Following Atticus

by Tom Ryan

  I knew better; this witch was powerful and elusive.

  She was so powerful, in fact, that I slept with my ears and head covered until I was finally sleeping with women, and even then in the middle of the night I would awaken with a start, look uneasily around the room, and sink lower into the bed so that my ears were covered and there was again an airhole for my nose.

  I don’t think I stopped sleeping that way until I was deep into my thirties, when I finally felt daring enough to confront both the witch and my fear of the dark.

  The witch hadn’t come around for the longest time, but there were nights I thought I’d hear her footsteps or hushed cackle or maybe her raspy breath, which smelled of death and rot. Whenever I sensed her, I was apprehensive, filled with unease but not nearly as paralyzed by fear as I used to be.

  And yet as a grown man I sensed her lurking in the dark as we approached the summit of Mount Field. She waited until the sun was gone and the night had draped a thick blanket over the mountain before she made her appearance.

  We had started our day later than normal to take advantage of the weekend hikers unknowingly breaking out the trail for Atticus. By the time we’d reached the summit of Mount Tom, the first peak, and looked over at Field about a mile and a half away and imagined the summit of Willey, another mile and a half from Field, I had an eerie feeling we would run into the witch as day ebbed to night. Don’t ask me why.

  I stood among the dead, blown-down trees and the small upstart saplings that have come to claim the top of Mount Tom, a seven-year-old in the body of a forty-six-year-old. It would be dark when we finished our hike if we continued over Field to Willey and then back again. I knew it meant that the witch would be out, close by, with her smell of death and rot reaching toward me like a bony finger.

  I shrugged her from my mind, swallowed, and was on my way.

  When we reached the top of Field, we encountered three gray jays. They are bold birds who can be found throughout the Whites, but they’re more evident in the mountains right along Crawford Notch than they are anywhere else. They’re so forward that if you hold your palm open with food in it, they will land on your fingertips and eat right out of your hand. They were there to say hello—or, more likely, “Feed us!” I played with them for a while and fed them granola, while Atticus watched them closely, making certain I didn’t give away too much of our food. He and I then dropped down into the woods for the steep descent that led to the long climb up Willey. When we reached Willey, the light was fading. I took a few photos and then doubled back toward Field. In the open woods looking westward into the Pemi Wilderness, I could feel the approaching night. It was cold. Icicles formed on my hair as it brushed against the back of my neck. I stopped long enough to put on my hat.

  On the ascent back up to Field, I could hear the witch; she was coming with the night. I could feel the chill of her presence growing stronger as the sky grew darker, the trees more shadowy. There was no wind, just a still presence in the air. Occasionally I would stop to catch my breath and notice the silence. It was too quiet. There was something behind the silence, and some faint noise came as I shuffled through the snow making my own noise. Whenever I stopped again, it seemed to stop also, just out of range, just out of hearing.

  By the time Atticus and I reached the summit of Field again, the gray jays were gone and so was the day. Night was upon us. I retrieved one of my headlamps from my pack and pulled it on over my hat.

  There we were on top of a mountain, night wrapped around us, and we were about three miles from the safety of the car. Below in the valley, lights twinkled in the Highland Center, an AMC lodge where outdoor enthusiasts stay. The thought of how cozy and comfortable the guests there were as they settled down for supper made me feel more like we were three hundred miles from any comfort.

  Atticus has never minded the dark, and I’d worked on my fear the previous winter, doing my best to exorcise my childhood demons and evict the witch.

  We left the summit and dropped into the snowy, silvery woods. The witch was near.

  The snow was high enough that I occasionally hit my head on tree branches. They seemed to swing at me as I went by, especially since my headlamp was chasing the dark and casting lively shadows. We were on the steep Avalon Trail, where other hikers sometimes sit and slide down. I choose not to do this, because not only can it be dangerous, it also creates a luge run for those who hike it after it has frozen.

  I watched each step, letting the teeth of my snowshoes bite into the solid, icy snow. Atticus, meanwhile, was gliding down the trail, straight-legged; his Muttluks served as four mini sleds. He was better at relaxing than I was when it came to glissading down a mountain. Try as I might, I always ended on my backside, so I decided to give it up.

  I took my time negotiating the steep downhill.

  In the dark the witch grew nearer, I knew this because I could feel her. I sensed something near us and called Atticus back, saying, “Behind me, please.”

  Then in the woods to our left, a boomlike crash sounded in the shadows of the tight trees and startled me. I turned to see if it was the witch, all the while knowing it was!

  In turning, I lost my footing, and suddenly I was airborne, my feet higher than my head. When I landed, it was with a thud on my backpack, and in an instant I was racing down the steep luge run, gaining speed. I reached out but failed to grasp trees as I flew by. It would have been best if I’d just relaxed into it, but I fought it, and thus I was wildly out of control.

  When the trail made an abrupt turn to the left, I didn’t and instead went sailing through the air, landing in deep, soft snow.

  Back, head, shoulders, knees, legs, arms. I was in one piece. I lay like that for a while, thinking of the absurdity of being in the woods in the mountains in a pile of powder, gazing up at the bottoms of evergreen trees.

  Atticus caught up, climbed onto my chest, and stood there looking down at me.

  In that ludicrous position, with a little dog on my chest, I decided that the time had come to put away the fears of my childhood. It was ridiculous.

  I suddenly wanted to face the witch and get it over with. I wanted to tell her to go to hell. I’d had enough.

  There was really nothing about her that should have scared me. After four and a half decades of life, I’d seen enough to know that the worst of it was much worse than anything the witch could throw at me.

  When I got to my feet and back on the trail, I knew there was nothing else to fear. The bears were hibernating. And what of a moose? They used the trails often. What if we were to come upon one in the night? Clear thinking told me that a moose or any other creature of the night, even a witch, would probably be more frightened by the sight of a big man coming down the trail, snowshoes slapping loudly with each stride, sweat frozen to icicles on the fringes of my hair, red cheeks, a large pack on my back, and a bright, one-eyed light above my face. And then there was that little pixie next to me, he in his Muttluks with reflective strips that made him look like a light-footed demon of the woods.

  Just what witch would mess with us?

  Someone asked me once why I would hike, or at least finish my hike, at night, alone with Atticus on a mountain if I feared the dark, even the slightest bit. Good question. I guess I wanted to believe I was beyond such fears. But it’s also because much of what I do with Atticus in the mountains is about being more than I have been in the past. It was about wanting to be a better me, about spitting in the eye of the witch.

  And maybe there were times I thought I was out there rescuing the little boy who was trapped under the covers of his bed. The little boy whose mother had died and whose family had disappeared.

  Whatever it was, I believed that when you eat a fear, it makes you stronger. Face the witch and she goes away. Make one witch go away and others will follow her.

  As our descent back to the car continued, I actually stopped and turned off my
headlamp and stood in the dark woods. No streetlights, no sounds from the highway, no sign of villages nearby. It was just me and Atticus and the mountain and the dense woods and the silent night. I stopped, took a breath, and relaxed.

  Such release. Such peace.

  Is it any wonder why many of those who were thought to be prophets throughout history found their peace wandering the desert, climbing mountains, or out at sea? It’s the natural world that heals the soul.

  Back at the car, I looked up at the dark outline of the Willey Range against the stars. The Willey family, the ghost of Nancy Barton, my witch. Whatever lingered in the night was no longer a concern of mine. I knew as I stood there that my fear would never return again.

  25

  Magic Is Where You Find It

  We were falling behind in our attempt to climb ninety-six peaks. After the hike on the Willey Range, we were kept off the trails for another five days because of the constant snows. With more snow falling on a Friday night, I chose another late start for our Saturday hike up Mount Jackson. I chose Jackson because the weekenders were out in force with their snowshoes earlier in the day. They left the Crawford Path a flattened sidewalk cut through deep drifts on either side of the trail.

  As we climbed, we encountered several others on their way down. The higher we went, the deeper the snow was on the side of the trail and the more magical the trees became, looking like creatures frozen in some distant dreamscape. I stopped often to take photos . . . and to catch my breath. As always, when I stopped, Atticus stopped, too. When I began again, so did he. Slowly, we made our way toward the top.

  Within a half mile of the summit, we ran into Ken and Ann Stampfer, who were on their way down. We’d met them during our first year hiking, because they were friends of Steve Smith’s. Soon they became our friends as well, and they adored Atticus as much as anyone I’d ever met.

  Ken, ironically enough, was an ophthalmologist—for humans, not for dogs—but he became a constant source of information for me whenever I had a question about Atticus’s eyes. And Ann used to be a nurse, and she educated me on thyroid issues. During the week they lived near Boston, but each weekend they returned to their log cabin just a few miles down the road from where Atticus and I lived, in order to hike. In our first year up north, they became our closest friends and, in some ways, our salvation. In a place where we didn’t know many people, it was good to know they were nearby.

  And yet as friendly as we were, neither of us knew that the others were climbing Jackson that day. How strange it was to be in the middle of that snowy landscape, a couple of miles away from the road, and see their beaming faces come into view as they called out, “Atti!”

  Atticus knew who they were immediately, even though they were layered in winter gear, and he abandoned his trundle and sprinted to greet them. We stopped and chatted for a few minutes before the winter chill caused each of us to begin shivering. Before parting ways, they informed me that there was no one else behind them.

  I cannot tell you the pleasure such words elicited. A thrill ran through me from head to toe—I felt like a child who’d been locked in a toy store overnight.

  I’m often asked, “Do you have a favorite mountain?”

  “Any mountain where Atticus and I can be alone on top,” I say.

  And while that is true, there are some mountains that mean more than others, and it’s not just because of the views. Each mountain has its own personality, and it triggers different things in me when I’m on it. As much difficulty as I have climbing any mountain, gifts are revealed along the way as I struggle upward, but there are some that are richer and have deeper treasures awaiting me. I can’t say why some affect me more than others, but it’s clear that they do.

  Jackson is one such mountain. Whenever I’m up on the flat summit and look around, I feel as if I’m on top of a small table, and the world falls away at my feet. It stands on the lip of a near-cliff high atop Crawford Notch. To the west a sea of mountains reaches up and fades for as far as the eye can see, like waves on the ocean. To the south it’s more of the same, though not as dramatic, since those mountains are not as close, but still they stretch ever onward. To the north and east, it’s even more breathtaking, for Jackson is the shortest and southernmost peak in the chain of eight four-thousand-footers along the Presidential Range.

  On a clear day, the view in every direction is awe-inspiring, but on Jackson the winter view to Mount Washington is astounding. It stands at the end of the spine, two thousand feet higher than Jackson’s summit and clad in its brilliant gown of white.

  When Atticus and I finally reached the top, the sky was a gorgeous charcoal gray, and there were no winds, so even though it was only twenty-five degrees, we were comfortable. Of course I was thrilled to have it to ourselves, and in my excitement I took photo after photo of views in every direction under that beautiful, brooding sky. I then picked up little Atticus, and we sat down for a spell. It’s not too often you can do this on the top of a mountain in winter. We stayed there for quite some time, Atticus soaking in the views from my lap while I thought about how lucky we were to be up there looking at scenery some will never see. At such times my mind wanders, and both man and dog find ourselves in peaceful contemplation. It just seems to happen more often on Jackson than on most other mountains.

  Beneath the graying sky, waiting for the storm that would strike in a few hours’ time, long after we were home and safe, I let my mind drift back to a moment a year earlier. John Bartlett, a longtime reader of the Undertoad, was dying in Anna Jaques Hospital. I’d never met the elderly gentleman, but the ’Toad had been delivered to his doorstep for as long as I can remember. (I know this because I delivered it; such was the glamorous life of a one-man newspaper.)

  On one of the last days of his life, John Bartlett’s son asked him if there was anything special he wanted. I took it as a great compliment that all he asked for was the latest edition of my paper. The son called me to inquire if he could get an early edition. I informed him it was just about ready to be sent to the printers and wouldn’t be available for a couple of days.

  When I heard the disappointment in the son’s voice, I told him I would bring a draft of the ’Toad to the hospital myself and share it with his father.

  Later that day, after I read my paper to him, the elderly gentleman had a contented look on his face. He thanked me and told me that while he loved all the paper, his favorite column had become my letter home to my father, which of late had been filled with the mountain adventures Atticus and I had accumulated by the wagonload.

  He confessed that he’d never stood on top of a mountain before, but he felt as if he had ever since I’d started writing about them.

  “When you and Atticus are on a mountain, is it like you said?” he asked.

  “How so?”

  He closed his eyes and said in his halting voice, “You once wrote that sitting on top of a mountain and looking out at all that surrounds you is like looking at the face of God.”

  He had a good memory, for I had written that a year and a half earlier.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what it’s like.”

  He then asked me if I would do him a favor. If it wasn’t too much trouble, he wanted me to think of him the next time I was on top of a peak with Atticus. It was my pleasure to say I would.

  Before I left, I told John that I’d heard he had recently celebrated his sixtieth wedding anniversary with his wife. I congratulated him on the accomplishment and noted that at my age it was a milestone I would never experience. “That’s amazing. What is it like?”

  John Bartlett—who would be dead within forty-eight hours, dry skin hanging off his bones, eyes barely open, lips dry and cracked and life just barely in him—well, he paused, and then the faintest smile appeared and he said, “It’s a lot like being on top of a mountain.”

  On top of Jackson, under bruised skies with the day most
ly spent, Atticus and I looked out toward Mount Washington, and I thought of old John Bartlett and our conversation.

  Magic is where you find it; the only thing that matters is that you take the time to look for it. It can be the wonder in a little dog’s face or the memory of an old man.

  People continued to ask why I’d taken to hiking alone with Atticus. It was because such thoughts come to me on a climb or at the top or walking through the thick woods on the way down under a golden sun or bright stars. When there was no one to talk to, I found myself in a walking meditation. I was not a religious man, but if I were, the woods would be my church, the mountaintops my altar.

  Not a hike goes by that doesn’t leave me feeling richer for having done it. And when Atticus and I set out to hike ninety-six peaks in ninety days, I sometimes worried that by pushing for numbers in the name of reaching our goals I would sacrifice the magic each mountain offers.

  I couldn’t imagine I’d ever think the mountains mundane. They would continue to teach, inspire, and challenge me. In the coming weeks, they would help me construct the final pieces of a bridge to my father.

  26

  Death on Franconia Ridge

  What I feared most that winter were the helicopters.

  Whenever I heard one, the sound was as haunting as the cry of the banshee, and it foreshadowed doom. It meant that someone was missing or, worse, dead. The helicopters were search and rescue. They were a poignant reminder to respect the power of the mountains.

  Because of that respect, I planned our hikes carefully by using my laptop to monitor trail conditions, weather reports, and the higher-summits forecasts religiously. Winter left little margin for error, especially for one as small as Atticus. If we were trapped on a mountain, I had a chance to survive because of my size. But Atticus couldn’t just hunker down and wait for help. He had to keep moving to maintain his core temperature. It’s one of the reasons that when we were slammed by the storm the previous winter on the Bonds, I hadn’t emptied out my backpack and put him in there. He could have frozen sitting still for so many hours, even if I’d wrapped him in layers of my extra clothing. In the freezing cold, Atticus had to move to live.