Up

by Patricia Ellis Herr

  Get each of them alone, however, spend a large chunk of time with just one, without the other, and you see an entirely different side of your child. Alex, for example, is a mature, happy, focused, and incredibly wise human being. That’s easily apparent just by talking with her—when she’s without her little sister. Sage is a sweet, intuitive, deep, and loving soul who wants nothing more than to talk with you for hours—when she’s without Alex. Put the two of them together, and you get two kids who routinely act up and vie for their parents’ attention. They love each other, no doubt, yet they engage in sibling rivalry nonetheless. Therefore, the quality of individual parent-child interaction is usually higher when Hugh and I take turns being with each daughter alone.

  I’m up to where the first Thneed has been produced when Alex and Sage start accusing each other of breathing too hard. By the time the last Truffula tree has been chopped down, each daughter is glaring, and both are making rude faces at each other. I decide that now’s a good time for Alex and me to bag Mount Monroe. I ask Sage if I can read the rest of the story to her when we return. She agrees, and Alex and I take off while Hugh starts a different book with Sage.

  The summit’s only five-tenths of a mile away; we reach it quickly and easily. Alex climbs onto the highest rock and sits. The mountain breeze gently lifts her hair from her forehead, and the sun’s light intensifies the sky-blue color of her eyes; she sits with her knees drawn up to her chest, looking calm, looking peaceful. The two of us spend a few minutes taking in the stunning 360-degree views.

  Alex asks to use my camera, and I hand it over. She takes myriad photographs, capturing the shapes and outlines of Mount Franklin, rising close to our southwest, and of Mount Washington, huge and domineering to our northeast. She clicks away at the glistening surface of the two small bodies of water lying near the hut (the “lakes of the clouds” after which the hut is named). A half mile immediately downward and to our east, we see the broad outline of the Gulfside Trail guiding a handful of hikers northward. As Alex points the camera toward the travelers, a few words of their conversation float up to our ears. I recognize the words great, hut, and Washington. The rest is a jumble of jovial noise.

  Alex hands the camera back to me with a smile, her spat with Sage completely forgotten. She is her usual congenial self when we return to the hut.

  Now it’s time to snuggle with my youngest. I take Sage outside for the rest of The Lorax while Alex plays cards with Hugh. I treasure this time with my littlest daughter; her warm, compact little body rests against my side as I hold the book in front of us. After I read the final page, she climbs onto my lap, and we share a happy silence as the sun slowly sinks toward the horizon.

  The evening meal is served by five college-age men and women who are loud, purposely comical, and friendly. The ninety guests of the hut sit family-style on benches around ten large wooden tables. The “croo,” as the hut workers are called, dish out a hearty and homemade meal, starting with vegetable soup. Next comes a colorful salad, followed by a hot turkey dinner complete with mashed potatoes and green beans. This is hiker food; this is the stuff that nourishes those who walk up mountains. Full as I am after the main course, I make room for the chocolate-chip confection that is dessert. Yum.

  The girls have eaten their fill, and both look as though they are going to pass out on their crumb-filled plates. I bundle them off to their bunks and tuck them in; Alex is asleep in four seconds, Sage in five. I crawl into a bunk across from them and immediately follow suit.

  Alex and Sage are extremely happy the next morning, their mood bright after their enjoyable hut experience. They talk of the short, silly sketch the croo performed after breakfast: a strange, costumed fairy tale that served as a tutorial on the proper way to fold the hut’s blankets. My two daughters laugh with each other as we pass between the two lakes … but soon Sage’s pace diminishes to a speed too slow for Alex’s liking. Hugh and I agree to separate and meet at the top. Alex and I skip ahead while Sage takes her time walking up the summit cone, patient Hugh by her side.

  The Crawford Path between Lakes of the Clouds and Mount Washington’s summit is well constructed and easy to follow. Large and carefully built stone cairns adorn the sides of the trail every few dozen feet, improving the path’s visibility during fog or blowing snow. The grade feels moderate most of the way, and the two of us make quick progress, slowing only when we come to the trail’s last, steep section. We huff and puff our way to the plateau that marks the summit area, and … oh my goodness.

  It’s 10:15 on a Sunday morning atop New Hampshire’s highest mountain, but it looks like a Saturday afternoon in Boston. There are structures all over the place! We walk into the largest one, the Sherman Adams Summit Building, which houses a cafeteria, a weather observatory, a museum, a post office, public restrooms, a gift shop, and an information desk staffed by a park ranger. There’s a small crowd in here, mostly people sporting shorts and T-shirts and exhibiting a profound lack of sweat. Alex and I, both dressed in our base layers and carrying backpacks and hiking poles, are the recipients of many a stare as we amble about. I hear more than one person gasp, “Did that kid hike up?” I’m a bit put off by the degree of their amazement. Alex and I are now used to people looking surprised when they see us coming on the trail. These tourists who ascended using the Auto Road or the Cog Railway, however, are outright flabbergasted. Perhaps it’s because they themselves don’t hike, so they think such an activity is outright impossible for a small child? Alex and I do not stay inside for long, for we both feel odd under the gaze of so many eyes.

  The next building we explore is the restored Tip Top House, a hotel that sheltered overnight guests in the mid-1800s. Now a museum (separate from the one in the Summit Building), it displays the kind of accommodations summit visitors experienced one and a half centuries ago.

  The Tip Top House is close to the actual high point of Mount Washington, so the obligatory summit shot on top of “the rock pile” is next on our agenda. It’s more than a bit odd, having our picture taken on this summit. We stand not only in the midst of buildings that don’t seem as though they should be here, but also tourists who, in Alex’s words, cheated. These people drove cars; they rode the Cog Railroad—in short, they didn’t put forth any effort. Yet they want their picture taken on the high point all the same. Alex and I stand in line, balancing ourselves on the rocks, full of righteous indignation and feelings of superiority. A small part of my brain recognizes that we’re being snobs, but the rest of me doesn’t care. We should be allowed to cut in front of all those who rode up here. We hiked the entire distance, so why do we have to wait behind the drivers? Finally, it is our turn, and the picture is taken. Excellent. Now all we have to do is wait for Hugh and Sage so we can say our good-byes before hiking down into the valley.

  We wander around the Auto Road’s Stage Office, the upper terminus of the Cog Railway, and the FM radio transmitters, then head back to the Crawford Path to sit and wait. Just a minute or so later, Sage’s head pops up over the immediate curve of the mountain, and Alex lets out an excited shriek. Sage sees Alex and grins widely. The two run toward each other and, just as they did outside Lakes of the Clouds, collide and knock each other over. They giggle madly and hug each other as they lie on the ground, acting as though they haven’t seen each other in months. Those two—they’re either in each other’s arms or on each other’s nerves. Normal sibling behavior, I guess.

  Hugs and kisses are exchanged all around; then Alex and I begin our long descent via the Gulfside and Jewell Trails. It’s an onerous and, quite frankly, pain-in-the-butt hike. The Gulfside Trail is a literal jumble of giant rocks that we must step on and over very, very carefully. Some of these miniature boulders are loose and wobble beneath our feet. Others are solid, but piled at strange angles. The occasional cairn is all that marks the way; there is no obvious path to follow. We are forced to walk with our heads down, constantly watching our every step.

  The rocks stretch out for miles, runnin
g the distance between Mount Washington and its four immediate neighboring peaks to the north: Mount Clay, Mount Jefferson, Mount Adams, and Mount Madison. We are small and insignificant in this barren landscape, and once again I thank Mother Earth for keeping the weather in check. I would not want to be out here during a thunderstorm.

  The beginning of the Jewell Trail is more jumbled rock, and I start to grumble. When will we see a packed-dirt path? We stop for a while and rest. The day is clear and the scenery is beautiful, but I’m really tired and would like to be back at the car. Alex is doing well and isn’t complaining, but I know she must be tired too. We’ve three miles to go, and again I reflect on the convenience of Lakes of the Clouds. Alex and I aren’t yet ready to do this kind of hike all in one day.

  A million years and many weary bones later, we reach the valley and climb into our car, dirty, smelly, and proud of ourselves. Upon returning home, I immediately investigate how many other long-distance hikes we can break into two or more pieces by using the hut system. Luckily, quite a few. During the months that follow, Alex and I stay at several other huts in order to tackle some of the more difficult mountains. We also make use of backcountry shelters and campsites. Alex and I enjoy our overnight adventures, and Alex learns that any distance is attainable if you break the journey into bite-size pieces.

  —Christopher McCandless Autumn 2008

  Alex and I are a mother-daughter team. Our first sixteen peaks were hiked without company, save for the ascent up Washington’s summit cone with Sage and Hugh. We’ve been on our own for three reasons: (1) we haven’t yet socialized with other hikers; (2) for safety purposes, I don’t request trail companionship on the hiking forums, since telling hundreds of complete strangers our future whereabouts infringes upon my sense of safety; and (3) Alex’s pace is too slow for the vast majority of 4K—that is, adult—hikers. I don’t mind this relative isolation, since time spent alone with my daughter strengthens the bond between us. However, I do notice that every time someone passes us on the trail, Alex perks up and quickens her pace. I can see that she might enjoy this experience even more if she were in the company of other people.

  For Alex’s benefit, I begin looking for opportunities to meet other outdoor enthusiasts. Fall arrives, and a “family hiking” trip up Mount Cardigan is announced on one of the Internet hiking forums. Excellent. Mount Cardigan is not a Four Thousand Footer, but it’s a good-size peak and one that I think Sage might be able to handle. We mark the date on our calendar and let the organizer know that the three of us will be coming. Hugh will unfortunately be away that weekend, but I don’t mind taking the girls by myself.

  The day arrives, and we show up at the appointed campground with full backpacks and high spirits. Alex cheerfully introduces herself to those already gathered, then sits on a log to wait for those who have not yet turned up. I smile at everyone and give them my name, then try to pry Sage off my legs. She’s shy around strangers and spends the next ten minutes glued to my side as the group waits for last-minute stragglers. Eventually the man who organized this get-together—a tall, affable fellow who goes by the name of “McRat”—declares it time to get moving. We’re to take the Holt Trail, then the Clark Trail; it will be a mellow 2.5-mile ascent for Alex, but a challenging climb for Sage. I reassure my youngest that I will carry her when needed, but the presence of the other hikers seems to infuse Sage with extra chutzpah, and she insists that she will make it up there on her own two feet. Admiring her determination, I tell her that I know she’s strong enough to accomplish such a goal, but my arms will be ready for her if she changes her mind.

  We start our ascent in the company of four other adults and two older girls, ages eleven and twelve. Alex is thrilled; she is completely ecstatic. She keeps pace with the tweens and happily converses with them, apparently unaware that she’s six and seven years younger than the taller kids who walk beside her. The older girls are kind to Alex and listen to her constant chatter as she bounces along. I walk behind the group with Sage, who holds my hand and steps slowly but steadily. The group hikes ahead, then sits and waits for Sage and me to catch up, then goes ahead again, then sits and waits. It’s a pleasant, relaxed ascent. Everyone seems content to take it slowly and enjoy one another’s company. Alex has a grand time, sometimes hiking with Sage and me, but mostly hiking in the midst of her new friends, each of whom treats her as a peer in spite of her young age. It is an enriching experience, one that demonstrates how much more can be added to a hike when in the presence of fine company.

  We break out of the woods and encounter a handful of bare, sloping ledges. These are the final obstacles to overcome before reaching the actual summit. Sage is exhausted but proud of herself. Alex hops and bops as if she had just walked a few blocks instead of a couple of miles. We all climb the ledges together, as a group, and reach the top without incident.

  Having a summit to oneself is a beautiful thing. One can sit and listen to the silence, feel the wind, and connect with one’s Higher Power. It’s a priceless sensation, and some people refuse to hike with others because they feel they must have that experience during each and every hike.

  Sharing a summit, however, is also a beautiful thing. I sit, look around me, and smile at what I see. An adult from our group has whipped out a blue and yellow kite from her backpack and is flying it over the valley below. Alex and Sage are giving some of their Goldfish crackers to the tweens, who in turn share some of their sandwiches. McRat is immersed in cheerful conversation with someone he met two seconds ago. Everyone is joyful, everyone is pleased, everyone is sharing their positive energy with everyone else. The best parts of human nature are on display up here.

  The girls come over and ask for the trail mix. We sit together for a while, the girls picking out bits of food they don’t like and placing the morsels on my outstretched leg. My knee is soon covered in raisins from Alex, my shin in peanuts from Sage. Once the girls have sufficiently weeded their snack, they leave me and return to the tweens. I pick their rejected items from the fabric of my pants and pop them into my mouth, too engrossed in my noshing to notice the arrival of another member of our party. Only after I hear an unfamiliar voice comment on the day’s clear sky do I look up and see a tall, fifty-something-year-old man with salt-and-pepper hair, standing a few feet away from me and talking with McRat. He is wearing a kilt.

  My eyes are immediately drawn to this odd bit of clothing (how could they not be?). The dark green material flutters lightly in the breeze, sometimes whooshing up to reveal the black hiking shorts he sports underneath. The newcomer sees me looking, smiles, and introduces himself as MadRiver. My cheeks turn red, and I feel as though I’ve been caught looking up someone’s skirt. Oh, wait a minute—I have. I mumble my own introduction and point out my daughters. He nods when I finish, then turns and continues his conversation with McRat. He disappears after a few minutes, and I don’t see him again until we return to the campground.

  Our descent is a slow one because of Sage’s fatigue. She refuses to let me carry her, so we take tiny, slow steps and soon fall behind the rest of the group. Eventually, I tell everyone to go ahead and hike all the way down, that the girls and I will meet them at the campground later. Alex asks if she can go ahead with everyone else. McRat insists that Alex’s company would be their pleasure, so I give my permission. The group disappears down the trail, Alex happily skipping alongside the adults.

  By the time Sage and I make it down, there’s a fire going, and Alex is consuming marshmallows by the handful. I congratulate Sage on her accomplishment, then sit her next to Alex and place half a Hershey’s bar on her lap. Sage is completely worn out, but very proud of herself, as she should be; five miles up and down Mount Cardigan is a lot for a three-year-old to handle. I leave the kids to their candy and join the adults, who are engaged in animated conversation about various New Hampshire mountains and trails. One person keeps to himself, however. MadRiver sits on a folding chair and sips from his water bottle, gazing into the fire. I make my w
ay over to him and say hello.

  There’s a second or two of silence; then he says, still staring into the fire, “Your kids are interesting. I’ve read the trip reports you post on the Internet. Alex is … different.”

  “Yes, she is,” I respond. He’s referring to the blog I created a few months ago. When it became apparent that Alex was probably going to hike 4Ks on a consistent basis, I created a blog that featured online pictorial essays of our adventures. Trish and Alex Hike the 4000 Foot Whites (www.trishandalex.blogspot.com) was my way of sharing our travels with my extended family and the online hiking community. I’d often include links to our posts within certain hiking forums; these always received favorable responses and plenty of supportive comments. Every once in a while, I’d get an irate private message telling me that the 4K peaks were no place for small children. These diatribes were infrequent, rarely written in a coherent manner, and easy to dismiss.

  Later, after eating our fill of toasted marshmallows under a brilliant, star-filled sky, the girls and I are zipping up our coats and stepping away from the campfire when one of the other adults, an especially outgoing and friendly woman, asks if I can step aside with her for a moment. The girls sit on a boulder while she and I take a few steps into the woods.

  “There’s something you should know about that one,” the woman says, her voice low and secretive, as she gestures toward MadRiver. The kilted man still sits by the fire, a hundred feet away. “He doesn’t like children.”

  Um, okay. What does that mean? What am I supposed to do with this information? “Are my kids safe around him?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.

  “Oh—oh yes, nothing like that,” she looks down at her feet, flustered. “It’s just that, well, he can be kind of gruff with them.”

  “Doesn’t he have kids? Today’s hike was supposed to be for people with kids, right?”