Rainy Days

Autumn's colors are already near peak here in the Whites. It's stunning, even on a rainy weekend. Since there was no hiking there was work done on my book...good work. And to get through the gloom of the weather and not being out on a mountain, now that my leg is healed, at least we have more Ken Stampfer photos from our hike earlier in the week to South Moat. (The other dog with us in the photos is Dawa, a Burmese Mountain Dog we were watching last week.)

The Ophthalmologist Using His Eyes...

...to capture the more photogenic half of T & A.

Doug Cray's Good Doctor

An interesting note about our friends Ken and Ann Stampfer, who we hiked with yesterday: Ken is a well-respected ophthalmologist in the big city and who we got to know through hiking up here. However, it also turned out he was my the ophthalmologist of my dearly-departed Newburyport friend, Doug Cray (the former NT Times reporter who covered Kennedy and Johnson in the White House). It's a small world. Ken's a terrific doctor, but also a great photographer and one of the joys of hiking with he and Ann is seeing what he does with his camera. Between the both of us, we took more than 270 photos yesterday. Hre are two of Ken's shots from the summit of South Moat.

Escaping to South Moat: A Slide Show

Pity the poor list chasers who climb a peak simply because it is over 4,000 feet high. Those who constrict their journeys in this way never get to experience the pleasure of the Moats, a range that casts its afternoon shadow over the towns of Conway and North Conway. Today, Atticus and I had company: Ken and Ann Stampfer; and Daiwa, the dog we're watching this week. Each of us, in our own way, needed to escape today, so we did, to the beautiful summit of South Moat. It was one of those rare days where we spent as much time on the summit as we did climbing the mountain. As you will see from the photos, it is a beautiful place to be. You can check out the slide show here and make your own mini-escape. By the way, that's a hint as to the name of this music. If you figure it out, you win absolutely nothing other than a pat on the back for knowing your movie soundtracks.

A New Slide Show Is Up

What’s this, a new slide show? It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Sorry, things like injuries (to me and my camera), trying to write for a living, moving and existing like a gypsy have thrown some kinks into the works.

This slide show is a marriage of two shorter late afternoon hikes: a hike along the White Ledge Loop Trail and a climb up Potash. On both instances, me and my shadow (hint) got out late enough to enjoy the growing shadows (another hint) and to see the sinking sun turn everything a dusty golden color.

Without further adieu, here’s the latest production from Tom & Atticus. You can reach the slide show by clicking here.

Good Morning Agiocochook

For the past few days we’ve been dog/cat/house sitting in North Conway. From the street, the house, which is just a quarter of a mile off the main mayhem of the shopping strip, looks like an ordinary ranch in a quiet neighborhood. However, step to the back and every room has a view out towards the Presidential Range and the Wildcats and Carters, not to mention Cathedral Ledge and Mt. Kearsage. The view from the open deck is magnificent!

Looking out from the deck your eyes drop down to a vast cornfield with a snake of river bend trees wending their way through the middle of it. Then come the hills, then the mountains; and in main focus is the great Agiocochook herself – Mt. Washington. All of it sits under a sky so beautiful it couldn’t be painted to look any better.

On our first morning here, I woke up to see Agiocochook with a pink blush, as if I wasn’t supposed to see her that early in the day, with a scarf of clouds winding through the foothills. A half an hour later the sun came up and turned the cornfields to gold with its Midas touch! Oh, to be a painter at such a time as this.

I’ve included four photos from the morning.

Black Cap: September 21, 2008

Original plans called for a hike up to South Moat, and maybe Middle Moat, too. However, with a thick haze in the air, the weather was not the best for viewing, which is a must on the Moats, so we postponed the hike for a day or two and instead did Black Cap.

Black Cap is a small peak quite popular with those in North Conway. It looks down on the town and across to the Moats and other peaks. At 2,369 feet, it’s not the tallest mountain but the views are great, even on a day like today. The trail is just over a mile long and gains 700 feet of elevation in the time it takes to go up the Black Cap Trail.

Today we had the company of Dawa, a Burmese Mountain Dog we’re taking care of for a few days. As Atticus led the way, Dawa and I followed along, alternating the second and third position between ourselves in our little parade to the top.

Just over 700 feet is not a killer workout, but up is up and so I felt it, but it still felt good to be out and about and to be back at the car an hour and fifteen minutes after we left it, even after a leisurely summit stay.

By the end of the week, now that my leg is better, I fully expect we’ll be back to doing 4,000-footers, mostly on “this side” (the eastern side) of the Whites.

In the top photo, that’s Kearsage North behind Atticus.

Mt. Potash: September 17, 2008

Here in the land of dial-up Internet I can't post as many photos as I would like. That's unfortunate because today I took several photos I would love to share with you all. I spent the day writing while Atticus spent the day sighing and then at 4:00 pm we were on the trail to climb Mt. Potash off the Kancamagus Highway. I brought a headlamp but got back down before darkness completely set in. What a great little mountain this is. I've hiked it before but it was perfect for me today since I'm working my way back up after getting over a leg injury.

A Great Dame

I keep raving about this area we're holed up in for the autumn. Here's but one more example. On the way home from our hike on the White Ledge Loop Trail this afternoon, we took the shortcut, which goes across a little bridge at the southern end of Chocorua Lake and looks up at the mountain of the same name. Is it any wonder the White Mountain Painters of the 1800s took such a shine to Chocorua. Of course it helped that it stood not far from their route to North Conway.

An Afternoon Walk On The White Ledge Loop

My leg has finally healed and Atticus and I took a walk along the White Ledge Trail Loop late this afternoon. It’s only 4.4 miles but it has enough elevation to count as a workout. It was good to sweat and swear and pray my way to the top of something more significant than a hill again. I’ve missed the mountains; as I’m sure Atticus has, too.

When we stepped onto the trail we immediately dissolved into Mother Nature’s embrace with a wonderful snap of anticipation. How wonderful to have that old feeling back. It is the best part of our little sojourns into nature. We leave civilization behind as soon as we enter the wild and, in a way, become more civilized. There is something about the woods that urges me to revert to the innocence of childhood, to a more base self. As Robert Frost once said about the woods, they are “lovely, dark and deep”. It’s the “lovely” part that seduces us to return time and time again. It’s the “dark and deep” where the soul work is done. There was a reason Jung compared dreams of walking in the forest to a journey into the subconscious. They are one in the same.

Away from the busy world there are no distractions. But that’s the main reason why most people don’t like to hike alone. It can be unsettling to be alone with your own thoughts. But for me, each hike becomes a prayer and a meditation. In my prayer I talk to God; in meditation God talks to me. (I daresay God’s language is far more respectable than mine. A friend, a heavy-hitting Baptist, was shocked when I admitted there are times I swear while talking to God. “I would never!” he said. “I guess I just have a more intimate relationship with God than you do,” I said with a taunting smile.)

As a writer, hiking with Atticus is perfect for me. How comforting to have my little friend along, but how nice it is that he doesn’t prattle on about the inanities of life and simply walks silently forward. There are no growls, no barks; nothing he does is a disruption. A friend who is not fond of hiking with dogs once told me the best part about a hike with Atticus was that she didn’t even know he was there for the entire eight hours we were on a trail. “If all dogs were like Atticus, I’d get one,” she told me.

On the trail, the only noise I hear, other than occasional bird song or the sigh of the wind, is that of my own breath and beating heart. Think about that, when was the last time that’s the only thing you heard? How delightful to fall so deeply into myself and get to the middle of everything simply by taking a walk in the woods.

There is another thing about walking in the wilderness with Atticus that adds to our life together. In the woods we become equals. I get to feel as primal as he does. We walk and experience things the same way. We get to the top the same way. Because of these shared experiences, there is nothing more simple or pleasurable in my life than sharing these mountains with him. But it wasn't always that way. He had to train me, first.

The entire first summer we hiked I started my stopwatch with each hike and ended it when we reached the car. I was obsessed with time. There was no leisurely summit sitting, no time for taking advantage of viewpoints. It took me a while to catch on, but by watching Atticus stop and sit and take it all in that it finally dawned on me that I was missing the best part of getting to the top. I eventually ditched the stopwatch and sat with my dog. Since then an entirely new world has been revealed to me. The Czech writer Milan Kundera wrote: “Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring – it was peace.”

Amen.

This is why Atticus’ blindness a year and a half ago was so devastating. His lovely eyes had become useless to him. His favorite thing in this world is too find some dramatic ledge with a view and sit there and ponder. Thanks to modern science, surgery fixed both of Atticus’ eyes and now he seems to have a deeper appreciation for a gift that had been taken from him.

The White Ledge Loop does not have the most dramatic views but we came upon one nice ledge today where we sat and relaxed the afternoon away. We sat there until the sun eased behind the lovely Chocorua. As we made our way down from the ledges, the lowering sun took its heat with it and the woods were filled with a pleasant chill and a hint of the season to come while we walked down the path of earth, stones, pine needles and old leaves. In the shade an entirely new set of scents emerged. A breeze found its way through the forest and I could have sworn I heard Autumn giggling just out of sight, behind a nearby tree who was daring enough to wear red leaves already.

This Past Winter's Tragedy On Franconia Ridge Relived By The Lone Survivor

For those of you who followed our winter adventure, you know the measures I went to to keep my little hiking partner safe. And by keeping Atticus safe, I also kept myself safe. There were certain days we just wouldn't hike, or at least not go above treeline. On February 10th, two men either ignored the well-reported forecast or were ignorant to it. The result? One of them died - frozen solid on top of Franconia Ridge near Little Haystack. It's a place we hiked over twice this winter, both times on warmer days with no wind. The hiker who survived lost various body parts and in this weekend's Nashua Telegraph he told his story. The full article can be accessed by clicking here. But I warn you, it's a horrific story. I'm including a snippet below:

About halfway between to Little Haystack Mountain, Fredrickson's eyes had closed up from frostbite. Osborne then took the lead, with Fredrickson's hand on his houlder. They stumbled along, falling a couple of times from the wind, blinding snow and exhaustion. Fredrickson started to fall behind by the time they had reached Little Haystack Mountain. "At one point, I looked back, and he was curled up in a fetal position on his right side. I walked back to him." Osborne told him, "Fred, you got to get up. You got to get up." He had lost his gloves again. His hands were indescribable, his fingers curled grotesquely." He kind of rolled over and said, 'Oh my God, they're going to take my hands.' I said, 'Fred, you've got to get up now. We're almost to tree line. Once we get down below tree line we'll warm up and everything will be OK.' " He just wouldn't move. He became unresponsive. Looking back, it was pretty clear that full hypothermia had set in for both of us." Hard as it was to leave his friend, Osborne knew he had to keep going." As I walked away, I had this conscious thought, 'I'm 36 years old, and this is how I die.' Strangely enough, I was at peace with myself." He made his peace with the people he knew. In his mind, he expressed his regrets for the mistakes he made in life, and for the mistakes he made on this hike." My last thought from there was looking back over my shoulder and seeing Fred and being sad about that." Osborne climbed onto the top of a ledge. "From there, I don't remember anything until I woke up in the hospital."

Hello from Writer's Heaven

Good morning,

There was nearly frost on the pumpkin here in the country this morning. I knew it was cold when I woke up in the middle of the night and had to grab another blanket and when I pulled it up over us, Atticus didn’t bother to climb out from beneath it. He was still undercover when I woke up this morning.

I love the fall. Yes, I know it’s not really fall yet but I swear I heard Autumn giggling behind a tree when I took Atti outside for a tour of the yard. I look forward to the fall season here in our temporary home. I cannot imagine a more bucolic and perfect place for haystacks and cornfields and pumpkins on the porch. The farms here meld into the mountains and the mountains, other than Chocorua, who loves the attention, are gentle but beautiful green arcs. They may not be as dramatic as the jutting peaks of Franconia Ridge, but they are striking nonetheless. What makes the Wonalancet region even more beautiful than the area near Franconia Notch is the land below the mountains is bucolic and at ease with itself. Here there are no tourist attractions, natural or otherwise. There is no long five-fingered paved parking lot at the entrance to the Flume, nor are there the skeletal remains of a garish water park (that runs only three months of the year) fronting the ridge.

Here tourists are outnumbered by the small number of headstones sprinkled throughout the area in nook and cranny graveyards and farms set a scene both nostalgic and poetic. The White Mountain artists of the 1800s discovered Chocorua but I’ve seen no evidence that they moved inland along the rest of the Sandwich Range. United States President Grover Cleveland made his summer home here and John Greenleaf Whittier wrote his love letters to the mountains just down the road. But the beauty of this place is such that I can imagine Frost in a farmhouse whittling his words; Yeats, sauntering along the mushrooms and ferns of the woodland streams composing ballads to the little people, or Melville looking up at one of these mountains instead of Greylock to write of his great white whale. Here you can see Washington Irving penning the “Tales of Sleepy Hollow” or picture E. B. White looking up at a spider in the doorway of his barn and spinning a tale about Charlotte. This is a writer’s idea of heaven.

The people here are hearty but much friendlier than in other isolated places in the mountains. They welcome you to town with earnest smiles on their face and are genuinely glad to see you. At the general store they ask about your particulars with a laid back grace that makes you want to stay for a while and put your feet up. On three different occasions people have come up to me at trailheads to introduce themselves. The conversation usually goes like this: “This must be Atticus! Hello Tom, I heard you two were moving into the area.” They are friendly but not so much so as to break the spell of the place.

When I was walking along rustic Ferncroft Road the other day, I saw a woman building tiny stone cairns on the wooden footbridge connecting her home to the dirt road. I told her I liked her row of cairns. “Oh,” she said, a gentle smile easing across her lips, “these are my rock people. It’s good to have them around.” Then, while standing down next to the stream bed and leaning on the bridge had a comfortable face-to-face conversation with Atticus as if she’s known him her entire life. As she spoke he sat and watched her animated face and the soft movement of her hands.

Atticus loves the area because there are so many footpaths to discover I don’t think we’d get to all of them even if we lived here for 20 years. So far our favorite is the Brook Path. It runs for two miles and there is never a place where you can look up at the mountains. The view is of the woods and of the Wonalancet River it traces. In my three years in these mountains I’ve yet to find a more beautiful trail.

The graceful path up to Mt. Katherine is an easy walk but it’s still three miles of exercise to the ledge overlooking a farm that stretches towards the skyward peak of Chocorua. Seated on the summit rock there are also wonderful views toward the tops of Passaconaway, Wonalancet and Whiteface.

Within a quarter of a mile from where I’m sitting, Hemenway State Forest sits on either side of us. We often enter on a snowmobile path and walk through a forest dotted with mushrooms and ferns and the murmur of the river. We constantly find signs of bear and moose here and the trail ascends until it meets up with another trail for another short climb that ends at a fire tower. The stairs are thin and steep and I have to carry Atticus to the top but once on the top of Great Hill there are views in every direction and the view of the Sandwich Range, from Sandwich Dome in the west, all the way over to Chocorua in the east, are unbeatable.

Perhaps what I love most about this place is that it feels like a secret, like a soft whisper from one lover into the ear of another at a crowded gathering. Here the world softens, it lingers, you can feel yourself breathe, you can hear your heart beat. The mountains are startling, but not just because of their size and shape and their green grandeur. They literally startle you because you don’t know when you will see them. You can be walking along the road or a trail or through a cornfield or by a cemetery and out of nowhere you will sense you are being watched. You look up and see nothing but the clean blue sky or dense trees and you walk on. Take a few more steps and literally out of nowhere a peak has come out from its hiding place and is watching you with the curiosity of a child.

When my friend Paul came up for a hike I asked him if he wanted to get some ice cream. We drove by mountains, through open fields and by the occasional house and cemetery but no stores. I turned down a rutted dirt road, then an even ruttier dirt road and ten miles after leaving the house we arrived at a small dairy open 24 hours. You take your pick from of ice cream and cheeses at the Sandwich Creamery and they trust you will put the right amount of cash for your purchase through a mail slot in the wall. If you don’t have change, not to worry, there’s a vat of loose change in which you can find the correct amount.

Recently a friend wrote to note that Atticus and I were now in the boonies. She added, “You probably don’t even have streetlights where you are.” She is right, about the boonies and the streetlights. But we can see the stars here as I’ve never seen them and the moon climbs the sky like a ghost on a haunt. At night I half expect to stumble upon a scene like the one in Will Moses’ “Girls Night Out” where witches gather around a cauldron in back of a farmhouse, kept company by black cats, ghosts and pumpkins.

Now you can see why I’m so excited about autumn here where the landscape plays like a Danny Elfman tune, both spooky and pastoral.

Mt. Wonalancet

One of us is losing weight. Unfortunately, it’s not the one who needs it most. Atticus is on a high protein/low carb diet. He’s now eating “GO! Natural”. His nutritionist suggested it. I’m also on a high protein/low carb diet. (That is if you ignore the ice cream and pasta. No wonder only one of us is losing weight.)

Having no interest in dodging raindrops or lightening bolts we haven’t been on the trails as much as of late. We did, however, squeeze in a hike up Mt. Wonalancet in the lower, eastern part of the Sandwich Range. It sits in front of two 4,000-footers: Whiteface and Passaconaway. In relation to them it looks harmless enough. Heck, it looks more like a hill than a mountain. Some hill. No, make that some mountain. The steep climb left me breathless.

The lower portion of the trail leaves the scenic Ferncroft Road parking area and meanders easily along a soft earthen path. Just before a stream the flat trail takes a sharp left and twists up some gentle switchbacks. Perhaps it was the way the dense forest held the humidity from all that rain or maybe I’m just too out of shape because of too much writing and not enough hiking but after we made our way through the switchbacks the climb seemed nearly as tough as anything we’ve encountered on our way to the top of a 4,000-footer. There were precipitous scrambles over rock and root – both being slippery due to all the rain – that led to even steeper inclines.

We stopped more often than I can remember ever stopping on a short hike. The svelte one (I’ll give you a hint – it’s not me) climbed easily, looking more like a chimpanzee than a miniature schnauzer. He hopped from rock to rock; bound over the tangle of roots looking like petrified rope; and balanced cavalierly on the narrowest and slickest rock crossings. In short, he made it look easy while I huffed and puffed and finally sat red-faced…more than once. How humbling it is to hike with a dog one tenth my size and see him above me looking so restful. His tongue wasn’t even hanging out. I wish I could say the same.

I always forget; a climb is a climb. It doesn’t matter whether it is scaling Mt. Washington or ten flights of stairs. It is not supposed to be easy. And yet I have a tendency to underestimate the shorter peaks and think they’ll be easy because they are shorter. I forget my rule – 1,000 feet of elevation gain per mile constitutes a tough enough hike.

In the case of Mt. Wonalancet, it only stands 2,780 feet high but the elevation gain is 1,650 feet in 1.8 miles. The first portion of the hike is flat and then ascends gently. The upper half makes up for the temperate parts. It’s tough going.

The joy of reaching the top means enduring the exertion it takes to get there. Effort expended plays a part in the end result. If it weren’t for the difficulty and having all thoughts other than where my next step is going to go or where my next breath is going to come from stripped away, I wouldn’t appreciate the view from the top as much.

Heart, lungs, legs, arms: I take inventory of them all and little else.

In my deep and labored breathing I remind myself that Wonalancet literally translates to “pleasant breathing”. This doesn’t compute, not at this time.

The arrival at the top signals the end of my discomfort. Thoughts of continuing onward to some grander peak soon retreat and I follow suit. Just below the summit sits an open ledge with views to the south. Sitting on the ledges feeding peanut butter crackers to Atticus, with sweat running down by face and back, I find my breath and it slows.

Slowly it comes…pleasant breathing. Wonalancet.

With no where else to go we sit and ponder the sooty clouds spilling onto the Ossipees like black ink. How lovely to sit and sit just watching a storm roll in, hearing and feeling the boom of the thunder and we are cooled by a breeze whispering in her soft voice “A storm is coming.” We both watch it fill the distant sky.

Eventually Atticus lies down. He is now watching ants parade along the rocks, a search party, I imagine, looking for the crumbs he’s left behind.

I’m reminded of something a friend, a proper Bostonian, just shared with me. She and her husband own places in the city and up in the mountains. The first is their base camp for their professional lives. The second is used to feed their hiking addiction. Introduce a spider, ants, mouse in either home and this woman goes to war. Traps, sprays, exterminators. You name it.

Recently, while sitting on the east ledges of Mt. Hedgehog, she watched an ant struggle with a large piece of popcorn someone had left behind. The ant couldn’t manage it and tipped over backwards. It tried again and again, each time teetering, then tottering, then tumbling over. This woman’s husband watched in amazement when she reached down, picked up the piece of popcorn and broke it into smaller, manageable pieces. Her loving smile was evident when the ant picked up a smaller piece and made its way home.

That’s what great about the mountains. They touch us in many ways: a majestic view from a stunning peak, an approaching storm, a parade of ants. Music may sooth the savage beast but nature soothes the civilized man (or woman) and makes him whole again.

Two years ago I was told by a friend I would grow to love the Sandwich Range. She was right. I particularly look forward to coming treks in October through those fertile woods and hills as the colorful quilt of autumn grows richer and spreads south across the landscape.

"A Beautiful Place To Die"

Today's Boston Sunday Globe Magazine has a good article on the White Mountains: "A Beautiful Place to Die". It's well worth the time it takes to read it. You can find it here.

Travels With Charlie Goes Traveling

“When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked.” ~ John Steinbeck

Here in Franconia Notch the summer winds on. Halfway through August the mornings and evenings are taking on a hint of autumn cool. Nights are perfect for sleeping with the windows open. Being this late in the summer, it also means that the number of Appalachian Trail through hikers stopping off in Lincoln are becoming fewer and fewer.

I’ve given many rides to those who come off the AT a couple of miles north from here on Route 3 and are looking to re-supply and spend a night in Lincoln. (That means I’ve learned to carry a bottle of Frebreze fabric freshener in my car for when they leave the car but leave their ripe body odors behind.)

A few weeks ago I crammed three hikers and a dog into the car with Atticus and me. The poor dog, an older Australian Cattle Dog, looked very tired. When I found out where they hikers were staying in town I made a return visit and dropped off a steak for the dog.

This morning I gave two more hikers a ride from downtown Lincoln back into the Notch. One of the fellows, a 20-something from Arkansas, saw that I had a copy of Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charlie” in the car.

“Oh, ‘Travels with Charlie’, I’ve always wanted to read that,” he said.

I thought for a moment and then said, “Why don’t you take it along on the trail with you? It’s small and doesn’t weigh much. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

He was as giddy with me offering him Steinbeck as the Cattle Dog was happy with the steak.

“Travels with Charlie”, the story of his 10,000 mile journey around the United States with his poodle, Charlie, in a camping trailer on the back of his pick-up truck, is one of the few books I want to keep in my library. There will come a day when I get another copy for myself but for now I’m content in knowing that the young man carrying it with him across the White Mountains on his way to Baxter State Park in Maine, will find a kinship with Steinbeck, another restless traveler nearly half a century earlier. There's something fitting about my worn paperback going on this journey.

Which One Doesn't Fit?

We're just back from a rainy week in Tamworth. We did get one hike in, a tough little scramble up to Mt. Wonalancet in the Sandwich Range. Yesterday, after returning from an Internet Cafe in Conway I passed a general store in Tamworth and couldn't resist these photos. (Excuse the slight haze. There's a scratch in my camera lens.)

I've Been Spoiled By Atticus

Well…this is a new experience for the two of us. We’re house sitting in Tamworth, a small town on the eastern side of the White Mountains just south of the Kancamagus Highway. We’re in the middle of nowhere, if nowhere is a beautiful place. The house sitting part’s new, but not the big part of the new experience. Atticus and I are also dog sitting. I feel like we’ve dropped right into the pages of Marley & Me.

Geneva is a sweet and cute but undisciplined and rowdy dog. Lock up the valuables, the baubles, the loose socks or drafts of anything important on paper, because if you don’t, well, Geneva gets it and often keeps it. I’m hoping some of Atticus rubs off on her.

I forget how difficult and exhausting it is to have a puppy in the house. Geneva’s 11 months old and I now realize how easy I had it with Atticus. He didn’t chew things, didn’t get into the trash, and didn’t grab food of the counters. Of course he wasn’t tall enough to reach the kitchen counter and still isn’t, but even when food was within reach, if it wasn’t his, he has always respected it. This morning, Geneva, a combination of Australian Cattle Dog, Husky and Whirling Dervish, tried to dislodge the frying pan from the top of the stove while bacon sizzled in it!

Earlier when I climbed into the tub for a good soak and some reading time, Geneva decided she wanted to join me and tried to hop in also. I really have been spoiled by Atticus and his quiet, gentle and respectful ways.

When the three of us went outside and made a slow loop around this big green yard I was stunned when a car passed and she took off after it like a greyhound. The only way to get her back was for me and Atticus to run in the opposite direction so she’d chase us. Then a car came in the opposite direction and she pivoted and chased after that!

When she finally came back I grabbed her by the collar and attached the leash. Inside we went. She climbed up on the couch next to Atticus but he wants little to do with her. He tolerates her at best. Occasionally he’ll lose it and growl and shock me with a piercing bark – Atticus doesn’t bark typically – to let her know she’s crossed over some line of appropriate interaction. Instead he came over and wanted me to lift him up. He’s now sleeping on the desk next to my typing fingers while she sleeps in a tight black circle at my feet.

I will admit, however, that she has calmed down a great deal since Christine, her owner left. It will be interesting to see how this relationship between the three of us works out over the next seven days. By the time all is said and done I’m hoping I don’t have to give back the award I’ve yet to receive from the good people at the MSPCA.

Atticus Mentioned In Latest Edition Of "The 4,000-Footers Of The White Mountains"

Three summers ago Atticus and I threw ourselves into climbing each of the 48 4,000-footers in the White Mountains and finished the list in 11 weeks.

On one of the earlier hikes we were joined by three of my brothers: Eddie, David and Jeff. A friend lent me her A-frame so the all four of us (and Atticus) could spend the night together. The next morning we arose, drove up to Polly’s Pancake Parlor in Sugar Hill for breakfast and then over to Mt. Waumbek. We summited together on a very uncomfortable day, the air so hot and thick it felt like we were trying to breathe soup.

The night before we hiked, we all went out to eat and then returned to the A-frame. We talked and read. My brother Eddie picked up my copy of Steve Smith and Mike Dickerman’s 4,000-Footers of the White Mountains and was leafing through it. When he came to the “Feats and Oddities” section in the back of the book he joked, “We’ll be seeing your name in this section in a few years, Tom.”

It was all in good fun. He was joking about my ability to obsess over goals and chase after dreams.

Little did any of us know how prophetic Ed was in his comments. The second edition of the Smith and Dickerman book came out this past weekend. Sure enough, in the “Feats and Oddities” section, my name is listed, for having accompanied Atticus to the top of 81 4,000-footers in the winter of 2006 – 2007. Atticus makes it because he’s one of two dogs to have hiked them all in winter, joining Brutus, who not only was the first to hike all 48 in winter. Brutus was also the first dog to hike them in one winter.

I find pleasure in something the authors point out: Brutus is a Newfoundland (around 160 lbs); and Atticus is a Miniature Schnauzer weighing 20 lbs. They pretty much cover both ends of the spectrum and further prove that all shapes and sizes can hike, even in winter. And that’s true of people and dogs.

Latest Article for the Northcountry News

I love August. It’s my favorite month of the year, until September gets here. Then September is my favorite month of the year, until October arrives. There’s something about the high heat of July taking a vacation every August. Each morning begins with a gentle kiss of autumn in the air, each evening ends the same way as we slink happily towards the cool, cool months of the year when the air is crisp and clear and not heavy with humidity.

This is prime hiking weather. The bugs are mostly gone, or at least they seem to be gone because they are not out in mass as they had been before. The humidity drops, as do the chances of late afternoon thunder boomers. And once this rain we’ve been having finally stops, the streams and rivers will drop a bit and be safer to cross. No sense chancing stream crossings when the water runs wild. (But if you do, make sure to undo the straps on your backpack before crossing, just in case you become upended. You don’t want to be held down by the weight of your pack. It’s a good way to drown.)

Recently, Atticus and I drove over to Pinkham Notch and took off up the Nineteen Mile Brook Trail. Eventually we made our way to Carter Notch, then up the steep, steep climb to Wildcat A. In the winter we couldn’t get there. The slide on the way up Wildcat A was too dangerous to chance with Atticus along. But winter is only a memory these days. It is safe to cross in the summer. Once on top of Wildcat A we looked across the notch and over at Carter Dome, a huge mass of rock that adds dimension to the view. Then we looked straight down into the notch at Carter Hut, which appeared to be a miniature replica from that distance and height. (With my fear of heights, I look down only while hugging the trunk of a small tree.)

After a snack Atticus and I made our way over the most bi-polar trail in the Whites – the Wildcat Ridge Trail. It is an undulating rollercoaster of ups and downs. On the ridge only Wildcat A and D count as 4,000-foot peaks. It’s just as well since I can never seem to keep track of just where B and C come into play with the various false summits along the way. On a good day it is a pleasant walk along a treed ridge with hardly any views. Until, that is, you get to Wildcat D, which sits right next to the Wildcat Ski Slopes. From there you get to see Mt. Washington towering above and across Pinkham Notch.

Let me tell you right now, if you want to take a perfect hike in the peak of autumn, follow the same route we did. The stroll along Nineteen Mile Brook Trail is refreshing and the autumn berries and foliage are astoundingly beautiful under a bright blue sky. But what’s perfect about this hike in early October is the view you get when you get off of Wildcat D and hop onto the ski slopes. Stay to the far right for the gentlest descent and be ready to be thrilled by the colors along the way. There are no rocks to trip over, just clumps of grass easily maneuvered around. You can walk and look up at the same time and as you do you will then be thrilled by the optical illusion of Mt. Washington and the Northern Presidentials looking bigger than they actually are. There’s something about heading down and looking up that makes them appear to tower even higher than they actually do.

It is an ideal autumn hike, but it’s also a great hike on a summer day, too, so long as the clouds are high enough so they don’t obstruct the views of Washington. From the Wildcat ski slopes, Huntington and Tuckerman’s Ravine seem to pulse before your very eyes. The depth of their gaping wounds of rock is impressive when looking straight into them in the lengthening shadows of the afternoon.

Atticus always bounds down the grassy slopes. At any moment, the way he runs and twirls, I half expect him to throw up his front paws and start singing “The Hills Are Alive”. He’s that joyous and carefree on these slopes. It’s easy to be. As much as he bounds along, we take our time going down and enjoy the views. The more we descend, the more Washington seems to grow, and the more impressive the view.

After several leisurely stops along the way, once we got down to the parking lot of the ski area, we made our way out into the road and I threw out my thumb to catch a ride back to Nineteen Mile Brook. This does not always work. Once, on Gale River Road three years ago, a strange woman stopped and offered me a ride when I was hitchhiking, hoping to get back to the car on the Little River Road. “I’ll give you a ride, but not the dog,” she said.

I was a bit taken aback by her comment and pointed out that anyone who knew the two of us would have said just the opposite. But as much as I vouched for Atticus’ character the woman refused to change her mind.

Thankfully that wasn’t the case on our way back to our car at the Nineteen Mile Brook Trailhead. The woman who stopped said, “Is that Atticus?”

“It is if you are giving us a ride,” I told her. (She recognized him from reading the Northcountry News.) And this woman, unlike the other woman, had the good sense to welcome Atticus into her car but gave me a sideways glance. She’s clearly, a woman of discriminating taste.

Although most of the hike along the Wildcats is not the most scenic, there are parts of it that are downright spectacular. It’s underrated and often underappreciated. However, if you follow our route and choose a good day to do it, you’ll consider it neither of those.

On another note: The latest version of Steve Smith and Mike Dickerman’s 4,000-Footers of the White Mountains came out this week. It is beefed up with a couple of hundred more pages. For those who like hiking 4,000-footers, there is no better guide. It’s the book that changed our lives and in the long run got us to move up here. Stop by the Mountain Wanderer, located on the Kanc in Lincoln, to pick up your copy. (If you look closely, you’ll even see Atticus’ name in the last section of the book “Feats and Oddities” as being one of only two dogs to hike all the Fours in winter. Steve and Mike point out that Brutus, the 160 lb Newfoundland, came first; then came 20 lb Atticus in the winter he reached 81 of them in the 90 days. It just goes to show you that hiking is meant for all shapes and sizes. That’s true for dogs and people.)

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My friend Ann is fond of saying her most memorable hikes are often the ones when the wheels fall off the cart.

Last week Atticus and I entered the woods at the hairpin turn on the Kancamagus Highway. We were with a friend who was up from Portsmouth for the day. We were a mile and a half along the trail and headed for the Hancocks when the wheels fell off the cart. Our friend was moving along well; I wasn't.

I was suffering from a temporary discomfort. I wasn't going to make it to the top of the Hancocks but I wasn't in any danger so I told our friend to go ahead. We'd wait for him. He pointed out he would be gone for about three hours. Not a problem. It was a beautiful day and there were several streams to sit by or in.

Atticus was a bit confused as to why we weren't going on but he soon relaxed when I did. I found a boulder in the middle of a clear, cool stream and took a seat on top of it. Before long Atticus was sitting next to me. We didn't move for more than an hour. What a joy to relax in the woods under the shade of great trees and under a blue sky on a perfect day with no hurry to get anywhere. Time flew by as did my thoughts. They'd settle in for a bit and then like the breeze they'd take flight again.

Before I moved up here this past October my daydreams of living in the mountains had much to do with just such a scene. In the past I always come up for a day or a weekend, and crammed as many miles and mountains in as I could. There was no time to sit by a gentle stream on a summer day. But once I decided to move north that became one of my fantasies, to find myself alone with Atticus in the middle of the woods by a sun-dappled stream with no agenda in front of us.

Mary Oliver, the wonderful poet from Provincetown has a poem called, "The Summer Day". In it there are some lines that kept repeating in my head when I was sitting on that rock watching the water swim by:

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.

That's what it was like to sit there and not fidget or be bored or stressed. It was like a prayer, like we'd fallen into the middle of the woods as if into a dream.

Decades ago I worked for a landscaper who specialized in building water gardens in the yards of the wealthy. In each of them he would incorporate a small waterfall. People paid tens of thousands of dollars for one of these. But here in the White Mountains I encounter such streams on a daily basis. They flow freely along, untouched by human hands. And natural waterfalls, some large, some small, far outdo anything I ever saw made by even the best and most talented man.

Funny, isn't it? We were on our way to a mountaintop, on a day when the views were perfect and the eyes could see for miles and even though we didn't make it we probably had a more memorable hike than had we made it to the top.

Our friend was right, it took him about three hours to go up and touch the summits and make his way back down to us. However, it didn't seem like that long. Instead the time seemed all too fleeting. After all, how often do we get the chance to take our shoes and socks off and dangle our feet in a cool stream as if we are kids on summer vacation again?

I'm all for reaching the top of these storied mountains to see what there is to see, but the summits aren't the only places treasures to be found. In the days that followed our aborted hike I found myself writing better than I had in a long time. And I found myself returning to that boulder in the stream many times a day while I sat at my desk typing away. Sometimes the best adventures are the ones that don’t turn out as planned.