by Tom Ryan
The only hikers we would see that day were a pair on the summit of Eisenhower who had come up from Crawford Notch. They were bundled under many layers, and one of them was clearly exhausted. The other stood at the summit and watched us coming from the opposite direction. His friend was breathing heavily and sat on the rocks. They looked at Atticus and me, and the one who wasn’t out of breath yelled over the wind, “Where did you come from?”
I pointed to Washington. “We hit Washington first, then Monroe!”
“Where you headed?” he yelled.
“Pierce!”
Both of them kept staring at Atticus in his little bodysuit.
I asked if his friend was okay and was told it was his first hike.
“I’m impressed. Your first hike is a winter hike.”
But he didn’t look impressed with himself. He looked like he wanted to throw up.
The fellow who was standing spoke again, “That little dog climbed Washington?”
“Yep!”
“He’s something!”
“Yeah, he is! When we reach Pierce, he’ll have hiked each of the forty-eight this winter!”
Their eyes opened wide. The one who was sitting down and breathing heavily looked like he needed to lie down.
His friend said, “You’ve climbed forty-seven mountains this winter? That’s amazing!”
“Actually,” I said, “Pierce will be sixty-five this winter! We’re hoping to do two rounds!”
The talkative one laughed and asked if he could take a picture of Atticus for his wife. His friend didn’t say anything. I think he passed out when he heard how many mountains we’d been to.
We climbed North and South Kinsman the next day before heading back to Newburyport. It was the culmination of an incredible stretch, and with twenty days left we had only twenty-nine peaks to go. Since nearly all of them could be reached on hikes that would get us to several peaks in one day, for the first time that winter I felt that the improbable and nearly impossible was actually within our grasp. I knew we could make it.
But the mountain gods were feeling mischievous again. They were whipping up another big storm.
14
Five Astounding Days
Pinned back in Newburyport by several feet of fresh mountain snow, I felt helpless as the days ticked by. I found a bit of salvation during our twice-daily walks through Moseley Pines. On one of them, while sitting by the Merrimack River, I apologized to Vicki. I often talked to her that winter. I wished I’d been able to fulfill all her deathbed wishes. Unfortunately, some were out of my control. I was hoping my second attempt to honor her would turn out differently. However, the recent weather was a recurring reminder that we were at the mercy of the mountain gods.
After we’d missed seven days to the latest storm, our race was probably over. It would be nearly impossible for us to reach twenty-nine peaks in thirteen days. Nevertheless, I decided that Atticus and I would continue on. Early on a Friday morning, we returned north and climbed Mount Moosilauke, the tenth-highest peak. It is a large, bald spread of a mountain that sits off by itself to the southwest. It was a frigid and blustery day, but the sunny blue skies made it seem a little warmer. Once again we had a mountain to ourselves.
The winds pushed us around a bit, but it wasn’t dangerous and not nearly enough to make me feel as drained as I was by the time we returned to the car. I was suddenly very tired. It was as if the Lyme disease were flaring up again.
Our original plan was to climb Cannon Mountain on a separate hike after Moosilauke, but I was exhausted, so Atticus and I were in bed at 4:00 P.M. We slept heavily and woke up before 3:00 the next morning, had a quick breakfast, drove over to Cannon, and started our hike. It was so cold that I gave half a thought to going back to bed, but I figured it was the “now or never” moment of our quest.
The sky was clear and black as ink; the stars shone bright. I tried to concentrate on them instead of on how tired I was as I put one foot in front of the other and used my trekking poles to help pull me up the ski trails. They were the most direct route to the summit but also the steepest, and I felt it. There were numerous stops to catch my breath, to swear at myself, at the mountain, at the night, and at the weather that had us behind schedule. As much as it hurt, though, my pain was once again rewarded when we stood on top of the observation deck above the summit. In the frozen predawn darkness, I held Atticus and we looked out just as we had that first night of winter at the lights below and the stars above. We were ending up in the very place I’d seen that first night, somewhere between heaven and earth. It was both enchanting and bittersweet.
With the icy wind swirling around us, I knew that when winter was over, we’d be starting a new chapter in our lives. I just couldn’t figure out what the next step was. So I did what we did all winter long: I put one foot in front of the other and Atticus and I walked.
The trip down Cannon was easy, and when we finished, we returned to the cabin. I showered, we had a second breakfast, and we got back into the car and drove over to Mount Waumbek. By the time we arrived, the world had woken up and other hikers were already on the trail. It was a Saturday, the next-to-the-last one of winter, and those who were “collecting” winter peaks were out in full force.
Near the bottom of the mountain, we ran into a friendly couple with their dog. The man’s name was Kevin, hers was Judy, and their dog’s was Emma. Kevin did the talking. He talked on and on, and it was clear how much they loved Emma. Eventually it was time for Atticus and me to press on, so we passed them and worked our way to the top.
The following day on the Mount Washington Observatory Web site’s discussion board, Kevin wrote a post about meeting us along the trail:
It turns out, in only their second full year of hiking, they are on their second time through the 4000 footers, THIS WINTER! After climbing Cannon Mountain at 3:30 Saturday morning, they drove to Waumbek and climbed it and then finished up the day by driving to Mount Cabot and summiting. Unbelievable. It took me 3 years to do what they’re doing twice in 90 days!
It was the first time we’d hiked three separate times in a day, and my legs felt like lead. I had to push myself to get to the dinner we were invited to by Steve and Carol Smith and our mutual friends Ken and Ann Stampfer. When we finally made it back to the cabin that night, I collapsed without taking off my clothes, and neither one of us stirred until the alarm buzzed the next morning.
The first thing I did was gulp down as much water as I could. I was parched, and my legs were sore. Next I guzzled some flaxseed oil. I stretched my tired muscles and helped Atticus stretch his legs and hips as well. After making three trips in one day, we were off to do the sixteen miles to bag Owl’s Head. It was a busy place on Saturday, and there was a well-trodden path to the top. This made it much easier than the first time we’d climbed it, and we flew through the long hike without a care in the world. We were both upbeat when we finished and felt fresher and stronger than we had at the beginning of the day.
The following morning Atticus and I returned to the Bonds. We were attempting the same traverse we’d done with Tom Jones back in December, but we were on our own and we added Mount Hale to it. Extra miles, extra elevation again. We had no choice; winter was winding down. It was another beautiful day, and I looked forward to seeing the views from the Bonds that second time around. However, we had an ominous beginning. On the climb up Hale, our first mountain of the day, I felt dizzy and sick to my stomach. I fell to my knees and vomited. I thought about turning back, but we were so close to the top that I willed myself to keep going. By the time I reached it, my head was spinning and I threw up again. We took some time to regroup, and I made the decision that instead of heading toward Zealand and the Bonds on the Lend-a-Hand Trail, we’d return by the same route we came and make our way back to the car.
It seemed to take forever to get back down the mountain, and at the trailhead I sat with my
head between my knees. I was sick and despondent. We’d come so far, and we were so close. I wanted to go on, but I was feeling sicker than ever.
I was thinking about Vicki again and what she’d gone through at the end of her life, the pain she’d endured but never showed, and how she was more concerned for others than she was for herself. I stood up, put my pack on again, and started walking. But instead of walking back to the car, we headed instead toward the Bonds. If Vicki could handle what she’d gone through with such fortitude, then I could keep going.
Turning back on Hale and then choosing a different route added two miles to our already grueling day. And yet somewhere along the climb to Zeacliff I felt better, as though I’d not been sick at all.
We flew from Zeacliff over to Zealand, then up Guyot and over to West Bond. Between West Bond and Bond, we ran into two groups of hikers, and while I didn’t know any of them, they all greeted us warmly and called Atticus by name. Another hiker posted about his two-day trip to the Bonds on one of the hiking Web sites and wrote, “We ran into Tom and Atticus. We are not worthy!”
No one had gone from Bond to Bondcliff that day, and there was some shallow snow to break through, but we did it without much effort. The second time that winter on Bondcliff was completely different from the first. The sun was bright, the winds nonexistent, and I hiked without a jacket or a hat or gloves. By the time we finished that afternoon, we’d covered twenty-seven miles in just over ten hours.
Our strength held up, and we hiked for a fifth consecutive day. Atticus and I took advantage of another fine day above tree line and traversed the four peaks of Franconia Ridge. When we finished, we were tired, but I was also elated. In five days we’d made seven trips, climbed fifteen mountains, and walked over eighty-seven miles. That’s more than many hikers cover in an entire year. It was an inconceivable accomplishment for two of the White Mountains’ most unlikely winter hikers.
We had peaked at just the right time, and amazingly we were once again within striking distance of our goal. With eight days left, there were only four hikes to go: Moriah, Isolation, the five Carters and the ’Cats, and a Presidential traverse covering eight peaks. I had no doubt we could do it; my only doubts concerned something out of my control—the weather.
Atticus and I returned to Newburyport, and I was more excited than I’d been all season. We were close to making history. But our race wasn’t just against the clock: More snow was falling.
15
“Thank You, Friend”
Robert Frost wrote, “I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.” I could say the same for our quest, or for that matter, any quest.
I knew from the beginning that hiking ninety-six peaks in ninety days was a long shot, and it would be an even longer shot because I would not endanger Atticus by bringing him above tree line except on the best of days.
Throughout the winter there were days I was sure we would finish and others when I thought it a lost cause. There were nights when I was frightened or lonely, days when I thought we had undertaken something far beyond our reach.
We ended December with fourteen peaks, January with another twenty-four, and February with an additional twenty-seven. Then came March, typically the most moderate of the winter months. But not this year. We entered the last eight days needing to finish four hikes to reach all ninety-six peaks, and I was confident about our chances. Unfortunately, it was snowing in the mountains again. We waited for the weather to let up, waited for a day when Atticus would be safe. Slowly, agonizingly, the days ticked by, one after another in which we couldn’t hike.
I received e-mails from a couple of hikers who had followed our progress, suggesting I leave Atticus behind and do the last four hikes on my own, or force him into the weather with me; I considered neither. This was our journey, and we’d either succeed or fail together.
In the end we never got to the peaks we needed to finish. When we were ready to hike again, we were going to do the Carters and ’Cats, but I pulled the plug when I checked the higher-summits forecast and the extended forecast and realized that it would be too dangerous to do a traverse that would carry us over the eight peaks of the Presidential Range before winter ended. Our final tally was eighty-one mountains climbed.
We set out to hike ninety-six peaks, and we came up short. It didn’t matter to me whether we finished with eighty-one or eighty-six or eighty-eight. It was not going to be ninety-six.
Having nothing more to do in the mountains, we returned to Newburyport, and the first day of spring found us walking the beach on Plum Island at low tide. It felt like the first day of spring should feel, and winter was already a world away.
Atticus was romping along the firm sand, ears flying like flags in the breeze. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought he was preparing for liftoff, and I half expected to look up and see him soaring with the gulls at any minute. I’d not seen him that way in quite some time. Over the previous three months, his gait had been strong, but steady and slow. He picked his way along trails, through snow and ice and rock, always conserving energy for the long haul ahead. Always a constant twenty feet in front, unless the snow was deep and needed breaking—then he was inches behind my snowshoes. But on the beach he opened it up, put the pedal to the metal, and ran deliriously under the warm sun. He was oblivious to the waves lapping at the shore or the call of the gulls.
Off in the distance, he saw a cluster of dogs and people. The dogs were milling around, almost mindlessly, waiting for the humans to do something. But the people were doing something. They were attached to their cell phones and Starbucks cups and gabbing with one another. Their dogs were but an afterthought.
Atticus veered toward the group, arriving with several four-legged Tigger bounces as if to say, We’re back! We’re back! But the dogs just gave him a few halfhearted sniffs. Atticus took off sprinting down the beach, then pivoted quickly and raced back toward me. Just before reaching me, he spun playfully away and ran toward a small jetty revealed by low tide. He climbed up on top of the large, craggy rocks and leaped from one to another, working his way toward the line where sand and sea met. I followed, thinking of the climb up Madison, Adams, and Jefferson.
When he reached the last rock, he settled his furry bottom down and looked out toward the horizon.
Little Buddha was back.
I took a seat behind him and settled into my own reverie. I thought about the past week—the last week of winter. It seemed more like a dream than a memory. I followed Atticus’s gaze toward the horizon, and that’s when the dream came back. It came back as I hope it always will.
In his book Hymns to an Unknown God, Sam Keen wrote that first as a minister and then as a psychologist he saw that most people were yearning for something to surrender to. They wanted to be submerged in something greater than themselves.
For three months Atticus and I had done just that. We’d left behind the politicians and the personalities, put our regular lives on hold, and made the mountains our priority. We’d surrendered to the winter Whites in the name of adventure and in honor of a friend. We’d set out to give, but in the end we received.
When winter started, I’d had various goals: pay tribute to Vicki, raise money for the Jimmy Fund, get to ninety-six peaks in ninety days, and finish the peaks we didn’t get to the previous winter. However, one goal stood out above the others. I wanted to keep Atticus safe, but I also wanted him to enjoy the adventure. I’m proud that no matter what happened, I never compromised his well-being. There were difficult times, but he handled them with aplomb.
What I learned along the way was something I already knew, but it became even clearer: Climbing mountains in winter is a wonderful and challenging game, for weather is a fickle mistress. There’s no way of predicting the outcome. All you can do is watch and learn. I did that. I learned to take what the mountain gods and the weather gods gave us. I learned to be pat
ient. I learned to trust Atticus more than ever; he knew his limits and told me what I needed to know as long as I paid attention to him. And I learned that we would be forever linked to the people we were hiking for, even the total strangers who had mountains dedicated to them.
We came out four hikes shy but with a stronger sense of strength, endurance, and confidence. We raised more for the fight against cancer than I’d initially thought we would. And I can tell you that when it was dark and cold and I was filled with doubt, fear, and loneliness, I was fortified by the company, love, and loyalty of an abundantly special little dog.
Sitting on those beach rocks, I looked at that curious little dog gazing out on the vast ocean, and any lingering frustrations at the outcome of winter vanished. Seeing him happy and safe meant more to me than those four hikes ever would.
Ninety-six mountains . . .
Eighty-one mountains . . .
To a man who just two years before had difficulty walking up the street—what was the difference?
I’m proud of what we accomplished, and I knew I wouldn’t have done any of it had Atticus not been there with me. We never would have taken up hiking had he not thrived on Garfield that first September day with my brothers. I was looking for something we could do together. I had no idea at that time that I was bringing Atticus to a place he belonged even more than I did.
We sat in silence for several more minutes and listened the soft lapping of the water on the shore. When it was time to leave, I leaned forward and kissed Atticus on top of the forehead and said, “Thank you, friend.” Normally he would have turned around when I talked to him, but he was intensely watching the horizon just as he’d done on Washington a couple of weeks earlier. It was as if he knew something was coming.
