A Letter from South Doublehead

"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

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

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

USA Character Approved Blog Writes About Following Atticus

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)

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

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

Some Reflections from Our Book Tour

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

Seattle Kennel Club Reviews Following Atticus

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

"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

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

Come What May

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 know 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

New Hampshire Magazine Reviews Following Atticus in the September Issue

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

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

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

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

Publishers Weekly Review of Following Atticus

Library Journal Review of Following Atticus

His Heart

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!

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.