Twenty Minutes That Will Last A Lifetime

Ignorance can be bliss.

In my case it definitely was.

When I was rushed to the hospital a few weeks ago by ambulance, I knew I was in trouble. I just didn't realize how much trouble I was in. My temperature was 104.9 and I was in septic shock. In the emergency room I became non-responsive for 20 minutes and doctors feared they might be losing me. The culprit was a gangrenous gallbladder. It took 18 hours to stabilize my body before they could cut me open. Once inside the surgeons found a mess and the infection was already into my bloodstream.

The following day a surgeon told me had they not operated, I'd be dead. Another told me had I not called 911 when I did I wouldn't have been able to later because of the septic shock and someone would have eventually found my dead body in my home.

And yet when I was sick my focus was not on how serious all of this was. Instead it was to get out of the hospital as soon as possible. The gravity of the situation didn't hit me. Eventually I did leave but only after eight nights in North Conway's Memorial Hospital, several of which were in the intensive care unit. Even now, nearly two weeks after getting released, I continue to learn how bad things were. But while I was in my hospital bed my concentration was focused more on Atticus, who'd only been away from me for three nights in eight years - and he hated each of those; and how soon we could hike again. Luckily good friends took care of Atticus every night – not that he enjoyed it, but it at least made it tolerable for me and gave me one less thing to worry about. And Memorial’s staff welcomed Atticus and allowed him to spend each day with me. That made things better for both of us. It was in those hallways of the hospital that we started to hike again, in earnest. We walked up and down those corridors together, just as we have over Franconia Ridge or across the Northern Presidentials. The only difference was our pace was much slower in the hospital. At first it was one lap, then two. By the time we left Atticus and I were doing fifty laps in that hallway; still slow, but oh-so-determined.

As for our next hike in the mountains? That will take some time. The tube sticking out of my side (a drain from the common bile duct) reminds me of that with every step, cough, twist or turn I make. It's a strange thing to look in the mirror and see a large scar that wasn't there before, but even stranger to see a tube with a large bag attached to it. I'm told it will be my constant companion for the next month and only after it is gone can I hike again or at least start working my way up to hiking again.

Throughout all of this seriousness, talk of life and death, in looking into the faces of concerned friends who were worried about me, I found myself leaning on a fresh memory for strength and inspiration. James Barrie wrote, "God gave us memory so that we can have roses in December." My roses were "picked" on the fifth of July, a stultifying hot night, when Atticus and I sat in the dark of night looking down on the lights of the Village of Jackson. Even though the sun had set we could still feel the oppressive heat. Atticus' pink tongue hung from his mouth and my sweaty shirt clung to my back as a few stars glistened through the haze above.

We were sitting at one of our favorite places, the ledges of South Doublehead. We'd taken our time walking up the steep Old Path in the dying light of the day and drank plenty of water to combat the high temperature and humidity. Normally we'd avoid hiking in such conditions but I had planned the hike for a year.

You see, Jackson is a small town with a population of about 800 and there's only one traffic jam per year. It's for the fireworks on Independence Day weekend. People come from far and wide and they gather in the village, spill onto lawns and sidewalks. Cars are parked everywhere. Fried dough concession stands even set up shop next to the Wentworth Golf Course. And while the multitude pulsed below and looked up at the sky with anticipation, Atticus and I sat far away from them and looked down with the same anticipation.

We sat and waited and waited and waited. The show was late in getting under way. Eventually though a flare shot up into the sky and exploded into a brilliant white flower below us. Then another followed and another. Soon fireworks were going off in rapid succession and we sat and watched from an angel's perspective.

The show lasted no more than 20 minutes, but oh what a 20 minutes they were! I'll never forget the sight of those colors bursting before and below us. How could I? Those 20 minutes will last me a lifetime. I knew it even as the last explosion took place and the echo faded into far off mountains as Atticus and I sat next to each other.

That’s what I was thinking about when the pain grew so strong I asked for morphine and the each cough sent stabbing pains through the incision in my abdomen. I thought about those ledges and the night sky and the echoes in a sea of mountains. I thought about how after the last flash reflected in our eyes how my headlamp led us down through the tangle of thick trees in the saddle between North and South Doublehead where mostly moose gather and how we slowly moved our way down the dark path, back to our car, back to civilization.

One of my favorite Emerson quotes returns to me time and again when I write about the mountains and I’ve used it here before: “Our faith comes in moments; our vice is habitual.” And so it was that the memory of our night on the ledges watching fireworks below us filled me with faith at a dark time. These are the moments we live for – beautiful moments; moments that carry us through the dark or tough times; like a lone star on a dark night.

I suppose lying there alone with Atticus in the hospital I could have thought about a lot of things, most of them unpleasant, but that’s the beauty of these mountains we live in. It allows us to see glorious things even when they are not readily available.

Nature is always there for us, always reaching out to us. At times it carries us through the worst of times – just as faith does.

Atticus is Fine; I'm Lucky to be Alive

A week ago Atticus and I had a plan to be in Newburyport to get his hair cut on Tuesday, stay with our friend Paul Abruzzi that night, and then be at Angell Animal Medical Center first thing Wednesday morning for Atti’s eye surgery.

We never went to the groomer, but we did end up in the hospital – only problem was it was a different hospital and Atticus wasn’t the patient - I was.

I’ll cut right to the punch now, then fill in the gaps. According to the doctors, I’m lucky to be alive.

Lately I’ve been fighting something I’ve termed a stomach virus. It starts off with a stabbing upper abdominal pain like two tiny creatures are having a knife fight inside my gut. The pain starts to descend towards the lower intestine a day or two later and the discomfort stays there for a bit. Then the chills and fevers start and last for several days.

I’ve always been the type who “wills” myself better. So when this “virus” first hit me over a year ago I thought it was food poisoning and sure enough, after ten days I beat it. It returned about a month ago at the end of this June, stayed for 10 days, then left. Over the next several days Atticus and I hiked quite a bit. Then, nearly two weeks ago, it returned. The initial pain wasn’t as severe but the follow-up pain was out of this world. Each night I’d sweat it out; each afternoon it would come back on me. Then came a night that was unlike any other I’d ever known. I felt like I was literally dying of thirst no matter how much water I gulped down, and I felt like I was being cooked to death.

Just before 8:00 p.m. that night (last Monday) I did something I’ve never done; I called 911 and crawled out the front door to await the arrival of the ambulance. When they picked Atticus and me up I felt like I was dying and my temperature read 104.9 degrees. They brought us to Memorial Hospital in North Conway, just 10 miles away, where nurses and the ER doctor started examining me. Meanwhile, while I was moaning and groaning on the gurney, Atticus sat up and watched over me from the chair and they were good to let him sit there and be with me until my friend Leigh picked him up.

Just before midnight a cat scan was performed on me from the chest down through my bowels and soon after things got really scary. I became non responsive to doctors and nurses for about 20 minutes. The only thing I remember about going under is hearing one of the nurses saying, “This is not good!” Then everything went black.

They took me to a different room and added something to my IV bag to spark me to life. Eventually, when I came around, it was clear how concerned the doctors and nurses were. That’s when I met William “Stuart” Battle, the man who was about to operate on me and save my life. The cat scan showed the gall bladder was the culprit and needed to come out but they had to stabilize me first and the stabilization took more than 16 hours after I first arrived at the hospital. My blood pressure was just too low. Meanwhile I downed liter after liter of intravenous fluid.

Stuart referred to my condition as “acute gangrenous choleocytitis with cholelithiasis and early septic syndrome and shock”. When I asked him what would have made it "late" instead of "early" he said "another two hours".

Around 3:00 pm on Tuesday, Stuart Battle and Bob Tilney, a surgeon who lives here in Jackson and knows Atticus and me, tried to remove my gallbladder by a scope but it was too far gone. They opened me up and went to work on what was a very unstable situation within my abdomen. As Bob later said, the infection was already in my blood system by this time and they had their work cut out for them in cleaning me out.

Several times throughout my stay at the hospital, which turned out to be just shy of eight days long, doctors told me how close a call I had but I suppose I didn’t want to hear it, but now that Atticus and I are back in Jackson, the thought hits home. Had I not called 911 when I did, I may have been too far gone to call it later and it would only be a matter of time before I was dead. And the surgeons continue to tell me that had I not had the gallbladder removed, I would most likely be dead now.

Obviously there are people to thank, including the two doctors: Dr. Battle and Dr. Tilney; a whole slew of nurses, lead by my nurse in the Intensive Care Unit, Maureen Murphy Ansaldi; and then there’s everyone else in the hospital who took such great care of me. What an amazing facility Memorial Hospital is. There's a real sense of teamwork there and doctors and nurses seem like equals. There is respect in each others' work and a sense of community.

I can’t thank Leigh Grady and her family enough for taking care of Atticus each night; and her friend and Wild Things co-conspirator, Leanne Galligan, for also helping out with him. As you can imagine, this was not easy on Atticus. Up until this past week we’d spent only three nights away from each other in eight years and he’s hated each of those nights. But suddenly we were thrust into a situation where we could not be together. Leigh and Leanne endured Atti’s near constant mourning and whimpering and whining. He did all he could to find his way back to me and they had to watch him closely. This means he had to wear a leash and a collar for a change.

Each morning Leigh or Leanne would drop Atticus off at the hospital, take off the leash and collar, and he would spend the day with me. Each night, against his protests, they picked him back up.

And let me tell you how wonderful it is to have a hospital like Memorial Hospital that understood the relationship between Atticus and me and allowed us to spend so much time together! Over the last several days we became a regular sight in the hospital as we “hiked” the hallways while I built up my strength. Atticus, as always, was patient with me, and kept the pace slow. But what mattered most to him was simply being with me. It’s all that has ever mattered to him. He’s always seen it as the meaning of his life and when I needed him most he understood it.

One of the nurses who were around me when I went non responsive that first night, tells me that while I was indeed unresponsive, I did say one word, first in slurred speech and then quite clearly. That one word was “Atticus”.

Luckily we are home. The scare is nearly passed. I have to go back on Thursday for another look to make sure the infection stays down, which isn't guaranteed. My insides are a mess right now and it will take some time to get back to normal, but luckily we’re through the worst of it. I do, however, have one hell of a scar and a drainage tube will be sticking out of me for the next several weeks.

I'm in the typical pain, but grateful to be alive. And I'm so grateful for the help we received from friends and from the amazing professionals at Memorial Hospital in North Conway.

(Because of the stress he’s endured, I’ll be putting off Atti’s eye surgery for a little while. We have time and he’s been through enough lately.)

Atticus To Have Eye Surgery

Next Wednesday Atticus and I will be returning to Angell Animal Medical Center. Dan Biros, his veterinary ophthalmologist, will be performing distichia cryoremoval surgery on both his upper eyelids.

Distichia are small extra eyelashes (cilia) that grow where they shouldn't be growing and in Atticus' case, cause corneal abrasions. It's irritating to the eye and I can see him squinting at times. And since Atti's eyes seem even more important to him than other dogs - because of all that unique and soulful gazing he does - I agreed with Dan Biros that the time had come to put an end to those irritating little lashes. All too often I see him squinting when he shouldn't be so the lashes are bothering his eyes. Dan's already yanked these little hairs out but the grow back again.

On Wednesday I'll be dropping him off at Angell early in the morning then I'll spend a rare day without him as I wander the streets of Boston waiting to pick him up. They'll put Atticus under for about an hour and freeze the areas on the upper eyelids where these lashes have formed and that will kill them. According to Dan, "Complications are rare but may include corneal ulceration, conjunctivitis, recurrence of the distichia. We expect some bystander alopecia (hair loss) and eyelid margin depigmentation at the affected areas. Vision should not be affected but rather protected by the cryosurgery. Postoperative swelling can last up to seven to 10 days but is most prominent three to five days after surgery."

As for that postoperative swelling, I'm told Atticus will look like a boxer after a match so he'll be up for some tender, loving care after its done. And he may look the tiniest bit different in some places where his very black eyelids could turn pink here and there. He may also lose some of those long lashes he has. But in the long run what's most important is that Atti's eyes will be better and it won't bother him to simply look out at a view.

The surgery isn't inexpensive, but his eyes are so very important to him.

If It's Really Tourist Season, Why Can't We Shoot Them?

Yesterday I watched a man talking with a telephone pole. He didn’t look crazy, other than the fact that he was in deep conversation with an inanimate object. Instead he looked like he could have been anyone’s neighbor. He appeared to be in his early 60s, a clean shaven, well enough groomed blue collar worker wearing a shirt with a name tag sewn on it. If I’d only seen him, and not the pole, I would have thought he was talking with someone else – perhaps using a blue tooth phone; except he didn’t look like the type who’d use a blue tooth.

We’d just finished up an appointment at Angell Animal Medical Center. It was 5:00 p.m. traffic along Boston’s Huntington Avenue was at a standstill. So I watched.

He was polite, didn’t talk over the pole, even took a moment here and there to allow for rebuttal. Not once did he raise his voice. It was a mellow conversation just like you and I would have. (This stands in stark contrast to a Newburyport City Councilor I once saw having a late night heated debate with a half gallon of milk in the Richdale on the corner of State and Pleasant Streets.)

People walked by and didn’t give it another thought. They didn’t even bother to look at the man. Imagine that. Imagine being so numb or too afraid to get involved that when you’re walking along the sidewalk in the middle of the city and you see crazy being played out in front of your eyes you just keep going as if the man doesn’t exist?

I watched the fellow with curiosity for quite some time and when three teenaged toughs approached something changed. They strutted, trying hard to look as though they weren’t trying hard to look tough. When they neared the crazy fellow he didn’t look up, but once they were within 10 yards or so he stopped talking. He looked relaxed and nonplussed – like he didn’t have a care in the world. But there was definitely a change.

It was a stultifyingly hot day in the city. The concrete, black top, steel and glass held the day’s 100 degree heat in the manmade canyon. In the middle of this sterile, oppressed setting nature took hold. The crazy fellow somehow knew he shouldn’t show he was crazy, not around those three. He reeled himself in and looked as dignified as a grandfather. As soon as the three toughs passed he started talking to the pole again.

Nature rules, even in a place where you can’t see much of it. We somehow know what we need and know how to protect ourselves.

The other day, another sweltering one, Atticus and I were here in Jackson. We kept our walks short and to the point but by early afternoon we both wanted to get out so we walked down through the short span of woods in the backyard to the Ellis River. When it’s hot and there’s not been much rain the water level is low and there’s no use trying to swim. Instead I sat in the water. It felt great – an initial shock that ebbed into a cool pool of water. Atticus, who’s never been a fan of getting wet, sat in the shade on the shore and kept an eye on me. We needed to be outside but he needed the shade while I sought the refreshing river. We were sitting there for several minutes not paying attention to much of anything when just 30 feet away I saw something stirring in the woods. It emerged from the darkness on the far side of Ellis River. It was a bear. I’d guess it was a 300 pounder. It wasn’t Butkus. It might have been State of Maine but I wasn’t sure. He stopped for a moment, glanced at us, took a drink while keeping an eye on us, then slowly waded across to Atticus’ side. I kept an eye on them both and they watched each other but neither said a thing. The bear entered the woods and made his way up towards the house. After he left Atticus walked over to where he crossed and sniffed around for a minute or two before returning to his seat in the shade.

I was not the only one to see a bear this weekend. Lots of people did. It was the Fourth of July and people were up from places where there aren’t a lot of bears and most were frightened whenever they saw them. Numerous calls went into the police and the Forest Service. This seems unfortunate to me, since the bears live up here and the tourists don’t. And yet when the tourists flip out and call the authorities. If the bear is still around its ear gets tagged. After it is tagged if it is reported again it is killed.

I watched a scene play out at 11:00 a.m. on Saturday. Atticus and I were walking back from the post office, the library and the farmer’s market and the street was relatively busy with weekenders walking the Jackson loop. When in broad daylight a bear crossed the street about halfway between the Thompson House Eatery and the JTown Deli. People screamed. Some oohed and aahed. Others were speechless. Funniest of all were the two upscale, well-scrubbed women in the middle of a power talk in the middle of a power walk who were closest to the bear. However, you wouldn’t know it. Nothing was about to deter them from their conversation about interior design.

Later that afternoon, around the same spot but a little closer to the Shannon Door Pub, another bear crossed the road. More excited talk, squeals of delight, some fear from the people walking in the area.

The skeptical person would suggest that the local chamber of commerce had asked the bears to make appearances for the tourists to give them something to talk about. But the truth is the bears are in a tough period right now. The shoots and other food stuffs that keep them going in the spring are gone and the berries are not here yet. So they’re out looking for food and in the process crossing paths with people. Most folks have nothing to worry about, especially if they are aware that bears live here, too. Bears cross paths with people and hurry on their way. They really don’t want much to do with us. (Can you blame them?)

Unfortunately for one bear this weekend, things didn’t turn out too well. It was up in Randolph, where Atticus and I hiked Mount Crescent last week. A couple walked out into their backyard and left the door open. A bear ran into the house and decided to help himself to the kitchen. When they couldn’t get the bear out they called the authorities and the bear was killed. Sad.

I now only keep our backdoor open when I’m sitting next to it at my writing table. Otherwise it is locked. Bears are smart. Many can open a door. When we go outside, even just down to the river, I close the door behind us. I don’t tempt State of Maine, Butkus or any of their brethren. It’s kind of like living with some of the dogs I used to have. You wouldn’t put food out where a dog could get it unless it was food meant for the dog. Why tempt the poor animal? Why put it in a position to fail? With Atticus I don’t have to worry about such things as he’s respectful of what is mine and what is his. But with most dogs you wouldn’t leave things where they could be tempted by them. Living in close proximity to the bears is a lot like that.

Unfortunately, most people don’t think of it that way. They see the world as theirs and theirs alone and if nature gets in the way they’d just as soon file a complaint. It doesn’t matter that survival of the fittest kicks in and nearly every bear will run away from people.

I suppose that’s the biggest complaint I have with tourists. I don’t mind Bike Week where grown men and women pollute the mountains with noise and live out some strange fantasy, or the weekend when Corvettes show up, or the silliest weekend of all – when Mini Coopers are as numerous as black flies in June. What I do care about are those folks who make life harder for the animals who live here year round.

A bear is not unlike that crazy fellow I saw on Huntington Avenue. It knows to take care of itself, to avoid conflict. If only tourists were just as sane.

Slide Show: Speckled Mountain

We had a beautiful day to climb Maine's Speckled Mountain over in Evans Noitch. The slide show is here.

Mount Crescent

Recently I fear I may have unintentionally offended a Northcountry News reader. She wrote to tell me she was done teaching for the summer and wondered if Atticus and I would consider taking her and her father on a hike. I informed her we nearly always hike alone and offered to make a few suggestions of where she could hike but I never heard back from her.

I was thinking about her on Wednesday as Atticus and I ducked into the woods. It was a perfect day for hiking. The air was a clean, crisp autumn cool and a gentle breeze swayed the green canopy of leaves as we walked along. The gentle wind stirred life into the foliage. Even in the darkest reaches of tangled wood, where death and life mingled together on the forest floor and gave off a sweet, musky scent, and rocks were coated with a thick, lush green moss. There was birdsong and splashes of gold along the sun-dappled trail and the slightest bit of magic danced just out of sight around the bend of the trail or behind some ancient tree.

Those very enchantments are the reason we choose not to hike with others. It’s not a matter of disliking company so much as it is of loving nature and the experience that comes with climbing along a rocky path and leaving a bit of myself behind with each passing step. Even in those moments of exhaustion where my lungs gasp for more air, my heart beats wildly, sweat runs down my face and I need to sit and catch my breath and wipe the stinging salt from my eyes there is something in all of it that adds to the experience of being alone. Bring along another and there’s conversation, which is not a bad thing, but it’s something I can do without in the forest. It’s one of the reasons that Atticus is a perfect hiking partner. We communicate without words and walk along attached by an invisible chord that runs from dog to man. Everything is shared – wordlessly.

When it comes to conversation I have a phone, a favorite restaurant and coffeehouse. People are, after all, everywhere. But salvation, I’m convinced, comes when we break away from mankind’s world and give ourselves over to God’s. May Sarton, the poet, wrote, “Whatever peace I know rests in the natural world, in feeling myself a part of it, even in a small way.”

When I do this: break away for a few hours or for an entire day and leave society behind I inevitably stumble upon myself and spend time getting reacquainted. It’s finding my peace, or maybe I’m finding my religion. Some people drop to their knees to pray, I find myself in prayer without even realizing I started. All I know that there’s something about the natural world that brings it about and sends me back home again.

I’m one of those who think that God wasn’t fooled by Adam and Eve. He knew all along they’d screw up and their supposed “sin” would become our “sin”. The way I see it is we get a gift of life and in turn each of us has to find a way back to the Garden again, no matter what it takes. But distraction is everywhere. Some find their center in community; I’m just not one of them. I find it without other people around, in a verdant wood with a little floppy-eared dog by my side. It’s ritual of renewal again and again, step by step, mountain by mountain.

On Wednesday we found our renewal along the Crescent Range, a little place that thankfully is overlooked by most hikers. And there’s good reason for it stands across the road from the majestic Northern Presidentials and their lofty and rugged peaks. Relatively speaking, 3,251-foot Mount Crescent is small beans compared to Adams, Jefferson and Madison, the second, third and fifth highest peaks in New England. Luckily Mount Crescent, is a lot like Atticus, and doesn’t realize it’s not one of the “big dogs”. It stands without arrogance or apology.

The trails are lovingly cared for by the Randolph Mountain Club, and they are not so manically hiked so as to seem like you are in a well-traveled place. The mountain has a wild feel to it and we didn’t see another soul the entire day. As a matter of fact, there was a far better chance of seeing a moose than a human. I didn’t even see a solitary footprint, not even in the mud, but evidence of moose were numerous and seemingly everywhere. There were even moments I could swear the moose were watching us and after we passed I imagined them coming out from their hiding spots and considering us.

The mountain offers a steep enough climb gaining 1,400 feet in 1.7 miles and like most mountains the higher we reached the steeper the trail became. Once on top of Mount Crescent we found a wonderful little ledge with an unrivaled view towards Cabot and Waumbek and their brethren along the Pliny Range. We sat and were chilled by the cool wind and shared our lunch while watching clouds pass over the green range. Then we were off again along the pleasant Crescent Ridge Trail on our way to Mount Randolph. Occasionally we’d look to through the trees towards the open space to the north, and then other times we’d see the Northern Pressies to the south and throughout it all we were surrounded by the solitude of the forest.

Eventually we made our way back to the car and soon we were driving along the road, headed through Gorham, passing by Kentucky Fried Chicken, McDonald’s, Burger King, Dunkin Donuts and other establishments. And just like that we were back again, back to society with its myriad of distractions and the hurrying from here to there. But that’s why we hike again and again, why we seek out the quiet of a stream; sit in a field; or atop a mountaintop. The perfect life may not be possible, but it’s the striving for it that reveals the magic.

Tennyson touched on that in the last line of his epic poem Ulysses: “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Going Viral

We've been quiet as of late. It has to do with a virus that kept me in bed for eight days and continues to nag at me. However, yesterday we did finally get back on the trails. It was a delightful day to explore Mount Crescent. The air was cool, felt like autumn and even was downright chilly on the ridge. I was happy to be back out there but my body struggled throughout the climb and it's clear I'm still not myself. But as you can tell by the photos, someone was thrilled to be out on a mountain again.

Caribou Mountain

“When ambition ends, happiness begins.” ~ Thomas Merton

A hike is a walk in the woods that turns into a meditation, then a prayer, and finally a song. It’s rhythmic. It’s your heart, breath and the sound of your feet. It’s simple. It’s a return to basics and a return to innocence. It’s finding yourself alone in the woods and seeing the streams, rocks, trees and wildlife and recognizing all of it as wondrous – and then realizing you recognize the same thing in yourself.

That’s why I hike.

And this summer we’re seeking those very experiences by limiting distraction as much as possible. We’re concentrating on going mostly to places we haven’t been before, on seeing things we haven’t seen, on seeking out earthen paths that are not as crowded as the morning line at the counter of your local Dunkin’ Donuts. To that end we’re going to be spending some time over in Evans Notch during the next few weeks.

Evans is not as well known as its big brothers: Franconia, Crawford and Pinkham; but it’s no less beautiful. And it’s not quite as ambitious. By that I mean the mountains aren’t sexy. They’re not name peaks. You won’t get a patch for hiking them or get your name on a list. They are simply mountains and you go there to hike them simply because you like to hike and to have your soul filled with magnificent views. And best yet, while they are rugged, none of them top 4,000-feet so the crowds stay away.

It also helps that Evans Notch is just a bit out of the way and sits in the cleavage between New Hampshire and Maine.

Our first hike in the area was last weekend and we set out at noon for Caribou Mountain, a 6.3 mile hike. When we pulled into the parking lot I was thrilled to see only a couple of cars.

We made our way up the Caribou Trail through sun-dappled woods that were mostly bug free. There was a whisper of a breeze and the trail was gentle and crossed over many feeder streams before it climbed along Morrison Brook and we came to various small waterfalls. Eventually we entered into the Caribou-Speckled Mountain Wilderness area and the trail was a bit thinner, the forest a bit wilder. We climbed higher and higher and still saw no one. There was something special about the day and the way the forest closed in about us. It grew darker, more foreboding and tangled and thick moss gathered on cool stones that rarely saw the light of day. We passed by beautiful Kees Falls (25 feet high) and when we finally climbed beyond Morrison Brook we came to the intersection of the Mud Brook Trail.

We took Mud Brook up to the ledges surrounding the summit of Caribou Mountain. We were alone and off in the distance in every direction there were fresh views. It was exciting and refreshing to be in a place where we’d never been before.

Clouds filled the sky and the only mountains that would have been recognizable to me – the Presidential Range and the Carter Range – were beheaded. It truly felt like an entirely different place. It was as not like being on Garfield for the tenth time or Franconia Ridge for the fifteenth time. It was as if we’d discovered an entirely new set of mountains.

Atticus and I sat on the summit and enjoyed our lunch and drank plenty of water. We then made our way down along the Mud Brook Trail, which was much steeper in its upper reaches than the Caribou Trail. Not far off of the summit we came to an open ledge that looked out toward Kezar Lake and we took another break. The sun broke through the clouds in places and turned some of the dark carpet of forest below us a golden green. Atticus found a small but lush tussock between rocks and made a bed of it. I followed his lead and used my backpack as a pillow. Together, with clouds as our blanket, we napped above the rich valley below. I’m not sure how long we slept for but we woke up rejuvenated. But we didn’t hurry on our way. We lay back and watched the clouds pass by and let our thoughts drift with them.

Merton, who knew a thing or two about solitude, wrote “Yet it is in this loneliness that the deepest activities begin. It is here that you discover act without motion, labor that is profound repose, vision in obscurity, and, beyond all desire, a fulfillment whose limits extend to infinity.”

Alone on that ledge that’s what I thought about. Not the loneliness Merton spoke of, but the rest of it – specifically the “fulfillment whose limits extend to infinity.”

That’s what this summer is about for us. It’s about renewal. We’re going where we won’t find as many people so that we can be filled with the peace of nature. On the way to reaching it the plan is quite simple – we just want to relax, get back to basics and find ourselves at play with the mountains we’ve come to love. No ambition. No lists.

We’re simply a man and a dog walking in the woods.

Slide Show: Caribou Mountain

Today we were in Evans Notch for a hike up Caribou. What a nice, quiet mountain. Only saw one other group today and we had the summit and the ledges to ourselves. We'll return to the notch later this week to climb Speckled Mountain to get the views of the beheaded Pressies and Carters we missed today. Our slide show from today's hike to Mount Caribou can be found here.

"State of Maine" Stops by for a Visit

Introducing Baby Red

I believe we are off to hike Caribou by the Mud Brook and Caribou trails today. It's over in Evans Notch, but with Hurricane Mountain Road open, the drive will be much shorter for us. And, if I am correct and North and South Baldface are actually in New Hampshire, this will be our first hike in Maine.

That's what June is about for us. We're not only trying to get off road and back to the basics of the vernal wood, but also to check out places we haven't been before.

This morning I received a photo of a rabbit in Belmont, Massachusetts, with the accompanying note that a coyote has been seen nearby. It's a reminder that nature exists everywhere. It also is a poignant setting for the fight for life and death. Coyotes have spread into civilized areas and need to eat to live. The rabbit, in order to live, must both avoid the coyote, but also the civilized world.

Here, through my backyard window, in front of which I type these days, I saw all the gaily chattering birds scatter in an instance when a hawk flew into view and landed on a tree branch overlooking their peaceful gathering. Last year a similar looking hawk dived into the yard and snatched up a woodpecker. The poor woodpecker let out a terrifying scream. It was the last noise it would ever make.

On the other end of the spectrum, Atticus knows not to kill the chipmunks for squirrels in the yard, but what fun he has in giving chase to them. All, that is, except Baby Red, who he is not allowed to chase. Baby Red is the newest member of our backyard cast of characters. And as you can see by the photo of Baby Red playing hide and seek: as cute as he or she is tiny. (I'm not sure who the two kissing red squirrels are, but I believe one is Baby Red's mother.)

Hall's Ledge

Our exploration of places we've never been to continued with the return of the good weather. Late in the afternoon we drove to the end of Carter Notch Road here in Jackson and hiked to Hall's Ledge. It's only 1.6 miles each way, but since we took a wrong turn, it turned out to be a bit longer. The late day lighting was superb, as you can see by the photos at this little clearing we came to. What you can't see are all the black flies. They were out in force. As soon as we'd stop they'd be all over us. (Thank goodness for bug spray.)

And this is State of Maine

Last night Butkus stopped by the back yard. This morning, as I was sitting by the back window writing, State of Maine came by for a visit. Although he only came so close, because, I believe he could smell the bigger Butkus was here earlier and he seemed a bit skiddish.

This is Butkus

You've met Amelia, our woodpecker with the horrible sense of direction. You've met her main squeeze, the jealous Bernard. You've met the She-munk, the local flirt. Well, meet Butkus.

He's a big old boy and a regular around these parts because of the restaurants in the area. He stops by two or three times a week, usually to tip the grill over so he can get to the grease pan. Other times he sits and grazes on the grass.

This afternoon, while I was in the tub reading Joseph Conrad's "The Heart of Darkness", while Atticus slept on a blanket beside the tub, we heard a loud noise outside the backdoor. By the time I got up and out of the tub and into the kitchen I saw Butkus walking away with our bird feeder.

I stepped outside and said, "Hey, Butkus...drop it!"

He turned to see me, dropped it, and then trotted towards the woods. But when he realized Atticus and I weren't chasing him and were just sitting down to watch, he returned. (That's a shot of him returning.)

I'm always happy to have Atticus as my friend, but as I've always said, there's something different about this little guy. Really now, how many dogs will sit and watch a bear with you and not go crazy? No barking. No whining. Just sitting and watching.

Earlier today he sat next to me as I fed a baby red squirrel out of my hand while its mother watched us from 10 feet away. There are times I'm more amazed by the little dog than the bears, beavers and moose up here.

To make matters even more exciting, as Atticus and I sat down to watch Butkus, a hummingbird buzzed right next to my head. (Okay, you hissy fit throwers, get ready to throw another because I've yet to put up the hummingbird feeder, but it's going up tomorrow.)

Any way, now you know Butkus. You've seen his photos before, but you weren't properly introduced. That's been taken care of. I'm sure you'll be seeing more of him in the future.

PS: In case you aren't aware of the name Butkus...as a kid he was my hero. Dick Butkus, that is. He was the middle linebacker for the Chicago Bears.

Give Me that Old Time Redundancy

Having just turned in my manuscript for “Following Atticus” to my publisher this week, Atticus and I needed to get out from behind my writing desk and out into the world. So I set a simple goal: hike a trail of some sort each day for the month of June, weather allowing.

We’ve simply spent too much time inside, or when we’re outside, walking along roads and sidewalks. We needed to get away from black top and concrete and feel an earthen path underfoot. It’s a very simple goal and it has nothing to do with completing a list or climbing certain peaks. Although some trails we take will get us to the top of mountains, but they won’t necessarily be 4,000-footers. As a matter of fact, most of them probably won’t be 4,000-footers. This is more about discovering new places and a return to innocence. There are many trails we haven’t been on so opportunities abound.

Our first adventure was a little mountain I’ve always wondered about. Pine Mountain is a fine peak, or so I was led to believe. There’s two ways to access the mountain. One is to walk from Gorham. The other is to head towards it from Dolly Copp Road. We chose the route that leaves Dolly Copp Road.

For the first mile or so, we walked on a dirt road until we came to a fork where we had to make a choice. If we continued straight we’d head towards the Horton Center, a religious retreat that’s not open for the summer yet, and bypass the summit of Pine Mountain, catch a trail there and cross over the peak and head back to our car. Or we could reverse the circuit.

I went with the first option, simply because I wanted to have the view of Mount Madison and Washington in front of us when we crossed the summit.

The most wonderful thing happened when we reached the Horton Center and found what I believed to be an un-named path that would lead us to the trail. The sign said, “A Pathway to God”. How could I not be thrilled? I mean, who wouldn’t want to walk along “A Pathway to God”?

So Atticus and I took it and I wondered what I’d say when we came face to face with the Creator. We climbed a jutting, tree-lined trail up to a prominence called “Chapel Rock.” Well, it certainly was a pathway to God because the walk through the sun-dappled forest was stunning. It was exactly what you daydream about when you haven’t been on a trail for far too long. As we spiraled up the trail towards Chapel Rock we eventually broke through the trees and came face to face with a curious scene: a small stone altar and a large, primitive cross, probably ten feet high. Beyond it was a stunning view of the Carter and Wildcat ranges and the green valley below.

Now I have no problem with religion or those who practice it, but I stood there with Atticus looking at that huge rough-hewn cross and the view beyond it and I couldn’t help but think of the arrogance of man. Seriously.

You climb a mountain to get its good tidings and when you get to the top you come face to face with what John Muir called “…the great fresh, unblighted, unredeemed wilderness.” Well, you do that everywhere but Chapel Rock where someone obviously didn’t think God could speak for himself.

Actually the entire Muir quote backs up my argument even more: “In God’s wilderness lies the hope of the world – the great fresh, unblighted, unredeemed wilderness. The galling harness of civilization drops off, and the wounds heal ere we are aware.”

But there Atticus and I stood, somewhat perplexed by that big cross. It seemed more like an obstacle to the view of God than what I’m sure it was meant to be.

I actually felt badly for the people who erected it. It’s more than a little redundant. And just knowing that mankind tried to put up a symbol that said, “Here is God,” while God was all clearly evident in the valley below and the mountains above, just seemed silly.

So Atticus and I did our best to ignore mankind’s folly by scampering around it to the top of the small prominence so we didn’t have it obstructing our view to heaven. And there we sat, with views like the one you see in the accompanying photograph. Look at it. Is there a better argument for God than that. A picture is worth a 1,000 words, or so they say, and that picture shows the world as it was meant to be.

When we left Chapel Rock I couldn’t help but think of my Catholic upbringing when we came face to face with that giant cross again, and how it blocked the view. I recalled Luke 23:34, and as we passed it I said, “Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.”

Luckily, when we descended for a bit, then climbed to the summit of Pine Mountain with its vast ledges with outstanding views, I noted mankind hadn’t tried to put his big, old, ugly thumbprint on the view. They just let it be. So Atticus and I sat and gazed; took a nap; woke up to gaze some more; and then had lunch. Now that’s religion.

What a Difference a Day Makes

One is of the Cartes, Cats, Pinkham Notch, Washington and Madison on Wednesday. The other is of Mountain Pond yesterday. Two distinctly different places. But both blessedly quiet and private. There's something for everyone up here.

Effingham Writers' Night features Tom Ryan & Atticus M. Finch

On Thursday evening, June 17th join us for Writers’ Night at 7 p.m. in the meeting room of the Effingham Public Library when Tom Ryan and his dog, Atticus will recount their adventures hiking in the White Mountains and talk about their upcoming book, Following Atticus (William Morrow Publishing, 2011). Musician, Matt Scott will delight the audience with compositions on his 1917 Harp Guitar.

Five years ago Tom Ryan, author of The Adventures of Tom and Atticus, and his dog, Atticus M. Finch, came to New Hampshire’s White Mountains for a weekend. His life hasn't been the same since. Tom Ryan was the founder and publisher of The Undertoad, a Newburyport, Massachusetts newspaper and went on to write the popular 'Adventures with Tom & Atticus' column in the North Country News and Mountainside Guide. During the winter of 2006-2007 Ryan and his dog Atticus M. Finch climbed 81 4,000-foot peaks while raising several thousand dollars for the Jimmy Fund and Dana-Farber Cancer Institute for the fight against cancer. Then, in the winter of 2007-2008 the duo climbed 66 4,000-foot peaks while raising thousands of dollars for Angell Animal Medical Center in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts. Because of their fundraising efforts Ryan and Finch were inducted into the Massachusetts Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (MSPCA) Hall of Fame as the co-recipients of that organization's "Human Hero of the Year Award" at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library. They were recently featured on Animal Planet's 'Dogs 101' television show. Ryan's book 'Following Atticus' is being published by William Morrow in the spring of 2011. He has also sold foreign rights to 'Following Atticus' in Germany, Italy and the UK. Tom and Atticus now live in Jackson, New Hampshire. Their website is tomandatticus.blogspot.com.

Writers’ Night will also feature musician Matt Scott. Matt has been playing guitar for nearly 45 years. Along the way, he has been influenced by the music around him – “classical”, “acoustic folk”, and “electric rock” genres and everything in between. In 1984, Matt became aware of a composer/guitarist named Michael Hedges, and began working on learning several of Hedges’ groundbreaking compositions. Since Michael Hedges’ untimely death in 1997, Matt is one of the few artists in the world today that performs these pieces live, including tunes on a 1917 Dyer Symphony harp guitar.

Join us on June 17th. Come to listen, or bring your own poems, stories or acoustic music to share. Mark your calendar; the third Thursday of the month is Writers’ Night at the Effingham Public Library. Writers’ Night is for those who write – music, poetry, prose, fiction, non-fiction - and for those who enjoy listening. Each month we will featured writers or musicians will be followed by an open-mic opportunity for others to share a piece of original writing or acoustic music up to 5 minutes in length. Enjoy light refreshments and conversation with other writers, musicians and artists. For more information, contact: Katie McCarthy, (539-7694) katiemccarthy@roadrunner.com, call the Library 539-1537. Check out past and future presenters on the Library Website: http://effingham.lib.nh.us/. The Library is located at 30 Town House Road, Effingham.

(Photo by Ken Stampfer.)

Slide Show: Pine Mountain

Recently I was looking back on our adventures together. Part of those memories entailed the heartache that came with Atti's blindness. With that in mind, I chose appropriate music for our hike today. You can see the slide show here.

Manuscript Went In Yesterday, We Went Out Today

Slide show to follow. Meanwhile, care to guess which peak we climbed?

Dog Held Hostage

In case you couldn't tell by the lack of posts on here lately, the picture of Atticus above should let you know I'm still writing "Following Atticus". The deadline to turn my manuscript over to the publisher is June 1st. I'll be nipping and tucking right up until that point.

I didn't expect it to take this long, but some horrible unforeseen circumstances exploded this past winter and things came to a grinding halt. I lost my writing voice and stumbled around in the dark trying to find it for quite a while. Eventually I started writing again, but the words came from my head and not my heart. That never works for me. They have to come out of my heart, and then be edited by the head.

Not to fear, though. Slowly but surely I found what I was looking for and it feels wonderful to be tapping away on the keys again. When it feels right, like it does now, it almost feels like I'm composing music. I get into it. I'll be writing and I'll laugh out loud at something I've written or feel tears running down my cheeks if it's a sad piece.

I've already promised Atticus he won't be held hostage starting this Tuesday, once our story is turned over to Cassie Jones at William Morrow. While she goes through it with a fine-tooth comb, we'll have three weeks or so where we won't be doing anything but walking, reading and sleeping. It's going to be great to get out on the trails again.

I expect June to be the most active month we've had in quite some time. That's good news for you if you come to our blog looking for photos because there will be plenty of them.

For now, allow me to direct you to a superb column by David Shribman concerning the Mount Clay debate. In case you don't know about it, there's been an ill-advised movement afoot to change the name of Mount Clay in the Presidential Range to Mount Reagan. Shribman, a Pulitizer Prize-winning journalist, is the editor of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette and he summers up here in Kearsage. (*Note that we could have linked to many different papers, but we chose our friend Dave Olson's, aka. The Fat Man of the Mountains.)