Up
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Advance Praise for
Up
“As someone who has struggled to keep up with Alex on a pair of New Hampshire 4,000ers in winter, I can testify firsthand to what a remarkable hiker and person she is. Patricia Ellis Herr’s charming memoir distills the lessons she learned on the trail with her precocious daughter. Up offers a welcome corrective to Tiger Mother syndrome.”
—David Roberts, author of Finding Everett Ruess: The Life and Unsolved Disappearance of a Legendary Wilderness Explorer
Copyright © 2012 by Patricia Ellis Herr
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Broadway Paperbacks, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
BROADWAY PAPERBACKS and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Herr, Patricia Ellis.
Up : a mother and daughter’s peakbagging adventure / Patricia Ellis Herr.
p. cm.
1. Mountaineering. 2. Mothers and daughters. I. Title.
GV199.8.H47 2011
796.522—dc23 2011034574
eISBN: 978-0-307-95208-0
Photographs by Patricia Ellis Herr, except for this page photograph, by Mark Tuckerman
Cover design by Jessie Sayward Bright
Cover photographs by Patricia Ellis Herr
v3.1
For my granite girls,
Alex and Sage.
You are the kindest,
strongest, and most beautiful
people I know.
Thanks for the many adventures.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
INTRODUCTION
“Are You Out of Your Mind?”
LESSON ONE
Some Things Will Always Be Beyond Your Control
Freak Thunderstorm on Mount Tom, August 16, 2008
LESSON TWO
Know What You’re Getting Into
Failed Mount Tecumseh Attempt, April 13, 2008
LESSON THREE
“I Think I Can” Works
Peak #1: Mount Tecumseh, June 7, 2008
LESSON FOUR
Ignore the Naysayers
Peaks #2 and #3: Mount Eisenhower and Mount Pierce, June 21, 2008
LESSON FIVE
Lose the Paranoia
Peaks #6 and #7: Mount Osceola and East Osceola, August 2, 2008
LESSON SIX
Mistakes Can Have Serious Consequences
Hugh Tells a Cautionary Tale, August 2008
LESSON SEVEN
Divide and Conquer
Peaks #10 and #11: Mount Monroe and Mount Washington, August 28–29, 2008
LESSON EIGHT
“Happiness Is Only Real When Shared”
Autumn, 2008
LESSON NINE
Some Risks Are Worth Taking
Winter, 2008–2009
LESSON TEN
To Get to Where She Wants to Go, a Girl Must Punch Through Rotting Snow
Peak #30: Mount Moriah, April 25, 2009
LESSON ELEVEN
Roll with the Punches
Peak #36: Mount Isolation, June 27–28, 2009
LESSON TWELVE
Little Things Matter (a Lot)
Peaks #40–#42: The Bonds, July 10, 2009
LESSON THIRTEEN
We Can’t Always Make It Better
Peak #44: Owl’s Head, July 25–26, 2009
LESSON FOURTEEN
Enjoy the Journey While It Lasts
Peak #48: Mount Moosilauke, August 30, 2009
LESSON FIFTEEN
Keep Moving Forward
July 2011
Acknowledgments
Resources
Since I frequently encountered this question when my five-year-old daughter, Alex, and I began climbing grown-up-size mountains, addressing it seems a fitting way to begin this account of our journey together on the trails.
The idea of hiking up all forty-eight of New Hampshire’s tallest mountains started out as a casual, almost accidental lark. My daughter has been a boundless bundle of energy since birth, and I thought hiking a big mountain might prove an enjoyable occupation for us to try. I never anticipated how far we would go, nor did I anticipate how unusual our activity would strike others. At the time, I thought it would be a fun mother-daughter bonding experience and an opportunity to enjoy the riches of New Hampshire’s glorious natural landscapes. I certainly had no lofty pretentions about finishing the entire list of mountains in a short amount of time, nor did I foresee that the experience might teach her to follow her own path instead of listening to societal expectations.
As with any journey worth its salt, I came away from the trail not only treasuring the moments, the sweat, and the occasional miracle, but also taking with me some important lessons. For my daughter, I hope this experience will leave an indelible mark in her young heart, forever there to remind her that small doesn’t necessarily mean weak, that girls can be strong, and that big, bold things are possible.
It was Alex who asked me to write this book. She hopes that by sharing our stories, others will experience the exhilaration of the trail. I hope the book serves as a reminder not just to Alex as she grows, but to all of us, that if you want to do something big, something daring and grand and huge, then don’t automatically shrug and assume that you’re too young, too old, too weak, too busy, too poor, too frazzled, or too small. Learn, persevere, sweat. Take the time to figure out how to do it correctly, then go to it with a giant spirit of adventure and enjoy the climb.
—Patricia Ellis Herr, July 2011
Freak Thunderstorm on Mount Tom, August 16, 2008
Mama!” Five-year-old Alex screams to be heard over the furious storm as we crouch among the scrub near the summit of 4,003-foot Mount Tom. My ears are full of the howling wind, so though Alex crouches immediately to my right, I can barely make out her words. Even her face is obscured by the weather. The ends of her shoulder-length blonde hair fly onto her pale cheeks and into her eyes and mouth; her face is covered by dancing yellow wisps. Sage, Alex’s three-year-old sister and spitting image, crouches to my left and looks intently up at my face. Her wide green eyes study my expression, looking for a clue as to how frightened she should feel.
We are 3,900 feet above sea level and in the middle of New Hampshire’s White Mountains. Directly across the street lies the Presidential Range, a chain of peaks that includes Mount Washington, the highest mountain in the American Northeast and home to what the Mount Washington Observatory describes as the world’s worst weather. Three storm systems converge directly over this region, making the weather subject to unpredictable variation. Even during the summer, a hiker can experience dense fog, hurricane-force winds, and temperatures hovering near the freezing point.
The morning of our adventure, the forecast had called for clear morning skies and possible afternoon thunderstorms. We had set out early, thinking we’d be back at the car well before the arrival of threatening clouds. However, true to the spontaneous nature of the Whites, an electrical tempest had formed three hours before any nasty weather was supposed to show up. Later, folks at the Mount Washington Observatory informed me that this storm didn’t appear on their radar system. It gave no advance warning. It literally birthed itself right over Mount Tom. Lucky us.
“Are you scared, Mama?” Alex hollers. She too is searching for information. Should she worry? How bad is this situation? Both of my children are accustomed to hearing me speak the truth, and they look to me for guidance.
Understanding that my attitude and actions will greatly influence their emotio
ns and their immediate behavior, I force myself to look calm. As I draw in a breath to respond, the sky opens and quarter-size hail comes pouring down. Okay, we’ve officially reached the point of ridiculousness. Some bored god has obviously decided to make his day interesting by upending a bucket of Dangerous Storm right over our heads.
As the hail bounces off the hoods of my young daughters’ raincoats and puddles at the rubber soles of their boots, I answer Alex’s question with as calm a demeanor as I can muster.
“Yes, honey. I am a little scared.”
My backpack sits on the ground beside me. I had taken it off as soon as the first lightning bolt appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, on an otherwise blue and beautiful morning. In the time it had taken to remove the girls’ packs and get the three of us into “lightning safe” position, the storm had fully formed and had begun to beat its chest with astounding bravado.
We crouch low beside one another, the rubber soles of our boots set firmly on the ground. The girls don’t touch each other, not even to lean for support, and I don’t touch them. It’s important not to touch anything if at all possible, and to have only that rubber underneath our feet be in contact with the ground. If lightning strikes immediately next to us, the electricity may travel through the dirt beneath our boots. If any part of us is touching that bit of temporarily charged earth without the grounding protection of rubber, then we’re toast.
We keep low, but I realize we are in danger. There are no thick groves of trees to shelter us; we crouch in pathetically tiny vegetation. We need to move, and quickly. However, I need a second or two to Not Panic. My children’s safety depends entirely on my ability to keep focused.
Lightning strikes close enough for the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. The three of us let out a simultaneous shriek.
Time’s up. We have to get out of here. Now.
Mount Tom isn’t exactly notorious for extreme weather, and my surprise at finding myself in this situation is great indeed. When one thinks of the more dangerous peaks of New Hampshire’s White Mountains, one usually considers Mount Washington, Mount Adams, Mount Lafayette, and a few other similarly bare and exposed summits. Tom is one of the easier ascents, and it is often recommended for beginning long-distance hikers. Having already climbed six of the region’s highest mountains, including Mount Jefferson, an extremely rugged peak two summits away from towering Mount Washington, neither Alex nor I had expected to find today’s hike a challenge. Indeed, we had even convinced little Sage to come with us. I had carried her halfway up the trail, solemnly promising her a great deal of chocolate once we reached the top. This strategy had kept her happy, and the three of us had been having an enjoyable day.
Alex and I are attempting to become members of the Four Thousand Footer Club, an Appalachian Mountain Club organization that recognizes hikers who have ascended, on foot, all forty-eight of New Hampshire’s highest White Mountains. Each of these mountains is at least four thousand feet tall, and the list of official peaks is known as the New Hampshire 4Ks. Climbing all the 4Ks is normally an adult endeavor; it is rare for young children to pursue such a goal. Alex’s mission is to finish the forty-eight before she turns seven, which, at the rate we are going, she should be able to do with time to spare. She is an exceptionally strong and enthusiastic hiker, always looking forward to the next ascent, and constantly talking about the mountains to anyone who will listen. When we’re on the trail, I often forget that she is only five years old, as her stamina and demeanor are more characteristic of a teenager than they are of a kindergartner.
Of course, taking a young child up a mountain means bringing along all sorts of precautionary items, such as clothing for ever-changing weather, a lightweight emergency shelter, plenty of food and water, and myriad other useful and potentially lifesaving odds and ends. If I am to accompany Alex on adult-size hikes, it means I must be prepared for any contingency. My back sometimes groans at the weight of my pack, but that’s a small price to pay for keeping my kid safe.
Now, however, up in the tumultuous heavens of Mount Tom, I am forcefully reminded that there is no such thing as guaranteed protection. I had brought everything but the kitchen sink and had double-checked the forecast before we left. Yet here we crouch, three lovely victims of chaos theory.
More lightning. Enough, I think. Gotta go.
I tell my daughters that we have to move, that we’re not safe here, and that we need to get back down the trail and into the midst of the forest. Lightning tends to hit the tallest objects, so by surrounding ourselves with myriad trees that are uniform in height and taller than me, we lessen the risk of a strike happening to or anywhere near us. Alex looks determined and ready to roll. I stand, reach for Sage, then come to a sudden and unfortunate realization—my backpack. I can’t carry both Sage and my huge pack at the same time, at least not in a full-out run. I can carry them both if I’m able to take my time … but right now there is no time to take. Another lightning bolt hits close by and I make a split-second decision. Get the kids out of here, secure them down below, then come back up for the pack. In the moment, that plan makes perfect sense.
“Go ahead, Alex—run, and stop at the place where we had lunch,” I shout to my oldest, then swoop up Sage and run like hell.
In one second, Alex is around the corner and out of sight. We’ve only a couple of tenths of a mile to cover before dropping down into a heavily wooded area with tall, protective trees, and I assume Alex is just ahead of me as I dash down the trail. Sage bounces in my arms as my feet hit the slippery rocks in rapid succession. Her arms cling around my neck as I press her body close to me.
Within minutes, we reach the trail sign marking the intersection where Alex was supposed to stop. A wave of panic washes over me. Alex is not there.
There are three paths leading away from this junction, not including the path I’m standing on.
I’ve no idea which way my daughter went.
“Lightning position!” I bark the order to Sage as I quickly put her down. She obeys and crouches low.
“Alex!” I yell as loudly as I can, but the wind is whipping, the thunder is booming, and the hail is bouncing off the rocks. There is no way she can hear me, even if she’s close by.
Sage is crying, saying something I can’t understand. I kiss the top of her head, then reach into the outer mesh of her backpack to retrieve one of the many emergency whistles I require each daughter to carry.
Alex’s safety now depends on this one small piece of orange plastic. Standing tall, I blow that whistle over and over and over again. The high-pitched blasts are loud enough to rival the storm’s fury, and my ears ring painfully. Sage covers her head with her hands, though I’m not sure if the gesture is in protest to the piercing sound or in despair at her sister’s absence.
I blow that whistle with all my heart and soul, sending out a message to my beautiful, strong child who is running the wrong way through the White Mountain wilderness.
Come back, Alex. Come back.
It is, by far, the most frightening moment of my life. Yet stubborn anger rises up and matches the fear. She cannot get lost. I won’t allow it. She was only a couple of seconds ahead of me; it’s impossible that she’s that far ahead. She must hear this whistle, stop, and turn around. It’s what I’ve always told both my girls to do in the event we become separated. Damn it—she’d better do it now.
The minutes drag by and still she does not appear. I think of my pack, sitting by itself on our abandoned spot of trail. My pack, which contains, among other things, a personal locator beacon. That device has a button that, when pressed, sends my direct location and personal information to search and rescue teams across the country. If I had that in my hand, I could press it, and though help would not arrive for hours (it takes time for the volunteer crews to assemble and reach the trailhead), at least people would be on their way. Should I run up and get that pack? That would mean putting Sage back into a dangerous situation. The storm still sits on this mountain, and the
lightning continues to flash around us. The pack is in a dangerously exposed place. Can I leave Sage here and run after the pack by myself? No. She’s three years old, and she can’t be expected to hold it together and wait here alone. She’d be terrified, she might panic and run off into the woods. Then I’d end up with two missing kids instead of one.
I blow the whistle repeatedly as I pray for some definite solution to this horrible dilemma. Then, suddenly, a figure pops up on the path to my right. It is Alex, my precious child, and she is covered with mud. We run to each other, and I grab her and lift her up and kiss her dirty face.
The three of us crouch together, and Alex explains that she never saw the sign at the trail intersection, that she just ran and ran and ran. After one particularly loud thunderclap, she had crouched low and stayed put. It was then that she heard the sound of the emergency whistle. She had not immediately returned because the many flashes of lightning made her wary of standing. When she had finally started to rise, she slipped in the mud and fell over, face-first.
Alex’s voice does not shake as she tells me this. She appears neither frightened nor upset. Then she tells me that she would have eventually stopped running and blown her own whistle, thus enabling me to find her. My relief at this news is massive. I try to prepare my kids for anything and everything, but of course one never knows if a child will carry out the rehearsed lesson should pandemonium actually strike.
Though we are much safer now, under the cover of many uniformly tall trees, we are still only half a mile from the summit. Lightning and thunder continue to crash about us—this storm is obnoxiously slow to move on. I would feel much better about our safety if we kept hiking downward. However, there’s one not-so-little problem.
My backpack.
My backpack containing all our clothing, our food, our water, and, more important, my emergency gear, now sits all by itself in a puddle of hailstones a little way up the trail. I don’t want to leave it. We’ve two and a half miles of slippery rock to descend before we’re back at the car. If I should slip and break an ankle without my pack, then I don’t have the things I need to keep all three of us warm and dry until a rescue team arrives.