by Tom Ryan
When I was a boy and my father’s temper took over or sadness filled the house and I needed to escape, I disappeared into the woods at the end of our little street. There were only three houses on Neelon Lane, and the last was a bedraggled farmhouse owned by an ancient couple we almost never saw. Beyond their house lay a forgotten, overgrown field marked with the occasional tree that had sprouted up from neglect and the remnants of stone walls. The land sloped gently downhill until it came to a forest that at first was inviting but quickly became thick and ominous as it led down toward the Charles River.
I never went there alone. I was too frightened of the place to do that, so I went with my brothers or my friends. Even in the middle of the day, it could feel like night. It was primeval, mysterious, and magical. It was the stuff of fairy tales. Legend had it that Indians once lived there, and on occasion we’d hear of someone finding an arrowhead at the stony river’s edge. My imagination told me those Indians were still there lurking just out of sight, watching our every move. Or maybe there was something else watching us, something almost unnatural, for it seemed as if the trees themselves were capable of movement and the shadows had eyes.
When Atticus and I threw ourselves into hiking the four-thousand-footers that summer, that’s the place I returned to in my mind. It was that same childhood walk into the wild, and it was vastly different from the life I’d built in Newburyport—from the coffeehouses, the city-hall meetings, the constant exchange of information, and the never-ending drama. I felt refreshed by the anonymity I rediscovered in the mountains, the quiet forests, the songs of rivers and streams, how Atticus and I could step off the road and be swallowed whole into an enchanted realm. As we trekked wordlessly through sun-dappled woods, it was as if we were walking through a world of elves and hobbits, wood nymphs and fairies. Life felt less complicated, cleaner, and more hopeful in the woods.
The basic process of climbing a mountain was therapeutic, almost cathartic. There was the simple act of walking into the woods and away from the world. Then there was the climb itself, where the body worked: muscles flexed and released, lungs rose and fell, the heart beat. It was as if the complications in my life were breaking down and the only thing I cared about was the next place I’d put my foot or finding something to hold to pull myself up. After all that work to get to the summit came the views from the top. The failed Catholic in me saw it as a spiritual journey, much like the ones any holy man had made in leaving behind society. Christ, Buddha, Muhammad—they all did it, and they came back with clarity. For me the climb was my confession, working out the troubles of my past. Sitting on top was communion. On each hike I allowed myself to be pulled apart and then put back together again.
Each weekend Atticus and I went north and rented a little cabin in Lincoln for a couple of nights. We hiked by day, sat by the fireplace in the evening, and fell asleep to the rush of the Pemigewasset River at night. Peak by peak we made our way through the list, and the experiences were so rich I can feel them to this day. I was changing from a man who knew everything that happened in Newburyport but seemingly little about himself to someone who heard his own breath and heartbeat for the first time. Each trip to the mountains was a stepping-stone, a journey among journeys. Atticus and I climbed mountain after mountain, becoming better, stronger, and more adept. All the while I was reclaiming a bit of innocence.
The climbing never got easy. It was always difficult to walk those many miles and climb thousands of feet in elevation, but I grew to enjoy the tests. And it often resembled exactly what had happened that time on Garfield. There was work to be done on the way up. I struggled, stopped often to rest, and gulped water and air. The better I felt, the more I pushed it, and I was tired all over again. And the whole time, Atticus waited for me.
No matter how much my confidence grew, my fear of heights stayed with me, and I hugged trees or rocks while moving along an exposed area of the mountain. My legs would quake when I came to the edge of a cliff and looked down, and I always feared that the hand of God would reach right up and pull me over, sending me plummeting to my death. Once while climbing the steep slide up the side of Owl’s Head, I stopped and sat down to rest. What a mistake it was. I sat there for minutes, afraid of standing up lest I tumble off the mountain. I had to lie back on my pack and slowly roll onto my belly so I was facing the mountain and not the open air. Once in position, I got on all fours and could stand up again. And oh, how I hated walking down that slide or any steep trail that was exposed. I could envision nothing else but falling off the side of the mountain. But it didn’t stop me. Sure, there were times when I thought, What the hell am I doing up here? as I wrestled with my fear, but we always continued.
Atticus, who hated getting wet, started the summer by refusing to even cross footbridges over brooks and streams. He’d wait for me and arch his back so I could slip my hand under his belly, and I’d ferry him across. He would drink from the streams but never wanted to walk through them. Yet even the stubbornness of a terrier surrendered to our quest to hike each of the forty-eight. He started crossing those bridges on his own, and if a stream wasn’t too deep, he’d hop from rock to rock to get across it. On the rare occasion he slipped and fell in, he shook off the water and continued on his way as if nothing had happened.
The water crossings were about the only challenge Atticus had. Everything else came easy to him. He was a forest spirit who had come home. It’s as though he knew the place and understood it. One day while he walked his customary twenty yards ahead of me, he stopped and sat in the middle of the trail just as it turned off into a stand of trees. I thought it was curious, and when I caught up to him, I realized he was watching a moose tenderly pulling leaves off a tree for her lunch. Slowly I sat down next to him, and we watched the gentle giant eat for several minutes. She knew we were there and glanced in our direction every now and again, but she wasn’t threatened by us. I wasn’t sure whether I should be more amazed by the sight of the moose or that Atticus seemed to respect her and didn’t give chase or bark. He was simply intent on watching her. She ran away only when four hikers came from the opposite direction.
A week after that, at the beginning of a hike, Atticus left the trail and walked into the woods to go to the bathroom. I followed him through the brush as he sniffed and circled trying to find just the right place to go. When he found it, I decided to join him. I was wearing a new pair of hiking shorts, and it wasn’t until that moment that I realized they didn’t have a zipper. I pulled them down around my ankles. What a sight we must have been: a little dog squatting to poop and a grown man with his pants around his ankles so he could pee. Within seconds we both heard the snap of a twig and looked up to see a large bear staring at us not thirty feet away. We both froze as the bear sniffed the air in our direction. He then stood up on his hind legs and sniffed the air some more. If eyes could talk, both Atticus’s and mine would have been saying the same thing as we glanced at each other: Don’t freakin’ move!
In an instant the newspaperman in me took over, and I could just imagine how my competition, the Daily News, would report my untimely death. I was sure the story would have a sordid lead saying something about the fact that I was found dead in the woods with my pants down around my ankles.
The bear was obviously not impressed, nor was he threatened by us, and he dropped back to all fours and slowly ambled away. It was almost comical that as he disappeared into the trees, Atticus and I went back to what we were doing as if nothing had happened before we returned to the trail.
Throughout all those miles hiked and mountains climbed, something else funny happened that summer. Our roles reversed. I’d always seen to it that we were as equal as possible, but Newburyport was my territory, and the rules of civilization are made for people, not dogs. So Atticus always had to take my lead, even though he had more freedom than any other dog I’d ever known. But in the woods he was in his element and I wasn’t. It was foreign territory to me, while he was right
at home and constantly led the way. On occasion he’d stop ahead of me, a little guide into the natural world, as I took a break. He stayed a constant ten to twenty yards in front even when we stopped, unless I tripped and fell or took off my backpack. If either of those things happened, he’d come trotting back. Taking off my backpack meant we were going to drink and eat, and we shared both in blissful silence. Often the only noise was the wind in the trees and the birdsong showering down on us from above.
When it came to climbing, Atticus was all business. He always knew that after we took a break on the way up a mountain and I stood to put my pack on, we continued on up. As far as he was concerned, we kept going up until there was no more up. It was uncanny how he seemed to know this. When we got to the top, we shared a ritual. I’d pick him up as I had when he was a puppy, and he’d sit in the crook of my arm, and together we looked out at the views. Whenever we did this, the only thing I heard from him was a contented sigh. At that moment I always said “Thank you,” but I was never sure who I was thanking. It was something that slipped out when I picked him up on top of Mount Hale and continued to slip out with each summit reached. After we took in the view, we shared something to eat and drink, and he’d then go off a little ways and sit and gaze. He didn’t lie down. He sat, and the only thing he moved was his head. The “Little Buddha” was meditating. I once timed him, and he stopped only when I interrupted him, after forty-five minutes.
In the mountains Atticus became more of what he’d always been, and I became less—less frantic, less stressed, less worried, and less harried. I felt comfortable letting him lead, and he seemed to know what I needed. He always chose the best route, if ever there was a question, and my only job was to follow. Most important, though, what made us happiest was being together in a place where we could be equals and there were no rules to adhere to.
And yet there was something about being in his presence on a mountaintop that made me not want to interfere with him. It was where he was most independent.
Paige Foster was right long ago when she said he was different. Indeed he was. I often wondered what he was looking at or what he was thinking. But all that mattered was that he was happy, and so was I.
As for Paige, we didn’t talk as much as we did during the first year, but I sent her an occasional e-mail. That summer I sent her several photos of Atticus sitting on a summit checking out the view. In the past her responses had been so full of mirth and joy that I could almost hear the giggles through her written words. But that summer her responses were different. An editor of a newspaper learns to read things, even things that aren’t there. That’s what it was like when Paige responded to us. There was something mysterious in what she wasn’t saying that was hidden between the lines, and I could sense that even she was surprised by what Atticus was doing.
In the beginning we hiked many of the easier mountains, but as summer drew on, we tackled the higher peaks, and while it was always work getting to the top, they weren’t as difficult as I’d once imagined. Mount Washington, the highest peak in the northeastern United States at 6,288 feet, was of great concern to me, because its weather could be dangerous, no matter the time of year. However, the day we climbed it, our biggest challenge was getting a picture taken at the summit, thanks to the long line of sandal-wearing tourists who had driven up the auto road or ridden the cog railroad to the top. That was our first unpleasant experience on a mountaintop. It was the first time I’d felt that the outside world had caught up with us. The other time was when we stood atop Mount Liberty, a stunning peak on Franconia Ridge with astounding views in every direction. It was crowded, but at least each person there had hiked up. Yet a quick count tallied eleven people on cell phones! We quickly left the summit and went on to hike Mount Flume, its neighbor. When we returned on the way back to the car, it was less crowded, so we sat for a while.
There were days when we never saw another soul, and I liked those best. And there were days when we’d run into a few people along the way. And of course there were days like we had on Washington and Liberty when it was so crowded we might as well have been sitting in Newburyport’s Market Square.
When we encountered people, they nearly always mentioned how small Atticus was. They’d ask, “Did he climb the whole way himself?”
“Yes,” I’d answer, thinking it a silly question.
“You don’t have to help him at all?”
“No, other than a stream crossing now and then and maybe an occasional boost.”
“Wow! I’ve heard of Labs and retrievers, but never a miniature schnauzer climbing the Whites. Can I take his picture?”
Throughout that summer, word of a little black-and-white dog climbing the forty-eight started to spread, and people regularly stopped to take his picture or ask, “Is that Atticus?”
There was something else that happened that summer: I grew closer to my father. We had been getting along well, mostly because I was happy and didn’t expect much out of him. I no longer sought those Father Knows Best moments that never came, and I understood he usually hated talking for long on the phone. I accepted what he could give and decided not to expect anything more. (In response to an e-mail in which Paige asked questions about Newburyport, my friends, and family, I gave her a short family history, and she said, “Well, that’s too bad about your family, Tom. I always try to remember that people can’t give what they don’t have.” And then she ended up on upbeat note: “At least you’ve got Atticus! Now, he’s real family.”) But since Atticus and I were in the mountains every weekend, a place he’d come to love through our family vacations, my father and I had more to talk about than ever.
My father once dreamed of walking the 2,100 miles of the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine. Unfortunately, it went the way of many of his dreams, and when he finally had enough freedom to carry them out, he was too old. When we were kids, we hiked during our vacations to the White Mountains, but never a four-thousand-footer. We took the train to the top of Mount Washington or drove the auto road, and we’d gone to the top of Cannon Mountain and Wildcat Mountain during the summer, riding off-season ski gondolas. That’s when my father was different. He looked peaceful and content as he gazed out and contemplated the various mountaintops. There was silence, not an uncomfortable silence but rather an understood one. There in the mountains, even his youngest son could feel like an equal to him as we shared the same sense of awe.
And here it was, three decades after those shared moments of silent intimacy, and I was climbing Jack Ryan’s mountains. I’d call him each weekend from our little cabin in Lincoln and share the day’s adventures with him. Those were the first conversations I can remember having with him when he didn’t rush off the phone. We’d start out talking about the mountains, move on to the Red Sox, and actually linger, neither one of us wanting to hang up.
It was after my third or fourth hike that I decided I’d wanted to give my father a gift.
Steve Smith, the coauthor of the Smith and Dickerman book, became a friend to us that summer, and we relied on him for hiking advice and took comfort in knowing he was a member of the local search-and-rescue team. He also owns and operates the Mountain Wanderer Book and Map Store in Lincoln, not far from where we rented a cabin each weekend. Along with a marvelous collection of hiking books, he sells other items as well. One of the most popular is a T-shirt listing the names of each of the four-thousand-footers. The first time I saw it, I wanted to get one for my father but decided I had to “earn” it for him first.
Eleven weeks after we hiked Mount Hale with DeeDee, Atticus and I set out at six in the morning on a twenty-three-mile hike, the longest we did that summer. We were climbing our last three peaks: Bondcliff, Bond, and West Bond. Moving through the quiet wilderness, I couldn’t help but think of all the mountains I’d gotten to know throughout the summer. For forty-four years, I’d seen most of them from roads and wanted to know their mysteries, the lessons they’d teach, the
ir challenges and spectacular views. For forty-four years, I’d even wondered about their names. In some ways these larger-than-life giants of my childhood were strangers to me, but they’d always haunted me, always called to me. And so as we moved up Bondcliff, with Atticus in the lead as always, I couldn’t help but think about our journey that summer and the experiences we shared along the way.
For eleven weeks I relished our escapes from downtown Newburyport. I had gone from writing about what was wrong with the world to seeing what was right with it in “the great fresh, unblighted, unredeemed wilderness,” to borrow a phrase from John Muir.
I discovered I liked being alone, that when I encountered other hikers on the trail and went with them for part of the way or hiked with my brothers or DeeDee, the trip was more of an external experience for me. When I was alone with Atticus, it became more internal. And being alone, I learned that the tests were not just physical but also mental. It can be difficult to be alone with your thoughts without distraction for hours on end. And yet the deeper we went into the woods, the better I got to know myself.
Each mountain was also an emotional experience. One more gift to my father, who at age eighty-five had a hard time getting excited about much—especially since the Red Sox had finally won the World Series in his lifetime. There were nights in the middle of that summer when I had mythic dreams about him joining Atticus and me on a hike. But it wasn’t the father I knew, the one who was jaded and worn down by life. Instead he was my age and we shared the forest together.
While I was walking all those miles, I could feel him with me. The dreamer in him would have loved our journey.
As I lifted Atticus up a little scramble onto Bondcliff and we looked off the edge of the cliff hundreds of feet down into the valley, I could not help but feel so many emotions churning together. We’d come face-to-face with the culmination of a goal, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. In some ways I didn’t want it to end.
