Mary Oliver's "The Sun"

Have you ever seen

anything

in your life

more wonderful

than the way the sun,

every evening,

relaxed and easy,

floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,

or the rumpled sea,

and is gone--

and how it slides again

out of the blackness,

every morning,

on the other side of the world,

like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,

say, on a morning in early summer,

at its perfect imperial distance--

and have you ever felt for anything such wild love--

do you think there is anywhere, in any language,

a word billowing enough

for the pleasure

that fills you,

as the sun

reaches out,

as it warms you

as you stand there,

empty-handed--

or have you too

turned from this world--

or have you too

gone crazy

for power,

for things?

South Moat Today

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

New Mailing Address

Please note that we have a new mailing address:

Tom & Atticus

PO Box 651

Jackson, NH 03846

Mount Washington at Sunset Last Night

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

~ Thomas Cole

Cat Watching

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

Rudyard Kipling: The Power Of The Dog

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

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

The Power Of The Dog
by Rudyard Kipling

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

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

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

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

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

Bryan Flagg of the NorthCountry News Weighs In

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

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

The Fat Man of the Mountains

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

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

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

He also writes:

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

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

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

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

Tom & Atticus Sign With Literary Agent Brian DeFiore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

William Wordsworth's Mountain

(Photo is of Mount Washington this afternoon.)

Last summer I discovered the poetry of Mary Oliver. Her contemporary words hit home as much as any written in the days of old by Muir, Emerson or Thoreau. Each time I find one of her poems, I read it again and again until it lingers with me. Many of them refuse to let go.

Then, just this past week, I encountered some of her prose. It is from her book of essays called Long Life: Essays and Other Writings. The essay which will not let me go is “Wordsworth’s Mountain”. It hits me for I too have had experiences like Wordsworth in facing a mountain in darkness. Mine came on a January night after traversing across Middle Carter, South Carter, Mount Hight and Carter Dome before dropping down into Carter Notch and then climbing back up again to travel along the numerous peaks of Wildcat Mountain. When Atticus and I reached the ski slopes – our exit from the mountain top – and started our descent, even in the still of the night I could look across Pinkham Notch below and up at the looming shadow of Mount Washington. It was as if that great peak was breathing, watching us descend, stalking us in such a way that at any moment it could reach out and lunge with all its might at us.

It was an experience both frightening and thrilling. I can remember being foolish enough to turn off my headlamp as so not as to be seen so easily by Agiocochook and feeling my heart beat as if I was being hunted.

It is an experience I will never forget. It appears William Wordsworth, the great English poet who embraced Romanticisms call to nature and individuality instead of to the church, had a quite similar experience as a child. Mary Oliver writes of it here:

“And now I am thinking of the poet Wordsworth, and the strange adventure that one night overtook him. When he was still a young boy, in love with summer and night, he went down to a lake, "borrowed" a rowboat, and rowed out upon the water. At first he felt himself embraced by pleasures: the moonlight, the sound of the oars in the calm water. Then, suddenly, a mountain peak nearby, with which he was familiar, or felt he was familiar, revealed, to his mind and eye, a horrifying flexibility. All crag and weight, it perceived him; it leaned down over the water; it seemed to pursue him. Of course he was terrified, and rowed hard, fleeing back across the water. But the experience led him, led his mind, from simple devotion of that beauty which is a harmony, a kindly ministry of thought, to nature's deeper and inexplicable greatness. The gleam and the tranquility of the natural world he loved always, and now he honored also the world's brawn and mystery, its machinations that lie beyond our understanding — that are not even nameable. What Wordsworth praised thereafter was more than the arrangement of concretions and vapors into appreciable and balanced landscapes; it was, also, the whirlwind. The beauty and strangeness of the world may fill the eyes with its cordial refreshment. Equally it may offer the heart a dish of terror. On one side is radiance; on another is the abyss.”

Wordsworth has been on my mind as of late because he plays a prominent part in the most recent John Muir biography, A Passion for Nature. So when I came upon the Mary Oliver piece it excited me even more. Since then I have found Wordsworth’s own poem, or a segment of it actually, describing that night from his childhood and that looming mountain. It is from his “Prelude” (1850) and it follows below.

One summer evening (led by [Nature]) I found

A little boat tied to a willow tree

Within a rocky cave, its usual home.

Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in

Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth

And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice

Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;

Leaving behind her still, on either side,

Small circles glittering idly in the moon,

Until they melted all into one track

Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,

Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point

With an unswerving line, I fixed my view

Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,

The horizon's utmost boundary; for above

Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.

She was an elfin pinnace; lustily

I dipped my oars into the silent lake,

And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat

Went heaving through the water like a swan

When, from behind that craggy steep till then

The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,

As if with voluntary power instinct

Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,

And growing still in stature the grim shape

Towered up between me and the stars, and still,

For so it seemed, with purpose of its own

And measured motion like a living thing,

Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,

And through the silent water stole my way

Back to the covert of the willow tree;

There in her mooring-place I left my bark,--

And through the meadows homweard wen, in grave

And serious mood; but after I had seen

That spectacle, for many days, my brain

Worked with a dim and undetermined sense

Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts

There hung a darkness, call it solitude

Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes

Remained, no pleasant images of trees,

Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;

But huge and mighty forms, that do not live

Like living men, moved slowly through the mind

By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

This is one of the reasons I love the mountains as I do. They inspire thoughts in us so powerful and provocative that we feel a close kinship with the likes of Emerson or Thoreau or Muir or even some of the great White Mountain painters like Benjamin Champney or Thomas Cole.

90 Minutes In Heaven

Before Monday I’ve never stood atop North Moat before but I can now verify what I’ve long been told: of the three Moats the view from the northern triplet is the best.

Stunning, simply stunning! And what a day we had for views, too: just the slightest whisper of a breeze; a warm sun; day-dreaming blue skies without a cloud in sight.

Standing there I thought of something Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: “Our faith comes in moments…yet there is a depth in those brief moments which constrains us to ascribe more reality to them than to all other experiences.” (I often find myself revisiting Emerson atop a scenic summit.) And that, I thought to myself as Atticus meandered around the edges of the small summit looking out this way and that, is what makes life worth living. It’s all in the magic we find here and there – not unlike stars poking through the vast darkness of the blackest night.

That’s the great thing about these mountains of New Hampshire; they deliver us from the mundane, time and again. You can park your car, and in the case of North Moat, walk into the woods, first keeping company with a ‘little poem’ of a brook (to borrow a term from John Muir), move through a sunlit forest carpeted in untouched snow, climb ledge after open ledge of steep pitches and then reach a place where you can turn your back on the troubles of this life and find a reason to smile, no matter what ails you. And literally, by turning your back to the east and the outlet stores of North Conway below, you face west directly into the wilderness.

At 3,196 feet, the summit of North Moat is more than 3,000 feet shorter than the summit of Mount Washington. But bigger is not always better. I can tell you that simply by looking at my diminutive hiking partner. When planted firmly atop North Moat as we were on this stunning day, try convincing yourself it is anything less than Washington. There’s a good chance you will lose the argument. In many ways, the view is far greater, simply for the proximity to the Sandwich Range to the south and the Pemi Wilderness to the West. It’s as though you can reach out and touch Chocorua or dip yourself into the waters of the Pemi where mountains break from the earth like wild waves.

The climb from Diana’s Baths to the summit is at first easy for two and a half miles, then difficult for the last two, but it is well worth the effort. While summit sitting I had to remind myself it is still winter. But it was so pleasant we stayed for 90 glorious minutes and all I wore over my shirt was my summer windbreaker. No gloves. No hat.

Watching Atticus summit sit – Buddha like – on the various outcroppings, I recalled something I was asked during the Animal Planet interview. I had forwarded the producer my book proposal so he would know about our complete story. In it I wrote about how Atticus sits and takes in the views. He reminded me of the term ‘Buddha-like’ and asked me if I thought of Atti as my spiritual guru of sorts.

At first I laughed. For whenever I think of gurus I think of how in “Eat, Pray, Love” Elizabeth Gilbert went traipsing around the world for a year in search of a guru when all she really needed to do was sit on a mountaintop with a little dog. But the answer I gave was simply: No, but by watching Atticus and following him over these mountains for the last few years I remembered what I long ago forgot. It is all about the primitive. Somehow, we lose it. We grow up and leave much of the magic behind. But by watching him, I was reminded time and again of the best part of myself – the child within. I’d lost him. It took four decades and a little dog but what was once lost is now found.

And so it was that on Monday morning while much of the world was at work, Atticus led me back to the primitive once again and to one of those beautiful Emersonian moments.

Summit Snoozing

What a perfect summit for a little nap. No wind. No cold. No hurry. We stayed on the summit of North Moat today for 90 minutes.

A Picture Perfect Day On North Moat

Today we hiked North Moat. What a glorious day atop this wondrous peak! I'll have more on this later. But for now, here are some shots to tide you over.

An Animal Planet Update From Powderhouse Productions

This from a comment left to one of the posts just down the page. It's from one of the good folks at Powderhouse Productions...

Tom, we're not sure when the show will air. it may not be until september or october of this year! but the piece is being edited and looks fantastic so far. again thanks for your participation. give atticus a pat - and keep in touch. we will do the same.

Mount Washington In National Geographic

For those of you who didn't see last month's National Geographic, they focused on Mount Washington and her horrendous weather. To read the article click here. To see the photos that appeared in N.G. click here. Perhaps my favorite line from the article is this: "It is a regular star in television forecasts, a coffee shop conversation starter, a murderer." The photo above is from last winter when Atticus and I stood atop Washington on a spring-like day.

Filming Follow-Up

In the next couple of days I'll be sharing our experiences throughout the Animal Planet shoot. For now, suffice it to say the crew from Powderhouse Productions made this a very pleasant experience as did the people at Angell. On Thursday we filmed a lengthy interview at the Nereledge Inn in North Conway; they took footage of us hiking through the snow to the top of Elephant's Head at the bottom of the Webster-Jackson Trail; took footage of us walking through downtown North Conway; then finished up with some more filming in the Met coffeehouse. Yesterday, Atticus and I drove to Jamaica Plain where some more footage was shot at Angell Animal Medical Center. Besides the folks at Powderhouse, I am thankful to the staff at Angell for making themselves available for filming yesterday. Particular thanks goes out to Atticus' doctor, Maureen Carroll, for taking the time to drive to North Conway for her own somewhat lengthy interview and then making herself available while she was working yesterday. I have no idea what the footage looks like but I'm told it looks great. We shall see. I was told the show should debut in April. And finally, not enough can be said to Diane Mello and the rest of the staff at the Met for their continued warmth and welcoming ways! An update will be following soon.

Photos From Yesterday's Animal Planet Visit With Atticus

Some photos from yesterday's Animal Planet shoot with the crew from Powderhouse Productions. Top photo is of the producer, Joe Sousa, warming Atticus on top of Elephant Head. Then the cameraman and sound engineer filming Atticus on the trail while they walk backwards. Final shot is of the crew together surrounded by winter at the foot of Mt. Jackson.

Four Photos From Yesterday

Today is not a hiking day and this is not a hiking winter. Yes, we have done five hikes since winter started, but this is our first winter to hike leisurely after three winters of cramming peaks in to the point of getting burned out on it. Instead I'm concentrating on my book proposal this winter. Nevertheless we hiked Passaconaway yesterday and tomorrow we're going right back out there (if the weather holds) to hike the Willey Range (Mt. Willey; Mt. Field; and Mt. Tom). Then on Thursday we'll be meeting with the people from Powderhouse Productions while they film Atticus for Dogs 101 on Animal Planet.

Here are some shots from yesterday's hike. All shots were taken from the one viewpoint just before the summit (which has no view).

1. Atticus in front of a view into the Pemigewasset Wilderness.
2. A panoramic shot into the Pemi with white-capped Franconia Ridge to the left; the Hancocks right in the foreground in the middle; and Carrigain off to the right.
3. A better shot of the Hancocks and Carrigain.
4. North Tripyramid with the Osceolas in the background.

A Pleasant Surprise

Wonderful of Beth Maddaus to honor us with a post on her blog today with news of Atticus being on Animal Planet.

Atticus M. Finch To Be On Animal Planet

I've always said that Atticus is the brains, brawn and beauty of this operation and just to show you I'm not the only one who thinks so, Powderhouse Productions, the people who run Animal Planet's Dogs 101, are coming to the White Mountains to film my diminutive friend. It will run as part of their segment on miniature schnauzers. At this time the plan is for them to climb a mountain with us...or at least go on a hike to get some footage of Atti in his element.

Gray Jays on Jackson

When we hiked Mount Jackson the other day we had the pleasure of having the summit to ourselves...well, actually, we shared it with a trio of Gray Jays. The wonderfully bold birds make it a habit to visit for food on several of the peaks in the Crawford Notch area.

Wandering in Tamworth

Our time in Tamworth is winding down. While I have no set departure date it is only a matter of time before we move to a more permanent location in North Conway in the near future. Atticus and I will depart Tamworth a bit better off for having spent time here. It is a charming place with more natural understated nooks and crannies than any other place I’ve lived.

While we will only be up the road some thirty minutes we’ll never have the same convenience of the treasures Nature has given us to unwrap these past five months. Here, in the shadow of the eastern edge of the Sandwich Mountain Range, there are streams and fields and rustic mountain views exclusive to the area. And as we wander these rural roads or hiking trails I embrace them, knowing we may never be on them again – for such is the wealth of wonders throughout the White Mountains. There will always be more to discover and celebrate.

On Monday, the halfway mark of winter, Atticus and I rolled out of bed, ate a little breakfast, walked down the road a half a mile, and then faded into the woods along a snowmobile path worn to a sidewalk by weekend enthusiasts. This is the same path we walked along the very first day we moved into the area in late August. On that golden afternoon we ambled among mossy rocks and lush ferns beneath a green and gold sun-dappled canopy. On Monday it was a different world – all white and frozen in sleep. No ferns, no moss. And even the trail-side stream was partially frozen; the only canopy was the dark, naked bark of tree branches reaching towards a gray, featureless sky.

Sylvia Plath had perfect lines for such a scene years ago: "Winter dawn is the color of metal, / The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves." You know the look. It may even contribute to your seasonal depression but I have own antidote for such things: I simply avoid the ‘color of metal’ while following the flop-eared saunter of a little dog who repels the cold indifference with his happy-go-lucky wandering along the trail. It’s like finding yourself guided through a black and white movie by a colorful cartoon dog. What a simple joy it is to travel these trails with Atticus!

The snowmobile trail may not be the steepest hike in the Whites but it is still an uphill walk and before long my body warmed enough to sweat and my heavy breathing joined the bite of my snowshoes as the only forest noises. We walked for close to a mile before reaching the summer road (closed for the winter). Then it was to the left a little ways and a bit more of a climb until we reached the tower atop Great Hill.

Atticus has never liked open-backed stairs and while he adores summit sitting he’s no fan of hill or mountaintop towers and so I carried him up the narrow stairs. Sure he could have stayed down below but he would have missed the amazing view of the entire Sandwich Range as it stretches from west to east and this once-blind dog loves his views. Off to the far left stood Sandwich Dome, looking more impressive than many of the 48 peaks taller than she is. There stood the Tripyramids and the Sleepers and Whiteface and the hulking mass of Passaconaway – along with Wonalancet, Paugus and Chocorua: more mountains named for legendary Indians of days gone by. Such glory all in a beautiful panoramic view!

If it weren’t for the chill of the early morning we would have stayed longer. As it was we stayed long enough for our bodies to shiver. Then it was back down the stairs and out to the summer road. Instead of returning the way we came we walked down the closed road with me just a foot or two in front of Atticus. (He’s no idiot. He let me use my snowshoes to break the trail for him.) On we plodded and in our private walk through deep snow my mind wandered here and there until it came to rest on something that was pointed out to me this past week. Atticus and I were mentioned in Mary Baker Eaton’s popular Newburyport Blog (www.marybakerart.com/newburyport/). She wrote:

There was a time, long, long ago, when Tom Ryan ruled the political Newburyport earth, and had a local political journal called “The Undertoad.” Mr. Ryan had an astounding radar for what drove any particular human being nuts. And if a Newburyport human being crossed a particular Tom Ryan code of ethics, that human being got “Toaded,” i.e. slammed in the Undertoad, and all their particular buttons got wildly pressed.

It was not a pleasant experience for those who entered into the very, very long (and actually it was becoming somewhat distinguished) list of the Newburyport Toaded.

I figured, writing the Newburyport Blog, that it was only a matter of time, before, I too would get Toaded. But Mr. Ryan went on to bigger and better things, like being given the Human Hero Award by the MSPCA-Angell Animal Medical Center, receiving it at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, and headlining the award ceremony with Emmylou Harris. Not a bad gig.

My big defense against getting Toaded—a bunch of stuffed frogs. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, it seems a little out of touch with reality. Oh well.

But the frogs and I had a grand old time (and for goodness sakes we still may). There was a good deal of eye rolling, especially by male readers of the Newburyport Blog, about my beloved frogs. I was told once that no serious reader would read any post that contained green critters, except this person had read all the posts containing green critters. Go figure. I was also told that because of the frog thing, I was totally whacked. Yes, “No Comment.”

However, it is my experience, that weirdly, the more political power an individual actually had, the more they actually liked my cadre of green things. A sort of interesting frog political Rorschach test. I was listening to a friend talk about a (national) politician, and they were talking about this person not exactly being a
“prince,” but no “frog” either.

And that got me to thinking. Maybe all those readers who didn’t like my frogs, were actually frogs themselves. And no amount of frog kissing would ever turn them into “princes” or bring about some sort of fairy tale ending, like being honored at the Kennedy Center for a humanitarian award and headlining that 21st Annual Animal Hall of Fame dinner with Emmylou Harris.

Ain’t life grand.

This simple little three-mile loop over Great Hill may not be a hike along Franconia Ridge but it’s special in its own way. But that’s the charm of these mountains, isn’t it? Even the simplest adventures – the little comings and going and quaint secret places are enchanting in that they are enough to make a man want to stop writing about what’s wrong with the politicians of the world and instead turn his focus to what’s right with the world. In my case that’s this grand and magnificent place – and a remarkable little dog.

A Fine Day on Mt. Jackson Today

Atticus posing on top of Mt. Jackson at the trail junction with

Mt. Willey & Mt. Field in the direct background.

Sweet Pierce Shows Her Wild Side: January 12, 2009

To know the best of January’s mountains is to see them dressed in a gleaming, virginal white under an azure sky. That contrast between heaven and earth shatters me; it blinds me and binds my heart in wordless rapture. It is what drew us out of the warmth of our little hobbit hole to hike on frigid Monday.

Crawford Notch was as it always seems to be in winter: bitter and threatening. The winds shrieked at us to return to the car and subzero temperatures bit at any exposed skin. But we’ve been in the Notch before in similar conditions and I understand the Notch’s bark is worst than its bite and soon we were sheltered by the trees while walking along a well-packed Crawford Path.

We’d left the wind behind but we couldn’t outdistance the cold but it didn’t seem to matter, not when I looked up at the snowy branches against the deep blue background. We were in an enchanted forest and as carefree as can be. But soon, that was to change. The bright aspect of the day was lost and dreariness draped itself over the tree tops and everything turned a lifeless gray. We had walked from a cartoon Technicolor world into an old black and white movie.

Others may say the most difficult part of winter is breaking trail or the dangerous conditions, but because I monitor both and choose the easiest routes for little Atticus in the best conditions, the biggest challenge for me is what happens when the lights go out. It’s not a physical condition but a mental one. All color bleeds out and the cheery magical trees coated heavily in snow become almost sinister. It is no more dangerous than trekking through a troubled dream at night, but still, just as in the dream, I feel it and it weighs on me.

And so when the color left the woods on Monday morning, the journey turned inward. We walked in silence: no sounds other than my snowshoes (not even the wings of the wicked wind flapped above the treetops could be heard); no scents: no vibrant colors – just a walk through a monotone landscape of strange and unusual shapes.

In spite of the more somber mood of the hike I found myself smiling from time to time at the sight of Atticus moving happily along. His purple Muttluks gave him an almost clownish look that was well-suited to the absurdity of his tiny body in these great mountains. How could I not smile? But even that could not warm me as much as I would have liked. I held onto myself by concentrating on by my breathing: the in and out rhythm needed to feed my cardiovascular system.

On my regular 10 or 20 second stops I found myself getting chilled. This is unusual for me. I took another break, put on the hat and gloves and layer I’d taken off earlier and set off again but still it was difficult to get warm. The higher we climbed the grayer, colder and harsher it became. But still, at least there was no wind.

We marched through the long tunnel of trees until at last we came to the curve in the trail where the trees fall off to the left. This is why I chose Pierce on this bluebird day: from this point on the views are beautiful. But where views typically come into place, there was nothing but a gray abyss. Then the wind was on us again. It was so gray it was hard to see. The trees, snow and sky looked all the same. Atticus stopped to let me go first and I broke through knee deep drifts and when we curled towards the trail junction and into the exposed shoulder of the mountain, I was rocked by the wind. We reached the junction and turned up towards the summit of Pierce but even though I’d been there many times before, it all looked foreign to me. The drifts funneled us towards the left, away from the trail, and after a few steps we righted ourselves even though the cairns had been enveloped by the fog.

The wind whipped and raged. Atticus was blown sideways and he staggered like a drunk. I called to him to keep close so that I could shield him from the wind but it robbed my voice from the air and Atti pressed ahead of me up towards the summit as he always does. His little spirit pressed on, as if it had a voice of its own that called out, “Wind be damned!”

I’d never seen gentle Pierce like that before and we hurried to touch the summit cairn. Once on top the wind died a bit and we collected ourselves and I fed my friend thick slices of ham and quickly drank a smoothie for my own strength. We found ourselves surrounded by a winter wasteland of hopelessness. We were just three miles from our car but it may as well have been a thousand.

It didn’t take long before we both started shaking and we set out to return the way we came. Stepping off the mountain’s crown and onto the exposed area again it was like stepping into a raging sea. It was savage, fierce and so overwhelming I was momentarily frightened.

It’s in moments like this that I find myself pushed beyond my comforts and it’s where I find some of the most beautiful treasures. Like all of us, I come from a processed world. The mountains, when they unleash themselves like that and we are taken by surprise; it’s a shock to the system. But in surrendering to it – what a gift to feel as savage as the wind, as strong as the ice and snow covered rocks, to feel one with the mountain even as it tried to shake us off of her. We rode the wind, faced its teeth and I found myself equally unleashed, roaring just as lustily. It was like that moment Walt Whitman describes in two telling lines from his “Song of Myself”:

“I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.”

This time, the wind did not eat my howl. I would be heard.

Time stood still, the wind seemed to freeze in place and I longed to live in that dangerous moment for a few more seconds, if not years, and be wild and unfettered. But madness soon eased and clear thinking returned and man and dog hurried down into the bellowing wind until we stood there looking into a vast gray abyss off the edge of the mountain where the world ended. Once again I stood still on the edge of reason and wanted to feel even more of what surrounded me. I wanted to feel that loneliness and the void. But coldness reeled me in and I realized we needed to get out of there.

We turned onto the Crawford Path and hurried back towards the Notch. Within a few minutes we were sheltered again. We moved quickly, trying to warm ourselves up. When we stopped for the first time we were a mile down the trail and back in the gray woods. From that safe but frozen haven I found the danger above to be amazing. I was awed by its power. I was frightened and exhilarated and fulfilled.

That night, safe and warm in my bed, with Atticus tangled in his favorite fleece blanket next to me, I was stirred by a thought – something Kierkegaard had written: “To venture causes anxiety, but not to venture is to lose one’s self. . . . And to venture in the highest is precisely to become conscious of one’s self.”

Mt. Tecumseh: January 4, 2009

When I was ten years old and found a rare moment of alone time in the house I grew up in, I cracked open my father’s dusty and musty copy of “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations” and discovered the brilliance of Ralph Waldo Emerson. At that very first meeting Emerson’s words ran through me like a terrible ache, both beautiful and fierce – the way only truth and love can. It was a bold awakening for a little boy who never enjoyed reading children’s books.

In the years since that fateful meeting Emerson has often offered me stars to navigate by even on the darkest of nights. And yet, of all of the profound things the author said and wrote in his lifetime, the ones I find myself stumbling over again and again on the trail over the past three years come from his simple little poem titled “Fable”.

The mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter, "little prig":

Bun replied,

You are doubtless very big,

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together

To make up a year,

And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you,

You are not so small as I,

And not half so spry:

I'll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;

If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut.

It is a lesson in where we all fit. We have our places, no matter how big, no matter how small. In many ways it has become the anthem that often plays in my head when I follow Atticus into the woods on a way to the mountaintop:

“And I think it no disgrace to occupy my place.

If I’m not so large as you, you are not so small as I…”

My little friend carries that same audacity with him wherever he goes and refuses to apologize for his size, or better yet, lack of it.

On Sunday I watched Atticus bound from the road onto a snow bank, deftly cross the icy stones in the stream and charge happily into the woods at the beginning of our trip up Tecumseh on Sunday. I recognized something I haven’t seen since last winter. We walk in the woods nearly every day and while he obviously enjoys it, there’s something different about a hike when we are climbing a mountain…especially in winter. He senses this is where he belongs, as if he’s home again. Whenever I see it in his eyes I feel as though I’m witnessing the reunion of two long lost friends bound by something so intimate that I’ll never fully understand it but I cannot help but fully appreciate the beauty of the moment.

The barometer of his happiness is often his ears and on Sunday they were flying high as he passed along the packed snow through January’s dark, naked trees while catching their growing shadows on the white snow. Occasionally he would stop his bounding long enough for his ears to cease flopping and wait up for me. But it was clear he wanted me to move faster – such unmitigated joy! If he could he would have grabbed me by the hand and dragged me along in his excitement.

After dipping down into the last stream crossing he was just as eager as he waited for me in each bend of those switchbacks before we started that long steady ascent towards the summit. But even in his excitement he slowed down and we began our long-nurtured routine that comes naturally. He leads; I follow – usually a constant ten yards behind.

Tecumseh may be the smallest of the 4,000-footers and one of the shortest distances from road to summit, but that stretch of 1.2 miles is steep enough to cause me to trudge along, one foot in front of the other, a 10-second rest for every 200 steps taken. But on Sunday there was something different about our climb. Perhaps because it was the first of this winter and we were both happy to be out again. We made it through the steeps quicker than I had expected. Once beyond the junction of the Sosman Trail we entered into that wonderful corridor of evergreens that leads to the fork in the trail. As always I let Atti choose the way at the fork and as always he chose left. You see, it clearly goes up, more noticeably than the trail to the right, and for whatever the reason he understands we go up until there is no more up.

When we came into the sunshine and the views to Moosilauke draped in a sheer, thin blanket I chose my footing through the icy rocks carefully, letting the points of my microspikes dig in, but Atticus dodged and weaved and hopped along the craggy trail without much care. Then it was into one last corridor of trees for the short wind to the top. The trees were coated in pixie dust and it glinted in the fingers of sunshine that poked through the dense growth. That’s where I lost Atticus. That’s where I always lose him. It is the place in each hike where he no longer waits for me. He understands the top is near and cannot hold back.

When I caught up to him he gaily circled that row of angelic trees standing guard over the cairn. He was not sniffing or looking for any specific thing but frolicking in a queer little tap dance. Strange little dog, I’ve never quite seen anything like it from him on a mountaintop before but when you spend as much time together as we do you master the game of charades quite well and know how to read him. His message was simple – we’re home. We are home!

Just the other day a friend asked, “Which of the 48 is your favorite?”

Like many of you I have no one single favorite, but even I was surprised when Tecumseh made my list of favored peaks. For us it has never been ‘just Tecumseh’ or a simply a mandatory check mark on a list. Don’t ask me why for I cannot explain it. There’s just something about it that lights my senses afire and inspires me in the most primitive way. Watching my little friend dance around the breezy summit on Sunday, it’s clear he feels the exact same way.

Perhaps for me, part of the charm of Tecumseh is that it resembles Atticus or Emerson’s ‘little prig’; it may be small but it contains all the wonders of the Universe. Because of the little dog I go through life with I’m often reminded that the mass of a thing means little in defining the breadth of its spirit.

And so we came to Tecumseh once again and once again I was the better for it.

Merry Christmas To Our Friends At Angell

To our Angell Family this Holiday Season,

The course of my life was determined by a cigarette. Forty years ago tomorrow, my family fell into a spiral it never recovered from when my mother, long-suffering from MS, died in a hospital bed after dropping a lit cigarette. I was eight years old, the youngest of nine children. The hub of our universe was gone and all the spokes splintered and went their own ways like survivors of a ship wreck – man and children doing their best to somehow survive each on their own.

My father never recovered from this loss and when he died this year it was a relief to him to finally go and join the woman he loved. Some my siblings never recovered either. God bless them, I still root for them. But being the youngest and with a grand view of all of them, I wanted something more. I loved them but didn't want to be anything like them. And so the past four decades became a quest to seek a path where there was none to follow. Sometimes awkwardly, often blind, I wandered and tried to find my way to the top of a mountain I had dreamed of. Step by step, piece by piece, I put together the life I had dreamed of through the best and the worst of times.

Because of what you all do for a living (and obviously for love) you will appreciate that the last steps could only be taken after being touched by two wonderful dogs, my dear Max, whose ashes now grace the top of each of the 48 4,000-footers and, of course, dearest Atticus, who helped me spread those ashes. I did all I could do to reach the mountaintop I had dreamed of in the darkest hours of loneliness but there are some things a man needs help with, some things he cannot do on his own. I learned what I could on my own, but I needed these two souls to teach me what I could not learn on my own - love.

This journey to the mountaintop is a walk from a parking lot (society); into the woods with faith there is something more even though you cannot see it; blood, sweat and tears in climbing over rock, root and other obstructions; challenges of cliffs, ice, snow, high rivers, wild winds; and then when things seem bleakest, when there seems to be no end to the fight for survival, the never-ending journey does end with a brilliant view from a mountain peak.

Atticus brought me to that mountaintop, then when he was sick last year I feared I would lose it all.

That's where you came in. What hit me most about Angell was not that I thought you all could solve anything, but that you brought us hope and hope is a very bright star on the darkest of journeys. It is what is needed most, especially when it seems so far away. There are thousands who have received much more from Angell than Atticus and I have, but I wanted you all to know if you touched us as deeply as you did then, and in knowing that you will always be there for us, there are so many others out there who feel just as deeply and appreciative for what you do as we do.

Richard Bach, in his wonderful little book "Illusions", wrote: "The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof." First Max, and then Atticus, proved this to me. And you, our Angell Family, have proven it more than you will ever know.

We both thank you for being perfect at what you do. If I could afford it I'd buy each of you anything you would have this Christmas, but since that is not possible, I offer you the only thing I can afford to give – our love and thanks for all you do. I'm sure you hear such things quite often but as far as I am concerned, you all can never hear it enough.

This Christmas Eve, when Atticus and I climb a mountain for our now annual dinner (complete with Christmas lights), we'll give thanks for the gifts you have given us and thank you for touching our lives again and again.

Onward, by all means,
Tom Ryan & Atticus M. Finch

PS: For our other readers, as you know, Atticus and I are not going to be fundraising for Angell this winter while I work on our book, however, giving to Angell and the great work they do is always worthwhile. When our book is published, we’ll be offering a portion of each book sale to the Angell Animal Medical Center. If you are looking for the right gift to give to the animal lover in your life you can always make a donation in their name to Angell. Our contact, and oh, what a contact she is, is Kathleen Santry. If you would like to make a donation so that other animals can have the same care Atticus received, you can email Kathleen for information on how to give at ksantry@mspca.org.

Hall of Fame Dinner Program

For whatever the reason I continue to stumble when it comes to scanning in the photo page from the program of the MSPCA-Angell's Hall of Fame Dinner at the JFK Presidential Library when Atticus and I were honored with the Human Hero Award. It's nearly two months coming, but here it is...finally.

Our Latest Column for the Northcountry News

Ah, the annual holiday issue. With that in mind, here’s a little something different from Tom & Atticus – some ideas for the winter hiker on your holiday list.

Two or Three Headlamps: In winter, it gets light later and gets dark earlier. Spend enough time on the trails and you will hike sooner or later with a headlamp on. One will fail sooner or later, so bring extras. And always bring extra batteries. A headlamp serves the additional purpose of head protection. Yes, head protection – for when your spouse wants to slap you upside the head because you have the bedroom light on at 4:00 a.m. while getting ready for your hike.

Balaclava: You’d be warm, but also considered the biggest dork in your neighborhood if you wore a balaclava to walk the dog. Fear not, there’s nothing dorky about face protection on a frozen, windy day above treeline in the mountains. As a matter of fact, it is essential. A balaclava protects much of your face from frost bite and serves the additional purpose of making all photos look that much more dramatic. Stand on a mountaintop with a balaclava on and those back home looking at photos of you will understand immediately how dangerously cold it was that day on the mountain – even if it wasn’t. (A little drama never hurt any story.) And of course, if you are like me, balaclavas have a slimming effect when they cover up that double chin.

MSR Snowshoes: More often than not I see city folks in the mountains post-holing through deep snow with crampons on and I’m thinking, “What the hell?” Yes, snowshoes are far more commonly needed than crampons but folks don’t see them as sexy. They watch television shows on climbing Everest and they have an image of what they want to look like when they hike to the top of any of the White Mountains. That image consists of something more manly than snowshoes. They even look so much more dangerous than snowshoes with their big jagged spikes. (And believe me when I tell you they are, as many novice winter hikers will tell you when they gash one of their legs with their own crampons.) The beauty about MSR brand snowshoes is that they are far more aggressive than regular snowshoes when it comes to climbing. To attest to this, I’ve climbed each of the mountains in the Presidential Range at one time or other in snowshoes. Sure there will be times when you need crampons, just not as much as the egotist hiker will tell you. You want to look sexy? Hike in a thong.

Carbon Graphite Trekking Poles: Most hikers will tell you they use trekking poles to ease the impact on their knees while coming down a mountain or for balance while crossing icy rocks in a stream or traversing a snow field high above treeline. That may be so, but the real use I get out of them is that they give me something to hold onto when I can’t go any further and I’m cursing my body for being out of shape while my head hangs in defeat between my slumping shoulders while my arms are extended outward holding onto the pole handles. Usually the phrase that accompanies such a position is “I will never hike another #@@$$%$%! mountain for as long as I live! What was I thinking?” If the poles weren’t there, I’d fall face-first into the snow and look even more pathetic. (The carbon graphite versions are extra light weight and extra strong, if you happen to be like me – extra large.)

Microspikes: These things are fantastic. No they are not as sexy as crampons because they are ‘micro’ and not big manly spikes, but there are times when neither snowshoes nor crampons are needed but you need some traction for good footing. They slip on over your winter boots with ease and come off just as easily, even while you are wearing gloves. They can also be used as a marriage aid. No, not talking about you folks into S & M here, but they will give you a good grip on the ice on your walkway and driveway back home so you have no excuse not to take out the trash even in the iciest of conditions, which will help keep your home life ice free.

Wool Socks & Ziploc Bags: I know you are thinking this is just downright silly but trust me, they are needed. Sure you need one or two pairs of wool socks on your feet in a winter boot, that’s easy to understand. Socks serve other purposes besides just keeping your feet warm. They can work as extra mittens if – God forbid – and emergency arises. They can be used to keep your water or Gatorade from freezing up in your pack. Slide the full bottle in upside down and tuck the stuffed sock into the middle of all your other gear. If that doesn’t keep it from freezing, at least having the water bottle upside down will ensure the freezing takes place at the bottom of the bottle. As for Ziploc Bags, they are the most important of all pieces of winter equipment for they carry those wondrous miniature Snickers bars. Unwrap them before going and put them into the Ziploc Bags so you won’t have to take off your gloves to eat; then stick the little bags where they are easily accessible.

Dog Gear: The best protection you can give to your dog in winter is to not put him or her into a dangerous position. However, when you’ve determined it is okay to bring your own Atticus out in the winter there are two pieces of gear I’ve found to be of great help. The first is his set of Muttluk boots (Muttluks.com). I put them on my little hiking partner when the snow is loose or the ground extra cold. When on ice, I take them off him so he can use his claws for traction. Muttluks are also great for summer use above treeline. All too often dogs leave a trail of bloody paw prints behind because their owners haven’t put much thought into their care. The other piece of equipment Atticus uses is a body suit that comes from K9 Top Coat (www.K9topcoat.com). Sure he looks like a perverted Aqua Man with his paws and privates revealed for all to see, but everything else is covered with fleece on the inside and neoprene on the outside. I use it on extra cold days, or when he has to trudge through deeper snow. In all fairness, I should point out that Atticus hates to put these things on, but once they are on he does very well with them. He is, after all, a nudist by nature, but I have no doubt he still appreciates this gear.

These are only a few things you need when hiking in the winter. When shopping for them, remember the independent retailers closest to you. Stand by the little guy who gives back to your community whenever you can. But no matter where you get your gear, be safe out there. The mountains can be dangerous.

A High-Flying Dog and his Curiosity of Cats

Atticus and I have moved our operations to North Conway for two weeks. We're house/dog/cat sitting for a friend. While here we are exploring the woods around North Conway and hope to get some good hikes in. You can see how happy Atticus is to be here by his high-flying photo above. You'll also note his curiosity of cats. (He's not sure what to make of them.) Hopefully while here I'll get an opportunity for some good writing. I've also included a photo of the view of the back deck here. Mt. Washington is in the clouds but you can see Adams' pointy top.