I figure I can get to it in two minutes, tops, if I move as fast as I can. However, retrieving it means leaving the shelter of the taller trees and running headlong back into the lightning.
The kids have to stay here.
I place Alex immediately next to Sage and explain my dilemma. I tell my daughters that I must get that pack, that I don’t feel safe hiking down without it. I tell them that I don’t feel right taking them back up the trail and into the lightning we just ran from. I ask for them to understand if I run up and get the pack by myself, and I inform them that they are both safer here together, in the trees.
“How long will you be gone?” Alex asks apprehensively. It’s the first tremor of fear I’ve detected since this calamitous adventure began.
“Not long. Five minutes at the very most.”
Sage asks me not to leave. The fear leaves Alex’s expression as she looks at her little sister, crouching obediently in the dirt. Then her chest puffs up and pride replaces apprehension. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” she declares in a loud, steady voice.
“Both of you take care of each other,” I respond. “I will not be gone for more than a few minutes, but to you it will probably seem like an hour. If either one of you starts to feel scared, just blow a whistle and wait. I will come to you, though it may take a few moments. Don’t move from that spot, not for any reason. Remember, if you become frightened, just blow the whistles and wait.”
I make them both repeat the phrase, over and over. Blow the whistles and wait. Blow the whistles and wait. It will serve as their mantra during my absence.
After kissing them both on the tops of their heads, I turn and run full speed back up the summit cone of Mount Tom.
I fly, leaping over wet rocks and roots, thinking of my huddled, frightened children crouching down among the trees. Well, actually, it’s Sage I’m worried about. For whatever reason, I don’t worry about Alex. She may feel frightened, but I know she will not move. We have hiked other mountains together and are used to moving as a team. There is no doubt in my mind that she will do exactly as I have instructed. Sage, on the other hand, is only three years old and inexperienced at being out in the woods. Can Alex keep her from running away if lightning strikes too close for comfort?
My feet slap in the mud and crunch over the hailstones. Where is the backpack? We didn’t come up this far, did we? The trees get shorter and shorter, but still I don’t see the damn thing.
Finally, a long minute or so after leaving my kids, I see a flash of orange ahead, just off the trail. It’s my pack, sitting in the mud, looking forlorn, surrounded by a ring of hailstones two inches deep. I grab the pack, pull the straps over my shoulders, then turn and sprint back to my waiting children. Reaching the intersection, I yell my greetings, and both girls fly into my arms.
“Sage was about to blow her whistle because we thought you were lost!” Alex shouts, her words running together in an excited rush.
I look into Sage’s eyes, which are red and teary, and I ask if she’s all right.
“Yeah,” her small voice murmurs. Then she squeakily declares, “You were gone a really long time!”
“Yeah!” Alex agrees.
I start to praise them for their bravery, but another close streak of lightning puts an end to the joyous reunion. The three of us join hands and scurry down the mountain. As we flee, part of me realizes that should lightning strike one of us, the electricity will flow through the other two, and all three of us will end up in serious trouble. My desire to get off the mountain pushes me onward, however, and I justify the hand-holding by telling myself that the odds of being struck by lightning while under cover of the woods are much less than the odds of one of us slipping on wet rock and breaking a limb. We therefore descend joined together, my firm grip preventing my children from taking dangerous tumbles.
We are halfway to the car when the storm finally decides to move on. The lightning fades, and its accompanying thunder goes with it, until both flash and boom disappear completely. The danger now over, I sit the girls down and give each of us a chance to catch our breath. We rest on a few rocks by a little stream and stare at one another for a while. Eventually I take a deep breath and say, “I am very proud of you both. This was a hard day, and you must have been very frightened. It just goes to show that sometimes things happen that you can’t prepare for. We brought all the right stuff and checked the forecast before we left, but look what happened anyway.”
Sage loses her composure and bursts into sobs. Huge tears drip down her face and fall onto the quickly disappearing hailstones. My poor kid! She must be traumatized.
Alex takes her sister’s hand in an effort to comfort her, and a flurry of words spill out of Sage’s mouth. I can’t understand what she’s saying at first, but I assume it’s something about lightning or being alone or being horrifically terrified.
After patiently listening to a steady stream of weepy babble, I am finally able to extract a single word from her frenetic speech. She’s been repeating it throughout her tearful tirade.
“Chocolate?” I interrupt. “Is that what you said, honey? Chocolate?”
Sage immediately ceases talking. There are a few seconds of silence, then she takes a deep breath and piteously hollers, “We didn’t get to eat our chocolate!” before bursting into a fresh round of tears.
I stare confusedly at her for a moment before I realize what she’s talking about. I had promised both girls a bar of chocolate when we reached the top of Mount Tom. We never reached the top, having been thwarted by the storm, so now Sage believes she’s been atmospherically cheated out of her Hershey’s bar.
“Oh, honey,” I assure her gently, “you’ll get your chocolate.”
Sage stops crying and turns her little tear-stained face up toward my own. “But we didn’t get to the top,” she says.
“That’s okay, sweetheart. You were very, very brave today. Any hiker who suffers through a thunderstorm gets a bar of chocolate, even if she doesn’t actually reach the summit.”
My littlest girl’s face immediately brightens, and her mouth opens in a huge, toothy smile. “Let’s eat the chocolate in the car,” she joyously exclaims as she lets go of Alex’s hand. The next second finds her up and happily skipping down the trail.
Alex and I grin at each other, then hurry after her.
Failed Mount Tecumseh Attempt, April 13, 2008
It’s best to start a hiking narrative with examples of things that can go wrong, especially when your hiking partner is a very young child. My intent is not to leave readers shaking their heads with dismay, but to inform and perhaps better prepare the would-be outdoor adventurer, especially a potential parent-child team. I’m not embarrassed about the thunderstorm incident, since, in retrospect, I do believe that anyone could have found themselves in the same situation. We didn’t hike into something predicted—that sucker formed right over our heads. However, the following includes an account of something that could have—should have—been prevented. For the benefit of those who might be spared a similar experience, I include it below.
We first stumble upon the idea by accident. The girls are running around a bench by a roadside kiosk off the Kancamagus Highway near the town of Lincoln, New Hampshire, just a few weeks after we buy our small weekend home in the White Mountains. I had just pulled over during a leisurely drive on this famous mountain road to better enjoy the views and to take advantage of the fresh air. It’s March, and the snow still blankets higher ground; we can see the sun glinting off the icy peaks in the distance.
The White Mountain region is beautiful, a brilliant contrast to the drab city life we live Monday through Thursday, two hours south in Somerville, Massachusetts. I am so happy I persuaded my husband, Hugh, to buy a tiny weekend home here, for I want the girls to have a huge and regular dose of nature, and, since we intend to homeschool, an opportunity to use the natural resources around us as learning tools. Additionally, the girls need a place where they can safely run fre
e, a place devoid of pollution, a place where there are plenty of waterfalls, trees, and hiking trails. The New Hampshire house will be our home three days a week. Even when my husband, a professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, has to stay in Massachusetts because of his work, which is often, the girls and I will come here each Friday through Sunday.
Alex has been a high-energy kid since birth, always into everything and completely uninterested in remaining still. Our Somerville backyard, approximately the size of a postage stamp, does nothing to alleviate her need to move-move-move. The city playgrounds are small and filled with cold, plastic structures. The only times Alex ever seems truly happy living in Somerville are when we leave it to visit outdoor places such as Walden Pond or Drumlin Farm, both near the historic town of Concord. These two settings afford trails on which to run back and forth, sometimes giving the illusion that we are in the midst of a wide expanse of wilderness. We thought of moving to Concord, but we couldn’t afford it as a one-income family.
Sage is easier to please; she’s content wherever she happens to be. However, she too is happier when surrounded by trees and dirt. These places of nature breathe joy into my children; they give both my girls a peace of mind no city atmosphere can provide.
I can relate to their sentiments, for I have fond memories of roaming the outdoors as a young child. The suburbs of Columbia, Maryland, were, in the 1970s, an extremely safe community where everyone in the neighborhood knew who you were and where you lived. Most of my after-school hours were spent exploring the local creeks and playing with garter snakes. I’d come home just in time for dinner, covered in dirt and mud, feeling happy and free.
Hugh’s childhood was also spent exploring the natural world. He grew up on a hundred-acre farm near Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and doesn’t remember wearing shoes until the age of six. His afternoons were spent running through cornfields and climbing trees, his summers in various national parks. By the age of eleven, he was allowed to travel the country with his brothers by Greyhound bus and explore at will.
When we grew up, nature was a part of who we were and how we lived, so keeping Alex and Sage in the city day after day, month after month, has never felt right to either of us.
I watch as my daughters cavort outside the kiosk. They take turns chasing each other on the grass, faces bright with delight, cheeks red from the chill air, straight streaks of yellow hair flying every which way as they continually run, turn, and move with each other. They are the essence of Youth, and since there is no one around to disturb, I let them chase and tumble and pounce, two kittens joyfully pushing their physical and sisterly boundaries in the bright New Hampshire sunshine.
I am much less active, choosing proper, adult repose over the impromptu scamperings of childhood. My elbows lean against the kiosk’s wooden rails; my forearms rest against a centered information placard. Eventually my gaze turns from my children to the content below. There’s a word down there staring up at me, shouting in large bold print: Peakbaggers. Intrigued, I straighten and turn my attention to the entire text.
The short paragraphs describe a game of sorts, one in which a person ascends, on foot, a set of listed mountains. New Hampshire’s local peakbagging game has an organization dedicated to the recognition of its members: the Four Thousand Footer Club. Sponsored by the Appalachian Mountain Club, it awards a certificate and a patch to those who ascend all forty-eight of the White Mountains whose summits rise above four thousand feet. I contemplate the words and think about my oldest daughter. Always a constant bundle of energy, the kid never seems to tire.
“Hey, Alex,” I call out to my five-year-old, who is now running around and around the kiosk, lapping her three-year-old sister every few seconds.
“What?” she calls out breathlessly, joyously.
“Do you want to try to hike a grown-up mountain?”
Alex brings herself to a halt and looks up.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I quickly add.
“Sure!” Her face breaks into a grin. “I want to!”
Sage runs up to my leg and asks if she can try as well. Though I strongly suspect my youngest daughter is not yet ready to hike multiple miles on her own two feet, I figure I’ll give her the courtesy of allowing her to try. After all, one of the reasons Hugh and I decided to homeschool is because we feel children should be met where they’re at, intellectually and otherwise. We don’t want to force our children to conform to any group mean. There’s no reason to instantly dismiss their goals solely because of their ages; to underestimate a child is to disrespect her. Just because Sage is three does not mean she should not be allowed to give the mountain her all. “Sure,” I answer.
Both girls whoop in joyful anticipation, then resume running around and around the kiosk.
April comes a few weeks later, and, since the snow around our house has fully melted, I figure it’s time to give one of these mountains a go. Mount Tecumseh, a ski mountain my family has noticed while driving into nearby Waterville Valley, is not too far from our house. A quick Google search tells me it stands more than 4,000 feet high—4,003 feet, to be exact. Another quick search reveals that its peak can be reached after only 2.2 miles of hiking—2.2 miles! Alex can do that; I’m sure of it. She hiked 4 to 6 miles every day without complaint during last year’s trip to Maine’s Acadia National Park, when she was only four years old. She shouldn’t have any problems. Sage? Well, we’ll see. We can always turn back if she gets too tired.
Though there’s no snow on the ground by our house, I figure there might still be some left on the peaks, so I bundle up both excited kids in their regular snowsuits and boots. Feeling proud of myself for thinking ahead, I pack some gloves, hats, water, and food into a small backpack. How proud we’ll all be when we reach the top! What a great feat we are going to accomplish! The three of us climb into our car and take off, envisioning the grand views that await us at the top of our first Four Thousand Footer.
Alex chatters nonstop all the way there, asking if we’ll see any bears, if we’ll need a rock climbing harness, if we’ll be back in time for dinner. I answer, “No, no, and yes.” I’m fairly certain our noise will keep away any bears, I know this is a hiking trail and not a climbing route, and the hour is early … just before noon. We should be fine.
Sage is quiet and looks out the window, and I wonder how far up the mountain she’ll hike before asking to be carried. I’ve no expectations that she’ll make it up on her own two feet, as there probably isn’t enough chocolate in the world to keep her motivated all 4.4 round-trip miles. Still … if I carry her when she tires, the three of us should be able to summit. Sage won’t be able to apply this hike toward the Four Thousand Footer Club, but since she doesn’t really understand or care about this, it doesn’t matter. It’s Alex who appreciates the club’s concept. It’s Alex who possesses the strength and energy to pull this off. We’ll just take it easy and see what happens.
We pull into the ski parking lot and find the “trailhead,” the sign that marks the beginning of the hiking path. Mount Tecumseh Trail, the capital letters announce. I zip up the girls’ coats and strap on my little backpack before leading my daughters confidently, arrogantly, into the forest.
Immediately there is a small stream crossing. We tromp through the water and our boots do their job. Everyone’s feet remain dry.
Now the path goes slightly uphill and meanders by a brook—it’s beautiful. Alex comments on the sound of the falling water. “It’s like music,” she says. Sage is less enthralled. “Can I have a snack?” she asks.
Even though it’s only been ten minutes since we left the car, I pull out a bag of trail mix and hand it to Sage, whose face brightens into a smile. Maybe that will keep her happily occupied for a good half mile or so.
We follow the stream uphill for a few hundred yards, and then we reach snow. It doesn’t look like anything we can’t handle. In fact, it looks inviting. The snow on the trail has been so packed down from previous hikers th
at it resembles a flat sidewalk. Fantastic! If it’s like this all the way up the mountain, then we should be good to go.
The girls and I step onto the snow, slide a little, then find our balance and gingerly continue on our way. Sage loses a few brightly colored chocolate pieces here and there, leaving a candy zigzag behind us. We leave her consumable litter where it is for the time being, figuring that we’ll pick it up on the way out.
We cross another stream, and the grade steepens, making the snow difficult to walk on. The treads of our boots don’t adequately grip the surface, and the girls slip continually, sometimes catching themselves before falling into the snow, but oftentimes not. Sage begins to complain, and Alex loses her smile. Looking up, I see a relatively flat stretch just ahead and urge the girls onward.
We reach the flat stretch, but instead of experiencing a reprieve, the snow on this stretch has lost its firmness and we are no longer walking on a flat sidewalk. Every five steps, someone’s foot punches through and makes a hole several inches deep. Sage continues to complain, her voice getting louder by the minute. Alex’s forehead now has a furrow, and she asks if we can stop for a water break.
It’s difficult to find a place to rest, since sitting means sinking into the snow. After a few minutes, we find a large rock whose flat surface is just above the snowline. I sit both girls down, dig out the water bottle, and hand it to my eldest.
Alex looks discouraged as she tilts the bottle to her lips. She doesn’t seem fatigued, though. I wonder how far we’ve come … a mile? It’s obvious just by looking around that we are nowhere near the summit. Can she make it all the way up? Does she want to?
Sage doesn’t look discouraged. She looks downright upset.
“Are you okay, honey?” I ask.
“No,” she mumbles, looking down at her lap.
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