Up

by Patricia Ellis Herr

  In the time it takes us to remove a few layers of clothes, we become chilled again. I decide to keep the layers off and see what happens. Alex and I resume our former pace up the slope, and as we go, I realize that the trick is to dress lightly and move quickly. If we wear too much, we’ll overheat while ascending. If we wear too little and slow our pace or stop for even a moment, we’ll become chilled. It takes a solid hour and many starts and stops to figure out exactly how much clothing each of us should wear in order to stay consistently comfortable for the longest amount of time. Alex becomes frustrated with having to go through this learning curve. She’s used to everything being relatively easy. To stop, start, and stop again, to wear four layers of clothing, then two, then three, then one, then back to four … it’s aggravating. I ask her many times if she wants to turn back, but she continually responds by saying, “We’re here, let’s do this.”

  MadRiver appears just as we reach the Willey Range Trail, about 1.6 miles into our hike. He ascends with strong and steady steps, his kilt fluttering in the frigid breeze. Alex throws herself onto the ground and lies in the snow as he approaches, weary and frustrated. MadRiver reaches us, looks down, and gives my daughter a wave. As I give him a hello hug, I murmur in his ear, “We may end up turning back—Alex is not exactly loving this.” “No problem,” he quietly answers.

  I take a picture of the two of them: MadRiver standing over Alex by the trail sign, looking as though he’s just killed her as she lies motionless in the snow. As I put away my camera, I hear her pick herself up and brush herself off. She offers a polite greeting before continuing up the trail.

  It is an extremely difficult hike. The trail is unrelentingly steep, and there’s not enough snow cover to completely fill in the gaps and gnarls in the root systems. Often we put our boots down on what we think is solid snow only to sink ankle-deep into a lightly covered chasm. This awkward footing, combined with the precipitous grade of the trail and our continual on-again, off-again clothing ritual, makes for a very onerous morning. Alex stomps her way up the mountain, constantly muttering at all the obstacles. MadRiver is amused at her fury and impressed by her determination. Though I too admire my daughter’s tenacity, I realize that if MadRiver weren’t with us, I’d have turned us around by now. This hike is taking much longer than I had originally planned; there are so many new things to deal with, and it is extremely cold out here! However, MadRiver is with us, and he has a fair bit of winter hiking experience under his belt. Each of us is warm, fed, and hydrated, and both MadRiver and I have enough gear to, as he puts it, “take care of a troop of Girl Scouts.” I feel safe continuing onward and upward.

  We do eventually make it all 2.7 miles to the top, though it takes us five hours to do so. Reaching the summit chases away some of Alex’s blues, and as we stand at a viewpoint and look down onto massive Webster Cliff, my daughter’s face allows a smile to creep onto her features. Webster Cliff is one wide, scratched-up surface of rock that towers over the valley below. In today’s bright morning, its frosty boulders sparkle in the sunlight. It’s a scene my younger daughter, Sage, would love. There’s fairy dust in mass quantities over there, shimmering happily, celebrating life’s hard-earned pleasures.

  Our descent is a completely different experience from our tedious morning climb. Going down is so much easier than coming up! The three of us chat amicably. MadRiver does not speak down to my daughter; he neither uses a high-pitched voice nor insults her intelligence. Instead, he converses as one would with an adult. My esteem for him, which has already risen with every patient step he has taken, rises into the stratosphere. He asks Alex about the hikes she has already done, the kinds of things she likes to do, and how she gets along with her sister. Alex answers all his questions, then asks some of her own. Does he have children (no), is he married (yes), where does he live (close to us), and how many mountains has he hiked (too many to count). As I listen to the two of them banter back and forth, I can’t help but wonder what prompted the woman at Mount Cardigan to warn me about this fellow. Though a strange sight with his grizzled gray hair and ever-fluttering kilt, he has been nothing but kind to us. Not many adults would willingly walk so slowly on a winter hike with a child who wasn’t their own son or daughter.

  We reach a flat section of trail, and Alex skips ahead, her energy surging as it always does during a descent. When I think she is out of earshot, I gather my courage and say, “You know, I heard that you weren’t that fond of children.”

  MadRiver smiles and answers, “I’m not. I don’t like whining, I don’t like screaming, and I don’t like misbehaving brats. But Alex doesn’t whine, she doesn’t scream, and she’s definitely not a brat. Actually, I don’t think she’s really a child. She’s a twenty-year-old hiker trapped in a very small person’s body.”

  Okay. I can roll with that.

  A couple of snowy weeks later, Alex tells me she’s ready to give another winter mountain a go. This surprises me, since she was so miserable during our ascent of Mount Willey. I take her at her word, though, and search the Internet for recent 4K trip reports. It doesn’t take me long to find a post regarding a trail that has been recently traveled and “packed out.” Since many people hike the 4Ks, even during winter, snowshoe paths along the usual routes are quickly established, even after a heavy snowstorm. The footing, therefore, becomes extremely easy if the snowpack is deep; this we first discover as we climb 4,802-foot Mount Moosilauke using the Glencliff Trail on a brisk December day. The ascent is a piece of cake. It feels like we’re walking on a smooth (albeit steep) white sidewalk, and, unlike our experience on Mount Willey, there are no exposed rocks or roots for us to trip over. Even our clothing becomes less of a hassle as we get used to the frequent putting on and removal of layers.

  Alex and I move up the mountain in very good spirits. I continually hand my daughter an insulated bottle of hot chocolate, from which she drinks in hefty gulps. This liquid refreshment keeps her both hydrated and energized, and she bounds up the trail an extremely happy camper. It is a joyous morning, and Alex frequently comments on the splendor of the winter wonderland through which we travel. Each branch of evergreen holds a little pile of snow; every tree trunk is coated with sparkling ice. It’s as though Hollywood were here before us this morning, creating the perfect scene for its next Christmas blockbuster.

  Everything goes well—so well that I almost feel we have this winter thing under total control—until we reach the intersection with the Moosilauke Carriage Road. This intersection is close to tree line, and we now begin to hear the wind whipping around the mountain. Every few seconds, a renegade gust blasts its way through a branchy gap and shoves itself in our faces. It is an extremely unpleasant feeling at best, for that wind is mean; it’s nasty. It bites at our cheeks and makes us wince. We drop our packs and hastily don all layers of clothing, starting with headwear. I make certain that every inch of Alex’s skin is covered, as it won’t take more than a few minutes for her skin to succumb to frostbite if that wind remains so brazen. I take special care with her face, adjusting her goggles so they overlap her face mask, tightening the straps so that her head movements can’t shift the material. Once we’re above tree line, it will be difficult, if not impossible, for me to make certain none of her skin is exposed at any time. Most of my focus will be in keeping the two of us upright.

  I am so consumed with making sure her precious face and head are protected that I forget to pay attention to the rest of her body. As a result, when we step out of the trees to begin the final push toward the summit, just a few tenths of a mile from the peak, Alex is not wearing her windproof gloves. She does wear two layers of woolen mittens, but these do nothing to protect her fingers from the wind. Without that outer layer, the thin skin on her digits can feel every icy and unmerciful blast.

  I do not immediately realize my mistake. The wind roars with indignation at our bold approach and does its best to push us over. I grab Alex’s arm and practically drag her up the slope in an effort to keep her
on her feet. She yells something at me, but I can’t make out her words. A wall of air slams into us, and we both fall off the path. Alex tumbles into a nearby cairn, and I dive after her, momentarily worried that she will blow off the mountain.

  “Are you okay?” I holler. I try to read Alex’s emotions, but the task is impossible; her facial expressions are hidden beneath her face mask and balaclava.

  “My hands hurt!” she yells.

  I look down and finally realize what Alex is missing.

  “Mama, they really hurt!” Alex’s shout is tinged with panic, and I realize my daughter is frightened and in pain. That’s that. This ascent is over.

  We’re now perhaps two hundred yards from the summit, an easy five- or ten-minute walk if the wind weren’t behaving in such a contrary manner. I know full well we’re going to abort, but I want to give Alex the courtesy of making the decision herself.

  “We’re very close to the summit now. Are you okay to continue, or do you want to turn back?” I ask, prepared to exercise my veto power should she make the wrong choice.

  Alex hesitates for a literal second, then answers, “Turn back!”

  Excellent. My daughter has good sense.

  Without another word, I pull Alex to a standing position and lead her back down the trail, battling the confrontational wind every step of the way. As soon as we are back in the protection of the trees, I get to work on her hands. I remove her gloves and put her bare skin on my stomach, underneath my four layers of clothing.

  “Are you okay?” I speak in a normal tone as the wind no longer whips about our ears.

  “Yes,” Alex answers. She removes one of her hands from my stomach long enough to yank off her face mask. “I didn’t like that wind—it really hurt my fingers.”

  “How are they now? Are they warming up a bit?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her face clouds as she stands there, hands on my stomach, goggles askew.

  “We didn’t make it to the top, Mama.” The words come slowly, as though she’s giving me some unexpected and unfortunate news.

  “I know, honey.”

  “Is that okay?”

  I smile. “Would you rather we went all the way up but lost a few of these fingers?” I take out her hands and kiss the fingers in question.

  She answers in the form of a lopsided smile. I hand over her three layers of gloves.

  “Do you want to try again? Now, I mean.”

  Alex slowly shakes her head.

  “Good!” I exclaim. Her eyebrows rise. “I’m proud of you, kid. You just became a real hiker. Real hikers know when to continue and when to turn back.”

  “Even when they’re really close to the summit?”

  “Especially when they’re really close to the summit. Better to turn back ten feet from the summit than to reach the peak but not make it back to the car. How are your hands?”

  Alex smiles broadly and declares her fingers toasty. Her expression seems satisfied, proud even. She should feel proud. She just exhibited good, sound judgment, and she doesn’t seem all that upset at having to turn back. It’s important for her not to become too disappointed if she doesn’t reach the top. Her mind should always be on safety first and the summit second.

  We make our way down the Carriage Road feeling rather good about ourselves, Alex humming a random tune and me congratulating myself on a successful winter hike. Who cares if we didn’t reach the summit? We’re both safe and having a good time.

  At the top of Glencliff Trail, Alex is struck by a brilliant idea. More than two and a half snowy miles of downhill trail lie at our feet. How can we not take advantage? She sits, a mad gleam in her eye, and announces her intention to “butt slide all the way back to the car.”

  And that’s exactly what we do. We laugh and shout and fly down the mountain, my giggles sounding every bit as childlike as Alex’s. Down the packed trail we go, at a clip fast enough to provoke involuntary hoots of glee. When necessary, I act as a human brake for my daughter; she laughingly slams into my back whenever I slow our descent. The two of us behave in the silliest fashion, and by the time we reach the car, we are thoroughly convinced that winter hiking is more fun than, well, anything.

  Alex and I summit six peaks during the official calendar winter season. In doing so, we discover that the joys of winter hiking far outweigh the inconveniences. Heavier packs and colder air are happily managed; such things are a small price to pay for the sight of snow-capped summits and icicled trees, the ease of snow sidewalks, the feel of crisp mountain air, and the joy of fast and furious “butt sliding.”

  We are never again forced to turn back. Much of that probably has to do with the fact that I become very picky over which days we venture out. On extremely chilly days (subzero in the valley), we stay home. On days with considerable snow in the forecast, we stay home. On days where the following nights are supposed to be considerably cold, or considerably snowy, we stay home. I also keep us below tree line, as I know, from our Moosilauke experience, that the number of potential problems increases exponentially once you step into the windy and barren alpine zone.

  As the weeks go on and my trip reports are posted, my Internet critics silence themselves, and our informal approval ratings soar. Several people write and tell me that they had been worried when they found out I was taking Alex up the 4Ks in the winter, but now that they’ve read my blog, they can see how prepared and levelheaded I am. Though I’m not usually one to care what other people think, these messages buoy me. I can’t help but feel good about receiving the support of my hiking peers, and it can’t hurt Alex to have people thinking favorable thoughts about her.

  Though Alex and I enjoy winter hiking, we are ready for the reappearance of rocks and sunshine when the season eventually draws to a close. Spring arrives, bringing with it warmer temperatures and longer days. As pleasant as spring may be in the valley, however, we soon discover it’s a horrible season for hiking.

  Peak #30: Mount Moriah, April 25, 2009

  Springtime in the Whites brings the return of many natural treasures: abundant sunshine, warmer temperatures, the reappearance of rocks and leaves, the sounds of birds, and the tracks of bear. Springtime also means a lighter burden on the shoulders, as the heavy winter sleeping bag can be switched out of the backpack for a lighter three-season one, and the emergency camping stove can be replaced with an ultralight box of weatherproof matches. In addition, it’s no longer necessary to carry a multitude of water bottles. The frozen brooks are melting; water can be collected and purified with iodine tablets wherever there’s a stream crossing.

  These are the positive aspects of the advent of spring. There is, however, one negative aspect. One nasty, ornery, pain-in-the-rear aspect: snow.

  Snow during winter is delightful. It’s solid beneath your feet, and it stays in place. If you’re wearing snowshoes, you can float on top of it, and there will be little to no inconvenient sinks as you make your way up and over a mountain.

  Snow during springtime is, simply put, awful. It’s not the nice white fluffy stuff. It’s old, it’s weak, and it’s rotting. One second you’re walking on a firm sidewalk, the next you’re dropping through slush, even with your once-trusty snowshoes strapped to your feet. Much of the time, in spite of your best efforts and psychological preparations, you sink to your thighs with every other step. It’s maddening.

  Such are the words of warning given to me from well-meaning hikers upon my announcement that Alex and I will hike straight through the spring. I take these folks seriously, and I also remember the failed Tecumseh attempt the year before, when I had both girls with me, and I hadn’t a clue yet as to what I was doing. However, Alex and I now have twenty-nine peaks under our belts, and we feel adequately prepared and experienced to take on this challenge. And honestly, Alex and I cannot fathom taking a four- to six-week break from hiking. We figure we’ll just take it slowly and adjust to the unstable hiking surface. We managed winter; we should be able to manage spring.

  T
he day starts out well enough. The snow has completely melted from the lower portion of the Stony Brook Trail, and we ascend the first leg of 4,049-foot Mount Moriah feeling warm and fine. Free of our winter fleece and base layers, both of us sport shorts and synthetic T-shirts. We feel good. We feel light.

  The first mile is an easy jaunt toward Stony Brook. We cross the water without much ado, the soles of our boots barely touching the water as we skip across the stepping stones. I mark where we cross well, for this brook will probably look very different when we return later in the day. The sun will melt the snow throughout the afternoon, and the excess water will pour down the mountain, swelling all the streams and rivulets. It may be necessary to get our boots and legs wet on the way out, or I may choose to camp if the water appears too deep to cross. No worries: I have all necessary gear, and my cell phone works on this section of trail, so I can contact Hugh if the need arises.

  Onward we trek. The trail turns upward. And there lies the snow.

  Initially, it’s not so bad. Rocks poke their heads above the sea of glistening white, and Alex enjoys hopping from stone to stone. It’s an amusing novelty, wearing shorts under a bright sun while stepping over winter’s leftovers. However, soon the snow covers the path completely, and it’s necessary to step directly onto—or, should I say, into—the cold and wet stuff.

  Alex makes her way through the next few tenths of a mile by walking in the middle of the trail where it’s firmer, packed down from last winter’s many snowshoes. I, being much heavier than my daughter, sink constantly no matter where I step.

  It doesn’t take long before the snow situation worsens. With each foot of elevation gain, the snow becomes softer and deeper. I don my snowshoes in an attempt to make life easier for myself, but the effort is in vain. I continue to sink repeatedly, making giant snowshoe-size holes in the melting snowpack.

  Alex continues to have a better time of it. As long as she keeps to the center of the trail, she is usually able to stay on top of the mess. Her face doesn’t look all that happy, though. I chalk it up to the rotting snow.