I Understand What E.B. White Meant

(Atticus on the ledges of the Welch-Dickey loop.)

Here in the mountains of New Hampshire the feel of Spring doesn’t correspond to calendar Spring. High in the mountains snow lasts for a long time, often lingering two months into the warming season. It’s for this reason Atticus and I have taken advantage of the recent tongue-wagging warm weather and trails to smaller peaks with bigger views that have a southern exposure in attempting to avoid the snow.

We’ve also had another reason for being picky with the trails and mountains we are hiking lately. Atticus has a special guest in town.

Seven years ago Ruth Freeman, the woman who bred Atticus, did something that surprised even herself when she gave him up. Ruth had bred hundreds of puppies but felt that Atti had a unique way about him from the very beginning when he was the only puppy in his litter. But Ruth has a big heart and a desire to help those in need. When I contacted her out of the blue by email looking for a puppy after I’d lost my beloved Max and told her what I was looking for she did the unthinkable and sent her favorite little puppy from Big Sandy, Texas up to Newburyport, Massachusetts. She recognized a person in need even though she didn’t know anything about me other than the way my heart sang its song of sadness.

Since that time Atticus has made quite the name for himself – first in Newburyport, then during the last four years up here in the White Mountains. He has raised thousands of dollars for charity; brought smiles to endless faces; sat with more than a few dying friends in hospitals and nursing homes; made people believe that if a little dog could do such grand things in these big mountains climbing close to 500 of them they could chase after their dreams too; had thousands of dollars raised for his own medical issues by friends he’s never met; and even has been honored as a hero. So you can just imagine how proud Ruth Freeman is of the one dog she wasn’t going to give up and how special it was when the two of them had a reunion when we picked her up at Manchester Airport.

Ruth had never been to New England. Heck, she hasn’t been to many places outside of Texas. When we took her to little Bald Mountain in Franconia Notch on the first day we hiked, Mount Lafayette took her breath away. The following day when we hiked along the ledges of Welch-Dickey and when people recognized Atticus because of his exploits she couldn’t have been more proud of him. From there it was a hike along the Boulder Loop Trail on the eastern edge of the Kancamagus Highway; a climb up South Moat for stunning views in every direction; and finally a loop hike over Mount Morgan and Mount Percival while looking down on shimmering Squam Lake.

With all this sightseeing you’d be wise to ask just how are you going to keep a Texas gal down on the farm after she’s seen the White Mountains of New Hampshire? I'd venture to say, you’re not. I’m sure when Ruth’s plane lands in the Lone Star State her feet won’t be touching the ground for quite some time.

On top of all those views, Ruth has received the gift of another view – to see how fruitful a life Atticus has led up close and personal.

Seven years ago Ruth Freeman gave a part of herself up when she shipped a five pound puppy north to a man she'd never met. For many of those years she traced her fingers across her computer monitor each time a new batch of hiking photos were emailed to her and imagined she was with that special little dog. And now, just for a short while, she got to walk with him, climb with him, stretch out in the sun with him, catch the wind with him and gaze out from mountaintops with him. What a gift.

But I’ve also received a gift. I’ve had the chance to see these mountains anew through the eyes of one who’d never been here before. From Franconia Notch to Waterville Valley, from the eastern edge of the Pemigewasset Wilderness to the Presidential Range to the ledges on the Kanc looking south upon the Sandwich Range to the cliffs high above Squam Lake – it has all been like new to me. Introducing these mountains to Ruth has renewed me.

It has been four years since Atticus and I started hiking, but what we saw in Ruth's eyes and heard in her voice made it seem like we were getting a fresh start. And there's something else she and I share in common when it comes to views: we both look on in awe at towering peak after towering peak but we each find ourselves dwarfed in a different way – by one little dog.

When Ruth Freeman gets on the plane in Manchester Thursday afternoon, it is clear she'll leave having had a front row seat of the life she changed. I'm talking about mine, not Atticus'. It's a lot like E. B. White said about his first dog, "When I got him he was what I badly needed."

Reunion

This past two weeks have been a special time in little Atticus' life. He has been reunited with Ruth Freeman, the Texas breeder who sent him north to me, seven years after leaving Texas. In many ways Atticus has shown Ruth the ropes here in the mountains just as she showed a little puppy the ropes to life in the beginning. Here are just a few of the shots taken of the two of them together.

Ruth And The Moose

Some people have all the luck. I know of many folks who have come to the mountains for years but have never seen a moose. These past 10 days Ruth Freeman, Atticus' breeder, came to New Hampshire for the first time and saw a moose within an hour after being picked up from the airport. Then, while passing time yesterday during a gloomy, overcast day where most of the mountains were shrouded in storm clouds, she got to see another.

South Moat Today

This morning we climbed South Moat and as usual Atticus took full advantage of the ledges for great sightseeing. There's something about this peak that makes him want to linger. The last two times we have climbed it Atti didn't want to go down. As a matter of fact, he pulled sit down strikes on both occasions. But can you blame him with views like this?

New Mailing Address

Please note that we have a new mailing address:

Tom & Atticus

PO Box 651

Jackson, NH 03846

Mount Washington at Sunset Last Night

It was not that the jagged precipices were lofty,
that the encircling woods were the dimmest shade,
or that the waters were profoundly deep;
but that over all, rocks ,wood, and water,
brooded the spirit of repose, and the silent energy
of nature stirred the soul to its inmost depths.

~ Thomas Cole

Cat Watching

Over the next month we are house/dog/cat sitting in the shadow of Mount Washington. I'm not the only one busy with my duties. Atticus has taken it upon himself to mountain watch (upper photo) and when he's not doing that he's honing his skills as a cat watcher (bottom photo). Here he watches Menou, one of the two cats we are caring for. The other is Stella, who was off licking her food dish for the fourth time since breakfast. Dawa, the dog we are sitting, was busy snoozing in the grass under the warm sun dreaming of our next romp in the woods.

Rudyard Kipling: The Power Of The Dog

I stumbled upon this last night and thought I'd share it. Those of you who can relate to the 'power of the dog' will understand. Of course there are many things those of us who love animals, and specifically dogs can relate to. Not too long ago in an email to me, author Sam Keen (Fire in the Belly; Hymns to An Unknown God) wrote: "I once had a Border Collie who loved to walk the hills. She got cancer and was incontinent and all but immoble. One day she wentout on a two hour walk with all the spryness of her youth. We returned to the house and she lay down and died. Atticus would understand."

Ah yes, the power of a dog. How they touch our hearts.

The Power Of The Dog
by Rudyard Kipling

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find--it's your own affair--
But...you've given your heart for a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart for the dog to tear.

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long--
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Bryan Flagg of the NorthCountry News Weighs In

Bryan Flagg, my editor and publisher at the Northcountry News was kind enough to send over the following note just after I submitted our latest column:

I don't think you know what kind of an affect you truly have on people that read your columns. I hear about it all the time. I am often asked how Tom and Atticus are, what they are up to and how things are going. You and Atticus have become household names in these parts and for good reason. You have allowed the readers into your world and have given them the opportunity to follow you and Atti up mountains that they may have never heard of in their lives. I have advertisers that tell me if they can't go on page three, then they want to be on the page with Tom and Atti. You have certainly made an impression on many folks. And at the cost of making myself sound like the over sensitive emotional fool I am - I am thankful and proud to be able to call you my friend. Thank you -Bryan

The Fat Man of the Mountains

(Dave & Lucas Olson from a photo lifted from their site http://www.fatmanofthemountains.wordpress.com/.)

You’ve heard of the Old Man of the Mountains (boy is he ever missed), well here is a link to Dave Olson’s blog “Fat Man of the Mountains”. Atticus and I met Dave and his son Lucas on the Champney Falls Trail climbing Chocorua last summer. It was a beautiful day enhanced by the chance meeting on the trail. Then, later while Atti and I were on the summit, we visited for a bit with them again and I snapped some photos for them – one of which is used in the banner to the blog.

On his blog Dave writes: I’m a newspaperman and writer living on the Massachusetts coast. I love the ocean, but I’d rather be in the woods. This summer, I’ll be climbing all 48 of New Hampshire’s 4,000-foot mountains to raise money for Kestrel Educational Adventures.

He also writes:

The vast majority of hikers, however, take years, even decades to complete the list, so it would be pretty significant accomplishment if I could reach all the summits in 90 days. A fat but fairly fit guy like myself can pull off a difficult hike every once in a while. A summer-long series of difficult hikes — including a handful of traverses taking several days — is another thing altogether. It’s been a long time since I challenged myself physically, and the longer I wait the less of a chance it’s going to happen. I’ve spent the winter in the gym, getting as ready as I can. I’ll do some training hikes this spring. This summer, all I’ll need is a well-thought-out plan for getting to and from trailheads. The hiking’s the easy part; it’s the driving that takes its toll.

The hikes will also give me a chance to repay, in a small way, Kestrel Educational Adventures, which started the conservation club that fueled my son’s already strong love for the outdoors and started us on a journey that’s changed both our lives for the better. I’ll have more details in my next post, but I plan to use my hikes as a fundraiser for Kestrel, with donors offering a specific amount for each mountain I climb. A dollar a mountain would mean $48 if I finish them all. Get enough donors and you’re doing some good for a great organization that does a lot of work with a little money. Again, more on that later.

Having the shortest glimpse of Dave and Lucas together last summer, I have an inkling that it will be fun to follow the two of them throughout their summer long adventure. To donate to their cause simply visit their website. Or simply visit it because it will be fun to follow along from wherever you are.

Father and son are about to have one heck of an adventure together.

Atticus To Reunite With An Old Friend

We don’t need new landscapes. We need new eyes. ~ Proust

Two years ago this month I held a blind dog on my lap and wondered how God could be so cruel. Atticus, unlike any other dog I’ve known, loved to sit long and still and gaze out upon the world as it stretched out before him. But after a winter of hiking 81 mountains he was blind. A cancer scare then surfaced.

My friends were there for me during my time of need, but I wasn’t there for them. Instead, draped with the dread of what fate had dealt my little friend, I retreated to my Newburyport apartment and didn’t respond to emails or phone calls. I’m embarrassed to say that in many ways I’d given up when my friend most needed me to rise to the occasion.

Then a most curious phone call came in from Texas. It was from Ruth, Atti’s breeder. Now, let me tell you, getting a phone call from Ruth has always been a treat. Consider her voice a cross between that old Texas rabble-rousing columnist Molly Ivins and a gypsy mystic. In her strong, saucy twang she said, “Down here in Big Sandy I never thought I raised a mountain dog, but looking at all those pictures of Atticus sitting on this summit or that one, I have come to realize that little boy belongs in the mountains. You need to get him back up there where he can do his soul work. Because that’s exactly what he’s doing up there.”

My response: “But Ruth, he’s blind. He cannot see. And they fear he has cancer…”

“I don’t care what they say, you get him back up here belongs,” Ruth said.

Now, had anyone else suggested this I would have dismissed him or her quickly, but Ruth, to put it bluntly, is ‘intuitive’ and she seems to understand things in ways most never will. And so I did the most unlikely thing a couple of days before Atticus’ eye surgery and drove to Waterville Valley. Spring had come and melted the snow off of the beautiful Welch-Dickey loop.

It was painful to watch Atticus struggle up the trail. He couldn’t see to stay on it and he tripped on rocks and got tangled in underbrush and my heart broke a thousand times over. Each time he struggled I turned to go back to the car and called him but he would have none of it. He was on a mountain and that meant he went up until there was no more up – blindness be damned!

We moved slowly up the trail, then to the ledges overlooking the Mad River and across to Sandwich Dome. Poor Atticus moved like an old dog even though he was only five, but it was clear he wanted to go on. And on we went. Under my sunglasses tears filled my eyes and I cried until there were no more tears to shed. When we finally reached the nub of rock on top of Dickey I watched Atticus slowly pull himself up to the very top and there he sat and cast his unseeing eyes to the wind and looked like a blind king sensing his kingdom below. And I was wrong – all my tears were not spent.

Ruth had been right. There was something about that day that recharged that little dog. His eye surgery went well and the cancer scare disappeared and before too long we were back in the mountains again. So you might imagine why these two little mountains mean so much to me and why every April Atticus and I will hike it to remember that day and the wisdom of that woman who suggested against all good sense that we go there.

In a couple weeks Atticus and I will be there again but it will be an extra special trip this time around. You see, for the first time since Atticus was eight weeks old he will be meeting Ruth again. She’s flying up to see these mountains she’s only seen in photos and she is going to hike Welch-Dickey with the little dog she’s loved from afar since that day she sent him north to me. (As a matter of fact, he is the one puppy she raised she had decided to keep, until I lost Max and wrote her a letter about what I was looking for. [She's also coming north, along with some others, for a little project I'm not allowed to talk about yet.].)

I have an inkling that once Ruth sees him take his place on the summit and cast his eyes about as he did that day there will be more tears shed, but this time they will not just be mine.

There is magic in these mountains, even in two very small knobs most overlook on the way to greater places. Our only job is to let it touch us.

Tom & Atticus Sign With Literary Agent Brian DeFiore

(Atticus and Dawa at Diana’s Baths. Photo was taken last fall.)

When in North Conway, we often take a morning and afternoon walk out to Diana’s Bath, a tiered waterfall just over half a mile walk from the road. It’s a beautiful place and on spring mornings such as this one during snowmelt it is also a very powerful place.

This morning Atticus and I were joined by Dawa, Marie Bouchard’s dog. We often house/dog/cat sit for Marie and when we do Atticus and Dawa spend their time in the house acting indifferently towards each other. There are no problems, just an understanding between the two to leave each other be. When we head to the car Dawa happily hops into the backseat and Atticus takes his usual place in the front seat. Then, when on the trail (any trail really), you’d think both dogs were best friends. They move together some of the time, apart on other occasions, but the three of us mostly move as a team.

This morning was no different. Our trio made its way through the woods. The dogs moved easily along while I crunched over the ice and crispy snow of the trail. Underfoot, my Microspikes gave me surety of foot as we moved along the icy ledges next to the waterfall. It gushed by us and the three of us took a seat on a boulder and watched winter literally washing away. Just a few weeks ago we were able to walk across the river but not here, not now. The deep snow and ice eroded from the bottom up and now the river is gaping wide open and the current gushes by with an impressive force.

From the falls we joined back up to the trail that leads to North Moat. Just two weeks ago Atticus and I followed it to the top of the mountain. It was a terrific day to climb and to sit on high above tree line. But then food poisoning came on and I was laid low for nearly two weeks now. It finally feels good to be out and about again and it felt great to be traipsing along the trail this morning. So long as I walked in the middle of it there was no problem, but step off to the side just a foot or so and I’d sink in knee deep in the rotting snow.

We moved through the woods and along the river that feeds the falls and were rewarded by a time both simple and sacred: a man, two dogs and the open woods without anyone else around. We walked on until we came to the first stream crossing. Had we been headed to North Moat we would have found a way to cross the stream, which was nearly bridged by a small fallen tree and some snow and ice, but on this day when we were just out of a walk in the woods there was no reason to push it. Neither Atticus nor Dawa had a problem with turning back. They took one look at the deep, fast-running cold mountain water and in unison gave me a look that said, “Yep, let’s head back.”

On the way back we stopped at the upper level of the falls again and looked out to where the river disappears below into the trees. Miles ahead of us, through an opening in the trees, North Kearsage stood peering down at us. We have yet to climb it but it is on my list to do this spring or summer.

How wonderful it was to stop and pause here and think about my writing again. Interestingly enough, I was actually tormented by the thought of writing throughout much of the fall and the winter. Last summer I signed on with a great agent but for whatever the reason it just didn’t work. I felt like I couldn’t be me and each time I wrote something I felt as though I were writing for her. It wasn’t a good situation. I stagnated, struggled and began to resent the book.

Eventually, I couldn’t take it any more. I ended the business relationship and now I’m happy to say I’m thrilled to be writing again. It feels like a gift again, instead of a chore. With the help of Brian DeFiore (about Brian) of DeFiore & Company (about DeFiore & Co.), my new agent, I’m changing the story into something much more than it was and I’m happy to say it still feels as though it is still my story. It is growing, but I’m growing with it.

Yesterday I spoke with Brian and it was liberating. I feel like an athlete who has in many ways been held back, but now I feel like he’s stretching me out and urging me to be what I can be. He’s got a gift for being comfortable and making me comfortable.

So this morning that’s what I was thinking about as Atticus and Dawa marched along ahead of me, two mismatched dogs – one small with only a stub of a tail and the other big with a feathery plume of a great tail. All three of us were in our elements. They were playing along at the base of a mountain while I was playing along with words and possibilities in my head.

I’m now dedicated to writing again. You’ll notice it in the coming weeks as I blog more than I have been since last summer. Writing just didn’t feel comfortable anymore. Suddenly, it feels like it always used to. In short, it feels like I’m now writing letters to a friend again and that was always my best writing – easy, flowing, simple.