Will's Red Coat

by Tom Ryan

  Birds sang to one another of our passing and we welcomed the early-morning scents of the forest—fresh and sweet, musky and earthy. The deep green leaves of late June spread out like the ceiling of a cathedral with a backdrop of a pale blue sky, while undergrowth sprouted from the ground along the sides of the trail.

  We had been on the same trail before, more than once. But this time would be different. We wouldn’t just climb to the summits of North and Middle Tripyramid, two of New Hampshire’s forty-eight 4,000-foot mountains, and then return. We’d continue on to trails we’d never been on, including one that hardly anyone ever traveled.

  We were heading into the heart of the Sandwich Range, a mystic and fantastic place, even by White Mountain standards.

  The main attraction of most of these hikes is not some awe-inspiring view over miles of blue-green mountains, but those along the trail into the forests along the way. Walking in the Sandwich Range is like being in the belly of a beast, both dark and shadowy. You linger. You watch and listen.

  Then you are transported.

  One minute you’re in your car, the next you’re walking through an airy wooded glen, but suddenly—and you don’t always realize when it happens—you find yourself in a fairy tale. This is the wilderness of Tolkien’s Middle Earth and Lewis’s Narnia. You lose yourself along challenging paths cluttered with large rocks and half expect to take a turn onto a steep trail crisscrossed by slick, spidery roots and lined by lush green moss, only to come face-to-face with a wood elf or dwarf. Mystery hides in the shadows and fertilizes the imagination. Even the birdcalls are haunting.

  So it was with us that day. We hopped from rock to rock over the brook, crossing it several times as it wove its way into the valley. Through spruce, hemlock, and birch we climbed, along a trail that grew steeper and more rugged, up through a ravine, taking careful steps, always under a canopy of green. We stopped and drank water often. I fed Atticus treats when we sat together on rocks ancient and cool.

  Four miles in, we reached the top of North Tripyramid. Less than a mile later we took a break on the summit of Middle Tripyramid. From there it was new territory for us, at least several miles of it. We crossed over South Tripyramid and descended a short way along its rock slide, where I wrestled with my fear of heights. I felt sure that I would tumble down the mountain. Atticus went first, stopping often to check on me. Then came the refuge of the seldom-traveled Kate Sleeper Trail. I gladly left the open air to duck into the gloom.

  Of all the trails we’ve been on, this is my favorite. You are more likely to see a moose than another hiker. The forest is thick and primeval. It feels as though it is watching you pass through its hallowed hall. We came to an occasional fallen tree and had to find a way around it, but mostly we walked on a carpet of red pine needles, soft enough to sleep on, and through a corridor of verdant ferns.

  We left the main trail for short side trips to the summits of West and East Sleeper, two viewless peaks just over 3,800 feet high. Weaving through the wooded labyrinth, I could at times look off through the woods and see blue sky beside me, but not overhead.

  For two and a half miles, we traveled through the quiet and stillness with few ups and downs, and I lost myself in the movement. It was somewhere in the middle of these high woods that I realized something wasn’t right. I stopped and sat on a log. Atticus trotted back to me. He looked at me expectantly.

  “You want some water?” I held it out for him, but he didn’t even look at it. Instead, he kept his dark eyes on me, his white eyebrows occasionally moving up and down. I looked around us, felt the forest and the way it seemed to be welcoming us.

  “I’m fine, my friend. At least I will be.”

  I looked at my watch one last time, then took it off. I had worn it on every hike we’d ever been on so that I would know how long each trip would take us. But while sitting high in the Sandwich Wilderness with no sign of man other than the rustic trail, it seemed out of place.

  I felt like tossing the watch into the woods and letting nature have its way with it, someplace where no one would ever find it. But even if I was the only one who ever knew where it lay hidden, I would still know that I’d done something unworthy of the mountains. I slid it into a pocket on my backpack and never took it out again. Not that day, nor any day since.

  “Atti, come here, please.”

  He took a few steps closer. We looked into each other’s eyes as I took off his collar. We had stopped using a leash long before then, but for some reason I’d kept his collar on. Perhaps it was for convention, or social politeness. But if I was to feel free, so was he.

  From there, our traverse was joyously mindful. I stopped to feel the pinecones on the trees and bent over to do the same with the pine needles on the ground. I let my hand rest on the tree bark and imagined the life coursing through and beneath it. For the first time on a hike, we were taking our time. I even stopped to look at the frequent piles of moose droppings, hoping we’d encounter a large bull with antlers beyond measure.

  When we reached a junction to the Downes Brook Trail, we started climbing again and came to running water, where Atticus stopped. He sat and drank and watched the shimmer on the rocks. When he turned to me, I sat with him and we stayed there for a spell.

  We stopped again, a mile later, when we reached the ledges of Whiteface, another four-thousand-footer. We soaked in the sun and the views, sat and enjoyed our lunch. We even shared some of it with a red squirrel who nervously peered out at us from a small tangle of weather-beaten brush. I tossed him some granola. He watched us, and ever so cautiously he took some, then scampered away, only to return for more. It took a few minutes, but he started eating out of my hand. His little fingers grabbed hold of mine and he held on while he dipped his head into the cereal. He’d sit back up and chew with his eyes watching both Atticus and me, but not fearing us.

  After lunch, we did something we’d never done before on a hike. I placed my backpack under my head, stretched out, and took a nap. Atticus laid his head against my leg, under some shade, and did the same. When we awakened, the little red squirrel was watching us. I said good-bye, left him some granola, and we set off again. There was one more mountain, Passaconaway, and an additional nine miles to go before we reached the chilled watermelon waiting in the cooler in our car.

  It was a long day. Eighteen miles with thousands of feet of elevation gain over tough trails, without seeing another person the entire time. It was not the longest hike we’d ever taken, but it was the most grueling. Yet that night, as Atticus and I sat by the fire in the cabin we’d rented for the weekend, a deep peace fell upon me. I’d experienced tranquility in the mountains before. Plenty of it. But never quite like that night. It felt stronger, as if it was made to endure.

  For the rest of the summer and coming fall, we continued to hike. We were getting ready for an absurd winter challenge, the entirety of which I was keeping to myself for the time being. Atticus and I were raising money for the Jimmy Fund and Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in memory of our late friend Vicki Pearson. We set out on an unlikely quest—to become the first man or dog ever to hike each of the forty-eight 4,000-footers twice in the ninety days of a single winter. Ninety-six peaks in ninety days.

  In January of that winter, I decided we’d attempt to replicate that same journey through the Sandwich Range, only this time we reversed the route. We invited our Newburyport friend Tom Jones to join us. He was a good man, loyal and tough. He wasn’t very experienced, but we’d taken him with us before and he understood that I always put Atticus first. He willingly accepted his role as our support for the day.

  We left Tom’s car where we had first entered the woods the summer before, and we drove to the Oliverian Brook Trail. Under dreary overcast skies on a morning raw and frozen, the trip up Mount Passaconaway seemed to take forever as we carefully made our way over icy, snow-covered rocks. Because of the conditions it took longer than expected to reach the summit. The good news was that the worst climb of the day was be
hind us. We proceeded to the summit of Whiteface and started out along the Kate Sleeper Trail. That’s where our day changed.

  Tom suggested we stop there and head down the Downes Brook Trail instead.

  “You feeling okay?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just worried about Atticus. That’s all.”

  Atticus was fine, so I was surprised by his comment. Whatever the reason, Tom didn’t want to continue on, and as much as this disappointed me, there is an unwritten rule that you can hike only as fast as the slowest member of your party, and you turn back when someone wants to. It didn’t matter that Atticus and I were trying to set a record, and if we cut the hike short, we’d lose a day in a highly unpredictable season; you never knew when several feet of snow would block the trails for a week at a time. Nor did it matter that we’d have to return to do the Tripyramids on their own.

  I gave Tom our options. “We can cut the hike short and descend the Downes Brook Trail, which hasn’t been broken out all winter, through five miles of snow and across eleven stream crossings. Then add on another mile walking on the road. Or we head across the Sleepers for two and a half miles, on to the Tripyramids, which have been broken out by other hikers recently. The distance will be seven-point-nine miles. But most of it will be easier going.”

  I left the decision to Tom. He chose the Downes Brook Trail, thinking it would be a shortcut.

  It was a horrible choice. The latest snowfall had not attached itself yet; it was powdery and deep. There was no firm footing, not even with our snowshoes on. We were up to our knees, and it went as high as our hips. Poor Atticus had to swim through it, often getting swallowed whole. Tom and I fell repeatedly. Under my breath, I cursed him. We stopped talking partly because of the dark thoughts in our heads, but also because of the exhausting descent. At a few of the stream crossings, the ice gave way and we had to be careful not to fall into the frigid waters. It took us much longer to get back down to the Kancamagus the shorter way. When we did, it was nine at night and five degrees and we still had a mile road walk back to my car. I was in a foul mood. I think we all were. But we did our best to hold it in.

  However, something changed.

  Here we were walking down the middle of a road in the White Mountains on an icy winter night with the dark silhouette of the pine trees and mountains surrounding us. In contrast, the glow of a huge moon was stunningly bright. There were no cars. It was quiet and otherworldly. Tom and I started talking again. We began to laugh again.

  Ann Stampfer once told me, “It’s the hikes where something goes wrong, where things don’t turn out as expected, that are the most memorable.”

  Ann knew her mountains, and she was right. One of my favorite hiking memories is of that road walk. I can’t fully explain why. Perhaps, even though we were falling short, I took curious pleasure in knowing that while we were cold and tired and had a way to go, everyone else we knew was home, safe, and warm. And many of them were bored.

  We were on a quest, like those I only dreamed of until we started hiking. I could feel the frozen magnificence all around us. It was unalike the small city life Atticus and I had come to know. A life we’d soon give up.

  Nine years have passed since that summer day on the Kate Sleeper Trailer, and we never made it back. There were always other places to explore, other summits to scale, and new challenges, Will being one of them.

  I now accept that we will never go there again.

  Still, the memory of that summer day comes to me often. It is so clear I can smell the pines along the ridge, feel the ferns on my calves, and remember the freedom of getting rid of my watch and Atticus’s collar. At the best of times, thoughts of that trek are intoxicating. I smile as I think about a perfect summer day when the skies were blue, the trees were green, and we were both younger. It was the summer when I came to grasp that we’d become nemophilists and together we would always find our center in the forest.

  When life is challenging and I find that I’m blocked by fear and the only way forward is through the darkness, I’m most hopeful when I remember what’s important: simplicity. Simplicity in living, in loving, and in making our way through this world.

  Of course it helps to be near the forest, or better yet in it. For the forest has always been with me, always called to me, even when I couldn’t hear the message.

  As I write this, Atticus is by my side. He’s sleeping soundly. He now snores as loudly as Will used to. Looking at him, I think of the countless miles, all the mountains, and the memories. As we’ve grown older I now understand it’s the trails we know well and remember fondly that comfort us, while the ones we’ve yet to take are those that force us to grow.

  Life is different for us now that we no longer hike.

  Peaceful, but different.

  Yesterday afternoon, Aragorn was on our deck for the first time since last year, when Will was still alive. I baked a cherry pie and put it out on the railing to cool. Silly me. I hadn’t seen any of the local bears for over a month, so I thought it was safe.

  I was writing a letter to Ken and Ann when I looked up and saw him. He was ten feet away. His paws and claws were stained red with cherries. So was his muzzle.

  I laughed at him.

  “Enjoy it, Aragorn. It’s not one of those crappy store-bought pies. I made it from scratch. And it’s vegan!”

  When I got up to get my camera he trotted down the stairs, and by the time we made it into the yard, he was in the high grass heading for the woods and the river beyond.

  Atticus and I still stop at the little Dutch flower shop to get our flowers each week, even when money is tight. It’s become a priority in my life. Some days I tell Carrie, “Whatever you have will do.” But on other days, I ask for something more fragrant that Will would enjoy.

  Atticus and I make the trip up to the Iron Mountain meadow from time to time. I sit looking up at Agiocochook and remember those last moments with Will. I say my prayers, giving thanks for that period in my life when I became more than what I had been. Before heading for home, I leave a single rose there for Will.

  Last spring, I planted sweet williams at the edge of Wildflower Will’s garden where the pumpkins used to be. I think it is my new favorite flower. But as Will taught me, any weed will do in a pinch. Because of him, when I spend time in the backyard I see things differently. I get down on my hands and knees to have the perspective he used to experience. I smell things and feel the grass beneath me. I sit in the places he used to stretch his body. When I mow the lawn I expect him to be dancing behind me like a drunken butterfly, with his mouth open and his eyes jolly.

  Much like Marijane did, Ken and Ann Stampfer have become the family I always longed for, although time has caught up to us, for they no longer hike either. But we share a bond forged by the adventures we shared. Without Will, it’s back to the way it used to be. But he still makes his way into every conversation. We are all better for having known him. (Okay, maybe not Atticus, but he was patient with Will, and was there for him when it mattered most.)

  Rachael Kleidon has become a dear friend. She is as vital to us as ever now that Atticus is older. However, soon she will be busier. She’s expecting. Rachael and her husband, Bryant, will be the best of parents. They’ve already decided on their daughter’s name.

  Sylvia. It means “from the forest.”

  As for me? I realize how blessed I am, to have known enchantment and understand the value of friendship and transformation. It is sometimes overwhelming for me to look back on my time with Will and consider everything that occurred. You would think that I feel pain at his passing, and loss for now living without him, but what exists within me is more enduring. For how am I to have lived those two and a half years with him and not feel the reverence for every bit of that time? I am proud to have been a part of his life, and honored to have been a witness to wonder.

  I am fifty-four years of age. I’d like to think I have a long way to go before I too will be under the protective gaze of Agiococh
ook and Passaconaway. Whenever I get lost along the way from now on, I’ll consider where I’ve come from, hold the forest and my memories close, and use a map left for me by an old friend. You see, I once knew a little white dog who taught me that old age is not a disease.

  Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.

  —FREDERICK BUECHNER

  Acknowledgments

  On the way to completing this book, I took a wrong turn. I ended up in Memorial Hospital in North Conway, New Hampshire, for a few days, and followed that up with five weeks at Maine Medical Center in Portland, Maine. I’m told I nearly died. Several times. My kidneys shut down and I went on dialysis. My heart dropped to only 25 percent of its capability. I had pneumonia, blood clots, anemia, internal bleeding, a stroke, and septic shock. If it weren’t for the numerous doctors, nurses, and technicians, I would not have finished Will’s Red Coat. I wouldn’t be here at all.

  I would not have made it to the hospital in the first place if my friend Roy Prescott, the “morning voice of the Mount Washington Valley” and disc jockey at WMWV, hadn’t saved my life by delivering me to the emergency room. Throughout my lengthy stay, he was there whenever he could be, bringing Atticus in for visits when the doctors bent the rules to allow it. I wouldn’t have made it had it not been for the support of visiting friends. There are too many for me to name here. Having them by my side was the best medicine for my beleaguered heart.

  Thankfully, Will’s Red Coat was completed. My agent, Brian DeFiore, was there every step of the way. His support was outdone only by that of my incomparable editor at William Morrow, Cassie Jones, who was exceedingly patient while I was missing deadlines while trying to piece my life back together again. I am grateful for both. They are true professionals—and better people.

  No story exists without a cast of individuals in the background. Laura Bachofner pointed Will in our direction. Without her, I wouldn’t have known him. She is one of the two hundred and fifty thousand Facebook supporters we have on our Following Atticus page. Many a day, if I need inspiration, I look to their stories.