by Tom Ryan
Out of respect for Vicki, I didn’t go to her funeral. She would have loved that. After all, it was no longer her funeral. Instead Atticus and I walked on the beach at Plum Island that day. I never struggled with my decision to skip it, but I struggled to figure out just how I could pay tribute to her. It would take a while, but I finally got it. I’d remember Vicki by doing something “for the kids.”
Each year WEEI, a sports radio station in Boston, stops talking sports for a couple of days and devotes that time to raising money for the Jimmy Fund and the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. It is an inspirational forty-eight hours of radio as sports stars play bit parts to the real stars—kids with cancer.
Growing up in New England and being a fan of the Red Sox, I was well aware of the Jimmy Fund. Since the days of Ted Williams, Red Sox players have visited children fighting for their lives at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. WEEI, which broadcasts the Red Sox games, understood that relationship, and it was a natural fit for them to run the radiothon.
Atticus and I were driving north to the mountains on a Friday afternoon as I listened. The stories I heard were remarkable. Cancer and kids—it’s such a horrifying combination. Yet paying attention to those kids and the battles they fought inspired me. Many of the children interviewed had an unbelievable outlook on life.
We were somewhere around Plymouth on I-93, right where the mountains first start to rise, when WEEI’s reception started to break up. That was frustrating, because I wanted to continue listening to these astonishing stories. I found myself wanting to help in some small way, and right about that time, I looked out as dusk was falling on the mountains. I had my answer.
After thinking about it for a few days, I called the Jimmy Fund and told them I wanted to raise money for them. The woman I spoke with was pleasant but a little confused when I told her I wanted to raise money by hiking with my dog. By the time I explained it to her, she liked the idea and thought it was one of the more unusual fund-raising efforts she’d ever heard of.
The idea of hiking in the mountains in Vicki’s memory was a perfect fit, since one of her most memorable experiences was her three-day walk for cancer, where she pushed her limits. I decided that Atticus and I would push our limits, too, by doing something I’d never dreamed of—hiking each of the forty-eight four-thousand-foot mountains twice in the ninety days of winter . . . “for the kids.”
7
The Greatest Quest
I called our fund-raising endeavor the “Winter Quest for a Cure” and announced it in the Undertoad and on the two hiking Web sites Views from the Top and Rocks on Top. We would attempt to hike all forty-eight four-thousand-footers twice in winter of 2006–2007—ninety-six peaks in ninety days. It had been done before, but only once.
Cath Goodwin is the most prolific winter hiker in the White Mountains. During the spring, summer, and fall, she runs a landscaping business. But when winter starts, the mountains are her business. In 1994–1995, Cath, along with two of her friends, Steve Martin and Cindy DiSanto, became the first to climb all forty-eight in one winter. She would go on to replicate that feat several more times, and in the winter of 2004–2005 she became the only known person to do two rounds in a single winter.
I knew that Atticus and I were facing a great challenge. Not only would it be a physical test for both of us, but due to Atticus’s diminutive size, we’d be limited by the number of days we could hike. We’d have to take advantage of the better weather days for our hikes above tree line. While most hikers would think that hiking Mount Washington by itself on a winter day was quite an accomplishment, we planned to hike Washington and then continue on to Monroe, Eisenhower, and Pierce. While others would be content with hiking Lafayette and Lincoln above tree line, we’d add Flume and Liberty, two additional peaks along Franconia Ridge. Whenever we could, we’d string peaks together and force as many into a day as possible. There would even be days when we’d do more than one hike.
In preparation we made several longer hikes throughout the summer to build up our endurance. These would go from eighteen to twenty-four miles, and on one August day we even set out to do the challenging Pemi Loop. It’s thirty-three and a half miles and crosses ten major summits in the Pemigewasset Wilderness. We started the hike at one in the morning, saw sunrise on Mount Liberty, our second peak of the day, and were moving well—until the eleven-mile mark, when I felt light-headed and feverish. I called friends on my cell phone and stopped our hike short, walking the four miles down to the road, where they were waiting to drive us back to our motel room. I slept for nearly twenty-four hours. I chalked it up to the first stages of the flu.
Over the next four months, that mysterious illness would come and go. The symptoms became worse and showed up more often as time wore on. There were debilitating headaches, blurred vision, stiff and swollen joints, and at times my hands felt like they were turning into arthritic claws; I was increasingly fatigued, and there were mornings when I’d get out of bed at 7:00 A.M. only to be back in it three hours later. There were days I could still hike, but not a lot of them, and when the symptoms arose on a couple of hikes, I pushed through the discomfort, eventually feeling okay. But in the following days, I paid the price with increased fatigue. I started to think that once again I was going to fail in my attempt to pay tribute to Vicki Pearson.
With December growing closer, it was clear I wasn’t getting better. I was actually getting worse. And all the endurance Atticus and I had built up throughout the summer was gone. I suspected Lyme disease and had my blood tested. The test came back negative. But that’s the thing about Lyme; it doesn’t always show up in blood tests. With time running out, I found a doctor who specialized in treating people with Lyme disease based on symptoms and not blood-test results. He was my last hope.
He put me on a couple of medications and several vitamins and supplements. I began taking them just two weeks before winter started, crossed my fingers, and took a leap of faith that I would be okay.
I organized my life so that we could stay in the mountains throughout most of the winter. There would be days I’d have to return to write the Undertoad, but I also let my readers know I was shutting the paper down for the first month of the winter. A few local businesses made donations to help pay for our lodging, and Muttluks contributed six sets of dog boots for Atticus to wear. Dawn and Jeff Price, owners of Newburyport’s the Natural Dog, donated three months’ worth of their best food and treats for Atticus.
I created a blog to record our adventures, raise money for the Jimmy Fund and the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and let readers track our progress. Our fund-raising strategy was simple: People dedicated a peak in the name of someone they knew who was fighting cancer, had beaten it, or had died from it, and they sent in checks made out to the Jimmy Fund.
When the first day of winter arrived, Atticus and I were up north and ready to go, even if we weren’t in great shape. I hoped the Lyme disease would cooperate and the medication would do its part. I also hoped we’d have enough money to pay for our entire winter.
Cath Goodwin heard about our quest on a hiking Web site and invited us to join a group of people she’d put together for a winter-solstice hike up Cannon Mountain. We accepted, and at the start of calendar winter, 7:22 P.M. on December 21, we were off and hiking.
It was dark and frigid, but everyone there was a winter enthusiast and in good spirits. I would like to report that Atticus and I did fine on that first short, steep climb of about two miles, but I’d only be telling half the truth. Atticus did fine, but I was exhausted. I couldn’t keep up with the others, and on more than one occasion I fell breathlessly to my knees to rest. Nevertheless we made the summit, celebrated in the biting wind, and then headed down.
One of the joys of hiking Cannon at night is that we used the ski trails. This is not allowed during the day when people are skiing, but at night it was just us and the grooming machines. On the way down along the open slopes, w
e looked out at the lights twinkling throughout the valley below and the brilliant stars above, and I thought of my beloved Thoreau, who said, “Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.” I knew we’d be seeing breathtaking beauty throughout the winter, and I looked at that first night under God’s firmament and above mankind’s as a perfect start for a journey that would have us walking between those two worlds for the next three months.
The following morning we met with another group of people for a ten-mile hike to Mount Carrigain. It was the same story: I couldn’t keep up on the climb. I didn’t know if it was the Lyme disease, my lack of conditioning, or a combination of the two, but Atticus stayed with me, as always, to make sure I was all right. Once we reached the summit and met up with the others, I felt better, and the downhill was easy.
On the third day, it rained. I’d never been so happy about a rainy day in the mountains before, and we took advantage of it by staying under the covers and sleeping most of the day away. We woke up on the morning of Christmas Eve and joined Cath Goodwin and Steve Martin for the short hike up Mount Tecumseh, and I felt better. After we finished, we wished them a Merry Christmas, said our good-byes, and drove back to our rented cabin. We ate lunch, I changed my clothes, and we got back into the car for the drive north to Mount Waumbek.
This was our first hike of what would be many where it was just Atticus and me, and when we arrived at the trailhead, I was so tired I didn’t want to get out of the car. Atticus seemed happy to stay curled up in a ball on top of his fleece blanket as well. That was one of the problems we’d have hiking alone—there would be times throughout the winter when we wouldn’t be motivated to go. Hiking with others would help, but it’s something I didn’t want to do all that often. Neither of the hikes, Tecumseh or Waumbek, is considered difficult. The elevation gain is not all that much, and the round trip to Tecumseh is only five miles, while the round-trip up Waumbek is about seven. But put them together on the same day and it was more than I was ready for—mentally or physically. After wrestling with myself and thinking about our goals for the winter, I eventually got out of the car.
It was a dismal afternoon, melancholy and gray, and I forced myself to walk. My pack was heavy, as were my legs. For the first of many times that winter, my mind played tricks on me, and I thought about how everyone I knew was gathering with family and friends to celebrate the holiday, and here we were alone in the barren, frozen woods the afternoon before Christmas. I walked along listlessly and sweated, swore, and prayed my way up the lower portion of the mountain. The enormity of our challenge was finally hitting me.
What could I possibly have been thinking? I don’t belong in those mountains, and neither does Atticus.
But as soon as the thought entered my mind, I looked up at the little dog in front of me and saw him bouncing along. He looked so out of place, with his floppy ears, thin legs, and tiny bum swaying back and forth, that I laughed out loud. Atticus stopped and turned back with a stern look on his face to let me know that there was work to do. In his own way, he was going to pull me up that mountain.
Waumbek is a misunderstood place. Hikers often consider it one of their least favorite mountains because of its lack of views. But I’ve always felt differently about it. The worst of the elevation gain seems to come in the beginning, and as the trail climbs, the trees become thicker and wilder, the forest more tangled and mysterious. A mile before the summit of Waumbek, the trail crosses the top of Mount Starr King (3,907 feet), named after Thomas Starr King, the first writer to fall head over heels in love with the White Mountains. He was a poor man’s Ralph Waldo Emerson, an American Unitarian minister who wrote romantically about nature. His book of purple prose, The White Hills: Their Legends, Landscape, and Poetry, written in 1859, drew tourists in flocks to the White Mountains.
The trail from Starr King to Waumbek is a hauntingly beautiful stretch. Tree bark is draped with “old man’s beard,” a plant that gives trees an ancient feel, much like the South’s Spanish moss. Covered in frost, it lends a ghostly appearance. The saddle between the two summits sits where the wind slices through and creates an eerie cry, and in its wake it has left a wreckage of dead trees. And yet among those that have toppled over, life springs from below where saplings now have room to grow. This is the part of Waumbek that captivates me. I’m forever enchanted by this mile-long passage that shows both the beginning and end of life in one scene.
On our climb that Christmas Eve day, it was a bleak-looking place, with mist drifting slowly through the saddle between the two peaks. Winds whispered and moaned, and the trees groaned. I pulled the zipper on my jacket all the way up to keep the cold and loneliness at bay. When we finally reached the summit, the wind fell silent and the clouds on the western horizon lifted just enough to let the sinking sun cast a golden light through the evergreens, and the mood of the forest was transformed. It was as if the mountain was welcoming us now that we’d passed the test of walking through our fatigue and was inviting us to sit down and relax. We did just that. I sat on a toppled tree, and Atticus sat on my lap. We shared chicken sausages and cheese. It wasn’t quite the feast that friends back home were enjoying at their festive gatherings, but it was enough for us, and it filled our hungry bellies.
I looked at Atti’s innocent face and took in our unlikely holiday surroundings. It was definitely not something out of Martha Stewart’s world, and yet it seemed to me that we were right where we were supposed to be. Our adventure had started, and I could only imagine what lay before us.
I raised a small bottle of eggnog to my little friend and marked that very different Christmas Eve with a toast: “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.” Indeed we weren’t.
It was just the beginning of our quest, but it was already a very different life for the two of us. The Lyme disease had receded enough to allow us those two hikes. It then allowed us to hike to North and South Kinsman on Christmas Day, before sending me to bed for two days.
It wouldn’t be long before Lyme disease was the least of our worries.
8
The Little Giant
We led a simple life, and our temporary living quarters reflected it. It was a tiny, one-room cabin in Lincoln at the southern end of Franconia Notch, with a fireplace, a bed, a chair, a table, a dresser, a television (rarely on), a microwave, a small refrigerator, and my laptop. The cabin was cluttered with hiking gear, food, Gatorade bottles, vitamins, and supplements. And books. For company I’d brought along some friends: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, John Muir, Thomas Merton, Alfred Lord Tennyson, and Joseph Campbell. As is true with all friends, they were great company, but as can happen with those who spend much time around one another in close quarters, there can also be disagreements. In fact, I had an argument with Thoreau one day, although I’m certain he didn’t hear me swear at him because I was facedown in the snow in the middle of the Pemigewasset Wilderness, eleven miles from the nearest road.
The point of contention was something he’d written: “A howling wilderness does not howl; it is the imagination of the traveler that does the howling.”
In his defense, Thoreau was right for the first eight days of winter. For the most part, there was nothing to fear. Winter had been kind to us. December hadn’t felt all that wintry. There was little snow, more rain, and some ice, and apart from one bone-chilling day, the temperature was mild.
My Lyme disease was a bit moodier and had sent me to bed for a couple of days after Christmas. After that, I felt stronger than I had since the winter began, and we hiked the three peaks of the Willey Range (Tom, Field, and Willey) through six inches of fresh snow. The following day we climbed Garfield and stood atop the summit under crystal-clear skies at ten below zero with the wind stinging our faces. That was twenty-three miles in two days, clearly the best we’d done to that point. I was feeling healthier. It was a good thing, because I’d need all my strength for our third straight day of hiking.
In the winter some hikes are longer because the Forest Service closes various access roads. A traverse across Zealand Mountain and the three Bonds stretches from nineteen to twenty-three miles because of it. And because of the marathon distance and the exposure during the middle four miles of the hike, which is mostly above tree line, and the fact that there are no bailout options, it was the most audacious hike we’d undertake that winter. The only way off the Bonds, once you reached them, was to either turn around or go forward. It’s for that reason that we saved them for a good day—one in which it wasn’t storming and the wind was moderate at worst. That and the stunning views.
The day after hiking Garfield, it looked like just that kind of day. Not a perfect one, but good enough so that we could walk twenty-three miles south across the Pemigewasset Wilderness from Route 302 up north to a second car parked off the Kancamagus Highway in the south. That second car belonged to Tom Jones, a Newburyport friend.
Some would consider Tom a bad choice for a partner on a marathon hike. You see, he had very limited experience in the mountains. He’d hiked only a handful of times, and each of those was with Atticus and me. He had joined us three times during our first winter and twice during the second summer. But Tom had qualities that were more important to me than hiking experience. He was exceedingly loyal, humble, in great shape, and tough as nails, and, most important, as a friend to both Atticus and me, he understood that every hike was centered on making sure Atticus was safe and comfortable. Little did we know upon entering the woods at five o’clock that morning that keeping him safe and comfortable would be more difficult than we could ever have imagined.
The forecast called for temperatures around thirty degrees, with a 30 to 50 percent chance of snow showers. The higher-summits forecast called for winds between thirty and fifty miles per hour, with the stronger gusts coming after sunset. But the higher-summits forecast originates from the observatory atop Mount Washington, and that is fifteen hundred feet higher than the Bonds, so it figured to be far less windy for us. By the time the winds picked up, I expected us to be finished with our hike.