hiking – My Truant Pen

48 on my 46th

Yesterday I had the biggest hike of my life. The many different methods of tracking disagree wildly on all these, but it was about 20 miles, definitely had 7 distinct summits, required about 6000 feet of elevation (both down and up), took 13 hours, clocked 60k steps, and involved approximately a bajillion rocks and two good friends. When we stumbled into the parking lot a few hours after dark, Anthony said, “Congrats. You have OFFICIALLY completed the 48 New Hampshire 4000 foot mountains.”

My official hike log – thanks to SherpaAnt for the fun tracker.

I wrote back in July about my history and love of hiking – and my struggles with a bum knee that threatened to end my career. I thought a lot about how this has all evolved. On my 46th birthday, I finished my 45th, 46th, 47th and 48th peaks as part of the NH 48. This hike was left to last because there’s NO GOOD WAY to get to the Bonds in less than 20 miles of hiking. I talked a few of my friends into joining me (one who has done it before and the other of whom didn’t ask enough questions ahead of time). We came up the day before, and did a fun little 5 mile hike up Mt. Hale and over to the AMC Hut at Zealand. (Of Mt. Hale my friend was like “I hope the summit view is worth the hike!”. Friends, there is no summit view at all on Hale.) We laid in the middle of the river to watch night overtake the sky and the Milky Way emerge, and were in bed asleep by 9 pm. Up with the sun the next morning for an AMC hut breakfast, and out the door by 8 am already in a hurry. Up, up and up on the rocky trails, with the first view (and cell signal) at ZeaCliff.

Really pretty meadow on Lend-a-Hand trail near Hale.

Right before Zealand (also no views), we got a visit from a friendly grayjay looking for a handout. More surprisingly, we encountered a flock of ~7 blue grouse blocking the trail and strutting their shockingly good camouflage – which broke up a very long and rather undifferentiated UPHILL. Zealand was disappointing, but Guyot was surprisingly alpine and beautiful, with a gigantic block of quartz the size of a head marking the cairn at the summit. We were ready for lunch, but not even a third of the way through our mileage. We slammed in some sandwiches and moved on.

We passed right by the trail marker for West Bond, and pushed up the hill to Bond. The summit there was glorious – in the very middle of one of the greatest wilderness areas of the Northeast. No matter where you look you see nature, not roads or buildings. It was amazing. The Presidentials behind, the Twins and Garfield and Galehead to the right. Across the Pemi Wilderness you have Franconia Ridge, and in the middle isolated Owl’s Head. To the left hard-to-spot Carrigain with Chocorua behind stands across from the Hales. Every single one of those mountains I have hiked up with my own two feet as part of my quest for the 48 – they are old friends filling panoramic views. I think my favorite part was looking back into the mountain ranges we’d already traversed. Hale was blued with distance, and it seems impossible that person in a morning could have come as far as we’d come. And ahead? To the left, Bond Cliff. To the right, West Bond. The only two that remained to me.

Grey Jays do not look like murderous thieves. We were a mile+ into our day when we stood at that knob right behind the bird’s left shoulder.

I wish I could have spent more time on Bond Cliff. The iconic photo taken on the edge of a cliff was absolutely terrifying and made my already shaky legs tempted to wobble. We took pictures and chatted with a hiker who’d last been there in 1983 via a bushwhack who got all three of us in a photo. In the lee of a boulder, Anthony lit a candle for my birthday cupcake. Tradition dictates the wind blows it out for me, but this time I got to blow it out for myself.

That little notch that comes out in the upper left hand? That’s what we were standing on.

But we couldn’t linger long – daylight was already waning. The push BACK up Mt. Bond was the most grueling of the trip so far, and my legs were already burning along with my lungs. It grew quiet on the trail as we focused on foot placement and breathing. We barely had time for any summit yoga on Bond before we pressed down the trail. There was still one more to go. We dropped our packs to lighten the weight as we took the half mile spur up to the West Bond summit – in the still heart of the wilderness with mountains and valleys and rivers and slides on every side. Anthony had brought balloons saying 48 – but we had neither breath nor time to inflate them. We celebrated the completion with a prosecco toast and sat in a place you cannot get to without walking for miles and miles and miles. My heart was light, but my feet were heavy, and we still had a long trail ahead.

I know people do these trails FAST but I don’t understand how. I need to carefully pick each footfall to prevent breaking my ankles or wrenching my knees. There’s only so fast I can go on that terrain. And so we began the long march out. Several times we calculated the distance, hours apart, and each time we figured it was about five miles. It stayed five miles for at least five miles. The light failed just after we turned down the hill from ZeaCliff, and by the time we hit the hut and our overnight gear it was full dark – which it probably would’ve been smart not to leave my headlamp with the overnight gear. I had a momentary thought that after 12 hours of hiking and 17 miles and 7 summits maybe we should just admit that we were toast and spend the night – but the lure of “showers” and “our own beds” was too strong. The last 2.9 miles out in the dark were blessedly flatish and smoothish, although “15 minutes” became the new “five miles” in terms of misleading estimates.

Today, I am so sore I can hardly walk. But mostly my heart is happy. Doing this on my birthday might seem like a weird celebration, but growing older can sometimes seem like growing lesser. I could not have done this hike last year (due to knee issues). Ten years ago I could barely do a hike half as hard. Even twenty and thirty years ago – I was not in the training and position to do this hike. Here at 46 I’m doing the hardest thing I’ve done – successfully, and with friends. It’s so affirming to see this as growth and progress.

What next? I plan on hiking mountains for fun, and not because they’re on a list. Maybe I’ll do some lakes and waterfalls. We’ve already started brainstorming weird and unusual routes that will show us things we haven’t seen. Maybe a few bushwhacks. But I’m already missing the wild winds and rocky heights of Bond Cliff, and know I’ll be back again some day.

Back to backpacking

I keep this photo on my dresser. It’s in a flip display of photos, mostly taken on the same trip, from a long ago era when the indulgent person would have two copies of each snapshot – one to keep and one to give. Or one to display and one to save. There are some pretty pictures in the display, but this is the one that’s always showing. It’s my mother, my fiancée and me in the parking lot of Sunrise on Mt. Rainier, wearing backpacks. My mom is only a year or two older in that picture than I am now. We’re loaded down with tents, sleeping bags and ground pads on our external frame nylon packs for four days doing the North Side of the Wonderland Trail. It was a great hike, and one of the many times I dragged people I love up and down mountains.

For a long time, I was in a no hiking zone. Small children were not a good combination with “I’ll see you in three days”. Plus, solo hiking as a woman has only very gradually become more common and less unusual (and therefore safer). Heck, back in the 90s, there were fewer women hiking altogether. I remember that there was a charity fundraiser at my mom’s school, and I put ALL my money on a backpacking trip led by a father of a friend who was also a National Park Ranger. It had never occurred to him a girl might want it, and we had to come up with a chaperone (my cousin) to join me. (On the plus side, it was an amazing trip!) Not only that, but I tore my ACL when I was 19 (I had no ACL in this picture, unbeknownst to me) and didn’t get a new one until my 30s.

In 2017 the hike up Chocorua with this friend might be the most tired I’ve ever been in my life. I just hiked the exact same route over the 4th and it was a fun jaunt.

About seven years ago, I finally got back to it (after much pining and yearning and a bit of attempting). I dragged more friends up more mountains, despite knee-related setbacks, full time work, bad weather, long drives and all the other forces that conspire to keep me off the mountains. And over time I’ve gained experience, practice, confidence, straight up skills (for example I am now Wilderness First Aid certified), and an encyclopedic ability to talk for 9 straight hours up and down a mountain plus four hours of driving, about every single hike I have done and want to do. I’ve hiked 43 of the 48 4000ft+ mountains of New Hampshire, plus trails in Idaho, Utah, Washington, Arizona, Greece and pretty much anywhere I can sneak away and find a mountain.

In the rarest of events, a gap in work responsibilities lined up with the kind of mountain weather that inspires normally responsible people to call in sick with White Mountain Fever. I knew I had to get up there, and for more than just a day trip. I leaned heavily on my usual hiking buddy but he had actual responsibilities. So I decided it was time to take the next step and do a solo overnight trip. Now, I have the gear and probably the experience to do it as a backpacking trip. But there’s a wonderful alternative in the Whites – the Appalachian Mountain Huts that follow along the Appalachian Trial. I’d had my eyes on the Galehead Hut. I don’t “need” any of the mountains around there to finish my 48 (I have a plan for those), but the Pemigewasset Wilderness is spectacular – and nowhere more beautiful than it is from Mt. Garfield. So I booked a local hotel on Wednesday night, and an AMC hut for Thursday. I hit the trail bright and early Wednesday.

Looking at Owlshead in the middle of the Pemi wilderness from Garfield summit

Mt. Garfield is a good haul up, and the heat had improved but not gone away. Still, I got up in good speed and lingered long on the sun-warmed rocks of the summit, looking out over the bowl of the Pemi wilderness, naming the mountain-friends ringing it. Owls Head – in the middle – is one of the most challenging mountains to reach since it’s so far from any trailhead. Franconia Ridge to the right shreds the clouds and egos of challengers, and I had been tempted to try to get over that way. But I definitely wouldn’t make a 6 pm dinner if I went right before I went down. There are some truly crazy people who do the “Pemi Loop” – or the entire bowl made of mountains you see here. I met at least two people who were doing the whole thing in one day. No matter what you undertake, you’ll find folks doing it ten times harder than you dare dream. And that ignores all the “thru hikers” doing all 2200 miles of the trail from Georgia to Maine – I met a bunch on this hike.

There’s a teeny white dot in the right of this photo, in the forest. That’s the Galehead hut, where I needed to be in ~5 hours for dinner.

The Appalachian Trail between Garfield and Galehead is one of the gnarliest sections of trail on the whole two thousand mile expanse. There’s this one amazing section where you come to a creek, and you can’t figure out where the trail goes, until you catch the faint white blaze halfway down the waterfall that the creek becomes. You then descend down the waterfall for the next exciting section. I showed the path to a thru hiker with a trail name of Stumbles. He swore in disbelief that this was the plan. This is when you’re happy you paid attention in the Wilderness First Aid class, but I didn’t end up needing any of it.

Seriously, it’s impossible to photograph how steep and stupid the trail is.

I made it down, across and back up again to Galehead hut, where I dropped pack and went up the extra half mile to claim rights to the very uninspiring summit. I love staying at the huts. You get to meet all kinds of interesting people. The Croo serve you a five course meal. There’s usually some sort of talk (last time I went it was an AMAZING geology talk that kept me rapt – this time it was a less academic discourse on Leave No Trace). The lights go off at 9 pm (so the Croo can go raiding the next hut for their stolen knight’s helmet), and you sleep in a bunk in a bunk room with as many as 12 co-ed bunks. It’s good bedtime comes early because they wake you at 6:30 for a three course breakfast so you can hit the trail early and they can start the next dinner. All the food and gear is brought up by the Croo on their backs using backpacks – which not only have not changed design in 100 years I swear some of them are that old.

A Croo backpack from Carter Notch Hut – they regularly load this with 80 pounds

I did get up early and enjoy a three course breakfast. It’s always disheartening to look at where you’re going (and encouraging to see where you’ve been). I went up to South Twin (a notoriously nasty section of trail – I really picked the fun ones), and then across to North Twin whick had been socked in on the New Year’s Day hike I’d last done it. Back to South, back down the gnarly trail – all on one of the most gloriously beautiful days I’ve ever hiked in. It took a real effort of will to force my shoes to the lowland trail (which – this is probably the shoes last hike since the tread has all but worn off). I loved every bit of it. The honest effort. The embrace of the pack. The cheery greetings and friendly conversations with all your fellow hikers (as one put it, all ecstatic with being in the mountains on such a fine day). The hundred year tradition of the huts. The trails that got away today, but which you will hike tomorrow. Following the sounds of the stream down the mountain in companionship. The keeness of the summit winds. The wildflowers and ferns and dense spruce of the krummholz.

There’s so much beauty besides the summits

I feel so lucky to have gotten this hike. I was one of MANY solo women hikers out there – it’s certainly more common and accepted, and the camaraderie of the trail makes you feel far from alone (I also carry a satellite beacon with an SOS function). I can’t wait to get out there again!

The “Braided Bandits” took this picture for me

Here’s my full photo album if you’re interested!

Make the color my own

What if you could possess a color? Own it, understand it, live with it through the moods and vagaries of light and paper? It’s been about three and a half years I’ve been painting with watercolors. The very first time I tried, the book instructed me to mix the blues and yellows in proportion. I squeezed out from a tube blue and yellow in the approximate proportions. It took me the better part of two tubes before I gave up and called it good enough. It seemed like a pity to throw away the rest, but what could you do?

Yeah, for those who don’t know like me? You can “resurrect” watercolor indefinitely by adding um, water. And when they recommend you mix it, they’re talking about the released watery watercolor you would paint with. A tiny dab of watercolor in a palette can last you months and many paintings.

Good thing it was the cheap student watercolors.

When I loaded up my palette yesterday, with a number of new colors, the watercolors were not the cheap ones. I try to tell myself that the hobby is inexpensive by comparison to, say, golf. Or bass fishing. But the contents of my paintbox are truly a treasure. Loading a palette is a labor of love – equal parts tedious and delightful. My left hand got sore from the threaded tops of the tubes, stuck on by paint. There was the planning and the labeling and the decision making … can I live without Bordeaux? Which yellows will I want for the desert? But the best part of all is the swatching, where you dip a tip of your brush into the thick virgin paint and then release it with water onto the paper. Will it be creamy? Transparent? Will it granulate? Will the color of the paint and the color of the watered paint be the same or wildly different? Will the water reveal one pure color, or a prism of many? And most critically – did you guess right about the variety and value and hue in your ordering of the swatch?

In light, I love all colors. Perhaps green most, since it’s the garment of my beloved nature in the places I have lived. But in paint, my heart belongs to indigo. Students of history know how important indigo was to the commerce of the colonized Caribbean. Blue pigment was always a problem in the history of paints. There’s the fantastically expensive lapis lazuli pigments. There’s the ecology destroying but fugitive woad of the Picts. Blues are hard to find. And indigo is not just blue, it’s exceptional. The indigo paint is so creamy and consistent, versatile, kind, assertive, trustworthy. When I have indigo on my brush, I have no fear. If I were limited to one paint for the rest of my life, it would be indigo. I remember the first time I tried to use Cerulean blue. It’s a pretty blue – like a robin egg or a spring sky. But it came across my page chalky, inconsistent. I thought it must be a defective batch but no. Granulating is the technical term. A wash with it is like rolling the dice on paint coverage. Per instructions, I loaded Cerulean into my palette, but we will never be on dear terms, Cerulean and me.

A thousand faces of indigo. All indigo, all the time. If you’ve ever seen me paint a night sky, it was almost certainly indigo.

The last year or two I’ve been reading my way through the histories of pigments and paints. My palette covers a hundred thousand years. I have the yellow ochre that neolithic priests painted in flickering firelight on deep cavern walls in the airless belly of the earth. I have the Venetian Red that colored so many lions and trousers and buildings in medieval and renaissance paintings. I do NOT have mummy brown, alas, since we no longer find the best use of mummies to be loading them onto our paint brushes (or burning them as fuel for locomotives). But I also have a whole palette of the unspellable quinacridones: gold, coral, magenta, rose, red, violet. Those paints “break” in this astonishing way where the thick paint and the watered paint are entirely different colors. The poisonous arsenic has been removed from the greens, and replaced with the perylene and the pthalos. What color does not come in cadmium? All these minerals and chemicals and discoveries (the history of mauve is a real page-turner – Wikipedia doesn’t do it justice) come with their own characteristics and traits – the personalities of the paint. Some of my paints I hardly ever use (Potters Pink, Terra Verte) but love for their connection to the earth and artists before me.

I have put together a number of palettes in my short history of painting: for a particular book, for a particular season, as I learn which ones I love and those with whom I will maintain a polite distance. But this palette has an entirely different slant than my White Mountain or Northwest art. I need the yellows, the purples, the red earths, the subdued depth of the desert greens to capture Arizona.

I can hear the confusion now … Arizona? Do you not live in New England in January (which, btw, is mostly a hundred variations on blue and blacks palette wise). Well. Here’s how it is. I’m switching functions at work from one to another, and it was taking a while and I didn’t have all that much to do while we made the switch. And it was a quiet week on the ol’ calendar. And last weekend I started looking at watercolor retreats I might be able to do this winter/spring, since with graduation etc. we are not likely to travel as much as a family this year. And the best one that didn’t conflict with anything was … this week. I feel wildly impulsive and out of character! Who flies to Arizona at the last minute? Surely this is irresponsible of me. But yet, here I am.

I’ve never been to Arizona (well, I may have driven through when I was 13 but that really doesn’t count). I’ve never seen a saguaro. I’ve spent far too little time in the desert of any ilk. I do not object to 80 degree instead of 18 degree weather. But in two hours I’ll land in Phoenix and wend my way to Tucson, for this workshop. I brought my hiking shoes (and yes, extra water bottles) in the hopes of hitting Saguaro National Park on the way. I have no idea what to expect: I haven’t done something like this before.

But that’s really more than half the point. In these middle chapters of life, we face the choice on whether to invest and focus on continuing to grow and change and learn new things – or whether to hone our existing expertise and enjoy the mastery we have worked for our entire lives. Of course, it’s a nuanced choice: we all have to figure out how to use the new way to watch movies, and every skill we once had comes on the journey with us. I find myself hungry for curiosity, and enthralled by the worlds out there I never knew existed. Who knew that paints had such personality and history? A child of the magenta/cyan/yellow screens would never guess such a truth. What other wonders await out there, just asking for me to ask the right set of questions to unlock them? I’m itching to find out. And see a few new sights in the process.

Edited to add:
I wrote that on the plane. Then I got here, spent an annoying amount of time in the airport and drove down I10 to Tucson feeling depressed at the nature of the billboards (casinos and personal injury lawyers mostly). But Saguaro National Park made up for all of it. The watercolors start tomorrow!

Can you make out the sundog here? (Parhelion for the pedantic.)

If I told you that the sunset was far more vivid than the camera saw, you’d call me a liar.

Middle-Aged Mom and the Quest for the 48 Peaks

Four years ago, my kids were just getting to a point where the guilt of leaving for a day to go hike a mountain was less than the desire to hike a mountain, and a friend and I scarpered our ways up Osceola East and I pushed past the chimney to the summit of Osceola. I wasn’t aware of it then, but I had just bagged my first two of the 4000 ft mountains on “the list” for the AMC badge for hiking all 48 of the 4000 ft+ mountains in New Hampshire.

A woman wearing a straw hat at the top of a mountain with her arms in a weird victory pose. — I’m doing my best Megan Rapinoe impression

A climb up Mt Waumbek in buggy weather last weekend has me with 8 left to go, and a steely determination NOT to end my quest on Mt. Cabot. (For those who care, I have the whole Bond Traverse: so Bond, Bondcliff, Zealand and West Bond, plus Cabot (ugh), Isolation (ugh), Jefferson and Madison.)

It’s been heavy going lately. I’ve done all the easy and close mountains – the ones where you hike for longer than you drive. This winter I did something to my knee which an orthopedic surgeon and MRI showed to be akin to “getting old” which took me 6 months and a Peloton to come back from. (To quote my surgeon, “Yeah, you’re no longer a runner.”) So I WAS going to knock off Isolation, Waumbek and Cabot at a minimum in the snow but nooooooo. (Isolation is a lot easier in the snow. Go figure.) Then I could day hike the Presidentials and have a glorious Bond Traverse overnight backpacking on Juneteenth. The best laid plans went aft agley, though. The Bond Traverse was still ON, the prep hikes had been done, and the discussion about exactly what summit foods we could make to inspire jealousy in our fellow campers was in full flight when the forecast got grim and grimmer. Look, I have hiked in rain. I have hiked in cold (-17 at the trailhead!). But hiking in rain AND cold is somewhere between dumb and dangerous – and definitely not fun. And theoretically this is a hobby I do for fun. So there was a deeply reluctant cancellation and rescheduling for fall.

A water bottle with a sticker on it, on a mountain — We formed a self help society

The entire working/hiking community in New Hampshire has had a deeply frustrating season of it. Every weekend seems to be clocking in rainy, buggy, cold or an amazing mixture of all three. Or the forecast will be “appalling” and the day will be great and we’re left at home gnashing regretful teeth. Or the forecast seems doable, but the bugs “Biblical”. Or everything looks amazing – but it’s Wednesday and we all have two many meetings.

My hiking buddy and I can tell you in brutal detail about every mountain we’ve hiked (and will, as anyone who’s ever locked themselves in with us for the 14 hours of driving and hiking can attest – in fact we cannot be stopped). Every mountain has the litany of remembrance. Hancocks, amazing when you can glissade (aka butt sled) down them! Owl’s Head is underrated, and the best shape we’ve been in! (Only time we’ve ever trail run out after 17 miles wearing a pack – come hike with me to hear the full story!) The time we BOTH brought two summit beers (after a hot and thirsty hike the time before) – and it was snowing so we didn’t want any of them. How many months of the year we’ve been snowed on while hiking! (11). The crazy people we’ve met on the trail! Our not-so-secret desire for AT trail names! On every hike, we remember every other hike, adding in the sun-dappled streams, spectacular vistas, exciting weather, and insufficiently grippy shoes to our tale. (Flume Slide led to the creation of our “high friction” line of clothing.)

A pair of hiking boots on a granite boulder overlooking a mountain valley with a range of mountains around it and a solo mountain in the middle — Garfield looking into the Pemigewasset wilderness across at Owl’s Head.

Four years seems like a reasonable number to take in order to summit 48 specific mountain peaks, although of course I’ve hiked many more in that time. Not all the mountains I hike count for the list, either for lame rules reasons (looking at you Mt. Hight) or because they aren’t tall enough (like my beloved Chocorua). By this year, I’ll have hiked more of the mountains than I am years old. But here’s hoping my knee and the rest of me holds together long enough to mail in for that great badge of honor, and I’m not stuck at 40!

A woman in an impossibly tight passage through gigantic boulders — Morgan & Percival, aka “chutes and ladders”.

Real Secrets of the Stoneham Mountaineering and Libation Society

Me and my partner in crime, I mean, hikes

For the last two and a half years, my hiking buddy Anthony and I have been waging a concerted campaign to show people how fun and beautiful hiking is, and to lure the unsuspecting from the comfortable back yards of sleepy Stoneham up to the ankle-breaking, muddy trails of the Granite State. After every trip, we post glorious pictures: sunrises, summits, friendly birds, glorious wildflowers, pictures of our boots hanging resting on granite slabs overlooking vistas of vast wildnernesses embraced by mountains whose names and journeys have been graven in our shared experience and captured on personalized “New Hampshire 48” maps on our bathroom walls.

Typically alluring scene: the summit of Carrigain

Yesterday marked my halfway point on my journey of New Hampshire 48 mountains taller than 4000 feet, as we strode along Signal Ridge to summit Mt. Carrigain. And instead of my usual glorious celebration, I’m going to give you the gritty insider view of the Real Secrets of the Stoneham Mountaineering and Libation Society*

Wednesday before, text: Brenda – “Free Saturday, thinking Carrigain. You free?” Anthony – “I hiked with you two weeks ago, did a 20 mile five mountain traverse last weekend and am hiking on Sunday too. So you have to drive.” Brenda – “Deal.”

The day before, 3 pm: text between the two hikers, just two things. A link (shared with the stay at home spouses) and the fateful words, 6:30 am. Brenda sets alarm for 5:45 am and plans to head to bed early tonight.

Pro tip: block the door with the stuff you don’t want to forget at 6 am

The night before, 8:30 pm, Brenda’s head: I should really go to bed. I have a hike early tomorrow, and I never sleep well the night before. I’ll just catch the women’s soccer game – two hours is perfect.

11:30 pm: Well, I didn’t really expect that to go extra time and penalty kicks. And I still need to make my sandwich and get my pack ready.

Midnight: I’m sure the next 5:45 will be the best quality sleep I’ve ever have.

1 am: Moves downstairs to guest bed due to husband who likes to dance flamenco in his sleep, especially on the night before hikes.

Hiking day
5:45 am: Alarm goes off. Birds are singing. The first light of morning is warming the Eastern skies and throwing golden light on the trees outside the window. Our hiker hero arises, stretches, and celebrates not sharing a room by launching into a stream of profane invective. Time to get up. She presses the button on the coffee, heads up to brush her teeth and don her traditional summer hiking garb. First breakfasts are a big bowl of Lucky Charms. It takes forever to fill the 4 liters of water she’s packing. The sticky note on the door reminds her to bring water and her sandwich. Everything else is already in the pack.

Fun fact: tiny cars are better for hiking. Read more for the shocking reason why!

6:35 am: Arrive at Anthony’s door. Celebrate most on-time departure yet with a surly welcoming growl and slurping on first of 64oz of coffee packed for the drive. Debate whether to take I93 or I95 and agree on a loop route. The mountain is 2.5 hours away no matter which way you go, so a minimum five hours of driving await our heroes. They enjoy the scenic rusting bridges, dump trucks and road construction along the way. Anthony refills Brenda’s coffee from thermoses twice.

8:15 am: First stop of the day is the traditional fortification at the McDonald’s in Lincoln. It has very convenient access, bathrooms, and incredibly slow service. In exchange for a few measly dollars, our heroes use the facilities and come out armed with Sausage McMuffins (Brenda), Breakfast Burrito (Anthony), hash browns (both) and orange juice (Anthony). They still have nearly an hour to the trail head, but gloriously no one gets in front of Brenda on the Kankamagus and she can demonstrate to Anthony how she learned how to drive “on roads just like this” and tells him that the yellow speed advisory signs are for “amateurs”. Anthony comments how unusual it is for him to get car sick, and wonders what might be different today. They both agree it’s probably pre-hike nerves.

90% of our hikes start here. I haven’t yet figured out why frequent hiking hasn’t led to weight loss on my part.

9:15 am: Three miles up an shockingly well maintained dirt road with a shockingly poorly maintained wooden bridge. Anthony comments on the narrowness of the single lane road right before a giant pickup truck flies by the opposite direction. Finally they arrive at the trail head. Of course, it’s completely packed and there is no available formal parking. There are about five cars trying to find a way to park, the inhabitants of whom will spend the next 10 hours passing and being passed by our hikers. As Brenda expertly executes a 46 point turn to get into an available section of ditch, they play the traditional game of “car accident or trailhead parking”. Eventually, they’re parked between the gigantic pickup truck with extra sized wheels, broomsticks holding up an American flag with a black stripe and a “Don’t Tread on Me” flag – and on the other side a diesel Volvo with Vermont plates and a series of increasingly faded Bernie Sanders for President stickers. I feel encouraged by the fact that among all our differences, we are all here together and love hiking and mountains.

9:25 am: Finally time to hit the trail! We didn’t forget anything this time. In the past, we have discovered such adventurous forgotten elements as hiking boots (Anthony) and food (Brenda). Despite being the last day of July (we said it was the first of August all day, because time means nothing on the trail) it was about 45 degrees and snowflakes were seen the prior night on Mt. Washington. Brenda presses the “go” button on her satellite phone, knowing that the at home spouses will be anxiously checking the hiking pair’s progress all day. Or maybe once if they get curious to see just how slowly we’re moving.

I’m color coordinated, except for the sat phone

9:35 am: Suddenly the gallon of coffee consumed on the hike up makes its presence known, and the search commences for an appropriate tree/rock. Anthony says “at least we don’t have to worry about anyone coming down the trail at this time of day”. Seconds later a fit young man comes running down the trail at full speed with two fit looking dogs deftly trailing his heels. Hiking the Whites inspires a lot of humility, but appropriate trees are found with privacy from hikers in both directions.

Trail head signs have the least accurate distances of all your bad trail distance options

From then, the hiking. This has been a historically wet summer in New England. This time of year, all the trails should be completely dry, and definitely not muddy for miles. But not this year. The first two miles of trail are easy and even beside a glorious mountain stream. This increasing the foreboding because we have 3500 feet of elevation to gain and lose, and every mile you aren’t climbing a little means the trail will be that much steeper when it finally hits. And hit it does: the last three miles are an unrelenting forested UP. The trails are very crowded today, and we leapfrog with some hikers of similar speed, while being passed in both directions by the speedy. Discussion breaks out: which are the most depressing, the trail runners who effortlessly pass us breathing less hard than we do, or the 70 year olds who encourage us as they pass by telling us it’ll get easier once we get in shape in retirement?

Finally we break treeline. All along Signal Ridge groups are spread out watching the clouds break across Washington, making up stories about the red scar that dramatically mars Mt. Lowell, or talking about their upcoming wedding dress fittings. We linger for a lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches, Pringles, and fruit snacks. The cold winds carry the bite of October, and the stunted krummholz shows as clearly as a sign what the prevailing wind direction is. Eventually we doff our winter layers and tackle the last push to the summit.

Our lunch view – Mt. Lowell with the scar, Mt. Washington in the background

We linger at the summit too, reveling in the 360 views of old friends we have hiked or will hike or want to hike. It does take a while to orient ourselves and figure out that the Pemi wilderness is in the direction of the sign that says “Pemigewasset Wilderness”. I say my standard prayer that some day there will be a lightening strike on the Owlhead summit which would have the best view in all of New England … if it wasn’t wooded. A conversation breaks out on the summit as we share food and gaze in shocked amazement at the guy (wearing only bright orange shorts) who brought up a pulled pork sandwich. Boasts and exaggerations flow around previous gourmet foods we’ve consumed on the trails. Eventually, reluctantly, we part from our new friends and start down.

I wonder which direction the Pemi wilderness is?

When you are young, you complain about up because it’s hard on the system – real work. When you are old, it’s the down that gets you as your joints complain about the miles of basically controlled falls on to rocks that are sharp, unsteady, slick – or in special instances all three. I usually vow at this phase that I’m going to work on strength and flexibility between hikes. It’s hard to look up, because the footing requires all your attention, and you’re starting to get tired. By the time we hit the flat mud section again, we’re almost quiet having exhausted all the gossip, observations, upcoming plans, and discussions of trails we have hiked and will hike.

We went up all that. We will now have to go down all that.

At the last, a few tenths of a mile from the trail head, we linger at a sylvan pool with crystal clear waters crashing down polished granite into deep and mysterious pools whose clarity leaves you wondering if they are 4 or 40 feet deep. The roiling waters seem impossibly consistent, an impossibility of constant motion and change as the dying light slants down the steep sides of the mountain we just climbed to the dark green of the pines and maples clinging to a carpet of soil over the granite bones that are never far away. When we attempt to stand and resume our packs, it takes three tries.

We often record water crossings in hope of getting good blackmail material in case the other person missteps and gets doused.

6:10 pm: Like Mr. Rogers, we end our day like we began it, changing our shoes in car. Sore, but happy. And not looking forward to the drive home. But we are the Stoneham Hiking and LIBATION Society, and one more thing remains to be done in our traditional hike.

7:30 pm Almost There Tavern: The after hike meal is highly anticipated event, and the topic of great conversation on the trail. This is one of my favorite spots, due to having Tuckerman Pale Ale on tap and friend green beans, both known health foods. They also have outdoor dining – not only important due to Covid but also due to the distinctive fragrance of people who have hiked through mud for 10 hours.

10:15 pm Finally back home again. Barely able to climb the stairs. The shower descends over blistered feet and aching knees, washing through sweat-tangled hair. As a last act of consciousness, I color in the trail and note the date.

24 down, 24 to go. The real secret is … it’s totally worth it and I can’t wait to go again.

*Fictionalized and exaggerated, because that’s how the SMLS rolls.

Days when the world changes

Today, I was supposed to be in Washington State with my parents and siblings, remembering a man who meant so very much to me. There were going to be hundreds of scouts – old and young. I was going to play my trumpet. The former governor of Washington was rumored to be planned to attend – he was one of Del’s scouts.

Instead, I’m in my attic, brushing off a dusty blog. I have not run an errand, bought a taco, or hung out with a neighbor today – and it may be some time before I do. A few weeks ago, my parents were here and we planned to see each other soon. Now, we will not. It’s time for some serious social distancing.

Thursday, I took the day off work and went for a winter hike. The snowpack on the trails was still favorable and firm, but the bright March light and warmer March air made it a pleasure to hike up and down the various mountains. But just as we left cell service, I got a text from my husband. “I kept Thane home from school. He has a fever and cough.”

This art counts as social distancing – there was a bunch of new stuff today

That night, still sore and stinky from the hike, wondering if I should send Grey in for the last half-day of school to pick up their things and his brother’s chromebook, I paged Thane’s pediatrician to see what the recommendation was. Dry cough and fever. Now. Surely there was some list I should add him to, some registration. Maybe testing. His doctor called back right away, sounding deeply unhappy. Did he have contact with someone from Biogen? If not, there is no testing. No lists. No records. Nothing to do but treat symptoms and be smart. So we have no idea if Thane has a cold, or something much more dire. Shortly after the call with the doctor, we learned there was a presumptive positive case for a kid in our town schools. We have to assume the worst, for the sake of everyone. So we’re even more isolated than the standard isolation – wondering if we’re going to get sick next. Two weeks is a very, very long time to wait. THERE IS NO TESTING for people who have all the symptoms and live in a community where the virus is.

This time is giving us a chance to catch up on little chores

So far, Thane is fine. His fever mostly broke last night. The cough is painful, and he has a sore throat, but it hasn’t slowed him down very much. So far, the rest of us are also fine. I went on a great run today. We went for a hike – the Middlesex Fells were PACKED – I’ve never seen so many cars – but there was plenty of room for all of us in the gracious, greening forest.

It’s such an odd thing, to watch the world change in twinkling. I’ve been watching Coronavirus very closely (slightly obsessively) since it escaped from the first rings of quarantine. I actually called the “work from home” instructions to the day – two weeks ago. Just watching the litany of cancellations – one after the other – flooding through my email is astonishing. Our 20th anniversary trip to Italy this April vacation is not happening. Del’s funeral will likely be in the fall (if at all). I had to move Piemas (to the Saturday closest to 6-28, Tau Day!). Church will be empty tomorrow – we will worship digitally. Everything is shutting down, shuttering. But the sidewalks are vibrant with people out and about on a beautiful day, seeing each other from a safe distance, enjoying exercise and health and sunlight from suddenly luxuriously (dauntingly?) empty schedules.

I’ve now exceeded my prediction powers. School will definitely resume in the fall. But how much of the spring do we lose? The planned 2 weeks? Six, like in Washington State? All to year? College tours are cancelled. Proms are cancelled. We face this long, quiet uncertain period of being only with family, and going only to places disinfected by sunlight. There’s a hope to that – a slowing and quieting that our society is so deficient in. But there is also fear. Am I ready to nurse my family and friends, if needed? Who will nurse me? Just how crazy will we all go locked in a house together? What about those who are locked in much worse situations than we are?

I take comfort in this: we are kinder to each other than anyone expected. We are resourceful, and thoughtful. And we will come through this wiser than we went in. I only hope the wisdom is not too hard-earned.

Measureless Mountain Days

Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days, days in whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God. -John Muir

I spent about 12 hours over the last week or so going through the pictures I took in 2019. I believe the tally is about 10,000 pictures, give or take. I’m deeply lamenting that Google stopped automatically syncing drive and photos, since now backing up my collection requires actual effort. But at the end of each year, I create a “Best of” album that I use for creating calendars, making physical prints (so that some hacker can’t erase my children’s childhoods), and as the background scenes for my screensaver at work.

I’m always struck at how the photographs work. In the moment, my kids start groaning when I take my camera out. There’s a fake-feeling when you arrange them artistically and cajole them to smile. When it’s just me, sometimes I wonder if I’m really seeing things when I have my phone out, or if I’m just postponing the seeing to some later date which may or may not ever come. The moments that surround those pictures have all sorts of feelings: annoyance, exhaustion, aggravation, anger, humor, relaxation, exasperation. But by the time I’ve picked my favorite photos, the entire year looks beautiful, joyful, peaceful and full of familial bonding.

This transformation of life from banal aggravation to beautiful memories is a miracle of modern alchemy. The best part is that, as you pull out your memories along with these pictures, they start to conform to what the photos say. It was a great day. We all had fun. We get along wonderfully. We spend most of our time doing meaningful things together as a family. Memories are not the truth of what happened, or of what we felt at that time. They are changed by, and even created by, what we do with them after they are first born. I work hard to make those memories largely lovely (although I do save a few less beautiful ones for authenticity’s sake, and because given enough time they usually become funny).

During this marathon session of photographic goodness, I couldn’t help noticing something about my year. There were a LOT more mountain scenes than in past years. My memories of those moments don’t include aching knee-muscles (impossible to photograph) or the pounding heat on Chocorua. But they instead evoke moments of peace, majesty, and a bigger and more lovely world. I’ve recently begun hiking a lot with an old friend who is the same kind of crazy I am about hiking mountains. On grim, cold days we sometimes text each other pictures of where we wish we were. With his not-so-great example, I was recently talked into doing my first ever winter hike, which required a massive re-kitting for appropriate gear. (OK, by talked into, I mean I said “Hey, want to go hiking on Wednesday?” and he said, “Sure!”.)

New pants, new gaiters, new boots, new microspikes.

It was a beautifully soul-clearing hike, starting in the dark of the morning before dawn. We climbed to beat the weather, due in at some uncertain time of the afternoon (the forecasts were wildly inconsistent). The skies at times darkened ominously and scarves of white clouds wrapped themselves tightly around the necks of Lafayette and Lincoln, across the valley. But there were glorious moments, too. A perfect boulder, covered in pebbly ice. A southern exposure with bright moss shining through the white snow. The expanse of Lonesome Lake perfect below us. The sound of bitter winds whipping above our heads, with short summit-pines protecting us from the greatest heat-stealing wrath of winter’s icy breath.

The moss was shockingly vibrant amid all the monochrome of snow and sky

As Boston braces for our first real snow of the winter on Monday, the experienced yankee might feel a mild claustrophobia setting in, as the world begins its process of shrinking to the size of the shoveled path. But perhaps this year will be different. Perhaps this year, I’ll be able to brave snow and ice, and meet my mountains again before spring.