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Playing on Chocorua Lake

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

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

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 But some of the information was outdated since I sent it to them when I first wrote my proposal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walking into the Night

What a strange night it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t get it,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…”

Along the Red Ridge Trail

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

White Mountain Photographer Ken Stampfer

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

Atticus Finch, Meet Atticus M. Finch

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

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

Blue Dog

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

Four Thousand Footers Of The White Mountains of New Hampshire Map

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

A Place I Return To Time And Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snow...Finally

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

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

Happiness Is...

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

Follow 'Following Atticus' On Facebook

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

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

Following Atticus

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

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

The Winter Woods on Waumbek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anatomy of a View

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

Slide Show: South & Middle Moat

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

“Between every two pines is a doorway to a new world.” ~ John Muir

The mountains remain a mystery to me. It’s deep in December here in Jackson and it feels like winter with temperatures dipping close to zero nearly every night. The ground is frozen solid. Rivers and ponds are well on their way too. The only thing missing is snow. How strange to be this close to the holidays and be faced with a completely brown Christmas. Usually there is at least a trace of snow, but not here.

Just twenty miles up the road though – or ten miles as the crow flies – in Crawford Notch, winter rages daily. I know well the icy winds in the upper reaches, just a stone’s through from the Gateway to the Notch, but yesterday it was so bracing that Atticus and I nearly got right back into our car and headed home.

Weather in the notch can fool the uninitiated. It is not unlike a dog whose bark is worse than his bite. You simply have to put your head down, ignore the hungry howls of the wind, the whipping flecks of snow and ice, and head with faith towards the woods. But it’s not always an easy journey. That was the case yesterday. The storm fought us every step.

With Atticus in his Muttluks and me in my snowshoes we pushed through snowdrifts and snow flying directly into our eyes and hurried towards the shelter of the woods. The wind roared. The cold found its way into our bones and joints. But just as is nearly always the case, once stepping over the threshold into the forest everything stopped. I couldn’t even hear the wind and the snow drifted harmlessly about us. We had entered that realm that comes with the winter woods. It is a separate world. Sure it was still cold, but not to us. If anything it was like returning to an old friend whose been gone for nine months.

The trees were caked with thick, fluffy icing and the ground was soft beneath his boots and my snowshoes. I’m always amazed by this phenomenon – how the outside world literally disappears. You leave everything behind.

John Muir once wrote, “Between every two pines is a doorway to a new world.” That new world is called enchantment.

At a junction we turned left for the trail to the summit of Mount Willard but recent rainstorms had turned the shallow stream into a large pond and there was no getting around it. We tramped around in the woods a bit just to make sure there wasn’t an easier crossing but after finding none we turned back. Once back on the main trail I figured Atticus would head for the car, knowing his post hike snack was be waiting for him.

I should have known better. After all, he and I have been at this for a while. Instead he turned up the trail towards the Willey Range. I let him lead. It didn’t matter to me where we went and since he seemed to know where he wanted to go I followed. Our next stream crossing was easier to negotiate but still too deep and wide for Atticus so he hitched a ride on top of my backpack.

At the next trail junction we had another decision to make: right towards Mount Tom, left towards Mount Avalon and Mount Field. Atticus chose left and I followed. The climb gets steeper in that section of the Avalon Trail and the snow grew deeper. At the next intersection the wind was audible above the trees but not able to get at us and Atticus had another decision to make. It was up the short steep pitch to the summit of Avalon or continue on towards Field. He stopped, waited for a minute as if trying to decide, then turned back at me looking for direction.

“It’s up to you,” I said. “Go ahead.”

He chose Avalon. There had been on-line reports that someone had climbed it recently but with the new snow it was impossible to tell. We pushed through the virgin power and when Atticus topped out his ears took flight in the wind. Now others might feel the frozen fury and step back behind the rocks, but Atticus stepped out towards the edge of the mountain where he was more exposed. He stood on the edge and looked back at me to make sure I was there. When I cleared the top he turned his face and looked off into the storm.

There were no views and it’s not like this is the weather or the time of the year for summit sitting, but he seemed content looking off into the gray abyss. For the first time since we had entered the woods I felt a shiver run through me and I wondered how much longer he wanted to stay. But Atticus didn’t seem to mind the cold. Watching him like that, it was one of those moments that seem a lot longer than it actually is, where time slowly moves forward. I shivered; he faced the wind, his back towards me. Then, as if satisfied, he turned towards me, looked up at me and then pushed gently by and made his way down the mountain back into the refuge of the trees.

On the drive home, just four miles down the road we were back out of the storm and there was no more snow on the ground. In the rear view mirror I could see it still raging behind us. But here we were driving towards a partly cloudy blue sky.

It is days like this where you might not want to get out of your car, where there are no views, and it feels as cold as death that you are happiest that you decided to venture further. It reminds you that you’re alive and everything has much more meaning.

Today on Avalon in the Willey Range