Up

by Patricia Ellis Herr

  From here, it’s a steep few tenths of a mile up the rocky summit cone. We ascend slowly, step after step after step; Alex is tiring. The trail flattens out a bit, and then, finally, we reach the huge cairn that marks Eisenhower’s high point.

  Alex is smiling, happy, proud. The 360-degree views are incredible: mountains sprawl before us in every direction; they cluster in giant bumps near and far on the horizon. Mount Monroe, Mount Washington, and the northern Presidentials are there, just right over there, a handsome family of peaks posing for the perfect photograph.

  We sit and eat more energy bars, Alex glowing in the pride of her accomplishment. Large and small groups of hikers walk by, each individual within them offering a hearty phrase of congratulations before continuing on his or her way. “Did you make it up here all by yourself?” “You are so strong!” “I wish I had started that young!” Each voice is genuine, each smile is wide, each greeting is cheerful. Alex’s spirits rise so high that I half expect her to float off the mountaintop, a blonde balloon flying on her merry and innocent way.

  We spend many minutes up there, perhaps close to sixty. Then, just as I ready myself for the return to civilization, Alex asks, “What’s that mountain over there?”

  She is standing and pointing at a very close peak directly to our southeast.

  “Mount Pierce, I think.”

  “Is it a Four Thousand Footer?”

  I smile and nod, approving of where this is apparently going.

  “How far away is it?”

  We pull out the map and look at it together. The distance from here to there is a mile and a half from summit to summit, walking along the ridge. I notice a trail down from Pierce that would deposit us on the road roughly two miles from our car.

  “Can we go over there?”

  “Now?” I’m unsure of Alex’s endurance, and I don’t want to wear her out. However, she seems extremely enthusiastic.

  “Yes, now,” she answers, a trace of impatience in her voice.

  Part of me worries that she will tire, but a greater part of me doesn’t want to stand in her way. I decide to continue.

  After the climb down Eisenhower’s summit cone, the hike to 4,312-foot Pierce is easy. Never gaining or losing much altitude, Alex and I move swiftly. We talk incessantly, covering a great number of subjects in a short amount of time. We discuss pirates (they must have had terrible childhoods); the pros and cons of being a rock (one never experiences death … but also, one never experiences life); whether Curious George was really a monkey or an ape (he certainly looks like an ape, in spite of what the book states); and a variety of other important topics. We pause in our conversation every now and then to greet other hikers. To each, Alex chirps, “Hi!” before skipping on her way. My daughter is, in a word, happy.

  We reach the summit of Pierce, throw our backpacks on the ground, and sit by the cairn. The view is less astonishing than the view from Eisenhower, but it still offers lovely vistas to the north and northeast. As we relax, a pair of women give Alex chocolate, then offer to take our picture. We thank them and mug for the camera. Life is grand, and we feel fantastic.

  The pleasant bearers of chocolate take their leave, and Alex and I are left to ourselves. We sit side by side, backs against the cairn, legs stretched out in front of us. We listen to the glorious silence and stare at the round dome of Eisenhower, a mile and a half away. The minutes tick lazily by. If the two of us could just stay right where we are for a few days, just like this, well, that would be marvelous.

  My daughter eventually speaks.

  “That man was wrong.”

  “What man?” I ask, my mind too busy with the immediate present to bother itself with the recent past.

  “The man coming up the trail. The man who said I should turn around.”

  “Oh.” Now I remember, though I’d rather not. “Yes, Alex. He was wrong.”

  Alex is silent for a few minutes. I watch wispy clouds crawl across the sky; they move almost imperceptibly.

  “He said I couldn’t get up Eisenhower. I did, and then I got up Pierce.”

  I remain silent, but turn my eyes toward Alex’s face. She looks pensive, as though her mind is examining a new concept.

  “So when someone tells me I can’t do something—if they say it’s too hard for me—I shouldn’t always believe them.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “If you think you can do something, then do it. Ignore those who say that you shouldn’t even try.”

  We eventually descend Mount Pierce, though neither one of us really wants to. I am tired on the descent, and my pace starts to drag. Alex, on the other hand, rides her second wind down the mountain. She’s a bundle of energy, skipping over roots and leaping over rocks, blowing past groups of adults. I find it difficult to keep up.

  One descending couple keeps passing us, then we pass them, then they pass us. We finally decide to hike out together. They’re a very friendly husband and wife who have young kids of their own. After a few minutes of lovely conversation, I sheepishly ask if they’ll give us a ride back to our car after we reach the road. We parked by Edmands Path to go up Mount Eisenhower, but since we descended Mount Pierce, we’re two miles away from our car. The nice folks graciously agree, and Alex and I are spared the road walk.

  Chattering away nonstop, Alex acts as though she’s been slipped some espresso. My guess is that she is experiencing the “hiker’s high,” that adrenaline rush that sometimes overtakes someone at the end of a long hike. The high lasts until the moment she gets into our car, and then her giddy demeanor finally fades. Alex yawns as I start the engine, then asks if we can stop for a bagel on the way home. I answer in the affirmative, but before we are out of the parking lot, she is fast asleep.

  Peaks #6 and #7: Mount Osceola and East Osceola, August 2, 2008

  Hello!” The ax-wielding, shirtless young man congenially booms at my child. “Hi!” Alex responds, grinning widely. She doesn’t seem to notice the large instrument of violence this brawny twentysomething grips in his muscular right hand.

  I look up at this scene, the bottom half of my body hanging over a precipitous drop known as the chimney. We are halfway between 4,340-foot Mount Osceola and 4,156-foot East Osceola, our sixth and seventh 4Ks. My hands clutch the granite ledge as I freeze in surprise, the top half of my body leaning toward solid ground while my feet dangle in midair. I did not hear this fellow coming, caught up as I was in assisting Alex safely up this miniature rock face. My daughter hadn’t actually needed much help; her small fingers had found a dozen tiny holds, and she scampered up without a moment’s hesitation. Being her mother, I had fretted in spite of her agility and had followed closely beneath her quickly ascending feet. Once she was safely over the ledge, I looked down only for a moment in an attempt to find proper footholds. When I looked back up, there he was.

  I stare at this smiling fellow for a second or two, my body temporarily shocked into immobility. Then, thankfully, two words flit through my startled brain: trail worker.

  A trail worker. Of course. This must be one of those good people who habitually clear the trails of fallen trees and logs. Many of these hearty volunteers go off and have a nice wander about the woods once their duties are finished for the day. So this fellow is, in all probability, harmless. But still. I am horribly aware that if this person does happen to have sinister intentions, there is precious little I can do to prevent him from harming Alex. He is standing right next to her, and I am suspended over a small cliff. The trail is well populated today, and in all probability someone will come along at any moment; however, a fellow with nefarious motives needs only a few seconds.

  “Hello!” I return his enthusiastic greeting in a loud voice while trying to appear relaxed and cheerful. I haul myself up, readjust my backpack straps, and walk toward my daughter. “Want some water?” I ask, reaching for the Nalgene bottle that conveniently hangs next to my reassuring canister of pepper spray. Alex takes the liquid and drinks.

  “How are you doin
g today?” I ask in a voice that sounds anything but natural. I’m a horrible actress.

  The young man’s smile widens. “Oh, I’m fine, thanks! Off to explore the path less taken!” And with that, he turns and disappears into the trees, ax slung comfortably over his shoulder.

  Moments later, a couple approaches, descending from Mount Osceola. My dumbfounded expression raises their eyebrows, and I ask if they have recently seen a man carrying a large ax. “Oh yes,” the woman answers. “He was just at the summit, chatting us up. He’s a trail worker.”

  Told you so, I chide myself. Why else would a guy with an ax walk around up here? The average killer doesn’t hike four miles up a steep and rocky trail to look for potential victims. That’s a little too much effort; it’s much easier and more profitable to kidnap folks from suburban streets or attack them at highway rest stops. I grin at my foolishness.

  Alex and I continue up the steep and rocky path, clambering over large chunks of boulder as we make our way back up Mount Osceola. It’s our second time on this section of trail today. We had touched the summit this morning, then continued one mile to East Osceola. After reaching that mountain’s viewless peak, we had turned around and headed back the way we had come, which meant retracing our steps down East Osceola and then once again ascending Mount Osceola. The trail between the two mountains is almost vertical in places, and drops of sweat roll down our faces as we push ourselves up the final few tenths of a mile. My thoughts race along with my heartbeat.

  Why didn’t Alex shy away from the trail worker? Shouldn’t she have been a bit wary? Shouldn’t she have realized that standing right next to someone she doesn’t know (especially someone with an ax!) when I’m not right there to protect her is an unwise thing to do?

  Maybe, maybe not. Statistically speaking, it makes sense not to worry. In the small handful of violent crimes that have occurred within the White Mountain backcountry during the last couple of decades, each victim already knew his or her assaulter. Robberies on the trail are nonexistent, unless you count the occasional black bear getting into your food at night or a local gray jay swooping down and flying off with your sandwich. The people one meets on a trail are relaxed and easygoing. Everyone is too busy enjoying the scenery to contemplate committing a felony. As a consequence, when hikers cross paths with one another, there are smiles and spoken pleasantries all around. Alex must have picked up on the absence of “stranger danger” up here.

  Not that we abide by strict “stranger danger” rules, anyway. Of course, both my kids know enough not to get into a car or walk away with a stranger, and they both know to fight like mad should someone they don’t know attempt to pick them up. Speaking with strangers, however, has never been expressly forbidden. Perhaps that flies in the face of conventional wisdom, but I feel it’s ridiculous to tell children not to do something they see their parents do every day. We have to talk to strangers, all the time, every one of us. The grocery store clerk is a stranger, as is the person who takes our tickets at the movie theater. We ask strangers to give us the time, we ask them for directions, we even hold the doors open for them when they enter a building behind us. Is it possible to go an entire day without talking to a stranger? I seriously doubt it.

  That being said, I’m out here hiking with my blonde-haired, blue-eyed, five-year-old daughter. Though the odds are astronomically against our running into someone we wouldn’t want to meet, Alex must be made to understand that she can’t stand right next to someone she doesn’t know unless I’m standing there with her. I don’t ever want to see her that close to an ax-wielding stranger again, even if said stranger is an innocent trail worker. The sight is just too damn unnerving.

  A few more huffs and puffs, and we’re back on the summit of Mount Osceola. A breeze rises up and over the exposed ledges, sweeping itself through our hair and drying the sweat from our foreheads. Alex lifts her face upward and gratefully smiles into the cool and refreshing air. She looks beautiful, standing there like that, angel-blonde remnants of last year’s bangs fluttering on her forehead. For a moment, I can see the woman she will become—I can see what she’ll look like in ten or fifteen years. Of course, as her mother, I could justifiably be accused of bias, but I think she’s going to be one gorgeous female.

  We throw our packs against a large cement block, a remnant of an old dismantled fire tower. The trail mix comes out, and we share handfuls, munching up the M&M’s and sucking the salt from the almonds.

  “Hey, Alex,” I begin through a mouthful of raisins.

  “What?” she asks, spraying me with chewed-up peanuts.

  “You know that guy back there?”

  “What guy?”

  “What guy?” I think to myself in amazement.

  “Um, the guy with the huge ax who stood right next to you while I climbed over the chimney.”

  “Oh, him. He was nice.” Her hand goes back into the bag of trail mix. “Yuck,” she exclaims as her hand reemerges. “Mostly raisins.”

  As I pick out the raisins, I cautiously ask, “How do you know he was nice?”

  “I just know,” Alex answers.

  I chew my trail mix and wonder how to go about this. I don’t want to sully my daughter’s basic trust in human nature; I want her to see the good in people and not automatically suspect the bad. I also want her to learn to trust her instincts. If she feels strange about speaking to someone, then she shouldn’t. If she feels comfortable with the person, then she should feel free to converse. As long as I’m right there beside her, of course.

  The day is cloudy, but not overly so. Small wisps of gray float above the valley to our southeast. Alex gets up and walks over toward the edge of the summit’s ledge; I instinctively rise and follow. The two of us stand, side by side, gazing out onto Waterville Valley. A large green hump is situated to our immediate northeast. It is East Osceola, the summit from whence we just came, looking like a giant green gumdrop thrown to Earth by some careless, sweet-toothed goddess. I stare at it and try to imagine the happy, half-naked ax-man blissfully roaming through its trees.

  “Mama, it’s like magic!” Alex joyfully exclaims, and I return my attention to the valley. A wind has picked up, and several clumps of cloud are speedily moving in our direction, delicate poofs of vapor riding a current toward Osceola’s ledge. They are level with our eyesight, and they rush toward us wildly. Alex and I goggle at them, enchanted. They’re friendly gray ghosts coming to pay us a visit, zooming closer and closer until they reach the granite and whoosh up and over our heads. The last one doesn’t whoosh like the others, but instead plows right into us, and we are momentarily immersed in a glorious fog. Then they are past, and the skies to the southeast are clear once again. Alex lets out a “whoo-hoo!” and I laugh with delight. Not wanting to interrupt this moment, I decide to shelve the ax-man discussion until later. We can talk about it during our descent.

  The couple who passed us returns from their jaunt to East Osceola just as a group of five arrives from the parking area. Everyone sprawls out and snacks on their various goodies, enjoying the day and the plentiful views. Alex plays summit hostess, approaching everyone and initiating conversation. There are smiles all around as she cheerfully chatters away. I watch and admire my daughter’s affability. How can I strike the correct balance when I speak to her? I don’t want her to be afraid to do this, to walk around, greeting people happily and lovingly. This is part of the fun: sharing this wonderful experience with others is something she enjoys, and I don’t want to take that away from her. So how do I tell her to be wary of people without stifling her natural positive attitude?

  There’s a golden Labrador up here; it offers a paw to Alex, who kneels and takes it immediately. For the next few minutes, the two immerse themselves in gestures of affection. Alex pets the dog, the dog licks Alex’s face, the dog rolls on its back, Alex scratches its tummy. The owners smile and say a few soft words to Alex. She answers between fits of giggles. Eventually she returns to me, cheeks wet from the dog’s kisses. O
ne of the owners follows her and sits next to me, introducing himself as Jim.

  “Your daughter tells me this isn’t her first 4K,” he begins in a pleasant tone.

  “No, the Osceolas are numbers six and seven,” I answer, my voice naturally full of maternal pride.

  “That’s amazing. She’s quite the hiker.”

  “Yeah, she is,” I agree.

  Jim smiles and looks at Alex, who is busy digging a sandwich out from her pack. He is silent for a few moments, but the expression on his face indicates there’s a question or comment imminent. Finally, he takes a breath and asks, “Your husband doesn’t mind? You taking her up here alone, I mean?”

  Fortunately, I bite my tongue and swallow my first response. This man is not trying to be offensive. I get the sense he is genuinely curious and truly does not realize how condescending that kind of a question really is.

  I take a deep breath, then calmly reply, “Do you ask the same kind of question of fathers who hike with their sons?” My tone is not rude, for my intent is not to attack. If possible, I hope to open his mind a wee bit.

  Jim looks startled, then turns red with embarrassment. “No, uh, good point,” he sputters. He starts to rise, but I reach out my hand and touch his leg.

  “Please stay. I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward.”

  He pauses, then sits. As his face returns to a healthy shade of pink, he offers an apologetic explanation. “It’s just that things can happen to a woman that don’t usually happen to a man.”

  Alex is engrossed in her sandwich and, I hope, unaware of our conversation. I’ve enough to discuss with her on the way down; I don’t want to have to add this layer of context.

  Lowering my voice, I reply, “True. However, what are we supposed to do? Stay home? Only go when a man can come with us? That’s an awfully limited way to live, and we’re not all that fond of limits.”