Up

by Patricia Ellis Herr

  “Getting tired?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like me to carry you?”

  “Yes.”

  We continue onward, Alex and I sinking inches into the snow with every step. Sage rides on my hip, her short legs gripping my waist as I struggle not to fall over.

  Fifteen minutes later, the snow suddenly gets much deeper, and it becomes almost impossible to walk. Each step gives way under our feet, and I sink up to my knees, Alex up to her thighs. I can’t continue holding on to Sage, so I put her down and ask her to try a few steps. She does, and immediately sinks to her waist. She is not amused, and proceeds to loudly bemoan the fact that her boots have just filled up with snow. We trudge onward, but the snow becomes deeper still. We sink repeatedly, and we exhaust ourselves by continually having to pull our legs up out of the snow. I notice that the middle part of the trail is relatively firmer, so I tell the girls to stay in the center as best they can. They try, but they repeatedly slip, fall over, and sink.

  We come to a steep hill leading down to a larger water crossing. I’ve no idea how we can safely get down that slope continually slipping and sinking in such deep, rotting snow. I come to a halt, look down at my miserable kids, and finally admit to myself that we are not getting up this mountain. At least not today.

  Alex looks down the hill and voices my thoughts, loudly and firmly.

  “I don’t want to keep going, Mama,” Alex declares. “I want to get up the mountain, but I don’t like all this snow.”

  Sage’s face is as screwed up as a face could possibly be.

  I squat down next to them, my face level with theirs.

  “I’m sorry, girls. I didn’t know there would be all this snow. Would you like to try again when the snow is gone?”

  Alex says yes. She tells me she really wants to get up there, but not today, not until she can walk normally on dry ground. She then adds that not only is continuing on a bad idea—but that she flat out won’t do it. She doesn’t mean to be a bad kid, but she is not going one step farther in this mess, thank you very much.

  Sage doesn’t say anything. Her face continues to resemble that of someone with a mouthful of lemons. I reach into the bag and hand her a granola bar. Her face relaxes infinitesimally.

  I’m disappointed and chagrined. I hadn’t foreseen that there would be so much deep snow on the trail, and that it would be so difficult to walk on. I had thought I was well prepared, with snowsuits, boots, food, and water. Heck, I even packed a flashlight, map, and compass! Yet here we were, defeated and ready to go home.

  A man hiking down from the summit approaches us. He’s wearing snowshoes, and his backpack, which is much larger than mine, has a rolled-up foam mat attached to its outside. He takes a good look at both my kids, and a slight wrinkle appears across his forehead. I explain that we are about to turn back, and the wrinkle quickly disappears. “Good move—the snow just gets worse the farther up you go,” he exclaims before quickly snowshoeing off. I notice he isn’t sinking in the snow. Snowshoes! Wow, I didn’t realize …

  We make our way back toward the car, the hike becoming easier as we leave the deep snow behind. I carry Sage, since her mood has left the land of Irritated and is now residing in Outright Miserable. We reach the area of spilled chocolate, and I do my best to collect the dropped pieces.

  We get back to the car, and Sage scampers into her car seat, grateful to be sitting down in a warm, familiar environment. Five-year-old Alex remains standing outside the car and watches me closely as I pop the trunk and toss in my backpack. Alex has never been one to keep her thoughts to herself, and I’ve a feeling I’m about to get a well-deserved earful.

  “Are you okay, Alex?” I ask, and brace myself for her answer.

  Though my daughter does her best to be respectful, she makes it clear this was a bungled operation. Why didn’t I know about the snow? Why didn’t I turn us around earlier? Wasn’t there some way of knowing more about the conditions of the trail before we started? Good questions, these. They pour out of my young daughter’s mouth in one long, miffed run-on sentence. My five-year-old has a wonderful capacity for language. She began to read at two years of age, and by three she was speaking in long, complex sentences. Her verbal abilities now shine in all their glory as she scolds her mother for not being more prepared.

  I allow her this outburst, as she is absolutely right. It was a foolish and ill-equipped venture. I didn’t know what I was doing.

  When she has finished venting, I kneel down and pull her close. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You are right. I will learn more about these mountains before we attempt another hike. Do you still want to try again, after the snow has melted?”

  Alex backs away from me a little so that she can look directly into my face. “Yes,” she says, then kisses my cheek. “But Mama, please figure it out a little better next time.”

  The next two months are spent doing exactly that: figuring it out. Soon after our failed Tecumseh attempt, I find a thick book displayed on the counter of a local sporting goods store: AMC White Mountain Guide, compiled and edited by Gene Daniell and Steven D. Smith. I pick it up and leaf through it—wow. It contains info on every trail in the region, and it comes with a bunch of maps. When I take it to the counter, the sales representative suggests I buy an additional book, also authored by Smith and a fellow named Mike Dickerman: The 4000-Footers of the White Mountains. I hand over my money, take both books home, and begin to read.

  Now our hiking adventures truly begin. Not by getting out there just yet, but by studying the books and the various trail maps. One of the books refers to a couple of northeastern hiking websites: Views from the Top (www.viewsfromthetop.com) and Rocks on Top (www.rocksontop.com). I access both daily, reading questions and comments from experienced White Mountain hikers.

  Using the information I’ve gathered, I start to buy appropriate gear for all three of us. I find water-resistant hiking boots for myself and both girls. I buy backpacks—tiny, school-type ones for the girls and a large, proper daypack for me. A salesperson at that aforementioned sporting goods store walks me through the types of clothing a hiker needs to have with her. Layers are key. Something quick drying right next to the skin that wicks water and sweat away from the body. Fleece to go over that wicking base layer, to keep the body warm when the mountain air chills. A windproof, waterproof outer layer to protect the body from the harsher elements.

  Along with these basics, the following items are also deemed necessary for purchase: a water treatment system; a bivy shelter (a thin, lightweight waterproof and windproof bag that resembles a tiny one-person tent, useful for accidental overnights out in the wilderness); a lightweight sleeping bag; a foam sleeping pad (to keep your body off the cold ground); a first aid kit; duct tape; a compass; sunblock; bug spray; headlamps; emergency whistles; a pocketknife; waterproof matches, and a rain cover for my pack.

  The girls and I wait out the last of the spring thaw by hiking flat, snow-free trails at lower elevations to try out our boots and gear. We walk for hours at a time, Alex consistently happy and strong, and Sage content as long as we don’t go more than four miles. At the end of our hikes, Sage is worn out while Alex only seems energized. There is no doubt in my mind that if we attempt a snow-free Tecumseh, Alex will summit. I read and reread the two guidebooks while the three of us wait for the springtime sun to dry out the trails.

  Peak #1: Mount Tecumseh, June 7, 2008

  The first day of June arrives, and the Internet forums are flooded with descriptions of snow-free mountains. Alex and I are eager to reattempt Mount Tecumseh. Sage says she also wants to try again, but I strongly suspect her enthusiasm is counterfeit. While Alex is genuinely interested, Sage is eager to please. The difference between the two types of motivation is huge and easy to mark. In spite of my doubts about Sage, I allow her to participate in picking the date of what we jokingly refer to as “Tecumseh, Take Two.” Both girls want to go as soon as possible, so we choose the upcoming Saturday, June 7. Lat
er that evening, after the girls are tucked into bed and safely out of earshot, I ask my husband, Hugh, to accompany us on this hike so that Sage won’t feel any pressure to continue should she tire. If she decides at any point that she’s had enough, then Hugh can take her back down the mountain while Alex and I ascend. He agrees, and I go to bed relieved. I don’t want Sage put in a position where she feels pressured to keep going when her body is too tired to continue. I also don’t want to have to turn back if all is going well for Alex. Each child should be given the opportunity to hike as much or as little as she can.

  The four of us arrive at the ski parking lot bright and early on June 7, just half an hour after finishing breakfast. This time around, I carry a much larger pack filled with wicking layers, fleece, rain gear, plenty of food, water, a water filtering system, a first aid kit, a map, a compass, headlamps, sunblock, bug spray, the bivy shelter and foam sleeping mat, and a Swiss Army knife. We are clad in shorts and short-sleeve shirts made from synthetic fibers, and our feet are protected with waterproof hiking boots. The morning air is warm, but not muggy, and the bugs are not yet out. Our spirits high, we step off the road and into the woods.

  The water crossing by the trailhead is just a trickle of water today, nothing like the ankle-deep stream we encountered a couple of months ago. We step over it easily, not even wetting the soles of our boots. Up the small hill and alongside the brook we amble, admiring the sounds of the splashing water and commenting on the merits of dry, dirt trail. Our hike is so much simpler without all the snow. There’s no slipping or sliding, no sinking, no snow-filled boots.

  We cross another brook, this one wider and deeper than the one at the beginning of the trail. Alex hops from rock to rock with a giant grin on her face. Sage slowly steps across, looking nervous but determined.

  There’s another hill to tackle, this one longer and steeper. It must have been here a couple of months ago, but everything looks completely different without all the snow, and I don’t remember this part of the trail. Luckily, many of the trees along the trail are “blazed,” marked with a yellow rectangle at adult eye level, so at no time do we feel unsure of which way to go.

  Alex climbs up with her head held high and her eyes taking in every bit of the wooded landscape. Sage putters along in a shuffling fashion, so I take her hand and sing silly songs to lighten her mood. She responds by smiling, but her brow is wrinkled and she doesn’t look happy. We’re only a half mile into the hike, but I’ve no doubt my three-year-old will not make it to the top unassisted. This doesn’t bother me, for I never expected her to climb something of this magnitude; she is, after all, only three years old. I give silent thanks for Hugh’s willingness to join us today; his assistance will most likely be needed.

  The trail flattens out, and Sage’s mood slightly improves. Alex continues to act as though we’re just taking a casual stroll down our Somerville street.

  A few minutes later, we reach our previous point of return. The trail now turns steeply downward and crosses fast-moving Tecumseh Brook. Luckily, there are large boulders on which to step, and the brook at this point is narrow. We cross without difficulty, then stop to rest by the loud, splashing water. I hand each girl a bottle of juice and some trail mix. Alex looks good. She doesn’t seem tired, and she hasn’t yet uttered one word of complaint. Sage, however, shows signs of extreme fatigue, and her countenance is less than cheerful. According to our guidebook, we have hiked 1.1 miles. There’s still more than a mile to go before we reach the summit. Then, of course, we’ll have to hike all the way back down.

  Ten minutes of drinking and eating later, we resume our hike and begin climbing steeply away from the brook. Halfway up this bit of trail, Sage throws in the towel and asks to be carried. Hugh promptly complies. Alex continues to hike strongly, asking only for a drink every now and then.

  Fifteen minutes and much huffing and puffing later, we reach a viewpoint where a very short side path diverges and leads to a ski slope. Hugh needs to sit down for a while; he’s in pain and isn’t sure he can carry Sage much longer. Hugh is a rock climber, a runner, and a hiker, but his legs are artificial. Every once in a while, and in no predictable fashion, his stumps chafe painfully against his prosthetic sockets, and walking becomes an agonizing chore. Though he had started the hike in good form, his stumps are now causing him much grief. I offer to give him the backpack so I can take Sage, but he explains that the trade won’t make much of a difference. I ask if he wants to turn back, but he tells me no, not yet.

  We sit, eat trail mix, and discuss our options. Sage declares that she’s no longer having any fun, even though she hasn’t walked at all since the last water crossing. I ask Alex how she’s doing. She says that she’s tired, but that she feels good and wants to keep going. Her can-do attitude is temporarily infectious, for Sage immediately declares that she wants to keep trying too. Again, I note the difference between my two girls. Alex means what she says; she is genuinely interested in ascending. Sage, however, is just mimicking her sister, wanting to copy whatever her personal heroine says and does. My husband and I look at each other uneasily but agree that we’ll keep at it. After ten minutes, we pick ourselves up and continue the ascent.

  The trail immediately becomes incredibly steep and a million times rockier. Our feet must constantly step up and over large chunks of stone. We creep along, our pace slowing to that of a dying snail. Alex slows down, but remains determined and happy. Sage, in spite of the fact that she is being carried, starts to grumble. I hand her some trail mix, and she is temporarily placated.

  We reach the top of one steep stretch, turn a slight corner, and are immediately confronted with another long and steep stretch. I ask Hugh how he’s doing. He says he’s fine, but I suspect he’s not telling the truth. Sage takes one look up at the trail ahead of us and announces she does not want to continue. Alex gives her a surprised and angry look. “You’re not even hiking!” she exclaims.

  “Hugh, what do you want to do?” I ask. He grits his teeth and grunts, “I can still go on for a bit.” He continues upward, Sage held tightly in his arms. The mother in me wants to tell him to turn around right now and take care of his stumps. The wife in me knows it’s best to let him make his own decisions; Hugh does not like being told what to do, by anyone. I try to make Sage smile by singing another silly song. She glowers me into silence.

  At the end of the second steep stretch, we turn the corner to find … yet another steep stretch. I had read that this second mile would be one long never-ending steep section, but reading the words did not adequately prepare me for the reality. I had thought there might be at least some flat bits between the vertical parts. Unfortunately, the grade never eases, and every time we turn a corner, we’re greeted with the same onerous sight: a long, rocky, incredibly steep path leading up, up, up.

  My legs hurt, and I’m getting annoyed with this trail. To make matters worse, the June blackflies awake and emerge from the woods around us. These nuisances take no notice of our slathered-on bug repellent and head straight for our eyes and mouths. We’re forced to wave our arms in a futile measure of self-defense as we drag ourselves onward, the sweat dripping off our faces as the sun climbs higher in the late morning sky.

  Sage sucks a bug into her mouth by accident, and that does it. The poor kid has now had quite enough. “It’s a howwible, howwible day,” she wails after she inadvertently swallows the little critter. We stop, my husband puts Sage down, and the four of us discuss the situation.

  Sage wants to go back. Hugh’s stumps are probably bleeding by now. Alex asks if we can keep going, even as she flicks a bug off her arm. “No!” Sage shouts in despair. The time has obviously come to put our plan into action. Actually, we probably should have put it into action half a mile ago. Hugh asks Sage if she would like to sit with him for a while and then turn back while Alex and I continue. She nods her head so vigorously that I fear she’ll slip a cervical disc. I give Hugh one of the water bottles and some extra food; then I kneel and hug Sag
e. I tell her I am very, very proud of her. She glares at me. Alex and I bid Hugh and Sage adieu, then we continue our ascent.

  Once alone, I ask Alex how she’s doing. “Fine,” she answers. She is doing fine, very fine indeed. Now that it’s just the two of us, we hike markedly faster than before; though my five-year-old daughter is no doubt tired, her natural pace is twice that what it was with her little sister in tow.

  There are a few more steep sections left, then the trail finally levels out for good. I suggest that we sit and chug some water. Alex heartily agrees.

  “How are you doing?” I ask. “Still fine,” Alex answers. Her hand swats away one of the many flies that have followed us up the trail. “Want to turn back?” I ask, knowing full well Alex will not want to do such a thing, especially not after conquering all those nasty steep bits. “No,” she answers with a smile. “We’re almost at the top—I’m not stopping now!”

  We sit for a few minutes and savor the moment. We’re about to summit our first 4K, and we both realize that this will mark the beginning of something wonderful. Alex will forever know that she can climb mountains of this magnitude, and fairly easily at that. I will forever know that I gave my kids a shot at something huge. I took them both seriously and allowed them to do their best. I’m proud of them both, especially Sage. Sage did what she could; she truly gave it her all. For that, she has my utmost respect.

  Of course, on this particular day, just before reaching this particular summit, I’ve no idea just how monumental this occasion will actually be. I don’t know that June 7, 2008, will mark the beginning of Alex’s fifteen-month peakbagging spree. I don’t realize how dedicated Alex will soon become to this quest, or that she’ll end up summiting all forty-eight Four Thousand Footers before losing her first baby tooth. All I know in that moment is that we’re almost at the top of Mount Tecumseh, that we’re both hot and sweaty, and that we’re both grinning like maniacs.