Up

by Patricia Ellis Herr

  “Where did you sleep?” Alex asks.

  “We dug into the snow and made caves. We gathered fallen branches and lay down on top of them, to keep our bodies off the snow. Then we slept cuddled together, to try to keep each other warm.”

  The boys spent three nights in subzero temperatures and suffered through a blizzard. Their boots and socks became frozen clumps of ice, and pulling them on in the mornings became a severe challenge. Trying to fit rock-hard, frozen boots onto swollen, frostbitten feet was a torturous enterprise, and Hugh eventually gave up. Instead of boots, he wore his waterproof mittens over his toes. Though both boys did their best to keep moving, Hugh could take only one or two steps before falling over. The bones in his feet had frozen.

  “How did you get home?” Sage asks, her knees drawn up underneath her chin, her arms around her ankles.

  “We were lost for almost four days. On the last day, a lady was out snowshoeing and saw some tracks we had made in the snow. She followed them and found us. She went to get help, and we were taken to the hospital. My legs were so frozen that the doctors had to cut them off.”

  Sage, who has seen her father put on his artificial legs a countless number of times, gasps. Alex’s eyes are full of tears, and she asks, “Did it hurt?”

  “Yes,” Hugh answers. “It didn’t hurt during the operation, because I was asleep. But it hurt very badly for weeks and months afterward. Sometimes it still hurts, even now. Sometimes I feel like a part of my leg is still there, and it’s painful.”

  It’s a miracle both boys survived their ordeal. Hypothermia had set in, but never enough to make them forget the survival techniques they had learned as young children. They kept their mental faculties together enough to build snow caves, huddle together, and lie on branches instead of the snow. They did not let each other sleep because they were afraid they wouldn’t wake up again. Many victims of hypothermia feel a warming sensation as they become closer and closer to death. These people often take off and discard their clothing, under the illusion that their bodies are hot when, in actuality, they are literally freezing to death. Though Hugh and Jeff were in the severe stages of hypothermia when they were rescued and brought into the hospital, neither one of them ever lost their sense of sanity while they were out there in the woods. Though Hugh remembers feeling warm at times, he always knew better than to take off any article of clothing. He was always well aware of the situation he was in.

  “You’re okay now, though, right? Most of the time?” Alex asks.

  “Yes, most of the time I’m fine. However,” Hugh pauses and looks from one daughter to the other, very seriously. I cannot imagine how it must feel for him to have to describe the rest of the story. For there’s more, and what’s coming next is far more horrific than anything he’s already divulged.

  “There was a group of rescue workers trying to find us while we were lost,” Hugh begins. “Two of them were hit by an avalanche.”

  Alex raises her eyebrows, and Hugh realizes that the girls don’t understand what that word means: avalanche. He gives them an explanation, and then continues. “One of the men was okay, but one of them wasn’t. One of them was buried by the avalanche and pushed very quickly into a tree. His name was Albert Dow. Albert Dow was killed by that avalanche. Albert Dow died while he was trying to find and rescue me.”

  Hugh is remarkably calm as he states this. However, his tone is not casual, not in the least. He speaks in a low but firm voice and looks from one daughter to the other, making extended eye contact with each. I’ve no doubt Alex and Sage will remember these minutes for the rest of their lives.

  Both girls are initially silent, and Hugh watches them patiently. Sage is the first to speak.

  “Did the doctors fix him?”

  “No,” Hugh says firmly. “They couldn’t fix him. He died. He can never come back.”

  I’m not sure Sage understands, as she’s three and perhaps doesn’t really have a full grasp of the concept of death. That’s okay. Alex is the one I want this message to reach. She’s the one going with me out there; she’s the one who needs to comprehend. And she does. Her face is pale, and she’s looking at her father with an expression of deep sadness. I wish I could get inside her brain and discover what she’s thinking. Has her opinion of her beloved father changed? Does she have more respect for him now, or less? She’ll never see him exactly the same way again. Every time he puts on or takes off his legs, she’ll think of her father as a teenage boy, lost and near death, and of a young man she’s never met, a brave fellow who died in an onslaught of rushing snow.

  Hugh and Alex’s eyes lock for a minute, and then Alex leans over and wraps her arms around her father. Sage, following her sister’s cue, does the same. The three of them stay like that for a while, one warm mass of family huddled together on the couch. I remain still in my chair, not wanting to interrupt. Eventually, Alex releases her hold, rises, and silently leaves the room.

  After his accident, Hugh created his own artificial legs, specially built for climbing, and went right back into the sport. Within a year, he was climbing ice and rock better than he ever had with biological legs. On his self-fashioned limbs, he pioneered extremely advanced routes, and he regained his previous status as one of the nation’s best climbers. Eventually, he went to college and graduate school, getting his master’s degree at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) and his PhD at Harvard. He is now a tenured professor at MIT, where he invents and builds advanced robotic prostheses.

  Alex’s careless jumps and skips cease immediately. Her father has gotten through to her. Good. One split-second decision, made on a whim, one that seems completely innocent and of minimal risk at the time, can have life-changing—or life-ending—results.

  Peaks #10 and #11: Mount Monroe and Mount Washington, August 28–29, 2008

  Thankfully, Alex’s ascent of Mount Washington is nothing like her father’s. There are no accidents; we don’t lose our way; and instead of traveling light, I carry a pack that weighs approximately the same poundage as an obese elephant.

  Conquering 6,288-foot Mount Washington means breaking the hike into two Alex-friendly days. Ascending and descending within the same twenty-four hours might be more than my daughter can handle, as the elevation gain and mileage are greater than anything she has yet accomplished. We therefore decide to take advantage of the Appalachian Mountain Club’s Lakes of the Clouds hut, one of the highest and most popular of the AMC’s backcountry overnight facilities.

  Lakes of the Clouds rests a moderate 1.5 miles southwest of Mount Washington’s summit. Mount Monroe’s craggy peak rises just a half mile from the hut’s front door. Alex and I will be able to bag two of New Hampshire’s highest mountains with relative ease, thanks to the conveniently located accommodations.

  While planning our trip, Alex tells me that spending the night above tree line on the shoulder of the Northeast’s tallest mountain is an experience our entire family should share. I agree, and the two of us ask Hugh and Sage if they’d like to join us. Normally, they wouldn’t be able to, since Sage isn’t yet capable of hiking that great a distance, and her weight is too much for Hugh to comfortably handle for more than nine miles of rocky terrain. However, for this particular peak, the trip will be a piece of cake.

  Mount Washington, being the prominent mountain that it is, attracts tourists like sugar attracts ants. Its popularity therefore offers a New Hampshire peak experience unlike any other. Instead of hiking, one can drive to the summit, or take a special train called the Cog Railway. Once at the top, one can visit two museums, a weather observatory, a restaurant, and a gift shop.

  While all this man-made clutter appears strange in the midst of an otherwise barren and rocky landscape, it does present nice possibilities for those who are less inclined or able to ascend on their own two feet. For our family, the existence of the Mount Washington Auto Road is extremely convenient. It will enable the four of us to turn this peakbagging adventure into a family outing. Alex and I wil
l hike up the west side of the mountain using the incredibly steep Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail while Hugh and Sage drive up the northeast side of the mountain on the Auto Road. The Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail ends a few dozen feet from Lakes of the Clouds’ front door; Alex and I will claim our family’s bunks while Hugh and Sage descend the moderate mile and a half down Mount Washington’s summit cone. At some point Alex and I will ascend Mount Monroe; then all four of us will spend the night at the hut before hiking up Mount Washington’s peak the next morning. Hugh and Sage will then return to the valley by car, while Alex and I descend the mountain on foot.

  The big day arrives. The kids greet the morning with excited cheers, but Hugh and I are subdued. What if Mount Washington’s notoriously unpredictable weather takes a nasty turn? The forecast looks favorable, but it looked favorable the morning we first attempted Mount Tom, and I remember how that turned out.

  Hugh and I come to a last-minute understanding before leaving the house: if, after arriving at the summit, the winds are too high, the temperatures are too low, and/or the clouds look too ominous, then he and Sage will not descend to Lakes of the Clouds but will instead head right back down the mountain in the safety of the car. Alex and I will either turn around at the first sign of atmospheric trouble, or we’ll quicken our pace toward the hut, depending on where we happen to be at the time. Hugh and I will use our communication radios to give each other status reports throughout the day.

  Hugh and Sage drop off Alex and me at the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail around 8:00 in the morning, which, in my personal opinion, is the perfect time to begin. We have all day to hike the three miles to the hut, so there is no rush and no pressure on either me or my daughter. We can take as many breaks as Alex needs.

  The first mile is flat and pleasant; the narrow path winds through a dense forest, leading to a picture-perfect brook. Turning right, we easily walk the second mile, which is also flat, never leaving the sight and sound of the noisy water. At one point we notice a little dam of tumbled, gnawed-up logs; Alex guesses that this is the work of beavers. We linger for a while, hoping to catch sight of a little big-toothed architect, but no such critter emerges. We eventually continue onward, enjoying the peaceful morning and easy stroll.

  Before we know it, we’re at Gem Pool: a lovely, liquid oasis that marks the end of our level walking. A small waterfall cascades down the rocky mountainside and crashes into the little round body of water. Every few seconds, an errant drop falls outside the pool and splats onto a bordering rock. It’s a pleasant place, perfect for our first rest break and a little snack.

  As Alex sits and eats, I verbally prep the two of us for the climb ahead. According to the guidebooks, the final mile of this trail, from the point where we currently sit all the way up to the hut, is extremely steep. There will be many boulders to scramble and many rock steps to climb. Alex listens intently but does not appear daunted. She tells me she’s up to it. After all, it’s just a mile.

  The guidebooks are accurate; it is a steep and unrelenting ascent! Nevertheless, our spirits are high as our hands repeatedly slap rock and our feet struggle to find purchase on bare and near-vertical surfaces.

  As we gain altitude, the trees shorten and thin until we are treated to a clear view down into the valley. The sight is breathtaking. We can see for miles, and there’s barely a cloud in the sky. A light breeze dries the sweat from our faces, and we smile deliriously at each other, the impact of Mother Earth’s beauty hitting us just as hard as it did when we first stepped above tree line on Mount Eisenhower.

  The trail is now more rock climb than hiking path, so we take our time and stop for breaks frequently. I welcome the breathers whenever Alex requests them, which is not as often as I’d like. My daughter possesses an overflowing well of energy, and I envy it. She does need rest breaks, of course, but when she rises afterward, she usually acts as though her batteries have been fully recharged. The same force that prevents her from sitting still during our schoolwork time works well to her advantage out here.

  There are a final few slabs of rock to conquer, and then we see Lakes of the Clouds just above us. Alex lets out a victory “yay!” and grins from ear to ear. The view toward the hut is simply magnificent. To our immediate right 5,372-foot Mount Monroe rises in a tall, pointy bump, and the tip of Mount Washington stands majestically a mile and a half to our left. Our vigor renewed by the prospect of hot chocolate and a comfortable bench, we jog up the trail and skip around the hut until we stand in front of its entrance. I snap a triumphant picture of Alex and feel my shoulders relax. The most difficult part of our day is over.

  Myriad backpacks litter the flat ground in front of the hut’s front door. Hiking poles rest in angles, propped up against various rocks and boulders. There’s a short stone wall along the front of the building; a half dozen pairs of smelly socks adorn its surface. Alex and I untangle ourselves from our pack straps and are just about to leave our belongings next to a particularly smooth boulder when I hear the crackling of static at my hip. “Trish …?” It’s Hugh contacting me by radio. He and Sage have reached the summit and are now making their way down the 1.5 miles to the hut. The day is windless and clear; they have absolutely beautiful weather in which to make their journey. A day like this on Mount Washington is reportedly rare, and I give silent thanks to Mother Earth for keeping herself calm while my husband and three-year-old daughter make their way down the giant exposed summit.

  Since there’s at least an hour to kill before Hugh and Sage arrive, Alex and I enter the hut and register our family for the evening.

  Built out of wood and run on solar and wind power, Lakes of the Clouds offers an illusion of roughing it at high elevation. The overnight guest is served a three-course homemade dinner before retiring for the evening to a bunk draped with three warm woolen blankets (there are six to fifteen bunks per room, stacked three and four beds high). A hearty breakfast is served the next morning at 7:00 a.m., and then guests are expected to fold their bunk’s blankets before leaving for their next destination. To a seasoned hiker, spending the night at Lakes of the Clouds is a luxury; for those hundreds of tourists looking for a unique alpine experience, Lakes is looked upon as a backcountry novelty. For us, it will be both. A luxury, because we’ll get to eat and sleep very well while bagging a couple of peaks. A backcountry novelty, because, well, we’ve never done this before.

  After our gear is stowed by our bunks, Alex and I exit the hut to lie about and soak in some sunshine. We sprawl for a while and stare at the blue sky, stretching our legs and relishing the feel of warm stone on our backs. Eventually, Alex tires of being still, so I give her my camera and allow her to go at it. She snaps pictures of the little windmill on top of the roof, my hiking poles, her feet (which have been temporarily freed from the bondage of her boots), and the door that leads to the “Dungeon,” a small room separate from the rest of the hut. Lakes of the Clouds is closed, boarded, and vacant from October through May; I’ve read that the Dungeon is kept unlocked for winter hikers who find themselves caught in foul weather and unable to descend to the valley below. It’s not an advertised space, and it’s not meant to be used except in times of emergency. Alex asks if we can take a look inside, but the door is closed, and I have the feeling we should leave it be.

  Alex finishes snapping her photos, and we continue to rest happily. We watch the clouds float over our heads, we look down and out at the trees far below, we look at our map and try to name all the mountains we can see. It’s a perfect piece of time. I’m glad we have this opportunity to just sit and not have to worry about getting back down to the car. The hut is a nice option. Breaking up this hike was the right thing to do. Even if Alex was capable of doing the entire thing in one day, it would be a shame to have to head back down to the valley after having just ascended on such a beautiful morning. It’s simply too lovely out here to have to return to a place of low elevation.

  An hour passes and we turn our heads toward Mount Washington, searching for two familiar sil
houettes. Finally we see two figures coming toward us, one tall, one very short, both dressed in black. The tall person ambles with a seemingly casual gait, the result of walking on artificial legs and feet. The shorter figure hops and bops, exuding an energy only youth can generate. They draw nearer, and Alex shouts, “Papa! Sage!”

  Sage raises her head and runs toward us, sailing over several jagged rocks with each hurried stride. Alex runs toward Sage, feet pounding in quick succession. They collide about thirty feet from the hut and knock each other over; then they roll in the dirt and giggle madly while Hugh smiles and tells me that Sage walked the entire way down on her own two feet.

  After leaving Hugh’s pack inside with the rest of our gear, the four of us take advantage of the rare and peaceful weather by staying outside as long as we can. I procure a few children’s books from the hut’s tiny “library” (a few shelves near the main eating area), and the four of us sit in the sun, beautiful scenery at our feet, together as a family. It’s wonderful—for about sixty seconds. I am halfway through the second page of Dr. Seuss’s The Lorax when the bickering begins.

  Have you ever noticed how differently your children behave when they’re not around each other? Don’t get me wrong—I’m a huge proponent of family time and of nurturing sisterly/brotherly bonds. We are homeschoolers, after all, so my girls spend most of their waking hours together, or at least within proximity of each other. Though they usually get along very well and consider themselves best friends, squabbles are a normal and common part of our existence. Glorious phrases such as “Stop it” and “Don’t look at me!” can be found floating through the air of our home at least three or four times a day.