There was camaraderie. There were new memories. This time, though, there were no more unvisited peaks to climb.