At Times A Little Is Enough

Jack Ryan would be happy with the hikes we’ve taken this week. 

My father was mostly what’s known as a windshield tourist.  Whenever we came north from Massachusetts, he’d drive us around the White Mountains and that’s how we saw these wondrous peaks – through a windshield.  Oh sure, we did all the touristy things such as Clark’s Trading Post, the gondola up Cannon Mountain, the auto road and the cog railway up Mount Washington, the Flume, Santa’s Village, Storyland, and all the other activities young families tend to do.  But we also did some hiking.  Just nothing of any height or difficulty. 

Our hikes were more like walks in the woods of no real distance.  Occasionally we’d stumble upon a view.  This past weekend, while sitting up on the Roost at the northern end of Evans Notch, my father came to mind.  It was only a half mile to the summit, then down another tenth of a mile to a brilliant viewpoint.  We finished off the hike by walking down the long way (seven tenths of a mile), to the southern terminus of the trail, and with an eight tenths of a mile road walk back to our car.

Yesterday, we drove to Wonalancet and hiked to the top of Mount Katherine (a 3.2 mile round trip).  Now if ever there was a mistaken classification here in the White Mountains it would be calling what was named after Katherine Sleeper a mountain.  It’s more like a hill.  But once on top of that splendid little summit there is a beautiful view across the bucolic farmland in Tamworth and the land rises slowly until it reaches the crescendo of Mount Chocorua off in the distance.  And as soon as I finish typing this up, Atticus and I will be heading to Lincoln to drop in on Steve Smith at the Mountain Wanderer to take care of some business.  When in town we’ll drive up through Franconia Notch and take advantage of Bald Mountain and Artists Bluff.  We used to take that 1.5 mile hike quite often when we lived in Lincoln and treated it as an afternoon or morning walk. 

Now in all fairness to these smaller peaks, or what could be considered mere bumps in relation to the rocky behemoths around them, a mountain doesn’t know whether it’s tall or small.  A mountain just is and seems quite happy with its circumstances.  All three of these sensational short hikes have something in common, for little peaks they give great bang for the buck views to the surrounding area.  As short as they may be, there is some work involved.  The climb up the Roost may only be half a mile but it rises up more than 550 feet in elevation.  According to the AMC’s White Mountain Guide (edited by Smith and Mike Dickerman), an elevation gain of one thousand feet over a mile is considered a steep climb.  (No wonder we were feeling out of breath in Evans Notch on Sunday.)  And that last scramble up to the top of Bald Mountain has you using your hands from time to time. 

Okay, so none of these are to be confused with Lafayette, Washington, Moosilauke, or the Kinsmans.  But presently we take what we can get.  Atticus and I are a long way off from the days of thinking nothing about trekking longer than twenty miles.  The little guy is halfway between eleven and twelve, but I don’t think his age would really slow him down.  Cancer has, however.  Actually, the cancer hasn’t.  It’s the chemo.  He doesn’t seem to miss that absent toe since its amputation earlier in the summer.  Heck, we climbed Black Cap less than three weeks after its removal.  But chemo is a different thing.  It’s fighting poison with poison, but the drug doesn’t differentiate between good cells and bad and it wreaks havoc on the body. 

Atticus’s body handled the first treatment well.  The second wasn’t so easy.  It got worse as the weeks went on, so much so that we’ve now moved his treatments from every three weeks to every four. There were even some days last week he chose not to go for our regular morning or evening walk. 

So while in the past I would have had nice things to say about the views offered from the Roost, Mount Katherine, and Bald Mountain and talked about them being pleasant “walks”, for us, they’ve turned into mountains.  At least for this summer and fall. 

My father loved such gentle hikes and it was a great way to work out his troop of children when we were on vacation.  But like the mountains themselves, Jack Ryan didn’t seem to consider them small at all.  He was away from his Framingham or Boston office and was in the woods, armed with a sense of wonder and a lightness of spirit.  And oh, what a pleasure those walks in the woods were – even if I was too young to appreciate them.  Those gentle seeds he sprinkled throughout our childhood turned into something much more for Atticus and me.  They turned into our way of life. 

As we wait patiently and hold onto ourselves throughout the chemo storm, I remember what my father thought of little mountains and those walks into a wooded wonderland and I feel it, too.  For now, they are all Atticus and I have as we scale our toughest mountain.  And yet, they feel like enough.  While sitting on those rocky viewpoints, the world is quite glorious to me – far more so than the view from our couch – and especially so when I look to my side and see one paw with a missing toe and a soul at peace as he too takes the views and fills his soul.

 

Atticus M. Finch takes in the view from The Roost.

A Call & A Text

The view from King's Peak.

We woke up to thunder boomers as only the mountains can throw them, echoing from peak to peak and reverberating down into the valleys.

 

Atticus has never been bothered by them and Will can't hear them so that's not a problem either.  Actually, I wasn't awakened by the storm, but by Atticus giving me the "Will Warning".  When Will gets out from under his covers and off of his bed, Atticus wakes me up to let me know I'd better get my old friend outside so he can go to the bathroom.  (And before you go thinking that this is kindness on Atticus's part, it could be many things, including enlightened self-interest - for he cannot understand why an animal would go to bathroom inside a house, especially his house.)

 

Duty done (by Will); breakfast eaten (by all three of us), the windows are all open for the first time in days.  The rain, with its ferocity and promise to last much of the day, is ushering out the humidity we've had sitting on top of us, and letting the last of the summer tourists know it's time to leave early.

 

While Route 16 and I-93 are choked by traffic today, we'll accept the refreshing feel to the air and the restful quiet in tiny Jackson. We'll also get ready to hike either tomorrow or Wednesday, the smaller peak we climb will depend on the weather forecast and how Atticus feels at the moment.  Nevertheless, we'll get to the top of something and that will make us both happy.

 

These next two months really are the best two months of hiking of the year and I look forward to walking through lush green corridors that in a few weeks’ time will have an explosion of color.  I'm giddy with the thought of the summit views down into the valleys with varying shades of red, yellow, and orange.  But this morning I'm thinking more about one higher peak, more brown than lush, and much higher than the peaks here in New England.  It's called King's Peak and it is the highest point in Utah, topping off at more than 13,000 feet in elevation.

Now I’ve haven’t been to Utah since the summer of 1969 when my father piled the seven youngest of his nine children (Joanne and John were already out in the world) into a new station wagon and he pulled a tent trailer across the country and back again for a month.  It was his way of getting us away from a house filled with memories and draped in sadness.  The previous December, six days before Christmas, my mother died in a Boston hospital.  To this day I think of it as perhaps one of the most courageous things a parent can do, to try to lift us all out of grief by shepherding seven children to places like Mammoth Cave (KY); Hot Springs (AR); Shamrock (TX); the Grand Canyon (AZ); Disneyland, LA, Yosemite, SF, the Redwood Forest, and the Big Sur (CA); Boulder Dam and Las Vegas (NV); Salt Lake City (UT); Yellowstone (WY); Mount Rushmore and the Black Hills (SD); and pretty much every stop in between before driving us back home.  Of course now I realize he also did it for himself.  Nevertheless, what a gift it was for all of us.  I was only eight at the time, the youngest in my family, and I vividly recall many of the sights, tastes, and sounds of that epic journey. 

But that time in Utah was long before we climbed mountains of any height.  Although we were active, we were mostly windshield tourists.  Someday, I tell myself, I’ll return to those places on my own road trip all these years later, but for now I am happy in these green peaks that have become our home.

So why is King’s Peak on my mind? 

It’s because the photograph above was sent to me the other day in a text.  It read, “On top of King’s Peak, reception bad…but beautiful.  How is Atticus?  I’ve been thinking of him the whole time.”  It was quickly followed by another: “Just found out from Meg that Atticus is doing great and I couldn’t be happier! Will touch base in a few days! :)” 

It’s not the first time I received a message from out west in the past ten days. The other came in the form of a telephone call wanting to know all about Atticus and how he was doing.  It was on the Saturday of the previous week, the day after Atticus’s second chemo treatment. 

Both the call and the text came from Rachael Kleidon, Atticus’s veterinarian at North Country Animal Hospital.  Later in the day of his chemo treatment, Rachael and her husband Bryant flew out to Colorado and were driving north to Utah to backpack through some high peaks on a long-planned two week vacation.  She called before she lost a signal with her iPhone upon entering the wilderness. 

Friends, albeit fewer and fewer of them, reach out to me and/or to Atticus to say, “I’m so sorry for what you are going through.”  They mean the cancer and the chemotherapy and the loss of his toe.  Or they say, “Poor guy.”  Or, “I’m sorry you have to go through this.”  I change the mood immediately but lifting it upward, even though I know they won’t understand. 

I’ve said it many times over the past two months: cancer, as strange as it may seem, has been a gift to us.  Its arrival forced us to focus on what’s most important and drop the silly things (and some people) who seem to rob us of what’s most important in life. 

My knees buckled and my heart ached when I first heard the dreaded word that begins with a “C”.  Fears ran through my veins like blood, only it was colder, and the ground beneath our feet shook.  Within hours though, the mourning and the fear was put away.  Our path was clear.  So not only did we throw out the self-pity and the “why me?” we also threw out a few people who use that as their mantra. 

Cancer has turned into another hike for us.  Each important occurrence – the first evaluation, the amputation, the biopsy results, the decision to go with chemotherapy, each three week cycle, and every weekly blood test, has turned into its own climb to a summit on a greater quest.  It’s a challenge and like all challenges it washes us clean, makes us stronger, and brings us closer. 

I don’t think the television has been on over the past couple of months.  Instead there’s music and good books and fresh fruits and vegetables and fires outside at night.  There’s sunsets and moonrises and laying on our backs watching owls, bats, bugs, and the heavenly stars above.  There’s no time for things that shouldn’t and don’t matter.  There’s also some new people in my life.

As I looked around our humble little home back when this first began, I saw what was essential, some items we just loved, and others that were nothing but clutter.  As harsh as it may seem, the clarity of cancer gave me the same view of the people in my life.  When faced with what’s most important, it made it easier to move on from those who were no longer important in our life and by sweeping our lives clean and tidying up a bit, it made room for those who are.  This is not something I may have done, at least not so quickly, without the gift of cancer. It serves as a wakeup call. 

One of those people we made more room for is Rachael Kleidon.  Seriously, who has a vet that calls on the second and eighth day of her vacation to a place where she wants to get away from it all with her husband two thousand miles away in a quiet mountain range and writes, “I’ve been thinking of him the entire time”? 

On the day Rachael called, it was to get me ready for what we needed to do if the blood work came back and showed me that the levels were not where we wanted them to be.  As always, we talked of the worst case scenario (she and I have a “no bullshit” agreement) so we could plan for it, and hope for the best.  She was preparing me because she knew she would be out of town for the next two times Atticus’ blood was drawn and she didn’t want me to hear such things from someone else. 

We are extremely blessed.

Looking now at Atticus, who is sitting on a chair at our kitchen table right next to me as I type, letting me know the rain has stopped and it’s time to go for a walk, it feels just like it does when we are on a long hike.  We’ve reached the latest summit together, taken time to rest, take in the views, and now it’s time to move onto the next.  It’s a long hike, after all.  There’s time to stop and pause, but there’s no use in stopping altogether.  Over the past eight years of hiking with Atticus, I’ve learned the key to these long quests is to be grateful for the view along the way and to keep moving, onward, by all means.

One of my favorite and most sensual writers is Marianne Williamson.  She writes: “Joy is what happens to us when we allow ourselves to recognize how good things really are.”  That’s how I feel these days.  Cancer may have knocked on our door and walked into our home, but it came bearing gifts and I continue to find them hidden all over the place. 

The Sun & Moon

Atticus sitting on Chapel Rock watching the sunset.

“Be scared. You can’t help that. But don’t be afraid. Ain’t nothing in the woods going to hurt you unless you corner it, or it smells that you are afraid. A bear or a deer, too, has got to be scared of a coward the same as a brave man has got to be.” ~ William Faulkner

The years have taught me many things but one of the most important is that change is everywhere and we do our best when we come to grips with it, accept it, and then figure out how to move forward in spite of it. 

Last night, walking through a hot and humid last hour of daylight along a dusty road, I was watching Atticus.  He’s now halfway between eleven and twelve.  In comparison, that makes him older than I am.  That thought had a tinge of melancholy to it but not enough to change the mood as we huffed and puffed uphill while the sun passed through the trees to the west and we stopped often to take drinks of water. 

We were on our way to Pine Mountain. It’s an old friend to us.  And yet as many times as we’ve been there, the road walk is never as easy as I expect it to be.  It rises hundreds of feet in elevation in one and a half miles.  Much like walking up a ramp.  At the top of the road there sits the Horton Center, a religious camp now closed for the year, and a short trail to Chapel Rock called “A Pathway to God.”  The first time I went to Pine Mountain I had no idea how stunning the views from Chapel Rock were, but I took that trail because the name intrigued me.  I mean who wouldn’t want a pathway to God? 

What I found was indeed a bit of God. Before us was heaven (to paraphrase Thoreau) both under our feet and above our heads.  The wide sweeping valley south through Pinkham Notch is epic in the way it sprawls like a rich carpet.  Route 16, which can be seen for a bit, is a mysterious thread through the wilderness promising new journeys, destinations, and adventures.  Above and beyond, the wide panorama arcs from the Carter-Moriah Range down to the Wildcats. Across the notch to where a bit of Mount Washington can be seen, but the view is predominated by a staggering and pointed nearby Mount Madison.  Not far away, in the shadow of Madison, sits the main mass of Pine Mountain.  High atop Chapel Rock the views carry over to the west and north and to the primordial Kilkenny Range.  It’s a humble climb to a prolific place, where I am always humbled in relation to what God has created. 

Whenever Atticus and I sit on that highest rock it’s as though we are sitting on top of the world.  Our own little world.  A sacred pinnacle where I am visited by deep and lovely and transformative thoughts.  It’s a place for man and dog to meditate. 

Seasons come and go, years pass, and always we find ourselves atop that rock slab – three constants: it, Atticus, and me.  Last night, however, things were a bit different.  We haven’t been hiking much these last four months.  In July Atticus had a toe amputated because of cancer.  The margins were clean but the high mitotic index warned us that trouble was lurking so we elected to start chemo.  The first of six sessions went okay.  There was some abdominal unrest, one round of vomiting, but overall he did well. 

One of the pleasures of living with Atticus is that he takes care to express his needs and comfort levels.  He doesn’t climb a mountain if he doesn’t wish to, nor does he get off the couch if he doesn’t feel like it – which is hardly ever the case but it’s the way it was just over a month ago.  So it’s been easy taking this unknown journey through cancer and chemo with him.  He lets me know how he is feeling and my job is to pay attention.  It’s the same way he’s always been there for me.  In the three weeks since his first treatment we have climbed Black Cap, White Horse Ledge, Peaked Mountain, Potash Mountain, and last night it was Pine Mountain. 

I’m told the second round of chemo, which is tomorrow, can be one of the worst.  So it was important to me that we get out and up to where we are happiest just in case it will be a while before it happens again.  That’s why we ventured along that dusty road through heat and humidity to get to our sitting place just before sunset.  With the end of daylight just ahead Atticus sat down and looked not at the surrounding peaks as he typically does, but to the yellow sun, which soon became orange, then pink, and then – and then it was gone.   It was only after dusk surrounded us that Atti walked over.  He sat by my side and drank the water he had declined before so he could spend time with the waning sun.  He ate a few treats and put his now-three-toed paw on my lap.  His pink tongue was showing, not from the heat, because the cool had settled in, but out of what seemed to me to be joy. 

With three toes on my lap and Atti’s sparkling eyes looking into mine, I stood and scooped him up as I’ve done thousands of times before in these mountains, rested his fanny in the crook of my arm, and took a slow turn to take it all in.  We looked as we always do: content, happy even, filled with awe, but more importantly we stood as we always have – together.     

My friends keep worrying about us and how we are handling the cancer and chemo.  I tell them without the slightest pause that we are fine and will be throughout it all.  I’ve said it before, but that’s the gift of something like cancer.  There’s no time for anything other than what’s genuine.  You leave take out the trash in your life, ignore anything that isn’t important, protect that which is most important, and always – always – cultivate love.  Standing there with our heads at the same level, and I imagine our hearts pretty even as well, I think we were both smiling. 

That’s something I’ve learned lately.  Cancer can take toes, larger limbs even, perhaps even a life, but it cannot rob you of what’s most important unless you allow it to.  Cancer may kill, but love is untouchable. 

I had chosen Pine Mountain for a few reasons.  It’s a great peaks to get back into shape with, we treasure the views from various outlooks, but also because on this night we’d be able to watch the setting sun from Chapel Rock and then hustle down the trail, across the boarded walkway, up through the dark, dusky tangle of rocks, roots, and trees to the trail to the top of Pine Mountain Trail to the second viewpoint.  When we emerged from the forest to an open ledge we found what our friend Ken Stampfer (who is far more scientific and gadget-wise than I am) told me we’d find, the full moon rising over the shoulder of the Moriahs. 

We moved quickly to get there in time and when we stumbled into the opening to a breathless stop, we watched an orange moon rising through the haze in the night over the dark bruise of layered mountains.  So beautiful.  So perfect.  So private and intimate.  I picked up Atticus and four eyes watched that ghostly, glowing moon. Then I placed him on the table of rock three feet high that stands in the middle of the ledge and we sat side by side.  Two sighing souls taking in the ethereal night. 

A gentle breeze swirled around us, the murky woods behind us produced nighttime sounds, and we sat in perfect harmony with it all.  We had said goodbye to the sun, now we were greeting the moon, as it elevated ripe and mysterious. 

Atticus and I have finished many hikes in the darkness and it always tugs upon my childhood fear of the dark, but it also emboldens me.  As I told my friend Dee last night, “Life is so short, why would I want a fear to rob me of something as beautiful as what we were seeing?”  Of course it’s one thing to sit on a mountaintop and have a conversation with silhouetted mountains, the moon, and all those stars, but where I often have to steal myself is returning to the woods where the it’s darker than anything I’ve ever known and my headlamp creates lurching shadows of witches, ghouls, and childhood demons as we pass by trees and limbs. 

But that’s part of the excitement, I suppose. To go where I never would have gone before, to experience these new adventures in daylight and darkness.  Of course what makes it all safe and sound and worthwhile no matter how gloomy and dreary it gets is to have Atticus by my side.  Then fears become adventures, challenges become opportunities for new experiences, and life becomes all that more textured. 

Who knew after all these years of walking these trails in darkness that it would not only help me grow into the man I wanted I dreamed of being as a young boy, it would get us ready for our greatest challenge.  For a journey through cancer and chemo could be considered just as frightening to a man as the nighttime is to a little boy afraid of the dark.  But facing these challenges together, Atticus and I are armed with faith, friendship, and love. Because of that, anything is possible. 

Tomorrow, as Atticus has a port in his front leg accepting the poison meant to kill cancer, his paw will be on my hand as it was the first time, and it will be just like walking those dark mountain trails.  It’s not the forest or the darkness that defeats you, it’s the fear.  But we’ll be together and because of that there’s nothing to fear.  It’s but one more adventurous chapter in this book called life.

The full moon rising above the Moriahs.

A Friend Is A Friend

Dear friend,

These are the days we live for.  It’s a perfect August afternoon and Atticus and I are sitting out by the garden under the shade of the trees.  I’m on one of the Adirondack chairs and he’s on a folded blanket.  We’re both as filled with contentment as can be.  Just a few feet away the crawl of the pumpkin vines appear to be headed in every direction and the tangle of bright wild flowers is perfect for our humble backyard.  They’re also a good place for old Will to trundle through causing butterflies, bees, grasshoppers, and dragonflies to take flight.  But not right now. He’s inside listening to Beethoven, snoring blissfully away, and dreaming (I imagine) of the life he now has, and not the one that abandoned him.

From time to time one of the chipmunks that shares the rocks around the rustic property scurries to the top of the nearby stonewall, picks up a morsel of food I’ve left out for them expressly, and sits on his hind legs like a prairie dog and watches us.  Atticus returns the gaze and happily we all look at each other while the chipmunk nibbles away. 

Why feed the chipmunks? I must admit that I never did before I moved to Jackson. Atticus and I were in the former library listening to an old Yankee complain about what chipmunks were doing to her garden.  So she filled an old bucket three-quarters full with water, floated a handful of sunflower seeds on the surface, and placed a small piece of narrow wood across the top of the bucket, lining it with more seeds. The chipmunks followed the trail of food and then found the jackpot floating in the water.  When they reached down to get the bounty they fell in and drown.

Although that old woman is very kind to me, we don’t give her much attention.  Instead we give it to our chipmunks and that’s why I feed them.  I’m trying to balance her out.  For some reason I get the impression the little critters know they are welcome with us because they sit and watch us all the time. This morning when I cradled Will in my arms after he had gone to the bathroom, one stood on a high rock just three feet away watching us.  When I moved closer, the chipmunk leaned a bit closer to look at Will. 

“He can’t walk up the stairs on his own,” I said.  “Have a nice morning,” and then I carried Will past and the chipmunk watched us go up the stairs.  (So you see, I not only feed them, I talk to them.)

If we get lucky enough, we’ll see a bear, maybe two.  I don’t think they come looking for what I put out for the chipmunks since the portion is so small, just enough to offer them a gift and to apologize for the actions of your Yankee neighbor, who everyone but the chipmunks seems to like. 

The breeze is gentle and it sends the leaves whirling and turning on the trees. Birds sing, a bee buzzes by us occasionally, and I noticed Atticus licking his paw.  But it wasn’t the one with the three toes.  It was his whole and healthy paw.  Not the one where the digit was amputated because of cancer.  I wondered how that new-look foot would feel today.  It’s only twenty days post amputation and yesterday was an active one for us.  Well, relatively active.  Compared to the last three months when we haven’t been able to hike, it was a big day…just not compared to what we’re used to doing. 

Friday was Atticus’s first chemo treatment and as is the case with chemo, it’s a crapshoot.  Many will say that dogs handle it far better than humans and from what I’ve read they do, for the most part, but it’s still poison being pumped into the body to kill fast-growing cells and one never knows.  Before that first treatment we prepared for the worst and hoped for the best.  We got the best. 

That afternoon Atticus was a bit lethargic but by Saturday morning Atticus and I walked a good flat portion of the Bryce Path.  Later in the day we walked for two miles on the same trail.  By the end he was tired and happy to be back at the car, but it was clear he was also happy to have returned to the woods and the soft paths carpeted with red pine needles.  Sunday we got out for two more walks but they were gentle and Atticus wanted to take it easy.  By Monday he was hopping around and happy.  We took three walks for the first time in months and the total was between four and five miles.  On Tuesday he seemed fine. 

Watching him closely and realizing Atticus never worries about saying he’d rather turn back than go on, I decided to take him to the Black Cap trailhead.  We started out early in the morning on the path we’ve walked a hundred times.  We took it slow and easy and on the way up Atticus stopped far more often than he ever has.  He stopped and panted, his tongue out, his lungs working to move air in and out. 

“You want to go home or keep going?”  I say this to him whenever he is tired.  He knows how to head for home when asked, although he doesn’t chose that option very often.  Yesterday, each time I asked him, he looked me in the eyes, took a pause as if he was trying to decide what he could do, and then moved forward. 

For all the trails, all the miles and mountains we’ve traveled together, I think this is the first one we’ve ever walked up side-by-side.  This was his hike and I let him set the pace.  We drank a lot of water along the way.  At the fork where left will bring you to the summit in three-tenths of a mile or right will get you there in half a mile (but it’s easier), we went right – as we always do.  Slowly we moved together like two old friends just happy to be with one another.  From time to time I sat down on the trail next to him, poured him some water, and he drank.  After he drank, I drank from my bottle. 

Halfway up that longer but easier route we stopped at the hidden ledges with the view to Chocorua, Passaconaway, the Moats, and other faded peaks.  We always stop there to enjoy the panorama.  The ledges aren’t really all that hidden but most people pass them by in their hurry to get to the top.  For us though, it’s one of our favorite places, this little hideaway, and yesterday was perfect.  We sat next to wild blueberries bushes and I picked them and we shared.  While I continued to eat he walked away from me, to the middle of an opening in the trees, and sat down and cast those eyes of his out toward the ripple of mountains on the horizon.  I heard his trademark sigh, saw his body relax, took a photo of it and sent it by text to you, and finally let you know what we were up to. 

It wasn’t long before we returned to the trail and made our way up that curl of earthen path that wraps around the western slope of the mountain.  Summer was in full swing and just above the high brush tops of mountains were visible as were an armada of floating clouds sailing the blue sea of sky.  We continued on side-by-side, moving slowly.  One last time before getting to the top I stopped to offer him water but he refused it. Instead he moved ahead of me. 

In the beginning years of our hiking when it was clear we had a mountain to ourselves and we neared the top I used to say, “Do you want to say hello to the summit?”  He’d look at me and then spring forward.  Not quite a run – more of a happy trot – and he’d moved quickly and for the first time leave me behind.  I could see him ahead of me sitting on top of the mountain while I was still climbing.  These days I no longer say it because he does it on his own, but I didn’t expect it yesterday, not with the fatigue and the cancer and the chemo, but that’s exactly what he did.  He bounced along, his ears flopping with every step and his swagger seemed to be saying to the mountain, “Hello, old friend.  I’m home.” 

At the top he waited, turned to face me, and sat when he saw me taking out my camera.  I don’t imagine he intended it but he sat in a proud manner with his left foot, still looking like a three-toed claw, closer to the camera as if showing it off.  I took several photographs and then called Rachael Kleidon, his wonderful vet.  She was with a client and when she picked up the phone she was nervous.  “Is everything okay?” 

“Not all emergencies are bad, Rachael.  Sometimes it’s good to take time out for just the opposite. I just wanted to call and tell you that nineteen days ago you amputated Atti’s toe.  Five days ago we started chemo.  Today, at this very moment, he’s sitting on top of Black Cap Mountain.” 

Her joyous response was why I called her.  She’s been invested in our journey in a way that speaks of friendship more than doctor – client.  Rachael and I talked excitedly for a couple of minutes with wonderment in our voices.  When I hung up I turned to look at Atticus and he was at the highest point watching the clouds and saying hello to the other peaks.  Little Buddha had returned to his summit sitting.  I sat behind him and took it all in.  But this was not just his moment and I think he wanted me to know that because he stood up on that highest rock and looked back at me. 

Spend enough time with any close friend and actions and expressions say far more than words can. I climbed up next to him and sat down just as he wanted me to.  He sat down again, his body pressing into mine, our eyes looking out at hundreds of places we’ve been throughout the White Mountains, many, I’m sure, we’ll never get back to together – not as he gets older.  We sat for several minutes without anyone else there and when I looked at him my heart was filled beyond anything I’ve ever known and all that love spilled out of my eyes.  I wiped away the tears that kept gently rolling down my cheeks and I said the short prayer I think I’ve said on every single peak we’ve ever climbed.  “Thank you.” 

I never know who I am saying it to.  It’s never really mattered to me.  I just say it and it feels good, and it feels right.  

The chemo will continue through the middle of November.  I’m told there will be good days and there will be bad.  I’m told it’s unpredictable to know how he will handle it all and how he will feel going forward.  But I don’t think there will be any truly bad days, because no matter, he and I will be together in land we love and call home.  So cancer and chemo will can continue to be a part of our lives for a few more months but I don’t really care.  We are where we are supposed to be.  Together. 

Thank you for your friendship.  I have relied on you and all our other close friends for inspiration when we needed it most.  It’s been the best medicine for me as I’ve taken care of Atticus and Will.  We look forward to seeing you soon, and sitting on a mountaintop with you.  

Onward, by all means,
Tom (& Atticus [& Will})

Atticus M. Finch, back home again.

 

Our Afternoon Visitor

Twice today young bears visited us.  The first, a smaller one, was in the yard when we pulled in.  It watched us for a moment and then ran away.  This one, a bit bigger, was standing at the foot of our stairs when we came down them, it then flopped on the ground a few feet from us, and when I told it to leave and clapped my hands it climbed up on the rocks.  That made me laugh.  Atticus was sitting by my side watching and when I said, "Gentle but walk with me please," and took a couple of steps towards the young bear it ran away. 

It's not good to let bears get too comfortable around people because that's how they become a nuisance and are often put down.  So as much as I hate chasing them away, it's what we have to do.  Usually it's the younger ones that stick around.  Mature bears leave when they see us. 

The Day After Chemo Treatment One

The sun has set behind the mountains in Jackson and with one fan in the window of the writing room blowing out, the cool of the early evening flows in through the open windows here in the living room.  Just a few feet away, the music of Johannes Brahms flows just as easily out of a small wooden speaker on top of the coffee table.  Nestled on the floor with his ear pressed against one of the table’s wooden legs is Will. 

He seems to like Brahms because he does this on occasion with some music he likes – quite often symphonies.  He cannot hear it, of course, but he feels the vibrations. His body has the slightest rock to it as if he is conducting with his heart.  When I move around the room his eyes follow me, but his ear is steadfast.  It’s married to the vibrations. 

Just above Will, Atticus is stretched out on the couch.  He’s sleeping but when I move about the room his eyes also follow me.  He’s tired and he should be.  For the first time in more than a month Atticus took two pretty good walks.  Both through forest paths lined with soft, rusty pine needles.  The first was too short; he wanted to walk a little further.  But the walk this evening was longer and he was happy to get back to the car and is content to be resting now at home. 

The fact that Atticus took two good walks the day after his first chemo treatment has me smiling.  His foot seems fine.  The amputated toe does not hinder him and he walked without his Muttluk to protect it.  There is the slightest limp, detected only by his floppy ears being out of sync in the way they move with each stride.  But the bounce in his step belies any evidence of cancer or chemo.  He’s not ready to go up a mountain yet, but he was certainly ready to be out in the woods trotting along meandering trails.

Toward the end of the second walk we stopped by the lake. I sat on a log and he sat a few feet away at the water’s edge watching a couple of ducks.  After a few minutes he came and sat by my side and together we watched the clouds looking down at their own reflection in the smooth-as-glass lake while the laughter of children from the busy side of the lake played in the background.  He and I didn’t look at each other until it was time to leave.  I felt his eyes on me and said, “Okay, you ready?”  With that we both stood and walked together along the trail. 

We’ve been through a lot these past few months and while Atticus and I have had each other, what we haven’t had was our hiking.  It’s a strength for us and peaceful place to retreat to and renew ourselves.  It was finally good to be getting reacquainted with the woods we love.  The broken bone in my left foot is only a memory and he seems to feel the same way about the bones removed from his left foot. 

Emerson wrote, “In the woods we return to reason and faith.”  This morning and this evening we did exactly that, but we also returned to where we are most comfortable, where the outside world fades away like a dream at waking and our souls are filled and our spirits elevate. It felt right to be where we were listening to birds, watching red squirrels and the smallest toads we have ever seen.  At one point I picked one up, held it in the palm of my hand, and together we sat looking down at it as the toad looked up at us.  It didn’t seem panicked or in a hurry to leave because when I placed it down on the log we’d found it on it stuck around for a while – and so did we. 

It feels good to know we’ve now made it this far and what we share will only be fortified by nature’s embrace now that the beginning stages of hiking have returned.  This is the world we are happiest in, where the seasons dictate the pace of life, not technology, time clocks, or social life.

One of the advantages of having Atticus as a hiking partner is that he has no trouble stopping on a trail and letting me know he wants to turn back.  He didn’t do that today, but what gave me the confidence to walk as far as we did when he is supposed to be most susceptible to fatigue is knowledge that he knows his limitations and understands he has a right to choose.  I’m told that in this chemo portion of our lives we’ll be on a physical rollercoaster.  There will be good days and bad days; days when we feel like we can climb mountains and days when just making it out into the backyard will be enough. That’s okay.  We’ll take whatever is offered. 

Soon enough we will be sitting on a mountaintop once again.  Then another. And another.  I know the mountains will come and they’ll mean even more to us now than they already did.  That’s something I didn’t think was possible.  But watching Atticus bounce along the trail today was a hint of things to come.  In watching him I felt a joy that is indescribable and I can only imagine what it will be like once those walks get longer and we start to go up – up until there is no more up, which is what Atticus has always done.  

Those days are coming, but tonight here we are – two of us listening to Brahms, all three of us feeling him, and I’m dreaming of the mountains we love as never before.  Oh, the hikes we will take this autumn will be gifts indeed – there will be peace and laughter and gratitude and joy.  Most importantly there will be the two of us.

Want To Hike With Tom & Atticus?

Here's your chance to follow Atticus to an autumn view similar to this one.

Our favorite thing to do is to find a mountain without anyone else on it.  It's our preferred method of hiking - if we want to be around people we can head to Starbucks.  Over the past eight years the vast majority of our hikes have been just Atticus and me.  As a writer I like the solitude.  As a man I enjoy the peace, tranquility, and spirituality found on a quiet peak.  As an individual Atticus does well with crowds but he'd rather be away from them.  And Atticus is definitely not a "let's hang out with other dogs" kind - especially on mountains. He enjoys a brief hello, but that's about it - and because of that I can count the number of times we've hiked with other dogs on one hand.

However, one of us is about to change, while the other stays in his comfort zone when we invite twelve people to join us on a hike on Saturday, October 5, 2013.  (Rain date October 6.) We'll be inviting six individuals and three couples to climb a mountain with us. (Unfortunately for those who want your dogs to meet Atticus, no dogs will be allowed.  He just wouldn't enjoy it and it's too unpredictable to subject him to that for several hours on the trails.   Since Atticus will be going through chemo treatments, it's just one more reason I will make sure he's comfortable and not harried by other friendly but enthusiastic dogs.  Sorry about this.) 

For those who are used to hiking, it will be a moderate trek of four to six miles, but it won't be easy.  You'll feel it and you'll most likely be stiff and aching afterward.  Some will probably even feel it the next day.  Because of that we're asking only those who actually think they can handle a tough workout to consider joining us.  And for those who say the White Mountains are nothing compared to the Rockies, which are 10,000 feet higher, don't be so quick to judge.  The elevation gain is often the same and these trails are pretty rugged and tougher than in most other places in the country.  In short, while the hike will not be a 23 mile Bonds traverse in winter conditions, it will be tough.  Please keep that in mind.

I have several peaks in mind for the hike but will keep them to myself right now. The only people who will know which hike we'll be doing are those who are selected to join us and even then they won't be informed until the very end.  That will give us a modicum of privacy.

Each of the mountains being considered all have stunning views and since it will be the first week of October our stunning fall foliage will be something to behold.
 
Here's what you will be responsible for if you are chosen: transportation to the White Mountains and to a morning meeting spot where we will all have breakfast; your own lodging and meals; your hiking gear (we'll give you a list of what to bring); your own well being, even though we will be with you it will be up to you to hold yourself responsible and you'll be asked to sign a waiver.  Depending how people feel after the hike, we may even all get together for dinner as well.  What we are supplying is the hike and a walk up the mountain with us.  All else falls on you. 

Will won't be joining us since it will be a rough trail and there are only a few his Will Wagon can go up.  However, you'll get to meet him in the morning before the hike.

I know the invitations will be made over the next couple of weeks and thankfully that's out of my hands.  But here's what you can do, if you are interested in joining us, send an email to atticusmfinch@gmail.com with the subject line "Oct. 6 Hike".  Also...pay attention to the Facebook page where Christina (and Mike) will come up with some ideas. 

I suppose the only thing left to discuss is my motive.  Why hike with a dozen other people when we crave the solitude of the mountains?  Consider it a thank you for all the good energy, support, and kindness you've sent our way.  We can't bring thousands up a mountain with us, but we can bring a dozen who represent the more than 15,000 on our Facebook page. 

Oh, and one last thing: make sure you have a good camera.  You'll love it views, the colors, and something tells me the company of what promises to be a good and interesting group of people.     

Backyard Simplicity.

It's a simply soulful afternoon here in Jackson. Atticus is sleeping under a shade tree. I'm reading and listening to music. Will is spending time in his garden.  Life is grand.

Wildflower Will.

"Welcome to my little patch of garden."

For one mostly blind old dog, bliss is found somewhere
between the wildflowers and the pumpkin patch.

Will watching over the pumpkins.

His squinty-tough guy pose. (The sun was bright and in his eyes.)

Cosmos and other wildflowers.

Where we do our best thinking, reading, writing...or nothing at all.

“A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one's neighbor — such is my idea of happiness.”  ~ Leo Tolstoy

Chaos & order.

Kate Ebner's Interview with Tom Ryan On Her Show "Visionary Leader, Extraordinary Life"

Yesterday we appeared on Kate Ebner's "Visionary Leader, Extraordinary Life" and enjoyed every minute of it.  You can listen to it or download it for free at the link provided below.

I can't say enough about Kate Ebner's ability to host her show.  she is a gifted conversationalist and made it easy to chat with her even though we were hundreds of miles away from one another and I think it comes off in the comfort of our conversation.

Here's what Kate has to say about the interview:
Many dream of undertaking a quest into nature, but few actually pursue this idea. Middle-aged, overweight and acrophobic, newspaperman Tom Ryan and his miniature schnauzer, Atticus M. Finch, were an unlikely pair of mountaineers, but, as a tribute to a friend who died of cancer, they began a journey of endurance and self-discovery together. Tom followed his dog up the highest peaks of New Hampshire’s White Mountains in the icy dead of winter, and they went on to attempt the 48 peaks of the White Mountains twice in one winter while raising money for charity. Since the publication of the book Following Atticus in 2011, thousands have been touched by Tom and Atticus’ story of friendship, perseverance, love and self-discovery. At the heart of this story is an extraordinary relationship that leads to personal transformation.

You can access it by clicking here.   Enjoy, everyone.

Where The Tall Grass Begins

The backyard is now but a starting point for Will.

We have the simplest backyard.  It’s not too big, nor is it too small.  It’s mostly covered in grass but it's not an overly-manicured suburban lawn.  I even welcome the bright-faced dandelions that look up at the sun and I don't sweat the bare spots.  On the right and left boundary there are trees that obscure the houses on either side of us that rarely have anyone in them.  One of the houses is vacant and up for sale; the other is a vacation home and it’s either owned by someone very old (who rarely gets to the mountains any longer) or someone who is married to his or her job (and doesn’t have time to waste on vacations).  There are trees in the back, too, with a path that leads down to the Ellis River. The bears often use it to access the property.  But the trees in the back, unlike those that shade the sides, are set back from the lawn by a healthy tangle of thigh-high grass and wildflowers. 

The middle of the yard rises into a small hump and that’s exactly what it looks like, but to Will it’s more of a hill than a hump – a hill he couldn’t climb when he first arrived. However, more than a year later he can now slowly negotiate it.

There is one old and tired tree right behind the house.  It’s not very healthy.  It’s the last to show green leaves each spring and the first to lose them in early autumn.  There is also a thirty foot by five foot garden bed surrounded by roughhewn two by fours and railroad ties.  I’m not much of a gardener but this year I’ve planted wildflowers and pumpkins.  The green chutes are climbing higher each week and the pumpkin vines continue to sprawl out.  Both give me a surprising amount of satisfaction.  Although one of my friends tells me that the local wildlife will most likely eat the pumpkins before I do. 

“That’s fine with me,” I say.  I like eating pumpkins but I didn’t plant them for that reason.  I just wanted to see them grow and bring a bit of orange to the autumn.  “If the raccoons decide they’d make a fine meal, they are welcome to them.  After all, this is their yard, too.”

 

In the back corner of the lawn, just before where the high grass and wildflowers rise up like a tiny jungle, sits two Adirondack chairs.  They make a fine place to sit and read a book or write letters or cards to friends or to listen to music while taking inventory of the puffy white vacationland clouds drifting happily by against a backdrop of a postcard blue sky.

The back lawn is also where Will likes to play.  He gives chase to me when I mow the lawn.  Alas, those hips are of little use to him and while his heart and front legs are willing, the rear legs and years of confinement don’t back him up.  Still he kicks up like a bucking bronco, his front legs jutting out, his head juking this way and that as tries to run after me and catch my feet.  He follows for five or six drunken strides like a slow-motion inchworm who has swallowed a Slinky but reality wins out and he gives up and waits for me and the mower to return again.  When we do the game begins anew.  He is happiest helping me mow the lawn like this.

What makes our yard special is the fact that is our yard – that and the way animals come and go.  It’s also a place where dreams a are born.  I sit in one of the two Adirondacks under the shade and let my mind wander and goals are set based on these fanciful reveries. I do this while Will circles about and Atticus either sits on the other chair, or on the grass next to me, pondering just as lightly as I do.

There are days though when Will doesn’t circle as much as he used to.  Lately I get the idea that I’m not the only one who sets sail to aspirations in our private corner of the world where birds sing and breezes blow.  I’ve noticed that Will has taken to walking up to the wall of high grass and tilting his head back as if to see what is beyond it.  In this way he’s not unlike me.  He’s got his dreams, too – perhaps.

So much takes place in this lovely tiny patch of green grass hidden from the road by the house, halfway between North Conway’s outlet stores and Mount Washington.   But as small as it is, there’s a big world beckoning beyond it all.  Something tells me Atticus understands this and that’s why other than watching the parade of wildlife, he isn’t all that impressed sitting back there.  But Will is another story.  To Will this used to be his entire world in those first few months – but that was before he set sail for his new world and tasted a bit of adventure. 

I like that Will seems to be wondering what’s beyond the places he cannot see – not that he can see what’s in front of him all that well as it is.  But he knows darn well the high grass and wildflowers are there and while last summer he used to just sniff at the small petals with his head down, this summer he sets his sights on grander things in the great beyond.

When I see Will doing this I smile and think about how I first thought about getting him up a mountain.  There were a few self-proclaimed experts who chimed in that I should just let him be.  “Old dogs are meant to sleep and just relax for the rest of their days,” they said.  “To do more than that is cruel and selfish on your part.”  One went so far as to call me abusive. 

Oh, how I love experts. 

Fortunately for me I find little use in them and have learned to ignore the most sanctimonious of them (no matter their field of expertise) while embracing possibilities.  I always figured Will would eventually let us know what he was comfortable with and he has – and continues to. 

Well, last October we finally got Will up a mountain by way of his Will Wagon.  We chose Pine Mountain because of the long dirt road and the short rooty and rocky climb to the top once on the trail. We pushed, we pulled, we carried, we lugged that cart to the summit and it seems he just adored his time up there with us.  He was clearly comfortable that day but the real proof came about after his ride to the mountaintop. 

In the immediate days that followed he was different.  He was closer to us, friendlier, more tuned in to what was going on around him.  He wanted to be included more often.  His adventure seemed to impact everything about him and changed what had been merely existing to living.

When I look at Will in the backyard now I’m fascinated by his newfound curiosity.  He is a young soul in an old body who is pulled to the edge of the familiar – where the high grass begins – and he stands and looks out with those cloudy eyes for several minutes. 

Yesterday I was thinking of Will and the way he stands there and about how like the most adventurous of us, he wants more from life.  He refuses to be what experts told him to be. 

Will won’t get up many more mountains here.  The trails are far too rugged for his Will Wagon and he doesn’t like sitting in a backpack.  Yet we’ll get him out and about still just as we’ve done over the past year – beyond the high edge of the high grass where predictability ends and adventure awaits. 

Such is life in our little backyard where hummingbirds flutter, butterflies dance, chipmunks scurry, crows caw, foxes slink, bears saunter, Atticus sits, Will wonders, and I dream. 

It’s part of a good life.

 

Out beyond the tall grass a new world awaits.