The Adventures of Tom & Atticus

Of Fox and Dog and Man

2012-01-12T11:49:00.004-05:00

NeitherAtticus nor I are big fans of the rain. And when it’s freezing rain, as it is thismorning, we’d rather just stay inside and wait it out. But nature calls – in more ways than one –and we respond. So about eight o’clockwe forced ourselves out into the elements and hurried through the cathedralpines, the heavy wet drops, the hissing wind of Moseley Woods here inNewburyport for our morning constitutional.

The old trees groaned and slick pine needles slid underfoot. Man and dog both shivered from time to timeas we walked through the storm. Some days,no matter what you are wearing, there is no holding out the raw and thecold. Today is such a day.

Walking over the wet roots and hard, brown earth I was distracted by thoughtsof tonight’s event at Porter Square Books. I’ll read from the book while Atticus sleeps, then I’ll pick him up andtake questions from the audience. As isthe case with every event I wonder just what I’ll say. I never really know, and yet something alwayscomes to me. As soon as the introductionends and the audience looks at me expectantly my mouth starts moving and I tellour story. I also found myself wonderingabout the weather and how it would make for driving in busy Cambridgetonight. The stop and go traffic; theicy or snowy roads; the slap-slap-slap of the windshield wipers. Will parking be difficult? What about the escape from the hectic cityafter the event?

I pulled the zipper of my sweater a little higher to keep out the cold andshivered once again as rain drops fell inside my collar.

Meanwhile Atticus stopped, squatted, did what he had to do, and then he turnedright around and we started back the way we came. No needto stay out in this weather longer than we have to.

As we headed towards our car I realized that we weren’t alone in the woodsafter all. Sitting on the side of thetrail, his hair wet and dark, sat a beautiful fox. He was watching us. Upon noticing him Atticus perked right up andbefore approaching looked back at me.

“Hold on, Little Bug. Let him be,” Isaid. So Atticus took a seat and fox anddog and man looked at each other. He andAtticus looked at each other with curiosity while I took in both of them with abit wonder.

Yesterday, while moving through these same quiet woods we came to a small pondand on a log sat the tiniest baby beaver. I’ve seen beavers before, but never one so small. And just as happened with the fox thismorning, Atticus took a seat and watched and I sat back in wonder while thebeaver continued to chew and look upon us without a care in the world.

I thought of yesterday’s beaver while we exchanged non-verbal pleasantries withMr. Fox this morning and I thought about how fortunate we have been on twostraight days to be welcomed to this forest by its residents. I’m glad that Atticus is the gentle sort whohas learned about respecting another creature’s home and that we could sit silentlythis morning and yet have so much conveyed .

This is not the first fox sighting we’ve had as of late. Back in Jackson, we had a backyard Christmastree this year and it gleamed with blue and white LED lights while a smallervaried string of colors wove and twinkled through the branches. This tree was such a splendid gift toourselves and was so stunning in its bright simplicity that I couldn’t help butgasp with surprised pleasure each time I encountered it. It was as if I’d forgotten it was there andfell in love all over again whenever I’d pull into the yard or looked out thewindow. One night I saw the neighboring foxwho leaves her footprints in the snow for us to find each morning sitting bythe tree. When we went out into the yardshe was gone. The next night, however,when Atticus and I were outside, she appeared through the bracken ringing theyard. She approached but didn’t get tooclose. It was a safe distance for bothof us and we looked on each other in the light of that wondrous tree. After some time, Atticus and I went back intothe house and when I looked out the window I saw her close to the treeagain.

On a recent hike up Peaked Mountain we were getting close to the part of the trailwhere the forest gives way to the ledges and we crossed paths with yet anotherfox. It watched us with some interestand once again Atticus looked back at me and waited for me to pick him up andthere fox, dog, and man spent a brief visit together. It wasn’t nearly as long as this morning’s encounternor the get-together with our backyard fox but it was enough to arouse my senseof wonder.

This morning, all the rain, the falling ice, the wind disappeared in the timeof our silent communion. Eventually I toldthe fox we had to go and apologized for passing too close on our way out of thewoods. It trotted slowly away and wewent back to our car.

The busy city may await us tonight, but there’s always a string that brings usto what we love the most. Nature iseverywhere, and I wrap myself in her embrace whenever I’m reminded of herbeauty.

The Book Fetish Calls FOLLOWING ATTICUS One of the Best of Reads of 2011

2012-01-04T09:23:00.003-05:00

We're starting off 2012 with a great review of Following Atticus. It appears on The Book Fetish Blog. In the review Ashley Williams writes the following:

At one point in the book, Tom says, “Magic is where you find it; the only thing that matters is that you take the time to look for it.” When I read that, I had to put aside the book and write down that sentiment in the little notebook I keep with me all the time. I also quoted it as a Facebook status, and judging by the number of likes it received, this is a sentiment that we need to remember more often. I wasn’t expecting to be hit by a statement like that in this book. Anyone who dismisses Following Atticus as a book “just” about a man and a dog would be missing out on extraordinary story about friendship, self discovery, and the importance of living the life you’re meant to lead. Unexpectedly, Following Atticus is one of my favorite reads for 2011.
You can read the entire review by clicking here and going to The Book Fetish blog.

Coast Views Magazine Writes About Following Atticus

2011-12-06T08:05:00.001-05:00

San Francisco-based Coast Views Magazine has a write-up this month on Following Atticus. The piece can be read here in its entirety. I appreciate that the author, Bob Walch, used the full name of both Maxwell Garrison Gillis and Atticus Maxwell Finch. Love when the media picks up on it.

HarperCollins Celebrates White Birch Books Selling More Than a 1,000 Copies of Following Atticus

2011-12-05T11:01:00.001-05:00

Karyl, Laura, Barb, and Atticus!

In a radio interview the other day, Laura Lucy, the owner of White Birch Books, was asked if she'd ever sold more than a 1,000 copies of a book before. She thought for a bit and said, "Maybe the DaVinci Code or Harry Potter...but not since September 20th."

In only ten weeks the good ladies at North Conway's White Birch Books have sold more than 1,000 copies of our book. This is astounding at a time when small indie bookstores spend much of their time gasping for breath. The economy is brutal. Amazon is a beast. And yet here's little a little indie bookseller in the White Mountains selling so many copies of our book.

On Friday, HarperCollins celebrated this great feat by sending them a congratulatory cake from the White Mountain Cupcakery.

White Birch Books remains the only place you can special order a personalized autographed and "pawtographed" copy of our book. You can get one if we have an appearance somewhere but that won't be happening again until January. So if you would like to order a book from them give the ladies a call at (603) 356-3200.

A Secret...

2011-12-02T07:56:00.001-05:00

I have a secret for you. It’s notabout the mountains. It has never beenabout them. Then again, you may havealready figured that out.

As soon as we enter the woods and set forth on a trail we leave everythingbehind. I mean everything. There’s Atticus and me and what I wear andwhat I carry in my pack. Of course inwinter when it’s cold and there are more variables and more dangers to considerI carry far more. But in comparison tothe man who commutes to work in Boston each day, it’s very little. I noticed that this week while spending a fewdays down south. On three occasions Idrove along the highways ringing Greater Boston and I saw crazy things on theroad. God, the way people drive – they justdon’t care. They don’t seem to care forothers and they don’t seem to care for themselves and the looks on their faces –well, for the most part, it’s sad. They’resomewhere else. They are worn down,tired; they are stressed and angry and more often than not headed someplacebecause they have to be there, not because they want to be there.

I watched them coming and going and our dear Thoreau was correct: “The mass ofmen lead lives of quiet desperation.”

Atticus and I have it easy compared to those folks. Our lives are nothing like that, not anymore. Oh, I know I have my own stuff –we all do – but I can’t remember the last time I felt as drawn and spent andempty as many I’d seen on the highways this week.

The reason we were driving was because we were invited to speak about our storyat the wondrous R. J. Julia Booksellers in Madison, Connecticut. It’s a beautiful seaside town that’s polishedand scrubbed and feels cleaner and more orderly than most places I’ve everbeen. But it’s not so scrubbed orpolished, however, that it feels sterile. It just feels good. And thebookstore itself is perhaps the most beautiful bookstore I’ve ever beenin. It was enchanting – the kind ofplace readers would love to get lost in, or those who dream of being a writergo to and walk among the books and say, “Someday….someday I’d like to see mybook up on that polished wooden shelf with all the greats, and someday, if I’mfortunate enough, I’d like to come here and sign my books.”

We were to speak at night but we showed up unannounced, as we like to do,earlier in the day, to take in the surroundings. We walked for several minutes through thestore taking it all in and for a while no one thought anything at all aboutus. Then one woman behind the countersaw Atticus sitting in my arms and said, “Oh, have you seen this book we’reselling? The dog on the cover looks justlike him,” as she pointed at Atticus. She went and got our book and held it up for me to see, “He looks justlike him. How cute!”

That’s when I finally introduced ourselves and our anonymity was gone. The staff there was just as extraordinary asthe store itself was. Everyone waskind. The inn they put us up in wasromantic and quaint and precious. Andthat night when we spoke, there was a good crowd awaiting us and they werefantastic! They were upbeat, many havingread our book and knew of the Little Buddha and they all smiled as we walked tothe podium and looked at Atticus in my arm sitting up looking out at them. And when I spoke, they listenedintently. They nodded, they smiled, theylaughed, some wiped a tear here and there. When we were done we sat and I signed booksand used Atti’s paw print stamp to imprint his “pawtograph.” People bought so many books, several peoplebuying five, six…one woman bought even more. The store sold so many books they sold out and had to order more.

It was everything a writer dreams of.

That night, after the store closed, Atticus and I walked out into the coldnight and strolled the streets of Madison. Christmas decorations adorned the downtown and lights twinkled likelittle stars and it seemed we had it all to ourselves. It was not unlike the trails we seek out herein the mountains – the ones where we can mostly be alone. The air was clean and filled with a sense of satisfaction.

As I walked I thought of the high mountains of the Presidential Range where therock reaches above treeline. I thoughtof the times we’ve been there, especially in winter. I thought of the winter when Atticus led meover those high peaks when he was mostly blind and the following winter when hedid it again with restored sight. Ithought of the other times we’ve been up there, especially when we had it toourselves and all we carry is our thoughts, what’s on our bodies, and what’s inmy backpack. And I thought of beingthere on top of New England to watch the sunrise, as we plan to do one upcomingwinter morning.

It’s funny, when we are away from home I often think of these mountains, but inthe mountains I often think of other things, especially when we are climbingthem.

And that gets back to my original point. It’s not really about the mountains. It’s never been about them.

Thinking about these great peaks and the places we’ve been when writing aboutthem and the success we’ve had, I couldn’t help but think of someone who wouldhave enjoyed every bit of our journey had he lived to see it. Jack Ryan dreamed of climbing all thesemountains and he dreamed of being a writer. In the end what my father had to settle for one of his nine children todo them for him. I’m hoping it meantsomething to him, hoping it still does if he’s somewhere looking out over usfrom wherever he is.

I thought about my father throughout our drive down into Connecticut and whilewe were there and could just imagine him calling his sister, Marijane, inArizona and telling her all about it. You see, he would have said little of itto me, and would have exhibited little pride or excitement for me towitness. For whatever reason he wouldhave kept it hidden. But that doesn’tmean it wouldn’t have filled him up andlifted him up.

So on our way home to Jackson, by way of Newburyport (the other home that hashelped define me for as Plutarch wrote: “The city makes the man…”), we made adetour to Medway, the little town I grew up in. There’s not much there these days other than a few strip malls, someoverpriced houses, and commuters. Andthere’s no reason for Atticus and me to go there other than that’s where myparents are buried.

My mother was gone far too early for me to remember much of anything abouther. I was only seven when she diedChristmas week. So when I visit the cemeteryI do it more for my father. And thereAtticus and I sat halfway between that perfect bookstore in Madison,Connecticut and the mountains we now love and call home. I read him the prologue to the book. It was first written as a letter to him,after all. Then I told him of thewonders of the last few days and this entire journey. Then we sat some more and I held Atticus onmy lap and the same cool earth that now holds my father’s body held me.

It’s funny what happens when you first take a step onto a trail and head intothe woods. You really do have no ideawhere it will ultimately take you. Butthis much I do know, it’s not about the mountains. It has never been about them. It’s always been about where they take youand who they take you to.

Jack Ryan

A Great Review of Our Audio Book

2011-11-02T18:04:00.001-04:00

A long-time book reviewer from Indiana who calls himself DWD has reviewed the Following Atticus audio book and given it five stars (out of five). He writes:

"Tom Ryan narrated the book and I am glad that he choose to read it himself rather than hiring a professional reader. Usually, the author-as-narrator is, at best, a mixed bag. In this case, Ryan's New England accent made the story work all the better (I love regional accents!) and he is quite adept at portraying the emotions of the moment in his voice. I cannot imagine how it could have been performed any better by a professional and I recommend the audiobook version over the printed version because of his performance and what it adds."

His entire review can be found here. Please feel free to leave comments on his blog post if you enjoy reading it. (We bloggers love comments!)

Following Atticus Interview

2011-11-01T12:44:00.000-04:00

Today, I had to answer questions via email for a journalist. I know not all of my answers will make it into the article being written so I'm printing the entire thing here. I hope you enjoy it. As for the publication, I won't mention its name as I'm sure a much briefer version will appear in its pages before too long.

Here you go...

How did Atticus come into your life?

I had rescued an elderly miniature schnauzer, Maxwell Garrison Gillis. He was only with me for a year and a halfbefore he died. Soon after I attemptedto rescue any other miniature schnauzer that might be in need but I didn’t haveany luck. So my friends, who knew I wasgrieving, gave me a thousand dollars and told me to go out and find apuppy. Once my on-line search started aconfluence of fateful emails with a breeder from down south brought Atticus intomy life.

As you’ll see when you read the book, this interaction with the breeder at thebeginning and throughout the story is a main theme in our book.

What is it about Atticus that made you want to simplify yourlife?

It was Maxwell Garrison Gillis, not Atticus that made me aware I needed tosimplify things. When I rescued him Iwas leading a complicated, controversial, and exciting life running aone-person newspaper in a seething political town. I was always “on.” But when Max came into my life I was forcedto pay attention to someone else’s needs. I had always been on the move and he gave me a reason to stay home moreoften. He gave me someone to lookafter. He gave me a home. Seeing him curl up in a small ball on my bedwhile I was on the phone talking about the latest lies of some small townpolitician made me realize I wanted to find that same kind of innocence heexhibited on a daily basis.

How did Atticus help put small-town politics into perspective?

After Max passed on I had the responsibility of raising Atticus. His breeder, PaigeFoster, had entrusted a very special puppy to me (I wouldn’t know for yearsjust how special she thought he was) and I took my responsibility seriously. When you raise a puppy, there is so much youhave to take into account. I was givencharge of a new life and I wanted to make sure that he had the kind of life theonce-neglected Max had been denied for the first decade of his life.

When you love someone, everything else falls away. When you care for someone - that becomes thepriority. Putting Max, and then Atticusfirst, humbled me and put things into perspective for me.

What makes Atticus happy?

Not long ago someone asked me if Atticus has a voice in the book. He doesn’t. It would be presumptuous and disingenuous of me to pretend I know whathe’s thinking or what he would say if he could speak. I won’t pretend to know everything that makeshim happy. But from what I see beingfree is the main thing. He gets to bewith me, which is a job he takes extremely seriously as he acts as though I’mhis responsibility. By being with me hegets treated as an equal. I like tothink that makes him happy.

Being in nature also does it. This I canclearly see. If we are on a beach or inthe woods there’s more of a spring to his step. And being on a mountaintop…well, something comes over him. The best I can describe it is that he seemsto find his bliss and his center on top of a peak. He sits and sits and sits moving nothing buthis head and eyes taking in the view. And when we first get to a mountaintop he wants me to pick him up so wecan share the view together. In my arms,with both our eyes cast out towards the horizon, I feel his body relax, I hearhim sigh, and I see that this is a place he was meant to be.

Why 48 peaks, twice each, in the winter?

The Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) created the 4,000-Footer Club more thanfifty years ago. Its purpose was to getpeople to explore the four corners of the White Mountains of New Hampshire andnot just hang out on the most popular peaks. There are 48 of them. Finish themand you get a patch and a scroll signifying the accomplishment. More than 8,000 people and 100 dogs havecompleted that ‘List’ through the years.

Then there’s the ‘Winter List.’ It’s much difficult club to become a member ofand far fewer people have accomplished this. It’s even rarer, as you might imagine, to do all the peaks in onewinter.

At the time I was looking for a way to pay tribute to a friend who had died ofcancer. Just before her cancer wasdetected she’d done a three-day, sixty mile cancer walk and told me it wastough and something she’d never dreamed of doing, but it was alsorewarding. So setting out to dosomething just as tough and rare and rewarding was the impetus for attemptingto hike 96 peaks in 90 days to raise money for the fight against cancer for theJimmy Fund and Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and then later for Angell AnimalMedical Center.

What was the highlight of your trek?

There’s no one highlight. For the restof my life moments of our journeys in the mountains, especially in winter, willflash in my mind. It happens on a daily basis to me. I suppose what mattered most was thatthroughout it all, we grew even closer than imaginable. Not only did we have an already incrediblyintimate bond shared by man and dog, but we also shared a bond between hikingpartners. There’s a rare intimacy that’sshared between two fellow adventurers that the rest of the world can neverknow. People can think they know aboutit but until you experience it it’s something that cannot be translated forothers.

In three winters Atticus and I climbed 188 winter peaks. In that time we shared numerous adventuresand lived a life most others only can dream of. The friendship that existed before then and grew because of thosemountains – that was the highlight.

Did you and/or Atticus ever want to give up?

Again, I cannot and will not speak for him. I can say is that Atticus always had a say inevery hike. If he didn’t want to go, wedidn’t go. If we got so far into thehike and he wanted to turn back we did. He didn’t do either of these very often, but he did it enough to know hecould always have a say.

As for me, there were many times I wanted to give up. Winter in the White Mountains can be exhilaratingand beautiful. But it can also bedaunting, dangerous, and about the loneliest place in the world. On days when the sun is bright and the skiesbright blue, the snow is brilliant white and my heart soars. But when it’s gray and misty and there are noviews and the wind howls like a banshee, well, I shiver and I shudder and Iquestion myself.

And of course it’s incredibly difficult to get out of bed when you are achingfrom a twenty mile hike and you have to get up and do another hike again,especially when the temperature is below zero and everyone you know is homesafe and sound.

What is different about your life with Atticus in it?

That’s what our book is about. Read itand you’ll find the answer.

If I had to sum it up though, I’d say that throughout all of our lives we alllose things along the way. When we areyoung and innocent we dream of how special the world will be and how wonderfulwe can be when we grow up. And yet alongthe way year by year that gets chipped away. We get to be middle-aged and often all we can think of us is justgetting by. We forget the magic. We forget how much of a gift life is.

If we are lucky, fate knocks on our door and says “Wake up! I’ve got anadventure for you to go on.” JosephCampbell, the mythologist, refers to this as the ‘hero’s journey’. It’s that moment we step away from the usualand enter a different realm that at first seems uncomfortable, maybe evenimpossible, and then yields to a more rewarding existence. Soon you’re on your way back to everythingyou ever dreamed of being. . . . That is, if you have the courage of yourconvictions and the willingness to leave the old and the safe behind for thisnew life – the life you were always meant to lead.

First Maxwell Garrison Gillis and then Atticus Maxwell Finch became avatars,guides, if you will, to bring me on this journey back to myself. As I’ve said many times over, I owe much toone dog who died and another who lived. I owe them my eternal gratitude for giving me back my life.

What is different about Atticus’ life with you in it?

Really?

Sorry, but I won’t even pretend to know the answer to this one. He was eight weeks old when we joined forces.

If I was to leap for an answer the only thing I’d say is that I’m proud ofsomething Paige Foster said, “Thank you for not training the Atticus out of Atticus.” In short, I set up guidelines so that hecould be safe but the rest was up to him. I allowed him to be whatever hewanted to be. I simply got out of hisway and let him be.

If he didn’t like mountains, we never would have returned for a secondhike. But he did and that was the pathwe took.

All I can say to this is that raising a puppy and living with the dog as heages is the same as loving someone: you do your best to protect them, but youlet them live and grow and be themselves. In return you receive so many gifts, especially the knowledge that youhelped someone on their own personal journey.

If we weren’t together, well, I have no idea what his life would have beenlike. Paige always thought he wasextraordinary, so perhaps he would have been extraordinary in some otherway. Thankfully for me, it’s an answer Idon’t need to have.

What’s next for you and Atticus?

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the movie “Hook” (it’s a modern day look atPeter Pan) or not but there’s a great last couple of lines. Granny Wendy says, “So…your adventures areover. And Peter Banning says, “Ohno. To live…to live would be an awfullybig adventure.”

We’ll always have our mountains but our greatest adventure continues to besharing this life together. I take heartin knowing there are many more adventures to come. In the last chapter of Following Atticus youwill see we set sail on a new one and that is a story unto itself.

Appalachia & Beyond Reviews Following Atticus

2011-10-25T16:53:00.003-04:00

How sweet is this photo?

I consider it an honor when those I respect the most 'get' our story and enjoy it. It means something more to me because they understand our love of nature and mountains and the bond between man and dog.

In their review it says: "But let me warn you, this is not just a book about a dog. It's not just a book about adventure. The mystery is never rectified. But you will be left with a heart-warming sensation - a newly acquired approach to the way you view life - and probably even the lives of the pets you love."

The entire Appalachia & Beyond review can be read here. It also has a link to our fabulous book trailer created by Joe Carter.

(Oh, and by the way, don't you just love the accompanying photo?)

A Letter from South Doublehead

2011-10-21T06:14:00.003-04:00

"There are two ways to live your life - one is as though nothing is a
miracle, the other is as though everything is a miracle." ~ Einstein

Dearest friend,

When we sat atop the ledges on South Doublehead the other day, I thought of you. You came to me when all the work of climbing was done and we were still. The air was chill and a hint of December blew in on us. It was late and dark clouds filled the sky and hung heavily over the mountaintops. Washington had snow on its cap and the rest of the peaks of the Presidential Range, and those of the Wildcats and Carters, sat in shadow as if they were deep in sleep and had no desire to get up.

To keep warm I put on my jacket and gloves and Atticus pulled himself off the cold stone and sat on my lap.

Not quite winter…not quite…

And yet there was a winter song in the air. It was carried in the wind that stirred the nearby trees, not enough to move them but instead to play music in them. It wove through branches twisted and time-tested and produced a mournful melody. With the waning light of day it could have been heartbreaking if it were not for the fact that I love the colder seasons up here, especially when we are high above the rest of the world and others are tucked home safe and comfortable and getting ready for supper. There’s something about being out where no one else is – just Atticus and me. Alone together in silence and away from everyone else, it’s like my beloved Emerson wrote, “Conversation enriches the understanding; but solitude is the school of genius.”

I think of such moments often when I take center stage on our book tour. I’m not a natural at public speaking and those who have sat in on one of my talks will tell you I’m definitely not polished nor am I practiced. Those who have been to more than one know I rarely say the same thing twice.

A friend recently asked, “If each night is different, how do you know what you’ll say to each audience?”

The truth is, I don’t know. I stand up in front of those gathered, whether it be a few or two hundred, with a lump in my throat I wonder what I could possibly have to say that will interest them. After what seems like minutes to me – it’s only a second or two to everyone else though – I leap. It helps that Atticus is with me just as he always been over the last nine years. It helps that I start out holding him, just as I hold him on top of each mountain. It helps that I know that we’ve seen things together that few will ever see, and have been tested as few have been tested.

I don’t always know where to start; I just know that when I’m in front of a room it’s not unlike being on a mountaintop when it’s cold and dark and we are alone and those in front of us are safe and comfortable in their seats. I think of the miles he and I have walked, the stars we’ve walked under, and I think of each of us being caked in ice and snow. I think about how we’ve both sank at the end of the day in exhaustion, how at times we used to get back to the cabin and how Atticus would hop lazily up onto the bed and of how I was literally so tired I fell asleep getting undressed. Or those time when I was so empty after more than 20 miles of hiking in below zero temperatures when the Lyme disease wore me down to nothing and my legs were heavy and my feet sore that I had to actually crawl to the bed to join him.

When I think of those times, when I think of always following him and where he’s taken me – well, standing up in front of people that’s when I realize that talking is nothing. Not after I take that leap of faith, it’s not. And not when I feel him in my arms cradled safely as he’s always been or feel his body rise and fall or hear his breathing or the way he will at times tuck his head under my chin. Those who see him do this surely think he’s looking for me to comfort him. What they probably don’t see is that it comforts me just as much. He’s a humble little being with a soul that was made to sing out loud, even if he never barks and sits as still as a stone.

What buoys me in the end though, what allows me to talk on and on to a room full of strangers is a simple little thing. Down deep I realize I’m doing something most others only dream about. I’m telling the story of the mountains we love, a father I loved, a little city we know so well, an unusually selfless breeder, and more than anything I think about how fortunate I am to be telling the story of a special little friend who has led me home again.

The first time I ever spoke with Atticus in my arms it was at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and the crowd was filled with Beacon Hill money. Millionaires and billionaires filled the biggest fundraiser of the year for the MSPCA. And there Atticus and I stood, blinded by lights, in a room full of the wealthy, composed, and polished. I wore an ill-fitting sport coat, new shirt, pants, belt, socks, and shoes and when we started I thought about how we didn’t fit in with that crowd at all. And yet the strangest thing happened. Thinking of our experiences together and telling the story of my little friend Atticus – well, by the time that was all done I had the distinct impression that we were the only ones who did fit in. We had brought the mountaintop with us to Boston and we shared it with those who had never been.

So when we were sitting on top of the ledges on South Doublehead the other day and winter was so close to being there and the sky was dark and foreboding and others might have felt loneliness I knew we were where we belonged. It was then that I looked over towards the shadowy outline of the Montalbon Range and just above that long snake of mountains the clouds parted and those wonderful crespular rays reached down and illuminated the valley below like the hand of God.

And there you were.

The journey means everything. Getting away from the comfortable, the typical, and the routine, being tested, having to endure unimaginable experiences that threaten to take everything away – and then somehow, someway finding our way back home again. That’s where the meaning lies. And if we are fortunate we not only find ourselves at journey’s end just as we’d always once dreamed we could be – we often also find those who mean the most of us.

A hike for me has never been simply to a mountaintop and back again. It’s always been more about where it leads you . . . and who it leads you to.

Your friends,

Tom (& Atticus)

Myrna Milani Reviews Following Atticus

2011-10-20T08:17:00.001-04:00

A rare sight: Atticus following Tom. (We do this when breaking trail.)

Myrna Milani is a vet, blogger, and author who reviewed Following Atticus. The entire review can be read here. Here's but one paragraph of the review.

"But if the human and canine relationship with the mountains sometimes seemed more like the dance between prey and predator, Ryan’s and Atticus’ relationship with each other is more like a game of physical and mental developmental leapfrog, with each of them raising the bar for the other like two kids playing “I double-dog dare ya!” In fact, some of their heart-stopping, laugh-generating, what-were-you-two-thinking (!) escapades so reminded me of the behavior common to younger male mammals of all species that I’d forget that they weren’t members of the same one. I think Ryan would have made a hell of a dog and Atticus would have made a hell of a human. But the human-canine unit they form together is better still."

Following Atticus Reaches No. 7 On NEIBA Non-Fiction List This Week

2011-10-19T11:57:00.004-04:00

New England Independent Booksellers Association

(NEIBA) Hardcover Nonfiction Bestseller List

1. Boomerang

Michael Lewis, Norton, $25.95, 9780393081817

2. Killing Lincoln

Bill O'Reilly, Martin Dugard, Holt, $28, 9780805093070

3. The Swerve

Stephen Greenblatt, Norton, $26.95, 9780393064476

4. Unbroken

Laura Hillenbrand, Random House, $27, 9781400064168

5. That Used to Be Us

Thomas L. Friedman, Michael Mandelbaum, FSG, $28, 9780374288907

6. In the Garden of Beasts

Erik Larson, Crown, $26, 9780307408846

7. Following Atticus

Tom Ryan, Morrow, $25.99, 9780061997105

8. The Greater Journey

David McCullough, S&S, $37.50, 9781416571766

9. Confidence Men

Ron Suskind, Harper, $29.99, 9780061429255

10. Rin Tin Tin

Susan Orlean, S&S, $26.99, 9781439190135

11. Go the F**k to Sleep

Adam Mansbach, Ricardo Cortes (Illus.), Akashic, $14.95, 9781617750250

12. Jacqueline Kennedy

Caroline Kennedy, Michael Beschloss, Hyperion, $60, 9781401324254

13. Seriously... I'm Kidding New

Ellen DeGeneres, Grand Central, $26.99, 9780446585026

14. Destiny of the Republic

Candice Millard, Doubleday, $28.95, 9780385526265

15. The Better Angels of Our Nature New

Steven Pinker, Viking, $40, 9780670022953

From the Top of South Doublehead on Monday

2011-10-19T01:36:00.000-04:00

USA Character Approved Blog Writes About Following Atticus

2011-10-10T22:27:00.000-04:00

The USA Character Approved Blog focuses on Following Atticus today. The blogger, Ben Hogan, writes: "Ryan is a compelling narrator, balancing his personal revelations with careful observations of Atticus's behavior; when the dog's health takes a turn for the worse, readers feel the anxiety and frustration as keenly as Ryan himself must have. Despite all the adversity life threw at them, the two continue to push forward, buoyed by the beauty of the mountains. (Ryan is still posting regular updates on his blog, even during their book tour.) Following Atticus will inspire not just dog lovers, but anyone who's looking for that extra little bit of courage it takes to break away from the non-essentials and start a simpler, happier life."

The USA Character Approved Blog has this to say about itself: "The Character Approved blog celebrates the people, places and things that are making a mark by positively influencing our cultural landscape. They're Character Approved - recipients of USA Network's seal of approval."

To see the entire blog post click here: USA Character Approved Blog Climb Every Mountain with Tom & Atticus. (And I must say that's it great to see Joe Carter's wonderful book trailer get this much play!)

Atticus Rocks (According to the New England Library Association)

2011-10-10T18:20:00.004-04:00

Some of the librarians who met Atticus M. Finch
before the start of the NELA luncheon.

Last week Atticus M. Finch and I joined 200 enthusiastic librarians at a luncheon in Burlington, Vermont. After eating I spoke to them about our story - most of the time while Atticus was sitting up, riding in the comfort on my elbow. Here's their blog post regarding our visit with them. It was part of the annual meeting of the New England Library Association (NELA). And what a great audience they were!

Humbled

2011-10-10T12:04:00.001-04:00

As our book, Following Atticus: Forty-Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, and an Extraordinary Friendship, makes its way into the hands of readers across the country, reviews continue to come in and on occasion I am humbled. Mark Twain wrote that "The public is the only critic whose opinion is worth anything at all." I understood this during my newspapering days with the Undertoad and as a first time author who is often overlooked by many professional reviewers it's a lesson taught to me on a daily basis.

So you can imagine how it feels when perfect strangers who have nothing to gain, no paid review to write, nor any need to pad their reputation by voicing their opinion on our story have something to say. While I don't always read reviews, one woman who posted both on Amazon's and Barnes and Noble's websites wrote something that has left me humbled. And while I'm not sure we are worthy of her kind words I thought I'd share them with you nonetheless. It follows below. . . .

What we all need right now is (to be) Following Atticus

This is definitely the best book I've read in a long, long time. Tom Ryan takes the reader on an achingly personal yet amazing journey with "Following Atticus". This is not just a typical dog memoir, and it's not just a story about the adversities of hiking the White Mountains of New Hampshire. This book shares with us wonderful life lessons taught by a little dog. live in the moment, be close to nature, reflect, persevere when things get tough, give selflessly, love unconditionally. Atticus gently leads Tom to discover his true self, and as Tom shares this story, the reader experiences all emotions encountered along the way. You will laugh out loud, you will shed tears, you will feel the exhilaration of triumph, and cheer for this unlikely pair. Tom writes in such a way that the reader can't help but feel a personal connection to his experiences. By the end of the book, Tom has changed... and the reader probably has too. This book couldn't come to us at a better time - in a world where we are constantly barraged with bad news and negativity, this book will remind the reader of all that is good and right and possible. Tom Ryan and Atticus are an inspiration, and we would all do well to follow them.

The Improper Bostonian Reviews Following Atticus

2011-10-09T13:36:00.003-04:00

Some Reflections from Our Book Tour

2011-10-06T21:11:00.001-04:00

From our Lincoln, New Hampshire appearance. (Photo by Ken Stampfer.)

Over the last two weeks Atticus and I have driven more than 3,000 miles during the first leg of our book tour. We’ve been taken far from the land we love.

We’ve traveled from the bucolic countryside of northern New Hampshire down through many of the more urban areas of the northeast. We’ve been to the ocean, stuck in smoggy traffic in the bowels of the highways coursing through New York City, walked the cobblestone streets of old Richmond, Virginia, and driven through the farmlands of southeast Pennsylvania. Along the way we’ve visited spirited independent bookstores and met audiences of all sizes: from more than 200 to less than 10. The audiences have been wonderfully receptive and on most occasions we had more than 50 people in attendance, even in places where you would think there wouldn’t be many. It’s been a pleasure telling them about our journey. It’s been a privilege to tell them about these mountains.

Six years ago when Atticus and I first started hiking we befriended Steve Smith, a long-time White Mountain scribe, author of several books, and owner of Lincoln’s Mountain Wanderer Map and Bookstore. During our conversations about writing and these mountains we share a love and wonder of I let him know that it was my dream to write about them the way the artists of the 1800s painted them. It was my wish to portray them accurately and to reflect their magnificence and when I was done I wanted people to look at them the same way they did when the White Mountain artists shared them with the rest of the world. I like to think that I have succeeded. As people read our book I hear many things but the one that pleases me the most is when they say, “I need to see the White Mountains.”

Mike Dickerman, Steve Smith’s co-author of the Four Thousand Footers of the White Mountains, and an equally legendary scribe who has written about these peaks for more than two decades, recently said that Following Atticus is “an instant regional classic.”

When we receive much in life, it is our duty to repay it in kind. Perhaps not to where it came from but instead to others who are in need of what we have. I have never been motivated by money or fame. I’ve always been driven by my passions and passion is what brought Atticus and me north. It’s what drove me to write our book. In the process I wanted to share this sacred place with others who have never seen it, just as I once wrote about it in letters to my father. He had been up here many times, but always as a windshield tourist. And so when I saw sights that would have brought tears to his eyes and brought him to his knees in awe I didn’t think about what I’d seen, but rather how it made me feel and then tried to capture that feeling in words so he could feel it as well.

I don’t think when I write – I feel. Because of this I will never be considered a great writer, I imagine. I’m far from an intellectual. But to hear those who have never been here say “I need to stand on top of one of the White Mountains,” well, I feel I’ve succeeded at least in some small way in capturing their grandeur.

A friend of mine weighs at least 350 pounds. Recently he noted he was on a diet and had started visiting a personal trainer to help him lose weight. I congratulated him and asked him what motivated him.

“I want to see the Bonds one day.”

He had just read our book. Nothing filled me with more gratitude than hearing this.

As we’ve traveled far from our home in Jackson, I’m happy to report that Atticus carries himself as he always has: with a great sense of self and without a leash or collar. He’s walked city streets and country lanes on our book tour just as he always has – some twenty feet in front of me. And when I speak he’s either sitting in the crook of my elbow or lying on a comfortable blanket on a table. Sometimes he sleeps. He doesn’t look much like a mountain dog. But then again he never has. Just as I’ve never looked like much of a hiker. But I think that’s what makes our message all the more intriguing. People look at us and say, “If those two did it, so can I?”

They are correct.

And yet there’s more to it than that. I’ve seen these mountains and looked up at them with delight and fear and respect and reverence. But the only reason I have is because a little dog led me. I’ve been a lucky participant in this marvelous journey simply because I followed an extraordinary little dog. And why did I do that? Well . . . sometimes you just need to follow your friends. You just never know where it will lead you.

Where it’s led me is to the top of the world. At least that’s the way I see it. After more than a thousand miles of sharing the trails with Atticus M. Finch I’ve been scrubbed clean by nature and brought back to see innocence once again. I’m a fortunate man.

It all goes to show you that anything is possible – especially here in these magical Mountains.

The Book Tour

2011-10-04T22:41:00.002-04:00

Don't let the bottle from one of our hotel mini bars fool you...
Atticus was not driven to drink during the tour. He had a great time!

Our book tour has had us on the run for the past two weeks and now we get to sleep in our own bed for the next week. We have a few upcoming events this week but they are relatively local. Then, next week we head out on the road for a few nights again. Much to catch up on regarding our tour and hopefully the next couple of days will deliver some sunny days so that Atticus and I can go find a perch on top of a mountain somewhere here in the Whites where the world will come round to us again.

We're doing well, but I know it's time to find our center again and let nature recharge us.

As for Atticus, he's been a great sport throughout the tour. He's fine so long as we are together and people treat him well, which they've been doing. And I'm quite sure that while he sleeps through most of the talks I give (you have to forgive him since he's heard me talk so much as of late and already knows how the story ends - the dog lives!) he enjoys the stimulation of meeting people.

Over the past two weeks we've put in 3,500 miles of driving, met many interesting folks, saw some great independent bookstores, and spoke at several interesting libraries. The experiences themselves have added color to pass along during our speaking engagements and part of me wishes we could keep going.

But the other part longs to be home alone with my friend where life is quiet and private and the bears and moose and fox are never too far away. And wouldn't you know it, the wonderful fall foliage that I've been missing up here as we've headed away from the mountains has held out and is just now starting to turn. It really is the best time of the year up here and we are doubly blessed. Not only do we get to live and walk in these mountains, we get to tell the world about them.

This Thursday morning we'll be on WMWV, the North Conway radio station we listen to every morning. We'll be interviewed by Roy Prescott at 8:20 am and it can be heard on WMWV.com if you are not in the Mount Washington Valley. On Friday night at 7:00 pm we'll be in Newington to speak at the Barnes & Noble. And on Saturday we'll be appearing in Littleton, NH at the Village Bookstore at 4:00 pm.

More news to follow as we rest up for a few days and climb a mountain or two.

Onward, by all means,

Tom (& Atticus)

Following Atticus Countdown...8 Days!

2011-09-11T10:49:00.001-04:00

Following Atticus: Forty-Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, and an Extraordinary Friendship goes on sale on September 20, 2011. It's available wherever books are sold. (Or, as my friend Bob, who sells books tells me, "Wherever fine books are sold." You can also pre-order from your local indie bookseller or at any of the on-line stores: www.barnesandnoble.com; www.amazon.com; www.powells.com; etc...

Also, the good ladies at White Birch Books in North Conway (our local book store) are taking orders for personalized inscriptions that will be signed by me and stamped with Atticus's paw print. These is great for those of you who want a signed copy but cannot get to one of our stops on our book tour. You can find information on our book tour on our HarperCollins page here. And those who order from pre-order from White Birch Books will be entered into a drawing to win a Following Atticus t-shirt. The shirts are not for sale (although they may be some day). We're giving them away during our tour.

The Land of Faerie

2011-09-09T08:14:00.000-04:00

A few years after Atticus and I started hiking in the White Mountains we found ourselves on an unusual trail, headed in a sharply different course. It wasn’t a miscalculation, but a change of direction that was carefully nurtured.

The reason for the change can be found in something Tolkien wrote: "Faerie contains many things besides elves and fays and besides dwarfs, witches, trolls, giants or dragons; it holds the seas, the sun, the moon, the sky; and the earth, and all things that are one in it: tree and bird, water and stone, wine and bread, and ourselves, mortal men, when we are enchanted."

That quote, the very essence of it, is why we gave up a life in Newburyport where we’d become deeply-rooted. It was a city where I thought I would live my life. But that’s the thing about magic: if you open your eyes, mind, and heart to it, there’s no telling where you’ll end up.

Seven years ago this very weekend Atticus and I joined three of my brothers on a climb up Mount Garfield. They’d all been hiking up here for years, but for us it was something new. And yet after staggering up that final chute to the everlasting vistas on that incredible summit everything changed and I found myself in a vivid state of life and understood then and there that things would never be the same again. We’d came back that following summer and by hiking the 48 4,000-footers in eleven weeks I returned to my childhood. It was a walk across hundreds of miles and deep into that land of faerie Tolkien spoke of.

Because fate works as it does and our only job is to go along for the ride, we returned that winter – even though I planned for us to avoid the snowy peaks. Then came the next spring, summer, and fall, where we visited all 48 (and other peaks) once again. Over the following two winters we set out on our fundraising quests, first to raise money for the Jimmy Fund and Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in memory of a friend who died of cancer by attempting to do two rounds of the 48 in the 90 days of winter. Then, the following winter, after Atticus had lost his sight and then had it restored because of the kindness of others, we attempted the 96 peaks in 90 days once again, this time for Angell Animal Medical Center.

Throughout all of this peakbagging we adhered to schedules and I found myself a daily visitor to various hiking websites where I could touch base with others who had been hooked by the same addiction. I’d check in several times a day, see what others were hiking, and would let them know what we’d been doing, and planned to do.

And then something happened.

In the midst of all that collecting of peaks, in the hurry to get them done, I grew proud of our accomplishments and the sheer numbers we were piling up. I desired nothing more than to fit in with the hiking community and let them know what we were doing. It was then that I realized I had taken this gift of another chance at innocence I’d been given in my forties and nearly thrown it away.

Those of us who come to the White Mountains from other places fall under their spell. We cannot get enough of them. It’s love gone mad. Enchantment falls upon us and this is all we care about. We hike the 48 the first time around because it serves the purpose they were set up to do – to get people to see peaks other than the Presidential Range and Franconia Ridge. And if when do the 48 again...and again, we begin to fall into a rut. At least I did.

If we collect those peaks enough, we start to diminish the gift of returning to the magic of our youth when all was possible. We make the mistake of bringing along the very life of striving, competition, and ego that we were so very happy to leave behind when we first glimpsed this incredible place. And we do it all because we’re working towards yet another accomplishment – perhaps earning a scroll, a patch, or our names on a website. All so that we can say, “Look what I’ve done!”

I’m not sure when it clicked for me; perhaps there wasn’t a specific time but an accumulation of unease. But I finally came to realize that I’d turned my life in the mountains into the one I was so thrilled to leave behind. So I set a different course, away from the mania of accomplishment, and back again towards the land of faerie.

I’ve not regretted it. I no longer visit the hiking websites. As a matter of fact, I avoid them like the plague, for I see in many who post there the same mania I was urged on by and am reminded that what we dislike about others is what we recognize in ourselves. This is not to say it's wrong for them; it was simply wrong for me. There's a saying all hikers know: "Hike your own hike." It means get whatever you need to get out of the mountains. And while others are into collecting the same peaks over and over again, I'm not. Although I must say that I don't believe there's anything wrong with either approach.

Having experienced both types of hiking, I made a decision to get back to the more free form style of going where I want to go. Perhaps it's because I'm not much of a joiner or a follower and I've always admired Emerson for writing, "Whose would be a man must be a nonconformist."

Over the last three years Atticus and I no longer hike with a plan. Instead we visit the woods, get their good tidings, and fulfill our souls. It feels much better this way. It feels the way it is supposed to feel. Each walk in the woods, each summit reached is once again a gift. And now it’s done for the right reasons. Not so we can say to others, "Look what we’ve done," but so that we can feel the magic the way it was supposed to be felt, the way poets and painters have always felt about such places.

I returned to this area of my youth because of a seed planted in me by my father long ago. And I’ve been led from valley to peak by a little dog with a curious sense of place, self, and calmness. And now as we get ready to launch our book, the first ever nationally published about these magical White Mountains, I’m content in knowing that we’ve reclaimed much of what I nearly lost.

One of my pleasures this summer has come in the form a watching a duo quite similar to us – an adult and a little one – as they take the journey Atticus and I took six years ago. One is old enough to bare the trials and tribulations of life; the other is still wrapped in the innocence of childhood.

My two favorite hikers: Sierra Flagg
and Atticus M. Finch.

When this summer began, Sue Flagg, who owns and publishes both the NorthCountry News and Mountainside Guide with her husband, Bryan wanted to climb Mount Washington with their seven year old daughter, Sierra. They not only did that, but have now climbed 37 4,000-footers. In this incredible summer which will live on forever for them, mother and daughter only continue on because it’s still fun for Sierra. She cares more about spending time with her mother in the woods (and occasionally her father as well) and little about the patch and scroll the Appalachian Mountain Club awards finishers of the 48. They aren’t doing it for the notoriety and aren’t posting and boasting about what they’ve done. This is not a case of a little league dad or soccer mom pushing their child to the extreme so they can fulfill some emptiness within themselves. Sue and Sierra are doing it simply for the joy of it.

In watching them progress from mountain to mountain I am overjoyed by their experiences. And while Sue is happy to teach her daughter as much as she can during each of her hikes, I have the feeling that Sierra is doing her own fair share of teaching as well. For these mountains are for the innocent who can still appreciate magic. They are for little girls and little dogs and those of us they remind to be young and fresh and hopeful again.

The land of faerie exists. It’s wherever nature is. And if we allow it – it’s also within us.

The Following Atticus Book Trailer

2011-09-06T21:58:00.002-04:00

Excerpt (No. 2) from Following Atticus: Forty-Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, and an Extraordinary Friendship

2011-09-06T16:03:00.001-04:00

Atticus M. Finch on the ledges of Mount Moriah looking
off towards the Carter and Presidential Ranges.

Last week we shared the first of several excerpts from our book, Following Atticus, with you. We're back this week with another. I'm often asked how I kept Atticus safe throughout our winter hikes. Here's a passage that tells you who we dealt with it during our first winter in the White Mountains. Click here to read the second excerpt from our book.

Kirkus Reviews On Following Atticus

2011-09-05T11:58:00.001-04:00

Kirkus Reviews, which bills itself as "The World's Toughest Book Critics," reviewed Following Atticus and gave us a great write up. Thank you, Kirkus. It follows below in its entirety.

Lyrical memoir of an adventurous New England journalist and his trusty canine companion.

Photo by Ken Stampfer.

Ryan spent many years single-handedly owning and operating the Undertoad, a newspaper covering the police and political beats (and their interrelated improprieties) in eccentric Newburyport, Mass. ("Norman Rockwell meets Alfred Hitchcock"). The author's journalistic exposure of local scandals didn't sit well with folks in power, however, and he feared violent retribution. Quelling his paranoia was the "commitment" of adopting an older miniature schnauzer. Sadly, his time with that pet lasted less than a year, but spurred him to adopt schnauzer pup Atticus Maxwell Finch. After a frustrating training period, Ryan and Atticus struck a harmonious human-animal rapport, a uniquely interactive relationship the author clearly reveled in. A few tastes of majestic New Hampshire mountain climbing with his brothers brought back fond memories of better days with his estranged father, a haunting presence throughout the memoir. That family hike challenged Ryan to scale all 48 of the White Mountain range's 4,000-foot peaks in 90 days with a dog Ryan fondly writes was "made for the mountains." The experience became therapeutic, transformative and spiritually enlightening for both. Without regret, Ryan retired the newspaper and, in honor of cancer victim Vicki Pearson, galvanized himself and Atticus to, again, hike the 48 peaks (twice!) as a cancer fundraiser. Rivetingly portrayed, both valiantly braved the vicious winter elements (Atticus in booties and bodysuit), but the dog's darker days were only just beginning. There's immense pathos in the frank depiction of the author's turbulent relationship with his father, both in describing his physical abuse as a youth or finding forgiveness in adulthood.

In befriending Atticus and carrying his father's memory to those serene mountain peaks, Ryan admits he discovered a rare peacefulness, a quality that underscores this touching chronicle.

The Bond

2011-09-04T17:16:00.003-04:00

Seattle Kennel Club Reviews Following Atticus

2011-09-02T11:44:00.002-04:00

The latest review of Following Atticus is in, and it comes from the Seattle Kennel Club. Among other things they write: “Following Atticus” is a compelling mix of simple and lyrical crafted in a vivid, cultural context. It connects powerfully with readers with its crisp wit, true grit and colorful mosaic of characters. In the process it beautifully captures the essence of the human-animal bond.

You can read the entire review here.

Following Atticus Makes Indie Next List

2011-09-02T07:08:00.003-04:00

"Reader, beware! This is not just another dog book! When Tom Ryan welcomed Atticus M. Finch, a miniature schnauzer, into his life, little did he know what courage, pluck, and unwavering love he would get in the bargain. This is a beautifully written book about the very special bond between a man and his dog, an amazing quest, and the mountains that healed them." ~ Barbara Drake, White Birch Books, North Conway, NH

We are thrilled that Following Atticus has been voted on to the Indie Next List for the month of October!

And how nice is it that out of all the people from around the country who nominated Following Atticus it's Barbara Drake's quote about our book that was chosen! Barb works at White Birch Books, our local independent bookstore here in the Mount Washington Valley. Thanks, Barb! As well as everyone else who nominated us to be on this list of twenty notable upcoming books. You can see all twenty titles by clicking here.

Here's how the American Booksellers Association describes the Indie Next List:
"The Indie Next List, drawn from bookseller-recommended favorite handsells, epitomizes the heart and soul of passionate bookselling. Independent booksellers are and have always been discoverers of the next big thing, the next great read, the next bestseller, and the next undiscovered gem. The monthly Indie Next List flier, sent to members via the monthly Red Box and available for download online, includes a bookseller quotation and complete title information for each outstanding book. Each monthly flier also announces IndieBound hardcover Great Reads now available in paperback. The Indie Next List is also featured on the consumer website, IndieBound.org."

Excerpt 1 from Following Atticus

2011-09-01T17:17:00.002-04:00

Over the next couple of weeks we'll be releasing excerpts to our book, Following Atticus. Here's the first excerpt. Hope you enjoy it...and be on the look out for more.

The Extreme Athlete

2011-08-26T01:34:00.003-04:00

Come What May

2011-08-25T19:39:00.003-04:00

When the tempest begins, when the winds swirl and the rains lash and I lose my footing, that’s when I hold on to what we share – what we’ve always shared. I think of the simple things, the simple pleasures, the simple joys. I think of times I will never forget and how we got to where we are today and where we are headed.

I’m told that when our story is published less than a month from now it could get crazy. All writers should be so lucky. It will get crazy if the book takes off. As it is we’ll be on the road for the better part of three weeks. What first time author wouldn’t want that? And if things go really well, we could be back on the road again for who knows how long.

A friend of asked me, “Are you ready for this?”

Part of me doesn’t know the answer. The other part has been waiting for it my entire life. And so that’s what I told my friend.

“But how will you and Atticus stay centered if it does take off? How will you see to it that you both remain happy in the craziness?” she wanted to know.

The way I see it, no matter where we go, no matter what we encounter, the Little Bug and I have an advantage no one else has. If we are overrun by fans; or no one shows up; or the critics hate the book; or love it; or we are on the road so long we forget what our own bed feels like – we have a unique advantage.

We have each other.

So when we stand in front of a strange room with faces we don’t know looking expectantly at us and Atticus is sitting in the crook of my arm, whatever nervousness is coursing through my body I’ll think of the mountains. All those wintery peaks we’ve climbed, those miles through snow and ice and into the wind. I’ll think of how a good weather day up high is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen and the loneliest on the worst weather days. I’ll think of hikes started before dawn and finished after sunset when our only company at the end was my sore feet and the moon and the stars above. I’ll think about hikes where I felt like we were the only two left on the planet because we were so isolated.

But more than anything I’ll think about hiking with a little dog who surprised me from the very beginning. I’ll think about the friendship we share and the things we’ve seen. I’ll remember how he led me, until he went blind and then needed me to lead. I’ll think of how our most hopeless days were darker than the nights. And yet we made it through.

The advantage we have is that no matter what happens, we have each other.

And I won’t just be thinking of peaks where the temperature was fifteen below zero or the clouds draped over a mountaintop and took all hope away or the horrifying moments when the wind circled overhead like a great winged beast. Those are all memorable, of course. But I’ll also think of the softer times, the quieter times, the peaceful moments.

I’ll think about Chocorua as it was when we saw her last – just a couple of weeks ago – silhouetted by a ripe, round moon and how we could see stars falling off in the distance when we put that moon behind us. I’ll think about how just after midnight we reached the small table of her summit and sat side by side leaning against each other on a night cool enough to feel as if we were swimming through the air but not so chilly as to need anything more than a light fleece top. I’ll think of how we sat watching the miracles of the night and photographic negatives of the peaks fading into the distance and listened to classical music on a tiny, portable wooden speaker while everyone we knew was home asleep in their beds.

We were literally in a world of our own.

As we’ve always been.

Goethe wrote, “A talent is formed in stillness, a character in the world’s torrent.” I’ve come to believe the truest friendships are formed the same way: in both quiet and in wildness.

I’ll think about how after we sat on Chocorua’s summit until our eyes were so full we couldn’t drink another drop of the nighttime scenery that we carefully climbed off the highest and steepest reaches of the peak and then made our way like children through the night along the rock ledges looking out into the vast darkness on either side of us. And how when we reached Middle Sister, one of the sub-peaks, and readied to duck down into the trees and away from the views how Atticus stayed behind and sat down. He didn’t want to leave. So I joined him and we sat some more. This time without the music playing on my iPhone. This time with only the sound of his sweet sigh as I sat down next and he leaned his tiny body into mine.

There are some things you see and know you will never forget. And yet these pale in comparison to the things you feel and no immediately they are forever etched in your heart.

When we hit the road, two strangers rolling into distant towns with welcoming bookstores, Atticus and I will be traveling as no other first time author and friend has. Oh, I’m sure others have had their own secrets of success and comfort, but we have each other. And more than that there’s that sliver of magic that has always lived in the space between us in a world of our own making.

Let the storm come. Let the next adventure begin.

(*Photograph by Ken Stampfer.)

The Countdown Continues

2011-08-25T07:34:00.002-04:00

New Hampshire Magazine Reviews Following Atticus in the September Issue

2011-08-24T15:38:00.003-04:00

The Little Giant
An inspiring tale of a man, his dog and their quest

He might be small, but Atticus has a mighty spirit – one that helped him climb nearly 200 of New Hampshire’s tallest mountains in the winter (!), survive a brutal attack by another dog and endure a period of total blindness.

Oh, and his owner and companion on his ventures, Tom Ryan, is pretty amazing, too. Ryan wouldn’t mind that Atticus gets the high praise – he’s used to it. Ever since he adopted the dog he calls “The Little Giant” – and sometimes, when they are contemplating life together on the summit of a mountain, “The Little Buddha” – Atticus was the center of attention. And deservedly so.

In his book, “Following Atticus” [William Morrow] , Ryan skillfully tells the tale of the duo’s quest to climb all of the state’s 4,000 footers twice in just one winter, for charity and themselves. It’s a wonderful story of courage, endurance, discovery, deepening, anguish and joy.

I highly recommend it, and hope that some movie producer will see its potential for the big screen. The story would appeal to kids as a great adventure and to adults as a demonstration of how to live life to the fullest. –Barbara Coles

For a Personalized Autograph Copy of Following Atticus

2011-08-23T11:51:00.006-04:00

If you would like a personalized inscription and autograph of Following Atticus when it comes out in September but can't make it to one of our signings, the good ladies at White Birch Books can hook you up. Simply contact them and they'll take care of the rest. Their website is http://www.whitebirchbooks.com/ or you can simply call them at 603.356.3200.

White Birch Books is our local bookshop and Atticus and I stop in several times a week. Simply give them a call, tell them what you want written, I'll write it and sign it, and they will send it off to you. They are well-versed in this exercise since they already do it for our neighbor, New York Times bestselling author, Lisa Gardner on an annual basis.

We love supporting independent bookstores and hope you support your local shop as well!

Following Atticus Comes Out Four Weeks From Today

2011-08-23T06:21:00.001-04:00

A Letter Home from Mount Garfield (June 5, 2006)

2011-08-20T20:02:00.004-04:00

I recently found a letter I wrote to my father back in June of 2006.

I wrote him many letters and often they'd appear in my paper, the Undertoad. It got to the point that even though Jack Ryan had never been to Newburyport, barely a day went by when someone didn't ask how he was...as if they knew him. And when he was injured in a car accident it was announced on the Newburyport radio station as if he was one of them. Gosh, I think he loved this bit of celebrity in a foreign land. My "Letters Home" turned out to be my most popular column and when I was back in Newburyport in April speaking about the book, one former subscriber asked, "How does your dad feel about the book?" When I informed the woman he had died a couple of years ago she looked sad, as if she'd lost a friend. And she wasn't the only one who looked that way for many who read the 'Toad felt they knew him - at least a little, because of my letters.

Because Jack plays a role in our book (Kirkus Reviews refer to him as "a haunting presence") I thought I'd introduce you to him.

* * * * * *

Dear Dad,

You would like it here.

You would like the way the rock abruptly ends and yields to a precipitous drop that leads to a vast expanse of green that stretches on for miles and looks so comfortable you’d think you could sleep on it. Garfield is one of my favorite summits for this very reason. It’s the contrast of gray stone above and green tree below and the various shades of forest that come together like a quilt in the Pemigewasset Wilderness and goes on that way until it reaches the hazy blue-gray of distant mountains.

From here the wilderness looks like anything but that. It appears peaceful, much the way the ocean looks from high above: no waves, no undercurrent, no danger, just a gentle rolling sea; peaceful, soothing. To the eye there are no trees, just a blanket of what looks like moss so lush you could feel its softness if only you could reach it to run your fingertips over it.

About now you’re sitting down to watch the Sox, but they will end up being rained out. Here in the White Mountains, there was until recently, a resplendent blue sky dotted with cotton ball clouds. Now the clouds have gone gray and stretched over the Pemi but they are not threatening. From time to time the sun pokes holes in the gray fabric to light the forest in a changing pattern of bright and dark greens.

If it weren’t for the black flies it would be a perfect day. It’s the first we’ve had in quite some time. Two weeks ago we walked through the pouring rain up to Starr King and Waumbek. The next day it was up the Osseo Trail to Flume and over to Liberty and down to Liberty Springs through mist and heavy clouds with no views. The following Saturday was bright, but hot and humid as we stood upon North and South Twin and then made our way to Galehead. The following day was the hike from hell. I melted in the high temperature and equally high humidity when we climbed Monroe, over Boott Spur and out to Isolation. On that final hike I broke down physically and the heat made the rocks on Boott Spur feel like a furnace, as if we were stranded on some strange wasteland. We stumbled out to the car at ten that night, tired, hungry, and thirsty. Yesterday on the way up Hale I was suffering again but by the time we reached the second stream crossing the humidity broke and I was reborn.

Today? Today is beautiful. Atticus, his dark hair a magnet for the hot sun, is happy the sun has decided to play hide and seek behind the clouds. Because of this his pink tongue is staying hidden.

As we sit here on this remarkably quiet summit we are surrounded by great mountains. To our left are the Twins and “little” Galehead. On the right is Franconia Ridge. Before us is Owl’s Head. (Oh, Owl’s Head, how I differ with most hikers when it comes to this mountain. I find it to be magnificent and self-assured and comfortable with what it is. Its large hump takes center stage from here. No need for a pointy summit. No need for rock above tree line or some dramatic peak. It is simply what it is and offers no apology for itself.) And off in the distance are the Osceola’s and Tecumseh and mountain after blue mountain.

I think of Garfield as the perfect front porch. It’s a front row seat to the world that stretches on from this point. Just sit back, put my feet up and I’m at home watching the world go by. It is a great pondering spot.

On this day, I could sit for hours and watch the sun and shade dance over the green below. It is mesmerizing. I am not the only one who thinks so. After a drink of water, some almonds and cashews, Atticus is taking in the scenes. I often wonder just what goes through his mind when he sits on top of a mountain and looks off in the distance like this. I’ve come to believe he enjoys these views from the top. Perhaps even more than I do.

If you could be here the only complaint you might have with this summit are the ledges. Your fear of heights would shake you if you got too close to the edge.

Recently I talked with another hiker about a shared fear of heights. We talked of ledges and slides and how when I’m atop them my legs quake and I feel gravity take hold of me, like a giant hand that’s about to reach up and pluck me over the edge. The other hiker told me of a different feeling, the worry is not so much about falling, but about coming face to face with the edge and taking a willing leap towards death.

I shuddered at such a thought and was reminded of that John Irving line that recurs as it is exchanged from one member of the Berry family to the next throughout the Hotel New Hampshire, “Keep passing the open windows.”

On those few occasions in life when life seemed unbearable I sometimes joked with myself to “keep passing the open windows.” But in all honesty, I don’t think I would ever have the courage to even consider suicide. Besides, the experience of life is just to interesting for me to pass up, at least at my age.

I find it interesting that you loved these mountains as much as you did and many of your children inherited that love from you, but the only 4,000-footers you have ever stood on top of are Cannon, Wildcat and Washington, where a tram, gondola, train, or an auto road reached. Because of that you have never been able to see some of the wonders I have seen this past year. Because of your age, your diabetes, heart, emphysema and everything else, the only way you will see some of these mountains are through my eyes, my photos, and my words. I try to remember that when I hike, try to be mindful of things you would find interesting, or be awed by. Unfortunately I fear neither photo nor word will ever do these mountains justice.

Today, while I climbed, I thought of you often. How could I not? Just a few days ago I discovered what you had been trying to keep from us: That 86 years is long enough and that you stopped taking your large inventory of medications and have decided to let nature run its course.

There’s something to be said for that. And it’s not like you’ve decided to stop passing the open windows. I understand there’s nothing left for you. You’ve grown old and tired. You feel broken and have missed mom for nearly 40 years.

Neither you nor I know how long it will be before your planned departure comes, but I want you to know that I am proud of you. It’s your life; it’s your choice. You are going out on your own terms.

Selfishly, I feel a little different about your decision. I will miss you. I feel foolish to have wasted as many years as we did in that awkward Irish dance father and son do. Too much time was wasted, time that can never be regained.

Knowing now more than ever that you will not always be there awaiting my phone call or my letters, I really wish you were up here with me today. Garfield was my first 4,000-footer and it is a love-at-first-sight kind of summit. I climbed it in September of 2004 and throughout the entire winter I returned many times in my thoughts. When the time comes years down the road, this will also be my last mountain. For when my ashes are spread, I think this is the place they will be launched from, so that I can be scattered over the thick, lush green wilderness below, surrounded by these mountains I love. These mountains you have loved, even if only from the valleys or from your recliner at home through fading memories and what I bring back to you.

You would like it here.

You would love it here.

Much love from your youngest son,
Tom (& Atticus)

Kirkus Reviews on Following Atticus

2011-08-15T15:30:00.002-04:00

Publishers Weekly Review of Following Atticus

2011-08-15T15:26:00.002-04:00

Library Journal Review of Following Atticus

2011-08-08T17:29:00.003-04:00

His Heart

2011-08-07T13:55:00.005-04:00

I couldn't help sending this series of photographs off to Rebecca Malakoff, Atticus's cardiologist at Angell Animal Medical Center. We had an appointment with her a couple of weeks ago to check out his heart murmur and Rebecca gave him a thorough going over, including an echo- cardiogram and an electrocardiogram.

His heart murmur was first detected by Maureen Carroll at Angell while he was in for a check up of his thyroid four and a half years ago. She sent us down the hall to cardiologist Gregg Rapoport. It wasn't much to worry about, he said, after giving Atticus an exam. But he also told me to have him come back for regular check-ups. Gregg has since left Angell, headed for a teaching position down at the University of Georgia - Athens. That's how we came to see Rebecca Malakoff. She's a wonderful doctor. (Haven't met one yet at Angell that I haven't liked and thought to be very professional and good-hearted.)

Atticus is now nine and a half years old. With his getting older I was a bit concerned over what would be discovered at the recent appointment. However, the tests showed that there's very little change in his murmur. There is a bit more leakage from the valves than there was four years ago, but it's so little Dr. Malakoff is not concerned with it. Still we'll keep our eyes on it.

When I was going through my photos of Friday's hike along Franconia Ridge I thought of Atticus on that table a couple of weeks ago, with strips of hair shaved off of his chest so that Rebecca could perform the echocardiogram. Then I thought of the wires that were hooked up to him and how when he was laying on his side I sat where he could see me, held his head in my hands as he held my eyes with his. From time to time his little, pink tongue flicked out and licked my hand, looking for reassurance. It was the only sign that he was uncomfortable in the least bit.

I decided I'd send this series to her so she could see what his heart allows him to do because some times it fascinates even me. I mean the pumping heart, not the loving heart. I've always have known what the loving heart can do...and yet there are times that continues to fascinate me as well.

A Breakfast of Blueberries and an Approaching Storm...August Is Here!

2011-08-02T22:21:00.008-04:00

On the trail this morning the air felt different – cooler, cleaner, with a tiny snap of mystery to it. Then I remembered that we are now in August, and smiled. The bugs of early summer are gone and the high heat of July is thankfully also a memory. In August it can still get hot, but not as oppressive as July, and there hints of the next season come here and there. On the downhill slope of summer things just feel a bit better, more comfortable, and fresher.

I believe that when it comes to hiking there are only two months better than August: September and October. These are the prime hiking months. Long before the leaves change, the air does. Back in Newburyport the old timers used to look forward to what they called a sea change. The wind shifted and so did the atmosphere, if only for a short while, and so much freshness filled the city that you wanted to spend all your time outside drinking it in, filling your lungs with it. Here in the White Mountains this is the month when we get that same kind of change, but it’s different than it was back on the coast. Here it is not fleeting.

Our original plans for the day were scuttled when the forecast called for midday thunderstorms. When it comes to hiking the first and most important rule to follow is to take only what the Mountain Gods offer. And thunder and lightning is not an invitation to be on a mountaintop.

With the longer hike out the window, we settled for a leisurely walk up Black Cap in North Conway. It’s an easy climb with just over 500 feet of elevation gain, but the trailhead sits so high on Hurricane Mountain Road that by the time you reach the summit you’re standing at 2,369 feet and there are grand views unobstructed by the trees.

It’s easy to get lost on the rocky summit and the numerous ledges of Black Cap. Not lost as in “I don’t know where the trail is,” but lost as in a meditative way. About the only thing that has hastened our departure from there in the past are the number of people who can be on the trail at any one time. But this morning there was no one. Just us, the wonderful second day of August, and hints of the oncoming storm.

On the way up there is a fork in the trail and you can either reach the summit by those ledges in about a quarter of a mile, or take a half mile to loop round and come at it from the reverse side. We always take the longer, but easier route to the right. It’s not because it’s easier, because the ledges really aren’t all that difficult, it’s just because it brings us to a less traveled trail that has a nice out-of-the-way ledge that looks over at Chocorua and the Moats, and beyond to parts of the Sandwich Range. We have stopped there so often Atticus knows to turn down the little side path whenever we reach it.

Out of the trees and in the open, the air cooled us and we both sat and drank some water. I took out a few treats for Atticus and brought my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. I could almost hear the whisper of autumn in the music made by the turning and twisting and flipping leaves. Then I noticed we were surrounded by a tangle of blueberry bushes.

Like a child at Christmas I crouched down among the plants and excitedly plucked blueberries out of the bushes. I’d get ten or twenty in my hand and offer them to Atticus. Now let me tell you, Atticus has always loved blueberries so this was a welcome treat. Then the next handful was for me and we took turns that way. We were quite content in that spot for half an hour before heading back to the trail and to the mountaintop.

On the summit we settled down again and the breeze grew to be a gentle wind. Occasionally it would pick up and send Atticus’s floppy ears flying and we both relished the sweet coolness. While off in the distance, beyond the great hump of Mount Kearsage, the storm had rolled onto Mount Washington and the high peaks of the Presidential Range. We heard the roll of thunder, the boom, boom, boom echoing through the valleys and various ranges. The air was charged with the approaching storm and the two of us sat transfixed watching her approach.

There is nothing more exciting that an oncoming storm, especially up here...especially up high.

She hovered and seemed to grow over the Pressies, giving an occasional clap that was louder than the rest. Once she gained strength she moved south through Pinkham Notch, towards Jackson, and spread her great wings until I was awed by her reach.

She was coming and we were her witnesses. God, she was beautiful, casting the mountains in her shadow and mists.

She grew larger, fanning out as she approached. She was coming for us but I knew we had plenty of time to take cover and I figured we’d be back at our car when the downpour started. So we stayed just a little longer.

People wonder at the height of mountain peaks, at the raging rivers in spring when the snow melts, at seeing both moose and bear, but there is nothing as ferocious or enchanting as a storm flying wicked and determined on her route. Nothing stops a her when she is unleashed.

That’s what we were watching, feeling the tingle in the air and inside my bones. The boom, boom, boom grew louder like great kettle drums. Singular thunder claps sounded like gun shots whenever they exploded. Clouds grew darker, more dimensional, and day crept towards night at ten o’clock in the morning. How glorious!

By now Atticus was sitting right next to me, leaning into me. I’m not sure how long he’d been doing that or if he even realized he was doing it. We were both watching and it seemed as though neither of us wanted to leave the open ledges and our front row seats. But it wouldn’t be long before she was upon us so I said to Atticus, “Let’s go home.” At that we both got up. I grabbed my pack and we stood for a while longer to watch that great wing span of darkness looming over all those mountains.

Atticus nudged my leg with his nose. I picked him up and held him and still we watched her flying towards us. We did not want to leave. We wanted to spend time with her, to see her up close, but eventually common sense took over and I took a few steps down the ledges and put him down.

“Let’s go home, Pump.”

With those words he dropped his eyes from the sky to the trail and led us off the exposed rock and toward the trees. In the forest the air was even cooler and occasionally we would here the rat-a-tat-tat of rain drops falling on the leaves but we didn’t get wet. The storm was starting in earnest. She would save her best for a little later after we were back in the car.

And so our day started on a mountain with a breakfast of blueberries and Mother Nature putting on a great show. This was one of those mornings when I remembered just how lucky we are.

Touchstones

2011-07-29T00:38:00.009-04:00

Sitting here at my desk, Mozart washes over me. The moon has replaced the sun, cool night has traded places with the heat of the day, and a candle flickers where a soft breeze invites herself into our little home. Atticus is sleeping close by and his nose points to the open window as if welcoming that gentle stirring. He’s sleeping as he always does, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. I envy him that. I sleep well; I just can’t remember ever being wrapped in so much innocence.

I think if anyone saw him like this they wouldn’t know the first thing about him. It’s like when people see him sitting up in the cradle of my arm. He looks like a stuffed animal and they get the impression he’s spoiled. Little do they know the miles he’s walked or the mountains he’s scaled, the ice, wind, snow, and heat he’s endured. I often forget it myself when looking at him. Especially when I see him like this.

However, I’ve been reminding myself of all those miles and mountains lately because I’ve been worried about him. His right hip has been nagging him for more than a month. He hikes fine. It only bothers him when he gets up off the floor. He takes a few steps while lifting that one limb up and moves along on three legs for a bit. No complaints though, no whimper, or look of sadness in his eyes.

It’s that hip that had us at Angell Animal Medical Center in Boston the other day.

In the week leading up to the appointment, the first of three we had at Angell on Tuesday, (the other two were check-ups for his long existing heart murmur, and his eyes) I watched Atticus carefully as he walked. No sign of a limp. But damn it, whenever he got up off the floor he looked like an old, wounded dog.

I now know that there is a direct connection between his limp and my heart. The more trouble it gives him, the heavier my heart sits in my chest. But as of late I’ve really done my best to think of him on our recent climbs instead: in the early morning through the blazing heat above tree line on Chocorua; in the pre-dawn hours on Jackson under a glowing ghost of a full moon; and an early evening hike up South Doublehead on the Fourth of July weekend.

I've especially been remembering the last one.

From the ledges of South Doublehead we watched the valley below grow dark; clouds sail leisurely along the mountains of Montalban Ridge and the Presidential Range, and the sun sinking inevitably below those shadowy peaks. And when all was dark and all was quiet the first burst could be seen below our feet. Then came a second. Fireworks exploding. One at a time; then several in a row. Varying colors and sizes. How wonderful to look at them as if they were flowers there one moment and gone the next? The sound of them followed the sight of them and then lived a little longer as they echoed through the valley and the nooks and crannies of these ancient mountains.

When the grand finale came, the sky below – how often do you get to say that? – was afire and we both watched, his head next to mine as we stood on the edge of a cliff and I held him in my arm. I saw the colors reflected in his eyes, star bursts coming and going; and I saw the intensity in the sense of wonder in his gaze. And then I felt it within me.

His innocence always leads me back to myself.

After the show ended and smoke hung lazily below us but above the valley floor, I changed my mind and instead of heading home we climbed North Doublehead, too. The forest between both peaks is rich and teeming with life and we came upon a porcupine and stopped about ten feet away.

“Gentle,” I whispered and crouched down. Atticus sat next to me and under the blaze of a headlamp so bright it made night feel like day, we watched that porcupine as he turned his back to us and showed us his quills. Strangely though, after a bit he looked over his shoulder, dropped his armor, and turned to watch us. After a minute or two waddled off the trail, leaving the two of us looking at each other, and there was that sense of wonder again, that innocence.

We reached the top of North Doublehead at 11:00 and no one was in the cabin so we took the short path through the trees behind it and stood on the natural stone steps looking off the eastern side of the mountain into Maine. I turned off my headlamp and we sat together watching the stars above and the distant lights of civilization twinkling below.

Such things I will never forget.

I was thinking about Chocorua, Jackson, and especially the Doubleheads while we sat in the antiseptic waiting room at Angell on Tuesday. Atticus upright on the wooden bench next to me; (sans leash) watching almost curiously as numerous other dogs were led by on leashes and cats were carried around in carriers.

That’s the secret we who climb and love mountains hold dear – you never climb a mountain just once. It’s with you forever and always waiting for when you need it most. And when you fear that maybe your mountains are numbered and there could be an end to it all, you hold them all the more dear.

When the doctor came for us I told him about Atticus’s hip. He asked questions, felt around, tested his range of motion, and shrugged. Seemed fine to him. Then he took x-rays. Nothing to see there either. He double-checked with the radiologist. Still nothing.

My worst fear was arthritis, maybe a hip replacement, perhaps an end to his summit sitting. But all that was said was “Just take it slow for a bit. Otherwise he’s fine.” (And since then, he has been.)

Three hours later we were with Atticus’s ophthalmologist. He had been considering doing some minor cryosurgery on some irritating lashes. But wouldn’t you know it, they were gone. All but one. No surgery needed.

And the last appointment, I approached that one with a bit of caution for he is getting older, was with his cardiologist. Major tests were done and yet his heart murmur hasn’t grown more than a whisper of a breath in four years.

I had gone to Angell aware for the worst, worried about innocence that could be lost, and Atticus being separated from his mountains and in a strange and wondrous twist, things couldn’t have turned out any better. And so it seems we have more mountains to climb, more wonders to share, and more memories to make together.

Life is fleeting and I’m happy to say we’ve never wasted much of it. As a matter of fact, that afternoon, in the three hours between Atticus’s first appointment and his next two, we drove out to Medway and made yet another memory. I hadn’t been there since 2009 for there’s been no reason to go. But I felt like we finally had that reason. Medway's the little town I grew up in, the place where my parents are buried.

When you read our book you will see that I don’t remember much about my mother. She died when I was young. But my father…he’s one of the few characters in the story - and what a character he was! He would be secretly thrilled that Kirkus Reviews wrote that he is, “…a haunting presence throughout the memoir.”

During the hour we had before heading back to Angell, Atticus and I sat on the grass, the little dog under the shade of a graveside shrub, and Jack Ryan’s youngest son leaning against the headstone. I said a few prayers and then I started reading out loud. I read Following Atticus to my father just as he used to read to me. I read and read. I read every bit he’s in and then some.

I’d like to think he would have loved it.

Mountains are there when you need them, but not all the mountaintops are in New Hampshire. Some can be found in an animal hospital where nothing is found wrong, while others – well, they exist wherever father and son connect. They are the touchstones to what matter in life.

The Following Atticus Book Tour

2011-07-27T21:00:00.004-04:00

Following Atticus will be published on September 20, 2011 and we'll be kicking off our tour in North Conway at White Birch Books. Then we'll be hitting the road. Come on out and meet both of us and get a signed copy of our book.

Check back often for updates.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011
WHITE BIRCH BOOKS
2568 Main ST North Conway, NH 03860

Wednesday, September 21, 2011
BROOKLINE BOOKSMITH
279 Harvard St Brookline, MA 02446

Thursday, September 22, 2011
NORTHSHIRE BOOKSTORE
4869 Main ST Manchester Center, VT 05255

Friday, September 23, 2011
JABBERWOCKY BOOKSHOP
Mill # 1 50 Water St Newburyport, MA 01950

Saturday, September 24, 2011
THE MOUNTAIN WANDERER
,
Sunday, September 25, 2011
TOADSTOOL BOOKSHOP
12 Depot SQ Peterborough, NH 03458

Monday, September 26, 2011
BANK SQUARE BOOKS
53 W Main ST Mystic, CT 06355

Tuesday, September 27, 2011
NEW CANAAN LIBRARY
151 Main ST New Canaan, CT 06840

Wednesday, September 28, 2011
BROWSEABOUT BOOKS
133 Rehoboth Ave Rehoboth Beach, DE 19971

Thursday, September 29, 2011
FOUNTAIN BOOKSTORE
1312 E. Cary ST Richmond, VA 23219

Friday, September 30, 2011
CHESTER COUNTY BOOK COMPANY
975 Paoli Pike West Chester, PA 19380

Saturday, October 01, 2011
MORAVIAN BOOK SHOP
428 Main St. Bethlehem, PA 18018

Tuesday, October 04, 2011
NEW ENGLAND LIBRARY ASSOCIATION

Friday, October 07, 2011
BARNES & NOBLE, Newington, NH

Wednesday, October 12, 2011
BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY

Thursday, October 13, 2011
NEIBA

Saturday, October 15, 2011
SCHENECTEDY COUNTY PUBLIC LIBRARY

Simplify.

2011-07-25T18:24:00.002-04:00

Kindred Spirits

2011-06-30T15:59:00.003-04:00

Atticus and I have just returned from Pudding Pond. The day has a carefree, breezy, September feeling to it, with the leaves gently twisting and turning about and an occasional ripple seen on the water. Tomorrow the roads of the Mount Washington Valley will be choked with traffic for the holiday weekend and their mechanical whine and roar and the beeping of horns will be heard in those gentle woods, but today it’s peaceful.

When we walked around a bend near where the beavers have built a dam at the northern end of the pond, we encountered an elderly gentleman enjoying the peace and quiet. I didn’t want to interrupt him as he contemplated the water but when we drew near he turned and asked, “Is that Atticus?”

This gentle man’s name is John and we talked for a good twenty minutes while Atticus sat patiently either watching us or the pond. I’m guessing he is in his early 70s but when he told me of Boomer, a dog he lost two years ago, he could have been a boy. Watching his old eyes turn young, I smiled.

“He lived to be fifteen,” he said. “But he had cancer and he got worn down in the end but we still got out every day. One day I was sitting down on top of a mountain in Stowe and Boomer came and sat down next to me.

“I felt him lean against me and I knew he was telling me it was almost time to say goodbye.”

John paused, and he smiled while remembering his friend.

“It was the most intimate thing I’ve ever felt – to share that moment with him. I’ve never felt anything like it before or since.”

It would have been a sad thought for most, but I liked how this old man framed the memory. He considered it something special. After all those years together, after numerous adventures shared, two friends were getting ready to say goodbye.

Atticus is only nine, but lately I’ve noticed a catch in his rear hip. When he’s spread out on a dog bed or on the floor and stands up he lifts his right hind leg for two or three steps. Used to be I was the only one of us who limped after a hike, but his limp started a few weeks ago after a traverse of the Moats. He was fine during the hike, fine hopping out of the car, and had no trouble climbing the stairs to our apartment. It was only after a few hours of sleeping that he limped.

Four days later we hiked Caribou Mountain in Evans Notch and he was just fine. But that night the limp returned. Over the next week, especially during rainy days, the limp was clearly evident but only on the first three steps. After that it disappeared and he walked with a normal gait.

I made an appointment with Christine O’Connell, our local vet. I hoped it was Lyme disease because that’s something a bit of medicine can straighten out. My bigger fear was arthritis. Atticus finds himself on a mountaintop and I can’t imagine him enjoying life much if he can’t be up on top of one every now and again. Luckily, Christine said it was neither and even complimented his range of motion – especially for a dog his age. The problem is more muscular than anything else. So each morning and night I massage his hip and he lets me stretch it out and take it through range of motion exercises. He still limps when he takes his first few steps after lying down but at least now I feel like we are doing something about it. If it persists we’ll head into Angell Animal Medical Center and enlist the help of a specialist.

I figure no matter what it is; he and I will find a way to work things out, just as we always have. And yet while my bigger fears have been assuaged, I realize he’s not as young as he used to be. There were some hikes when we went over twenty miles where he would limp just the slightest bit the next morning but it never lasted long. But it’s never been like this. I’m smart enough to know that time does not stop and the years wear us down.

I was thinking about that as we climbed the Edmunds Path on Monday. We walked up the gentle grade at the beginning of the trail through the early morning diffused light of a lush green forest with spongy moss and healthy leaves all about. We climbed higher and reached a steeper section of the trail and we stopped to rest often, not for him, but for me. Our stops never last very long. Sometimes it’s just ten seconds, other times thirty. On rare occasions I sit down and when I sit he does too. It was while we were sitting there in that forest that I looked at his bright eyes and that little pink tongue and smiled.

These are indeed special times. These memories we’ve made, and are still making, will last my lifetime. Even something as simple as sitting for a spell in the woods on the side of a mountain casts its spell on me. How special it is to share that silent sacrament with another.

I’ve come to think of Atticus’s aging as a gift, for no longer am I deluded by my youth or his. We are both on an equal playing field these days. Even if he were to live another nine years it would still be too short a time for my liking. It’s like it says in Pooh’s Little Instruction Book: “If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.” Who among us who has known the company of a good dog can’t relate to that?

So these days I am thankful for not only where we’ve been but also for every experience we will encounter between now and the end of our time together.

On Monday, when we climbed above the trees, looked towards the towering Northern Presidentials, and found our way across the tumbled rocks on the trail to the intersection with the Crawford Path, I watched Atticus move as easily as he always has. And I did as I’ve done hundreds of times before, I watched this little dog who is so dwarfed by the great peaks of New Hampshire take his place among them as he sat and took in the view.

During our twisting climb up the switchbacks to the summit, I followed Atticus as I have for five years and when I stopped to rest he could sense I stopped and he did as well and waited for me.

At 4,780 feet Eisenhower is the twelfth highest peak in New England. Its flat top serves as a fine front porch that looks out at Franklin and Monroe, Washington and Clay, Jefferson and Adams. Even being so close from that twelfth highest peak, the others loom like giants in their varied shades of green from emerald to dark and the clouds cast shadows over the ravines and forests, rocky tops above and gentle valleys below. The dimensions are vivid and almost too colorful to comprehend!

There we stood together, Atticus and me, looking out at all of that. Eventually I picked him up and our eyes looked out at those mountains. I heard his familiar sigh and the comforting feel of his body leaning into mine.

So today when I heard old John telling me the story of how old Boomer leaned into him and offered an intimacy he’d never known – even though he’d been married and had children, well, I could relate.

Following Atticus: The Book Trailer

2011-06-22T13:59:00.000-04:00

Be Among the First to See Our Book Trailer

2011-06-19T18:11:00.001-04:00

Following Atticus Facebook Giveaway

2011-06-08T13:06:00.005-04:00

As you can tell by this photo, Atticus loves his Bio-Cuddler from Muttluks. And when we go on our book tour he'll have on along for the car ride. He also loves the Bio-Mat from Muttluks as well and spends time sleeping on that as well.

Over on our Facebook page we're giving away one of each when we reach 800 'likes'. So come on over and join up. If you are already a member send your friends over to our Facebook page.

A Good Question

2011-06-03T06:09:00.002-04:00

During my eleven years running a newspaper in Newburyport I found two things I’d always wanted: a place to call home; and a family. That small, charming city on the North Shore of Massachusetts was the first place I ever knew that felt like home. And the friends I met there became the close family I’d always longed for.

When I was there I watched a few of them move elsewhere or saw a few die of old age. Either way I was left brokenhearted. Then, three and a half years ago Atticus and I were the ones to leave. Now we look back on fondness on those years and our friends who remained behind tell me they miss us. One of those friends is in his late eighties and quite a remarkable man. Until he recently collapsed in his apartment, he’d never spent a night in the hospital his entire life. Unfortunately he’s spent quite a few of them there lately and he now resides in an assisted living facility. Time marches on…even if we wish it wouldn’t.

The other day Atticus and I were sitting with him in his new room and he asked with a worried look on his face, “How are you doing? Do you have enough money? Do you have a good life up in the mountains?”

I put my hand on his and told him not to worry. “Life is good, Ed.”

“Really? You don’t miss the life you used to lead here? It was a very exciting time.”

“No, I don’t miss it. I love the mountains. They feel like home.”

It’s a simple question and one we should ask ourselves from time to time, “Do I have a good life?” And I’ve thought about my friend and his dwindling days and his question a lot over the past week.

The day after we saw him Atticus and I parked at the end of Zealand Road and walked the four and a half miles through Zealand Notch to Thoreau Falls. Spring had come to the northern portion of the White Mountains. The trail was surrounded by new growth on the ground below and on the buds at the end of the tree branches above. Varying shades of green greeted us as we made our way over rocks and roots, across numerous footbridges, and along the tumbled-down boulders that used to be part of Whitehall Mountain. There was a gentle breeze that kept the bugs away and made the walk along the old railroad bed quite pleasant. When we arrived at the top of Thoreau Falls we sat on the rock slabs next to the high-rushing water and I took off my shoes and felt the chill of spring as I dangled them in the current while Atticus drank from the edge while staying dry. We shared our lunch, watched birds come and go, took some photos, and then returned the way we came.

On another day we set out late in the afternoon to climb Mount Tecumseh. Now some in the hiking community poke fun of the shortest of the 4,000-footers, a distinction it shares with Mount Isolation at 4,003 feet high, but they’re being shortsighted. It may not be as tall as Washington but it’s a tough climb and there’s a stretch a little over a mile long where you feel like you’re stuck on a never-ending rocky Stairmaster. Toward the top the trail levels out for a bit before it comes to a junction where you can go right or left. Both paths take you to the summit but for some reason each time Atticus chooses the path to the left – I think because it looks like it goes up while the other one wraps around the mountain. Having reached our destination we sat and ate and drank once again before making our way down the mountain. However, instead of walking back the way we came, we made our way over to the ski slopes of Waterville Valley and walked down the steep-slanting grass through the growing afternoon shadows. The advantage of taking the ski trails down is that it saves your knees and feet from the twists and turns of the rocks on the trail, but you feel it in your quads even more. The other advantage is that on the open slopes there are some wonderful views of the Osceolas and the Tripyramids you don’t get anywhere else.

That night we returned to our home here in Jackson by way of the Kancamagus Highway but it took a little longer than usual because we stopped and watched a Bull Moose eating in a pond.

A few days later we returned to Zealand Road and climbed Mount Hale, another 4,000-footer. In less than a week the green of the forest had gotten richer and looked more like the deep green of summer even where the sun splashed down on top of it and left bits of gold here and there. We started out later in the day and the heat and humidity made the mountain seem steeper and taller than it actually is. But by the time we reached the top we were rewarded with a refreshing, cool breeze that had us forgetting the difficult climb almost immediately.

Last night, while walking along the Wildcat River we saw a funny little branch with fresh greens swimming upstream against the current. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it was but we were captured by the attempts of that little branch to go where it was most difficult to go. And sitting there watching it for a while I finally realized that branch was attached to a beaver. After a bit that beaver gave up trying to swim upstream and instead came ashore not ten feet from us and started eating that little branch. He thought nothing of us watching him eat his dinner and we all sat and kept each other company for quite some time.

After leaving him we came to the tiniest of toads and I almost stepped on him. He froze underneath my hiking boot. Just as we had with the beaver we stayed with that little toad for quite some time.

Throughout all of these little adventures where we mingled with nature: sometimes working hard to get to where we were going, other times sitting and just enjoying a waterfall, beaver, toad, or moose, I thought of my elderly friend and his question.

He and I both know his days are numbered and worrying about me gives him something to hold onto. Since he asked me that question I’ve been writing him a long letter and it has included each of the things I’ve just written about. My conclusion is that I indeed lead a grand and fortunate life. Where I once catalogued the comings and goings of a city wrestling with the growing pains of gentrification as it tried to figure out what it wanted to become – and this all this all too often had to do with writing about the shortcomings of people – I now spend my days with a little dog watching the wonders of life unfold on a daily basis. And I keep coming back to something Camille Pissaro wrote, “Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.”

You see, that used to be me. I was one of those people who looked at a tree or a bird or a sunrise and saw nothing. It took a little dog and a lot of mountains to remind of the important things.

While People are Weighing in on 'Following Atticus', Atticus is Enjoying the Mountains

2011-05-19T12:16:00.006-04:00

Our latest review comes from Bob Connolly of Jabberwocky Books in Newburyport, Massachusetts. It can be found on our author's page here, or you can read it below.

Following Atticus is the real life tale of middle-aged news- paper editor Tom Ryan and an extraordinary and lovable miniature schnauzer named Atticus M. Finch. Facing questions about his life and following the death of a beloved friend, Ryan and Atticus set out to climb all forty-eight of New Hampshire’s 4,000 foot peaks, twice, in the winter, to raise money for cancer. Can an overweight, tough-as-nails reporter and his twenty-five pound companion accomplish what most think to be an impossible quest? What follows is a series of remarkable adventures, covering the cannibalistic, mean streets of small-town politics to the treacherous, icy conditions of wintry mountain top terrain, which will test not only Tom and Atticus’s endurance but the bonds that tie them together.

The adventures that Ryan and Atticus share together will delight, entertain, and inspire. Ryan writes with such passion and enthusiasm about his love for the mountains, the relationships between fathers and sons, the inner workings of small-town politics, the loyalty of friendships, and one man’s unique relationship with a dog known as "the Little Giant". Rising above the plethora of dog books on the market, the story told is ultimately about one man’s transformation as he seeks to understand his place in the world and the little dog who guides him on that journey. After getting to know Atticus, the reader will want to follow him as well.

Hello, Neighbor

2011-05-16T17:27:00.002-04:00

This afternoon, Atticus and I ran into one of our neighbors. Unfortunately I didn't have my camera with me so I used my iPhone to take shots of him. We spent a good twenty minutes with him before parting company and leaving him to his dinner.

Black Cap

2011-05-13T17:06:00.005-04:00

Yesterday's clear views from the summit of Crawford were but a memory today as the warmest temperatures of the season brought haze to the Mount Washington Valley. We climbed Black Cap, now that Hurricane Mountain Road is open, and had an easy enough go of the 2.5 mile hike to the summit and back. We also had the summit to ourselves; I don't think many people realize the road is open. However, we didn't stay too long.

As I said, it was hot and hazy and we were both a bit tuckered from yesterday's adventure. I took a few photos of Agiocochook through the midday haze and we headed down and then back home for lunch.

Praise for Following Atticus

2011-05-10T14:41:00.003-04:00

From Steve Smith and Mike Dickerman, authors of The 4,000-Footers of the White Mountains:

“Tom Ryan's lyrical narrative recounts the epic White Mountain adventures he's shared with Atticus M. Finch, his stalwart miniature schnauzer. During one amazing winter Ryan and Finch attempted to hike ninety-six snow-draped peaks in just ninety days. This unlikely duo traversed hundreds of miles through the rugged terrain of the Whites, home of ‘the world's worst weather,’ battling snow, cold, and wind and looking upon scenes of unspeakable beauty. This tale alone ensures that Following Atticus will delight dog lovers and mountain enthusiasts alike. But the book also takes the reader on a spiritual journey, as man and dog face unforeseen challenges with grace, courage, and love.”

What a Sky!

2011-05-09T18:56:00.003-04:00

I kicked myself for getting such a late start to our hike on Hedgehog. I always seem to get my best shots there early in the morning or later in the day. The overhead sun tends to wash things out a bit. However, my favorite shot of the day came at about two in the afternoon when Atticus and I were hanging out on the Eastern Ledge. Check out this sky above the eastern portion of the Sandwich Range, from Mount Chocorua to the left over to the shoulder of Passaconaway on the far right.

"Follow Your Bliss." ~ Joseph Campbell

2011-05-07T18:08:00.002-04:00

Slowly, Spring Comes To Us

2011-05-05T21:01:00.002-04:00

Slowly, spring comes to us.

Today, I watched bright colored finches; blue jays, and red wing blackbirds take turns at our feeders. Earlier this week a bear walked drowsily through the backyard as if looking for his morning coffee. And this afternoon Atticus and I and watched a cantankerous crow fly back and forth across Echo Lake. In silent contrast to him was the quiet, graceful gliding of a heron. In the woods, the forest floor has awakened. Seeing the small sprouts of life push up through dead leaves and fallen fir needles reminds me of something Rilke wrote: “Spring has returned. The earth is like a child that knows poems.”

There’s no stopping her now. Spring, irrepressible spring, is here – even if the forecast calls for an inch of snow tonight.

The other day we brought our lunch with us when we took a six-mile loop over Peaked and Middle mountains. It’s not a taxing loop and it didn’t matter that we started after noon. We had plenty of time. It was warm and when we gained the ledges on the north side of Peaked the sun beat down on us. Neither of us is used to the heat yet, not after so many cold months, so we struggled. I sweat and Atticus’s tongue hung from his mouth. We stopped for water more often than we’re used to as of late and when we took our breaks we turned back and looked down the ledges and over at Mount Washington. So much brown rock where just recently there was plenty of snow.

The joy of Peaked Mountain lies in the stunted pines pushing up among the angled ledges. The higher you climb the more twisted and dramatic they become. They are not large, but they have character as they lean this way and that. Even these ‘evergreen’s’ were a sight to behold as new life ran through them and the needles looked brighter than they have in almost a year.

Once on top, and under that parasol of pine trees, a chill breeze washed away my sweat. It was refreshing and felt almost as though we were sitting in a cool swimming pool.

When we don’t have far to go and the climb is not all that taxing, we linger. That’s what we do whenever we are on Peaked’s prow of a summit that breaks like a wave towards the south. After we eat, and drink our fill of views, Atticus naps and I read, or I bring a paper and pen and write letters to friends.

Monday’s breeze was a delight and I took out my iPhone and made a video of the way the tree branches swayed and recorded the sigh of the wind through the limbs. I captured sleeping Atticus’s floppy ears being teased and tossed gently about. Then I sent it off to my friends who were stuck in cubicles or offices – nine to five prisoners - to give them each a brief recess.

Before long two hikers arrived, then another. They were all from Maine and decided to talk about the governor. I’m not sure whether they like him or not. What I do know is that they talked endlessly about politics and after more than a decade of writing a political journal I have a simple rule: when politics arrive on the summit, it’s time for us to depart. So Atticus and I left the three of them behind to solve the problems of the world, or at least of the State of Maine, and we descended for a bit, sharply at first, then more gently, and curled around to the western slope of the mountain. It wasn’t long before we came to a junction of trails and Atticus sat and looked at the signs. When I arrived he glanced over his shoulder at me and I pointed to the left and he led us up along a stream towards the top of Middle Mountain.

We’ve been up that path a few times these past months and throughout the winter I’ve enjoyed the way the faded yellow, parchment-thin beech leaves have clung to the smaller trees lending the winter woods their only color. Whenever we walk by them they shimmer and dance, all atwitter – like school girls giggling away. They do this even when there’s no noticeable breeze to stir them up. But now they are finally falling, being forced out by new life, and I miss them. But their loss is a small price to pay for what will soon replace them. Soon the forest will be teeming with life. Already the lichen on trees has filled out and feels lush and fresh to the touch. Everything else will be along in the coming weeks. What I look forward to most are the trillium and the lady slippers. This is their time of year to show their delicate beauty.

Once on top of Middle we sat again. Dark clouds drifted in and the temperature slowly dropped. However, it wasn’t significant and after looking at the views Atticus found himself a soft bed in the web between tree roots. Having the summit to ourselves I took out my iPhone once again and plugged it in to small speakers and listened to Brahms while I settled down against the same tree that cradled Atti and wrote another letter.

I wrote to my friend, “I do believe we’ve found a little patch of heaven on earth. I believe we find one each time we go for a hike.”

Later this spring and into the summer we’ll take longer hikes and return to each of the four thousand footers simply because it’s been a while since we’ve done them all. I want to visit with them as we did that first summer five years ago and I hope to see them anew. In the fall we’ll start our book tour and I imagine it will get rather crazy and I find comfort in knowing we’ll take along the memories of these “friends” with us, especially since they play such a big role in our story.

But for now, on these shorter, less taxing hikes, we nap, write letters, enjoy the breeze, and a little classical music. Through it all we welcome the spring.

Tom & Atticus Return to Newburyport (For a Day)

2011-05-05T14:08:00.007-04:00

This past weekend we were back in New- buryport to participate in a literary festival. It was a great event where approximately eighty writers and poets were sprinkled throughout the city at various venues.

Atticus and I were right at home at Jabberwocky Bookshop, where I hope we'll be kicking off Following Atticus after it is published in September. Just down the street from us, Paul Harding, author of Tinkers and winner of the most recent Pulitzer Prize, was speaking at the same time. Because of that I wasn't quite sure what kind of turnout we'd have, especially since our book isn't out yet. I was stunned to see a standing room only crowd that overflowed the room and spilled into the bookstore proper and out to the hallway of the Tannery Marketplace.

Instead of writing about it here, I'll let Kathleen Downey tell the story. Kathleen is a Newburyport area writer and animal lover. She shared her thoughts about our visit on the Newburyport Today website in her regular "Citizen Profile" column. You can find it here.

Atticus Finch, Meet Atticus M. Finch

2011-04-28T11:38:00.003-04:00

Today, the USPS introduced its latest stamp from their Hollywood Legends Collection and it just so happens to be one Atticus Finch. Okay, actually it is Gregory Peck, but the image of the stamp is him portraying his most popular character on the silver screen, Atticus Finch, in To Kill a Mockingbird. The movie stands as one of the few in history that did justice to the original book.

We take this as a good omen with this the year our book, Following Atticus: Forty-Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, and an Extraordinary Friendship comes out (September 20 from William Morrow). And it comes a day before our first public appearance pertaining to the book. This weekend we'll be down in Newburyport for the Newburyport Literary Festival to discuss our story.

With a field of 80 writers and poets, there will be many notable personalities on hand. We're thrilled to be included in that group and we'll be appearing at Jabberwocky Bookshop on Saturday at 10:00 a.m. Just before us is Matthew Pearl, bestselling author of the Dante Club; and after us is Frank Schaeffer, another bestselling author.

4,000-Footer Map for Following Atticus

2011-04-20T17:27:00.003-04:00

This map was created by Jackson, New Hampshire artist Kathy Speight Kraynak specifically for our book. It was my hope that she could put down on paper something that could capture a bit of the magic of our White Mountains so that people who don't reside here, or simply don't know much about them, could have something to refer to while reading Following Atticus. From the first time I saw it I knew I made the right choice in working with Kathy for she surpassed my expectations with this beautiful drawing. It will be located in the endpapers of the book.

Today on the Boulder Loop Ledges

2011-04-19T22:20:00.002-04:00

It started out chilly but mostly bright. Once we made our way into the woods we lost the breeze and the climb warmed us quickly. The sweeping views of the Sandwich Range to the south are always a joy to behold and we stayed up there for a couple of hours. Eventually clouds bringing the coming night's storm rolled up from the north and made for a dramatic sky.

Win a Copy of Following Atticus: Forty-Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, and an Extraordinary Friendship

2011-04-18T15:00:00.008-04:00

Following Atticus will be published by William Morrow, a HarperCollins imprint, on September 20th and the world will get a chance to meet Atticus M. Finch, a most remarkable little fellow.

Nick Trout, New York Times bestselling author of Tell Me Where It Hurts, writes, “Animals come into our lives prepared to teach, if only those of us on the human side of the bond would be humble enough to learn. Tom Ryan has obviously been paying close attention as he generously shares the wisdom and humanity of his remarkable dog, taking us on a noble quest. Atticus M. Finch is the four-legged mentor all dog lovers will crave.”

I’m humbled by Dr. Trout’s kind words, but more humbled by Mr. Finch himself. Friends come in all shapes and sizes but little did I know the one that would mean the most to my life was a black and white miniature schnauzer who weighed only five pounds when I first held him. It is my honor to tell his story for it is an unusual one. As I’ve said, our book comes out in September, but you have a chance to grab hold of it early. We’re giving away three advance reader’s copies of Following Atticus: Forty-Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, and an Extraordinary Friendship now! To have a chance at winning, go to our Following Atticus facebook page and ‘like’ us. When we reach 500 ‘likes’ we’ll draw three names from that list. You will then have a head start on the rest of the world.

Gratitude

2011-04-15T07:36:00.006-04:00

It's not just the mountaintops or the rocky outcrops with outstanding views. It's not always the trails that traverse above treeline, nor the walks through majestic woods. Sometimes the magic comes in just sitting by a stream.

Yesterday morning Atticus and I took a lengthy road walk along the hilly streets of Jackson and returned home so I could write. Then later in the afternoon he roused me from my desk and I tucked our dinner into my backpack and we walked deep into the woods until we came to a stream too wild and deep to cross. It's there we sat and shared a meal together, listening to the song of the raging water. When we were done, Atticus got up and moved to the edge of a large rock and sat and watched much of the winter pass by below us.

We could have sat there for hours but darkness descended on us and I hadn't brought a headlamp. As I watched him, and looked around at our surroundings, and then walked out of the woods, I was so grateful for the decisions we made that led us to live in these mountains, to change our lives so that we could have moments like this on a daily basis.

Scenes from This Morning's Peaked Mountain Hike.

2011-04-07T14:03:00.005-04:00

Blue skies, warm sun, cool morning air, and a snowy but firm trail made for a wonderful morning on one of our favorite local peaks - Peaked Mountain. It offers great views of the Moats, Chocurua, the Ossippees, Whiteface, Passaconaway, and many of the Presidential peak, especially Mount Washington. It was a perfect morning hike that gave us enough time to get back to watch the Red Sox at noon. (Now if only they'd win a game.)

Our Guest Post Over at Sectionhiker.com

2011-04-04T08:02:00.002-04:00

Philip Werner over at sectionhiker.com has gone on walkabout. For the next two weeks he's doing a section of the Appalachian Trail. While he's gone he's asked ten guest bloggers to hold down the fort for him. Today, we bat lead off with our guest post. It's about a recent hike up Middle Mountain, over in North Conway's Green Hills Preserve. You can read it here.

Snowy Stroll Along the Saco River this Morning

2011-04-01T15:38:00.002-04:00

It's opening day for the Red Sox, but up here in the White Mountains we're being pelted with snow. Such is life in New England. Luckily the Sox are opening up in Texas and not in Boston today. As for Atticus and me, we had a nice snowy stroll along the Saco River this morning.

He Can Be Stubborn

2011-03-26T21:57:00.002-04:00

I tried to tell him that our book tour doesn't start until September, but Atticus refused to listen when we made a quick stop in Newington, New Hampshire on our way home from Newburyport today.

Two Species, One World

2011-03-25T13:28:00.001-04:00

I owe my faith not to my Catholic upbringing, which was learned and programmed into me – just as my political preferences were – when I was young, but to those great minds throughout history I have felt a kinship with. Emerson wrote, “The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes. Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe?”

Nature to Emerson, Thoreau, Muir, and other pantheists, was God.

I’m not a churchgoer, for I am not a joiner, but I’m forever seeking an authentic relationship with something greater. I seek out that which brings me closer to nature and I judge my days not by money made, things I’ve bought, my accomplishments, or who I know. It’s why I hike. Each journey up a mountain is a renewal of my faith and there are some days when it is easier to make that connection than others.

This past week, in spite of the horrors that took place in Japan, the constant angry bickering of our national and world leaders, yet another war, and the continuing struggling economy, was a good one for me. For nature brought me back to myself and gave me something to hold onto. More than that, it lifted me up, as it always does. Atticus and I went on three hikes where it was just he, me, and the woods. The first was up Middle Mountain in North Conway. When we reached the summit we enjoyed our lunch, took in the views, and I played Mozart. (If you’ve never listened to Mozart on a mountaintop you’ve never lived!) On the way down the trail spring revealed herself to us with a warm sun and I hiked across the white woods in snowshoes but only had to wear thin tights and a t-shirt.

A couple of days later we enjoyed the sun again. This time it was along the Boulder Loop Trail. We soaked in the warmth on the ledges high above the Kancamagus Highway. We took our time climbing, enjoyed our lunch, and then took a peaceful nap. We woke up to the sights of mountains named for some of the great indian chiefs that once traveled through the same woods: Passaconaway, Chocurua, and Paugus. I felt refreshed and we made our way down the snowy trail with a gentle sense of bliss and connection. On the way home we looked towards a snowy Mount Washington and I was so moved by the site of a gigantic, lone lenticular cloud floating in the blue sky above the summit that I pulled over to the side of the road. Atticus and I got out of the car and sat for quite some time watching that cloud move across the sky. It was immense and rich with definition and we were transfixed by its flight.

When the weekend came my plan was to hike on Sunday, the last day of winter. But we are a fluid pair and our plans are open to change. Upon taking a roast out of the oven I looked out at the darkening sky and thought of the full moon and how special it was supposed to be. I wrapped the roast in tin foil and left it on the stovetop, grabbed my backpack, and Atticus and I headed to South Doublehead. The last time we were on its summit was also at night when we watched the Fourth of July fireworks exploding over Jackson below us. It was an incredible evening, but it was nothing compared to what we saw this weekend. The moon, the closest it’s been to our planet in years, was enormous as it rose over the mountaintops. It was so stunningly beautiful I could feel every fiber of my being tingle. My legs, my arms, my heart – none of them were free from the pull of that extraordinary full moon. In the opposite direction, even under the blanket of the night, the snows on Mount Washington, lit by the moon, made the mountain appear as though it were some heavenly beacon. That’s when I had to sit down. And we stayed there, Atticus and me, watching our highest, most mysterious mountain in breathless awe.

Whenever I see Atticus enjoying the mountains like this I find myself smiling and realize that in spite of all our differences, we have a shared existence that thrives somewhere between the human and canine world. It’s a separate world we’ve made for ourselves, one not everyone can appreciate.

A few years ago, when my father died, one of my brothers never said anything to me but he let others know he was upset that Atticus was ever present – even at the graveside. What he didn’t, and never will, understand, is that there is nothing this little dog and I do not share. We never make a spectacle of our relationship; we are simply always together. It’s a seamless, leashless natural existence. We share the authentic experiences I longed for in a family that dissolved long ago. We’ve shared so many miles and mountains, so many triumphs and heartaches together, that the bond has become deeper than anything I’ve ever known. In three separate hikes over just a handful of days this past week he and I shared far more than I can ever remember experiencing with a family that doesn’t share much of anything.

Nature has the ability to bring all of us closer to each other, closer to ourselves, and closer to the natural world. It even has the ability to reveal a shared world between man and dog. Watching the shimmering moon and that luminous mountain on a night I’ll never forget with Atticus by my side was yet another stitch that connects the two of us.

I’ll not pretend to know what Atticus thinks when he witnesses such things but I’m aware that he appreciates them. For he sits and he watches, he breathes deep and he sighs. His face tells the story with how he used his expression. It’s in the movement of his ears, his mouth, eyes, and body language. So sitting next to him on South Doublehead the other night I recognized what he was feeling because I was just as spellbound.

He may be but a dog, and I but a man. But our experiences together in nature and a gentle respect for one another has given us something genuinely special. Why should we let the simple fact that we are of two different species get in the way of an appreciation of this one world. “Why should not we,” as Emerson wrote, “also enjoy an original relation to the universe?”

Last Chance

2011-03-20T17:42:00.002-04:00

I'm currently going through the manuscript for Following Atticus for the last time before it goes back to the publishers tomorrow. This is not heavy editing. That's been done for a while. But as the letter from HarperCollins directed: "Your changes should be restricted to errors of fact, misspellings, and/or typographical errors."

Once it arrives back in New York it will go through another round of copy editing and the next I'll see of it as one of the advanced reader copies that will come out in late April or early May. Advanced readers are those copies sent off to book stores and media outlets around the country to (hopefully) create buzz before the hardcover comes out in September.

Steve Smith Weighs in on FOLLOWING ATTICUS

2011-03-18T13:16:00.003-04:00

Steve Smith, co-author of The Four Thousand Footers of the White Mountains, sole author of several other hiking books, and co-editor of the Appalachian Mountain Club's White Mountain Guide, mentioned FOLLOWING ATTICUS in his "Nooks & Crannies" column in the MountainEar newspaper today.

VALLEY HIKING BOOK NEWS: Congrats to Tom Ryan of Jackson, whose forthcoming book, "Following Atticus" (due out in September from William Morrow), has been chosen for this fall's "One Book, One Valley," community reading program, sponsored by eleven Valley libraries and White Birch Books in North Conway. Tom is well-known on the hiking websites for his many White Mountain hiking journeys in recent years with Atticus M. Finch, his stalwart miniature schnauzer. (They can often be seen walking the roads of Jackson.)

Together they have made hundreds of mountain ascents, including several rounds of the forty-eight 4,000-footers in winter. Ryan's lyrical trip reports posted on www.viewsfromthetop.com and on his blog, "The Adventures of Tom & Atticus" (tomandatticus.blogspot. com) have earned them a large following.

"Following Atticus: Forty-Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, and an Extraordinary Friendship," is a beautifully written work. It's both a hiking book and a dog book, but it is also, as the jacket notes, "a story of love, loss, and the resilience of the human and animal spirit."

The "One Book, One Valley" event will kick off with a book signing in September at White Birch. Over the following two months each library will host discussion groups on Ryan's book, and the program concludes in November with an audience-and-author discussion event. Ryan will use the event as a fundraiser for the Harvest Hills
Animal Shelter and the Animal Rescue League of New Hampshire – North.

Who Cares What the Calendar Says...It's Spring!

2011-03-18T09:10:00.004-04:00

This is a sure sign spring is here. Atticus refuses to drink on winter hikes. He always has. Instead he eats snow. So let yesterday's brief stop at a mountain stream along the Boulder Loop Trail signal the official change of seasons. (For those not wanting to trust Atticus, the "official" start of spring is on Sunday.)

Lenticular Cloud Over Mount Washington

2011-03-17T17:22:00.002-04:00

There are times when the best shots aren't taken during the hike, but on the drive home from the hike. Returning from the Boulder Loop Trail this afternoon Atticus and I saw this wonderful lenticular cloud near Mount Washington.

The Bears Are Coming! The Bears Are Coming!

2011-03-16T07:35:00.004-04:00

It's snowing out this morning in Jackson. It can snow all it wants to these days because it won't stop spring from arriving on Sunday. There will still be snow on the ground. We may even have more snow, but it won't stick around for long. Such a wonderful phenomenon - just as morning follows night and light follows darkness, spring follows winter.

One of my favorite parts of spring is getting to see our neighbors again. We become strangers in the winter when most everyone shuts themselves away for a few months. It's like a rebirth of sorts. Of course my favorite neighbors are those that have been hibernating all winter long. Soon our backyard bears will return and we'll get reacquainted. They'll come after my grill, look for birdseed, and just saunter on through the yard on their way to somewhere else.

They are such grand creatures! And oh so smart as well. Last year, the local newspaper had an article about how bears had learned how to open unlocked car doors. It's why I lock my doors at night.

I'm thankful for our bears, but I'm also thankful that Atticus enjoys watching them, but he also respects them and lets them be.

Library Journal Takes Note of Following Atticus

2011-03-14T23:24:00.003-04:00

The current issue of Library Journal gave pre-publishing attention to 15 upcoming non-fiction books. Among them was Following Atticus. The link is here and since authors are listed alphabetically you'll want to scroll down to the bottom of the page to find us. Or you can just read what they had to say here:

Ryan, Tom. Following Atticus: Forty-Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, and an Extraordinary Friendship. Morrow. Sept. 2011. 288p. ISBN 9780061997105. $26.99.
Newspaper editor Ryan first met Atticus M. Finch as a five-pound puppy, carrying him around for a month so that they could bond. But they really bonded when, to raise money for charity after a friend died of cancer, Ryan set out in the winter of 2006–07 to climb all 48 peaks over 4000 feet in New Hampshire’s White Mountains—twice. And he did it with his little dog, an experience that changed them both forever. Another heartwarming dog story (there can never be enough), with this one getting attention from national hiking clubs as well as Muttluks, which makes canine booties. A strong contender for canine and inspirational lovers alike; with a 100,000-copy first printing.

Middle Mountain Today

2011-03-14T22:26:00.002-04:00

Don't ask me what he's thinking in that top photo. I really have no idea. I just knew that I wanted to get Atticus's photo when I saw him looking at me like that. In the second photo he's awaiting one of his favorite summit treats, Stella & Chewies Carnivore Kisses.

It was a mostly overcast day for this hike up Middle Mountain but we still had some great views. The snow is getting softer as spring approaches and there were a couple of times I actually postholed with my snowshoes on. Won't be long before all the snow is gone and we'll start seeking out snowfree trails.

In Praise of Midnight Mike's Oddity

2011-03-11T19:51:00.003-05:00

There’s a fellow named “Midnight” Mike Bromberg who has earned quite a name for himself in our White Mountains through the years. He is a skilled cartographer and his map of the Sandwich Range is a thing of beauty. He was only the fifth person to hike all 48 4,000-footers in each of the twelve months (and he did it long before it became the latest “monkey see, monkey do” craze that it is today). And he has hiked each of the 4,000-footers at night, standing on their summits at midnight – hence, the nickname.

That’s how Midnight Mike first caught my attention. I’d read his name in the back of Steve Smith and Mike Dickerman’s Four Thousand Footers of the White Mountains in a section called “Feats & Oddities.” My first thought was why would anyone in their right mind want to climb mountains at night?

That was way back when Atticus and I first started hiking and the Smith and Dickerman book was the last thing I read before drifting off to sleep – assuring me sweet, mountain dreams of places we’d never been, but would soon see.

Some five years later we’ve been up more than a hundred different mountains and I’ve decided that my favorite thing to do is to climb them at night. It’s a special treat, a chance to see the trails in an entirely different manner. And an opportunity for Atticus and I to experience them on our own. There’s little chance we’ll run into people on these hikes. There’s even less chance we’d ever emulate Midnight Mike’s feat (or is it oddity?), but I can now see the pleasure he derived from it. It’s no longer unusual for me to wait until the sun sinks behind the mountain ranges before grabbing my pack and starting out.

Strangely enough the urge to do this often comes later at night, when I should be settling down and getting ready for bed, or when I’m already in bed. A faint whisper calls out to me and Atticus puts up with this madness, even if it wakes me in the middle of the night. He’s come to think little of going to bed and then rising with me two or three hours later.

Such was the case the other night. I awakened with so clear and clean a thought it was as if I hadn’t been sleeping. Winter is almost over. Soon the snow will be gone.

You see, night hiking is richest in winter, when the ground is white, rocks and roots are smoothed over in layers of snow and ice, the trees bare, and the night cold, but crystal clear.

Once again I got dressed, grabbed my backpack, snowshoes, and poles, made certain I brought all three of my headlamps along. All the while Atticus looked at my appraisingly until I finally asked him, “Well, are you coming?”

Our latest nighttime rendezvous came on the small but beautiful peaks of Stanton and Pickering. They’re only five miles away from the house and an easy enough climb. Stanton comes first at 1.4 miles and along the way it offers cliff-top views of Mount Attitash to the south long after the last skier has departed. But the better outlook comes on Pickering, just another 0.7 of a mile along the trail. On the summit there were trees between us, the ski area, and the town of Bartlett. With civilization literally behind us, Atticus and I stood under brilliant stars piercing the black sheet of night. Looking north up at the multitude of unadulterated lights I tingled and butterflies took flight between my heart and my gut.

“My God, it’s beautiful,” I said aloud, as Atticus was tucked in a sitting position in the crook of my arm.

How often I’ve uttered some semblance of those words here in the Whites! He’s so used to it he no longer looks at me when I speak of such things. Instead he sits looking raptly out as if taking inventory of every last bit of heaven before us. Then, as always, he allows his weight to sit fully against me and, relaxing his body, he sighs. Often we both sigh.

The contrast of the night sky and the mountains below was spectacular. In front of us stood the hulking shadow of Iron Mountain, looking bigger from the top of Pickering than it does from anywhere else. Its enormity makes me see its full force. Beyond that, its white gown glowing majestically and flowing down into the dark valley below, sits Agiochook. That was the name the Abenaki gave her, long before “civilized” man changed it Mount Washington. But there are times when you see our highest peak - she with the wicked winds, frozen temperatures, lives taken, and the stuff of legends and lore – and Agiochook fits better.

Recently I came upon a John Muir quote: “Civilized man chokes his soul.” It’s true. We try to tame the wild places, to best them in some way instead of just appreciating them. Nature teaches us things and often the best we can do is to just let her be. Let her inspire us without putting some kind of stamp on her. And let her be Agiochook: home of the Great Spirit.

The next morning Atticus and I stopped in at the White Mountain Café here in Jackson and Crystal, who works the counter most days, asked, “Are you guys going hiking today?”

“Already been,” I said. “We got in about 3:00 this morning.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “You two are crazy!”

Perhaps we are, I suppose. Just crazy enough to be happy living a life that most might think a little odd. Although I think Midnight Mike would approve.

Now That's Wall Art!

2011-03-11T15:33:00.003-05:00

Just received a poster of the book cover from our publisher, William Morrow. How fun is this! Now to get it framed.

"Following Atticus" Chosen as the Book for this Year's Mount Washington Valley's 'One Book, One Valley'

2011-03-07T18:42:00.009-05:00

Each autumn the various communities of the Mountain Washington Valley, led by each town's library and the local book store, choose one book for everyone to read. This will be the sixth year of the event and today I received a call out of the blue that they chose Following Atticus as this year's title! It really is an honor for us. And it's the first time they've chosen a hardcover book. Typically they go with a book that's already gone paperback. Past authors have included Chris Bohjalian and Howard Frank Mosher, among others.

The event will kick off at our book signing at North Conway's White Birch Books in September. Throughout the next two months each library hosts discussion groups to talk about the book and it culminates in November when Atticus and I will appear on stage to discuss it with everyone in attendance.

We'll use this year's event as a fundraiser for two local animal shelters: Harvest Hills Animal Shelter and the Animal Rescue League of New Hampshire - North. I'll be donating the stipend they offer to each year's author, and we'll be asking people who show up at discussion groups to bring food for cats and dogs at the shelters, plus other supplies such as cat litter.

The link to One Book, One Valley is here. There are 11 communities involved in the event.

I'm honored they chose us and happy to be able to give something back to two great organizations.

Following Atticus on facebook.

Penguin U.K.'s Book Jacket for Following Atticus

2011-03-04T11:39:00.004-05:00

While we sold our US rights to Following Atticus to William Morrow, we also sold foreign rights so far to Germany, Italy, and the U.K. Penguin U.K. shared their book jacket with us today. It's the same photo William Morrow used, with a nice sprinkle of snowflakes. Where the difference lies is in the words on the back.

Pierce in the Clouds

2011-02-25T14:57:00.002-05:00

We’re happy to be inside today wrapped in all the comforts of home. Outside the wind blows and snow is falling. The forecast call for perhaps ten inches in what could be one of the last storms of the winter. The season is drawing to an end. Of course here in the White Mountains spring doesn’t arrive when the calendar tells it to. It takes its own sweet time coming around again. Call it a bit of Yankee stubbornness. Nevertheless, it always gets here.

Yesterday, while climbing Mount Pierce by way of the Crawford Path, with hopes of also making it over to Mount Eisenhower, we started out under blue skies. I’d hoped that Atticus and I would get great views from both summits but that was not to be the case. The clouds preceding today’s storm came early and by the time we reached the halfway mark to Pierce a couple of bold gray jays appeared and ate some snacks out of my hand, but the sun was already gone. Cloud cover, first vaguely opaque then increasingly darker, filled the sky.

It’s been a while since we had snow and the popularity of the Crawford Path helped to make the trail as flat and firm as a city sidewalk. Surprisingly, yesterday we had it to ourselves. Whenever I pull into a parking lot to hike and see that there are no other cars there is an excited feeling – a rush, ripe with anticipation, tingling with delight, and a wee bit of nervousness as well – that courses through me. It’s always a distinct pleasure to have a mountain to ourselves. It’s exceptionally rare to be alone on the Crawford Path since it is a major thoroughfare that sits right across from the AMC’s Highland Center and is the oldest continually used hiking trail in the country. Then again the last time we were on the same trail we had it to ourselves as well, but that was a night hike.

The closer we got to treeline the darker and windier it became. Trees long frozen into grotesque forms and coated by layers of snow and ice stood as silent witnesses to our progress, and the wind howled and hissed at us just above the treetops. Even more eerie was the thick and moist fog that descended on the mountaintop. It was almost spectral, like a large snake coiled up around the upper reaches of the peak slowly tightening its grip. I could feel it moving by me – feel the damp of its underbelly, feel it creep along the skin of my face. We stopped to put on Atticus’s Muttluks and my balaclava and only my eyes were revealed but still I could feel the clouds coiling around us taking hold of the mountain. When we reached the last section of trees, a place where the views of the highest peaks in New England are first revealed, there was nothing to see but the inside of the cloud.

This is one of the things I enjoy about having a mountain to ourselves in winter. It could turn out to be the most picturesque day I’ve ever seen, so pretty it makes my heart ache with unutterable joy; or it could evolve into a lonely wasteland of frozen shapes, gray skies, and haunting mists, where the banshee cry of the wind is all there is for company.

There is a side trail off of the Crawford Path that leads to the summit of Pierce and the slant of the mountain plays tricks on your eyes. Many hikers are fooled by where they think the trail is supposed to go and they veer left. But it’s a hard turn to the right. All mountains look different in varied weather and I have also been fooled on more than one occasion, but Atticus never is. I simply have to follow his little body with his legs bowed against the wind, and his ears taking flight like little flags.

He put his head down and marched forth toward the summit. He never misses when he knows where he’s going. Once we reached it he sat by the cairn to have his picture taken – yes, this has become a routine for us on every mountaintop and he knows where he sits for the summit shot. But when we had stopped a way back I put my camera away, safe from the elements. He kept waiting for me to take the shot until I told him there was no camera. So he stopped posing and went onto the next step, which is coming over so I can pick him up and we looked off into the distance together. Of course there was no distance to see. But still, ritual is ritual. After a minute of standing up holding him he nudged me with his nose.

Spend enough time with an animal and you no longer are man and animal, instead you meet somewhere in between and communication is much easier. I knew his nose nudge meant it was time to have our lunch so I put him down and opened up the backpack while he sat peering over its open mouth with anticipation. He was not disappointed. I’m on the South Beach Diet these days and that means it’s chicken sausages and cheese on the summit. He loves both.

The original plan was to head over to the dome of Mount Eisenhower but without views there was no reason to go. Nevertheless, when we returned the way we came and reached the Crawford Path Atticus turned to walk towards Eisenhower.

“Not today, my friend. No reason to go.”

He stopped and looked at me as if to say, “We’re not done yet.”

“Let’s go home,” I said. When I turned and started walking down the trail I noticed he was protesting. He wanted to go on. “Not today. Let’s go home.”

At that he trotted over and took the lead position again working our way down the mountain.

There’s much to think of on a hike but it occurs to me that my thoughts going up and coming down are often different. Going up I think of the hike more. I think about the work of getting up a mountain and I take inventory of my body. Since this past summer’s surgery that’s even more the case as I still don’t feel quite right. However, so long as I pay attention to my body I make do. On the descent my mind is freer. We’ve reached the summit and the easy part begins. My mind flows and thoughts come and go.

Yesterday, on the way down I was thinking about horizons and what we see. On a mountaintop in beautiful weather there are other mountains to see – mountains and valleys, rivers, lakes, and ponds. Occasionally there will be a dramatic cliff, or the long black line of a distant road fading off into the distance. But there’s rarely a clean view of the horizon. However, just last week, for the second winter in a row, Atticus and I went to the Outer Cape. It’s less expensive in winter, there are no crowds, and it feels as though my soul is crying out for more light. We get it there. Most days we walk the beach at sunrise and sunset. And Provincetown is one of the few places in the world where you can see both.

There was something fitting about yesterday’s hike to a cloud-covered peak that stood in stark contrast to the wide expanse of horizon from our beach walks. It reminded me that here in New England we are blessed to have such a varied landscape with everything within driving distance. And no matter where you are – mountaintops or seaside – nature is beautiful wherever you encounter it.

Following Atticus on facebook.

Following Atticus on Twitter

2011-02-20T18:14:00.002-05:00

There's so much to say about our trip to Provincetown but that will have to wait for a day or two. But first, a little housekeeping: Tom and Atticus are now on Twitter. It will be a great way to follow us as we approach the release of our book this year and where we'll be going to promote it. Who knows? We may even end up at your local bookstore.

Spring!

2011-02-17T13:10:00.002-05:00

Well, not really. It just feels like it today. The winds are gone, the sun is out, the temps are stretching towards fifty degrees! We took our usual walk along the Province Lands Trail and it felt so good to be out we stretched the five and a half mile loop into a ten mile walk with side trips to Herring Cove and Race Point.

I took off my gloves, then my sweater, and when we came to our favorite dune we stayed there for over an hour. We split our time there between watching the ocean and napping.

On the way back to the Beech Forest, where our car was parked, we came upon an amazing sight. Eleven squirrels were using the bare branches of nearby trees for a race track. We watched them leap from branch to branch, from tree to tree. It was obviously play time for them and I listened to their squeaks and squeals and imagined it was their song of delight and they were saying the same thing Atticus and I were, "It's spring! It's spring!"

We watched them for a while and when we started moving they all stopped, like race cars on a toy track as if someone had cut out the power, and watched us move. Then they appeared to follow along, leaping with exuberance from tree to tree to shadow us until they came upon the last tree and there they all stopped - eleven of them! I thanked them for the entertainment and then Atti and I passed out of sight leaving them to play their squirrel games.

Sunset on Race Point Today

2011-02-14T19:37:00.002-05:00

Some Provincetown Sand Dune Sitting for the Little Buddha

2011-02-13T18:42:00.003-05:00

We pulled into town on Friday, saw a great sunset, then slept heavily through the night. It's good to be back in Provincetown. We came here this same time last year and fell in love with the Outer Cape in winter.

In the heart of winter it's vastly different than in summer when the streets are filled with color and everyday is a festival. In February it's harsher. There's more light than there is up in the White Mountains and sunrise and sunset are both spectacular, but the wind came be strong and there's a desolate feel to the dunes. That being said, I find myself drawn to the land here at this time of year. It's starkness stirs something within me.

Like last year we'll be here through the entire week and we'll walk, write, and read. Other than that there's be plenty of napping.

Contentment in a Crazy World

2011-02-12T18:54:00.006-05:00

Recently Amy Chua’s book about strict and demanding parenting, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother has been riding high atop the bestselling charts. Her method stands in stark contrast to Claire Dederer, another recent bestselling author; whose book Poser: My Life in Twenty-Three Yoga Poses espouses a gentler approach. In a recent New York Times Book Review Dederer was quoted: “Raising kids is the toughest temp job you’ll ever have. Maybe part of the job is teaching them the value of contentment in a disconcerted, grasping, climbing world.”

What does all this have to do with hiking? For me it has a lot to do with it.

You see, nature, and particularly hiking, offer me a connection to my late father, Jack Ryan. I may live in more complicated and faster paced times, but he lived in a harsher world. He grew up in the Depression, fought in World War II, raised nine children (some of us after my mother died), and his parenting technique fell somewhere between Chua’s and Dederer’s. In all honesty he was much more like Chua, but whenever he took us to the mountains we saw the best part of him emerge – the gentler side. We’d ride the tram up Cannon Mountain, stand on the viewing platform at the top of the mountain, look towards the Kinsmans to the southwest, Franconia Ridge to the southeast, and beyond both to a whole undulating sea of blue swells of never-ending mountains. It was there in the heart of Franconia Notch that I first noticed a rare look on his face. It was the look of contentment.

Jack Ryan never actually climbed a four thousand footer and he didn’t climb many mountains at all, but in some ways he actually has made it to the top of each one. For he has been with Atticus and me every step of the way. Sooner or later I feel his presence on each hike and it is so real I find myself saying aloud, “You would have loved this, Dad.”

Recently Atticus and I have been enjoying the simple act of tramping through the winter woods. Lately a favorite is to walk past the well-packed trail to Diana’s Baths and continue past the frozen falls along the trail towards North Moat. A mile into our walk we come to a stream that is covered tightly by the ice and all that can be heard of it are gentle murmurings. They sound almost like whispers and you only hear them when you stop and the snow is not crunching beneath your snowshoes with every step. Whenever we come to the stream crossing we pause and listen to that gentle song for a minute or more. It’s something that could easily go unnoticed when hiking with others. But when it’s just Atticus and me we not only hear the different sounds the forest makes, we seem to feel them.

Right around the stream crossing we turn onto the Red Ridge Trail. This will also take you to North Moat but in a more roundabout manner. Most people reach this point and turn back towards the falls giving themselves a nice two mile walk. But lately we’ve ventured further. It is a private piece of the forest, not so private that no one ever goes there, but it’s seldom enough that we’ve never seen anyone out there.

While walking out that way in the late afternoon the western sun slants through the woods and gives the dark bark of the winter trees more color and no matter how cold it feels things seem happier – more cheery. After a mile we come to another intersection and here we take a left onto the Red Ridge Connector. That’s where the climbing starts. It’s not horrendously steep, but it’s steep enough to make me sweat and occasionally stop to catch my breath. On this third leg of our journey there are very few snowshoe prints so we are promised even more privacy. We climb through the sun-lit forest, over crusty snow, into the waning afternoon and after a half mile or more of good work we come out on the backside of White Horse and Cathedral ledges. From there you can look down on the North Conway – both the quaint village and the bustling outlets stores.

We usually love our viewpoints, but on this regular trek it is the walk through the woods that is most special. I suppose it’s because it’s so close to the civilization we always enjoy escaping from. It’s not like when you are on the summit of Garfield or West Bond where you see nothing but everlasting nature. Here you can see Home Depot, Hannafords, and Lowe’s. And yet, it is a fine work out both for body and mind.

The return trip is easy and our strides are longer. We don’t have to stop while descending…and yet we often do. I find myself standing in the woods alone with Atticus, not another soul around, and I can feel that same thing my father introduced to me so long ago. It’s that feeling of contentment. It swells and warms me; it soothes and sings to me. It reminds of him at his best and reminds me that I’m on the journey he often dreamed of but never undertook.

I think Dederer had it right. My father was a beaten man by the time I got to know him. Life had worn him down. In spite of that he unknowingly passed onto me the value of contentment. As I near fifty I realize that it is perhaps the most valuable thing I have and the greatest gift he gave me.

Following Atticus on facebook.

Following Atticus Book Cover

2011-02-07T17:59:00.004-05:00

For Following Atticus on facebook click here.

Playing on Chocorua Lake

2011-02-05T12:15:00.004-05:00

460

2011-02-01T22:25:00.002-05:00

The storm is full on now and both of us are warm inside after a snowy morning walk. Atticus has settled down with an old marrow bone I filled with peanut butter. I’m at my desk with a pot of tea. Plows regularly rumble by while the flakes continue to fall. The tree just outside our main window that looks out over the backyard is perfectly frosted. And the dainty tracks left by our neighborhood raccoon which crisscrossed the old snow in the yard only yesterday, are now filled in. I’ve refilled the bird feeder and sprinkled extra seeds on the ground for the squirrels but it appears all our little friends are sleeping in today.

Our apartment is filled with the aroma of simmering turkey, onions, carrots, and mushrooms in the crock pot and I’m glad we are inside instead of on some mountaintop. Atticus seems to agree. He was more than happy to step out of his boots and body suit. He’s always been a nudist by nature. However, he’s very content to wrap himself in his favorite blanket as he worries at his bone.

Yesterday, I received an email from my editor at William Morrow. She really is the best. I was once warned I would be warring with any editor I worked with but nothing could be farther from the truth. I actually look forward to her emails and yesterdays’ was exciting because I got a glimpse of what marketing will be sending out along with the advanced reader copies of the book this coming April. It was a little write up about Following Atticus and it closed with a small piece about the author and, of course, Atticus. But some of the information was outdated since I sent it to them when I first wrote my proposal.

I had to stop and think when it stated how many four thousand footers Atticus and I have climbed. I’ve actually stopped counting. So last night I sat down with a piece of paper and a list of the four thousand foot mountains and figured it out. In the five years Atticus and I have been hiking we’ve now climbed 460 of them. I was shocked by that number for it seems to me we haven’t been collecting that many high peaks as of late. But when you consider that during that first and second summer we did more than 48 both times. In our first three winters we climbed 188 mountains – that gives you an idea of the jump we started with.

We’ve continued to hike them, just not at the same pace. Instead we’ve concentrated our efforts over the past two years of peaks that aren’t quite as tall and because of that not as crowded – and yet every bit as magical. And most of these peaks, other than perhaps the popular Mount Chocorua, which nearly always has a crowd on it, are sparsely populated.

However, I must admit that as of late Atticus and I have returned to many of the higher peaks and have kept it quiet. It felt good to have them to ourselves by hiking them on less crowded days and at less crowded times. I’ve particularly grown fond of hiking at night. It still can be unnerving, but it also life affirming.

As for my reason on keeping quiet about most of what we’ve been climbing I’ve done it for two reasons. The first reason is that soon enough our lives will be an open book and when that takes place we’ll enjoy having little secret places to go to and bits of our lives that no one else can touch. Secondly is the mania currently sweeping the hiking community that is clearly evident on various websites where people are making note of how many peaks they climb because they are chasing after one list or another.

In our first summer we set out to do all forty eight. We did the same our first winter. In our second summer we did them again, but only because we’d raced through them so quickly the first time through and I wanted to see them all again. During our second and third winters we used the forty eight as fundraising tools in our attempts to do two rounds. After that I had no desire to keep an accurate count of what we were hiking and when.

The only reason I sat down last night to figure out how many we’ve climbed is because of what it will say in the little author’s bio about Atticus and me. What I discovered was that we have actually climbed Mount Waumbek 16 times! Jackson 15, Pierce and Tecumseh 14, and Garfield – which was our first peak and is perhaps my favorite – 13 times. Bond, Bondcliff, West Bond, Zealand, Madison, Adams, and Owl’s Head tie for peaks we’ve reached the least number of times at only 7.

The latest craze for hikers is to do the Grid. That translates into hiking the 48 in each of the 12 months of the year. Used to be only a select few had reached this milestone of 576 peaks. And while a friend points out that our latest total puts us well within reach of the Grid, I decided long ago that Atticus and I would not chase after it. While it is fine for others to shoot for, for me it seemed the only reason we would do it was to get notoriety - to receive a patch and to get listed on yet another website. But that’s not our game. I gave up the external gratification hiking thing when I realized it meant nothing, especially when compared to internal gratification.

Atticus and I may eventually climb all the mountains needed to do the Grid but we won’t officially join that club, just as we’ve never become members of the 4,000 Foot Club or received the cherished scroll and patch. And when I was asked if we wanted to be listed on the website that celebrates the select hikers who have done them all in one winter I politely declined.

Five years ago we came to the mountains because of how they made us feel, not to see how others would feel about us. We came for the personal experiences, not for patches, scrolls, or notoriety on websites. That’s not to say that such things are not right for others. The beauty of the mountains is that everybody gets to hike his or her own hike. We all have our own reasons for being up here. If people seek to chase after membership in various clubs based on achievement they are welcome to it.

While I’ve not ever asked him, I don’t think Atticus really cares that he doesn’t have a patch or a scroll nor that has his name is not listed on a website. What seems to matter most to him is that he gets to walk in the woods, catch the wind in his ears, and sit Buddha-like on the summits while taking in the views.

I figure if that’s good enough for Atticus, it’s good enough for me as well.

Walking into the Night

2011-01-28T13:56:00.005-05:00

What a strange night it was.

I was in bed around ten reading the Autobiography of Mark Twain until about eleven, when I turned off the light and went to sleep. Not two hours later I woke up and was lying wide awake in bed. When I went to the bathroom for a glass of water I saw my reflection in the mirror above the sink and took a minute to really look. In the dim light I realized I’m not as young as I think I am.

I’ve never been one to think all that much about age and I definitely do not feel my own age. But when I looked at myself I saw the years leaving their signature in the soft lines around my eyes and saw a bit of salt and pepper in the stubble on my chin. I slowly ran my fingers over my face, then through the brown and gray curls in my hair and leaned in for a closer look.

Strange to be looking in the mirror at one in the morning and have lines from a poem drift into my head. It was the opening stanza to a Robert Herrick poem and I said them aloud.

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.”

Atticus stuck his head around the corner and nudged my leg with his nose pulling me away from my thoughts. Dogs don’t worry so much about age, or so I’m told. Then again they don’t worry about much of anything. In Atti’s case it seems the only thing that he is concerned with is me.

Considering the early hour and my middle aged years and how fleeting life is I made the curious decision not to return to bed but to instead get dressed in my hiking clothes, grab my backpack and head out the door. It was 2:30 am and four degrees out when we parked the car in Crawford Notch and took off up the Crawford Path. We were kept company by a half moon and clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Occasionally the upper reaches of the trees thinned enough for me to turn off my headlamp.

“Weren’t you afraid,” a friend asked me later that day.

“Yeah,” I said, "It's kind of weird, I know. I used to be afraid of the dark when I was a kid and hid my head beneath the blankets when I went to bed. But I think that’s partially why I hike at night from time to time.”

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“Nothing bad is going to happen in the woods at night. What I fear more than anything is the black of the night and the thought that something bad could happen. But my thoughts aren’t rational.”

And it’s true; my trepidation is not about moose or coyotes or falling down and injuring myself. They are instead of the fears of my childhood imagination – of things that go bump in the night, albeit not quite as harsh as they used to be. Hiking at night brings about a rich paradox of ingredients that makes for a savory stew. On the trail I am filled with emptiness and loneliness, those haunting childhood fears, freedom, and exhilaration. I get the feeling that I’ve jumped head first into my shortcomings and I breathe deep and am reminded that I’m alive. In the dark there is nothing much out there, but that’s what can be so disarming about it. And yet I’m out there nevertheless.

The higher Atticus and I climbed the deeper the snow was on either side of the well-packed trail and my snowshoes slapped the frozen path with every step. After a while I took off my balaclava and my gloves. I’m rarely cold in the winter when I’m moving and on a hike I am a furnace. The icy air was invigorating and where it met the sweat on my scalp it tingled. From time to time we stopped so I could rest. I’m still not quite the same as I was before this summer’s surgery and because of that I struggle more than I used to – but I’m getting there.

Higher we climbed and trees morphed by winter storms into grotesque shapes lurked along the boundaries of the beam of light cast by my headlamp. And on those occasions when I turned it off and walked with only moonlight to light the way those trees, swollen into sordid creatures in the gloom appeared to be keeping a close watch on us.

Higher we climbed, farther away from our car, farther away from our warm home, and the comfort of our bed, and towards a reminder that I am alive and well even as the lines of my face remind me on rare occasions that I am no longer young. The farther we walked from all that we knew, the more I returned to me. It’s ironic how a walk in the woods does that to a man.

In the woods sooner or later you come face to face with who you are. There are no distractions and you are reminded about the simple but important things in life. And in return you return to nature and are welcomed home time and again.

Two hours after we left the notch Atticus and I made our way out of the trees and into an ethereal mountain mist. I could no longer see the moon but its glow gave the fog life and I decided to go without my headlamp and walked to the summit of Mount Pierce with nothing but Atticus and the eeriness of the moment for company. When we stood next to the cairn marking the high point I picked up Atticus as I always do and we looked off into the distance towards where Washington was even though we could not see anything. I imagined that if we were on top of Washington instead, just a few hours walk up the Crawford Path, we’d be looking down on the clouds and the moon would be bright and the night crisp and the undercast would be something that dreams are made of. But standing as we were it’s not like I felt we were cheated out of anything without a view for there is something wondrous about standing on top of a frozen mountain while the rest of the world sleeps.

I put down a fleece blanket and sat on it and Atticus climbed up on my lap and we split some cheese and chicken sausages. I drank water and Atticus ate snow and when we sat long enough to start to get chilled we packed up and returned the way we came.

I find little to be as invigorating as choosing to do something that may be out of the ordinary for it pushes the margin of what’s normal and predictable. We work our entire lives to feel safe and comfortable, and yet once we are there the only thing that truly keeps us there is to at times venture away from it into the unknown and out onto an edge.

The lines around my eyes may tell the stories of my years, but they are also full of life and the possibilities of what’s to come. Life may be fleeting but that’s all the more reason to fit as much into it as possible.

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…”

Along the Red Ridge Trail

2011-01-27T18:15:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, at 4:30 am Atticus and I stood shrouded in clouds and darkness on the summit of Mount Pierce. This afternoon we took a four mile hike along the Red Ridge Trail up the back side of Cathedral Ledge and the entire time we were awash in the golden light of a cold but wondrous winter afternoon. I've included a photo album on our facebook page.

White Mountain Photographer Ken Stampfer

2011-01-26T21:21:00.003-05:00

Our friend Ken Stampfer, a wonderful White Mountain photographer, the man responsible for the photo on the back cover of our upcoming book (above), and a good friend to Atticus, has started a website and you can now buy his photo cards featuring White Mountain scenes. You can see them here. And as always you can get his cards at Steve Smith's Mountain Wanderer in Lincoln, New Hampshire.

Atticus Finch, Meet Atticus M. Finch

2011-01-26T20:04:00.003-05:00

The United States Postal Service is releasing a Gregory Peck stamp this year. The picture of him is from his role as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. A few months later our book Following Atticus will be introducing the world to the distinctive Atticus M. Finch. It take this as a good sign.

Last night, Atticus and I climbed Mount Pierce and my trip report will be up within the next day so check back.

Blue Dog

2011-01-17T17:33:00.002-05:00

Not to be confused with George Rodrigue's Blue Dog, Atticus is looking a bit blue (not to mention small) at the end of today's hike.

Four Thousand Footers Of The White Mountains of New Hampshire Map

2011-01-14T19:38:00.006-05:00

This map of the Four Thousand Footers of the White Mountains will appear in Following Atticus. It was lovingly created by Jackson, New Hampshire artist Kathy Speight Kraynak specifically for the book. She will be making some minor changes to the map and it will come out as a poster that will be available for purchase throughout the White Mountains. The poster will be available around the same time as the book is published. (It will not have the picture of Atticus or the Tom & Atticus logo on it.)

A Place I Return To Time And Again

2011-01-14T09:33:00.003-05:00

I often poke fun of my hiking friends who are religious in their pursuit of the almighty "Grid," that once rare accomplishment where each of the four thousand footers is climbed in each of the twelve months. That's a total of 576 peaks and once upon a time it was only done by long time hikers who realized that through all their years of tramping through the woods that they were so close to accomplishing the goal that they decided to go for it. It was truly rare and admirable. But eventually new hikers started setting their sights on reaching the holy land of the "Grid" and now so many people are out to do it that it no longer seems like such a big deal. Dare I even say it will soon be passé?

(Now there's even a website for those who finish. Not only is their name bronzed for all time on the Internet, they each receive the hiker's equivalent of the Holy Grail - a patch. Hikers just cannot help themselves when it comes to getting patches. You receive one when you climb each of the 48, another if you do them in winter, another if you climb each of the 67 4,000-footers in New England, and yet another if you do the 67 them in winter. You can get a patch for the doing the Adirondacks’ 46 4,000-footers, doing them in winter, doing all those in New England and New York, and once again another for doing them all in winter. Getting dazed yet? There's more. Do each of New England's 100 highest peaks you get another patch, do them in winter - and you guessed it, you get yet another. The moral of the story is this: tell most hikers they'll get a patch for walking gerbil-like on a spinning wheel for a week and they'll do it.)

My zealous friends are so enamored with the exercise that many forsake any peak that doesn't top out above 4,000 feet. And God forbid if it’s January and they've already climbed Mount Lafayette in January - there's just simply no reason to do it again. Many of these folks miss out on the grandeur of Black Mountain, Chocorua, Hedgehog, or Pemigewasset simply because they aren't 4,000-footers. But chasing after the "Grid" reminds me too much of punching a time clock and heading off to work. As a poster on my blog once wrote, "Keeping track of peaks you've climbed is like keeping track of bowel movements." In the long run it simply doesn't matter. Hikers appear to chase after the "Grid" simply because others have done it and received notoriety for having done it. Monkey see, monkey do.

However, I should come clean and admit that I am no better than those I lampoon. You see, as of late I've been on top of Mount Waumbek not once, not twice, but thrice!

I returned again and again, not so much to see the summit, for I've been there so often I can sketch the setting from memory, but for that wondrous stretch of life and death that lies in the saddle found halfway between the woebegone peaks of Mount Starr King (topping out at a pathetic 3,907 feet) and Waumbek, which is 4,006 six feet. Who knew that ninety-nine feet would make such a big difference? Truth be told, to me it doesn't. I no longer climb for the sake of reaching check marks but for harvesting experiences and there is a section in that saddle between Starr King and Waumbek that is like no other. It is both enchanting and frightening. It is where life and death comingle. The northern wind blows through it with anguished moans and groans and has laid several older trees to waste. They lie strewn about the forest like dead soldiers on a battle field. On a dreary, dark, and forbidding day, it can seem almost haunted – New Hampshire's own version of T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland.

I swear that you will not find many places in this world more desolate where loneliness wraps her bony arms around you on a stormy day.

On our first winter trek up there a few years ago Atticus and I had the trail to ourselves and shuffled half-heartedly through the snow. It was gray and the wind whipped at us and howled like a banshee. The tangle of trees is marked by the gothic Old Man's Beard, a cousin to Spanish moss, that dangles from the trees is writhes about in ghostly movements. All I could hear that day was the wind and the emptiness I felt within. At one point I sat down on a fallen tree simply because I didn't know if I wanted to go on. So alone. So lonely. When out of nowhere, in the frosty trees I heard life! It was a bright headed woodpecker busy at work. I was startled by his appearance and sat in rapt attention. His tap-tap-tapping broke the spell and after watching him until he flew away, Atticus and I continued on.

Other hikers look cross-eyed at me when I tell them of my love of Waumbek. It's a mountain with only a couple of views and it sits far away, joining Cabot as the only 4,000-footers above Route 2 in Jefferson. It’s a forgotten mountain in a forgotten town.

So why do I go back? Why do I return to that sad place where death is clearly evident? Because life is also evident as well. Not only are there many tall trees standing in that enchanted stretch of forest, but there are countless saplings springing up at the feet of their dead relatives. A tree tumbles to its death and leaves its seeds behind and, more importantly, space where the sun can reach new born trees and gives them a chance to grow. The cycle repeats itself again and again. It will be that way until the end of time.

In the eight dry days leading up to the snowstorm, Atticus and I were there three times because I just couldn't get my fill of that place. Once we were there at dawn, once at midday, and another at dusk. One of the days it was sunny and the enchantment didn't feel quite as strong. To appreciate that forest you need a windy, dark day. So we returned to see it in its various shades of light. It reminds me, as it always will, of the journey of life. From birth to death. Yes, it can be lonely and dismal, but it also reminds me that I'm alive. So when the world gets so crazy I feel numb and need to be reminded to breathe, or something as sinfully senseless as what just happened in Arizona takes place, I need to feel nature all around me. I need to remind myself of the cycle of life and the magic of that journey. So I return, as I imagine I always will.

And please don't tell those chasing the "Grid" this, for they would surely think me appalling - but I've been there far more than twelve times.

Snow...Finally

2011-01-12T10:08:00.004-05:00

Snow if falling in Jackson...finally. It's only the second time this winter we've had snow and the last snowfall took place so long ago up until this morning we've had a lot of bare, brown ground up here. Forecasts call for up to ten inches up here, less than what they'll have along the coast. The area desperately needed this storm as the local cross country ski areas have been closed for business. The mountains had a bit more snow but the trees had been naked. Today's storm will bring winter at its best to the mountaintops over the next several days.

As I put off shoveling for as long as possible, someone (look above) is happy to have snow to play in again. For the full photo album you can check out our Following Atticus Facebook page, where you can keep up to date on everything going on with our book. You can access that page here.

Happiness Is...

2011-01-11T11:00:00.001-05:00

...an pre-hike snack of dried beef esophagus this morning.

Follow 'Following Atticus' On Facebook

2011-01-10T12:53:00.002-05:00

If you are on facebook make sure you check out our 'Following Atticus' page to keep up with what's going on with our upcoming book. Simply go to facebook and type in the search words "Following Atticus." Once you get to our page push "like" and you can follow the process of what it takes to put a book out.

It will be published by William Morrow in October of 2011. Once it is published you will be able to follow along through media appearances and book signings.

Following Atticus

2011-01-04T13:22:00.004-05:00

This morning Atticus and I stopped off at the Jackson Public Library so that he could prepare himself for his big year.

As most of you know, our story Following Atticus: Forty Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, & and Extraordinary Friendship is being published by William Morrow in October of 2011. And just in case you didn't know - the last dog book Morrow published was John Grogan's Marley & Me. We are honored to be published by the same house and in some foreign countries as well. When this autumn rolls around you'll be able to read about our adventures here in North America, as well as throughout the United Kingdom, in Germany, and Italy.

The Winter Woods on Waumbek

2010-12-30T16:44:00.001-05:00

"The goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature." ~ Joseph Campbell

2010-12-30T09:59:00.002-05:00

On a recent morning a few days prior to the first storm of winter when the snow fell and the wind roared, Atticus and I woke up long before the sun. Whenever we wake up that early I figure we should make the most of the day. So instead of pulling the covers up, rolling over, and going back to sleep, we got out of bed, had breakfast, grabbed my backpack, got in the car and headed off to hike.

It was a cold morning, a mere seven degrees, and we were on the trail before sunrise, my headlamp pushing the darkness away. We moved quickly over the hard frozen trail to warm ourselves up and it wasn't long before I was taking off my jacket, then my hat and gloves. Soon my outer shirt came off as well and we were well on our way.

When it comes to winter hiking one of the hardest things to do is to simply get out of bed. It's cold and dark and my first inclination is to sit down to a nice hot breakfast, put on a sweater, and stay warm and safe inside. But on those early mornings when I put off comfort for adventure I'm ultimately glad I did.

And on this morning as we climbed the mountain while the sun was just cresting the horizon I was doubly happy to be out and about. The woods were empty, not just of people, but of other life as well. Oh, I suppose something somewhere was stirring, but not that we could tell. In other seasons bird song greats you or chipmunks scurry by. Even the trees themselves are different because of their lush leaves and their softer bark, and the earthen path has a scent to it. But in winter before the snows fall, especially at such an early hour, there is nothing. No sound, no smell, nothing moving. It's simply the dark gray of tree bark and the unyielding trail below our feet. Being alone in the cold like that you'd think I'd long for the comforts of home all the more, but that’s not the case. There was the gentle thrill of being "out there" by ourselves.

When we reached the first set of ledges after a mild but sweat-inducing climb, we watched the sunrise. It was warm and golden and we sat for several minutes admiring it. It's not rare that we get to see the sunrise, at least not in winter because it comes so late, but often we think so little of it. We witness it because we have to, because we are up early for work or off on some errand. But to sit on the side of a mountain and welcome the day - well, it's a wondrous thing. It is a gift to great the day on your own terms.

We were climbing South Moat and much of the upper two thirds of the hike are ledges. While there was no snow there was plenty of ice, just not enough to wear my crampons. Instead I wore Microspikes but they weren't always hardy enough and I slipped and fell three times on our climb. Atticus had little trouble. He picked his way around the icy slabs and often sat above me bemused as I slipped and slid down the mountain for the third time. I went a good ten yards before I could grab onto a tree. As I lay there gasping for breath, taking inventory of my bones, making sure I was merely bruised and not broken, he sauntered down the way he came and looked down at me. I laid there for a moment longer, got to my feet, and then followed him up the trail.

Because of my falls I considered turning back but I was doing okay and the ice was diminishing and the views started to come into play. Never underestimate how your spirits soar when you are tired and bruised but seeing stunning sights.

There was Chocorua peering up over the shoulder of South Moat. There were the views down towards the Ossipees and the sea of thin clouds filling in the valleys to the south. Then came Whiteface and Passaconaway, the Sleepers, Tripyramids, and Osceolas of the Sandwich Range stretching off to west just below the Kancamagus Highway. The higher we climbed the more we saw and the happier I was that we’d continued on. Eventually, with one last push, we stood on top of the mountain and the world revealed herself to us. Everywhere we looked there were mountains and they were bathed in the early morning glow of the sun. The higher peaks were topped with snow but none more so than Washington.

South, Middle, and North Moat have turned into my favorite mountains for that very reason. There is not a place in the White Mountains are the views more fulfilling for me. And no place is more underrated. You can see so many of the great peaks of New Hampshire without restriction and yet it is so close to the hustle and bustle of North Conway. The contrast is telling. Nature towers above the outlet stores, hotels, and restaurants, making them insignificant. Turn to the west and you put society behind you and the Pemigewasset Wilderness in front of you and life feels as it should.

We stayed on the summit for quite some time and then walked over to Middle Moat. There we lay on our backs under the sun and fell into a blissful nap. It no longer felt like winter, but more like spring.

After a couple of hours of enjoying the top of the Moats we made our way down. Once again I slipped and slid while Atticus wondered why I had so much trouble, but after we passed the last of the ice and I started to relax we encountered our first company of the day. Other hikers were making their way up the mountain. We ran into four groups, the last was just leaving the parking lot as we returned to it. Each time I warned them of the ice but also told them of the views.

Oh, there’s something grand about taking a great adventure and yet being home at noon. It’s part of the joy of living in these mountains, and of getting up before the sun.

Anatomy of a View

2010-12-20T07:23:00.004-05:00

As many times as I seen it, I'm still moved by how much this little dog loves the mountains, specifically the views. I'm impressed by the lengths he'll go to, the heights he'll scale, and the amount of time he sits and ponders. Check out this short slide show of the Little Buddha. He ended up sitting on this perch for about fifteen minutes and only came down when I told him it was time to leave.

Slide Show: South & Middle Moat

2010-12-19T07:11:00.003-05:00

Our slide show from Saturday's early morning hike to South and Middle Moat mountains can be found here.