A Few More Ken Stampfer Shots

That's Ann Stampfer drinking in the view from the top of Thoreau Falls with Atticus in the middle shot. If you're a hiker chances are you've seen Ann plenty of times on the trails - they've been just about everywhere in these mountains through the years - and you've probably also seen her in the pages of various Steve Smith books since Steve uses many of Ken's shots.

It's rare that Atticus and I hike with anyone else but we make an exception when it comes to Ken and Ann. They have always been supportive of our fundraising efforts and have been there for us in pretty much everything we've done since we met that first year Atticus and I started hiking. As a matter of fact it was Ann who believed I had a book in me before just about anyone else did. . . including me. Most importantly they also love Atticus and are his fairy god parents.

Ken Stampfer's Photos from Our Thoreau Falls Hike

Yesterday Atticus and I were joined by Ken and Ann Stampfer for the hike to Thoreau Falls. Ken, as always, had his camera in hand and took many great shots. These are just a few of them.

A Hike To Thoreau Falls (Dedicated to My Drainage Tube)

Why a dedication to the drainage tube sticking out of my side? Well, like George Harrison is about to tell you in his song, I've got some mixed feelings. The tube is painful and awkward and I really do want it gone. And yet having it there reminds me that I beat the odds and I'm alive, partly because of the poison it took out of my body when things weren't looking so good.

It has become such a big part of our lives. It dictates what we can and can't do. Some things (like yawning late at night, breathing heavily during a hike or sleeping on my stomach) are extremely painful. However, because of the drainage tube I was able to hike for the second time this week and that is something that made both Atticus and I extremely happy. How elated is Atticus these days? Well, I'll let the pictures show you! And just the fact that he allowed me to photograph him this soon after he suffered the world's worst haircut should tell you a thing or two as well. He's just pleased as punch that we are always together once again.

Today's hike was 10 miles on an out and back route to Thoreau Falls. It was a lovely day to be in the woods and the trails were mostly flat. This made for easy going which isn't a bad thing for our second hike of the week.

The slide show can be seen by clicking here. And not to worry, there are no photos of the drainage tube in the slide show.)

Our Hedgehog Hike

When it comes to the start of a hike Atticus and I are very different. I sit in the car at the trailhead, taking inventory in my head to see if I remembered everything and I consider the challenges awaiting us once we enter the woods.

I'm not sure how he knows it, but shortly before we arrive wherever we are heading to, Atticus ceases to sit and stands at the side window, looking off into the distance like the captain of a ship in days gone by seeking out land after so many weeks at sea. But as soon as we pull in he has happy feet and is anxious to get going. Watching his unbridled enthusiasm I always think of something Hafiz, the Persian poet, wrote: "The earth braces itself for the feet of a lover of God about to dance." For that's what he looks like: filled with joy and expectancy; a child on Christmas Eve. And yet as soon as we enter the woods our roles switch again. He's no longer the child; I am. He moves by rock and root, stream and tree with a calmness of one who is at home. I lose my mature self in the magic of the forest where birds I cannot see serenade us and the breeze shakes the leaves. No matter how often I enter the woods I am forever a visitor, awakening to the strangest of dreams for the very first time.

I've missed our hikes lately and watching Atticus on Tuesday I realized I am not the only one. He entered the woods, stopped and inhaled. I heard him sigh like he often does on a mountaintop. And I stood and watch him looking about that verdant land as if waiting to be recognized.

A lot of people ask me if Atticus acts differently since my surgery.

"Only on the trail," I tell them. "He stays closer to me than he used to."

Oh, it's not like he acted like some dogs who romp and roll through the forest and do the trail three our four times with all their galloping back and forth. He usually stays a constant 20 yards or so in front of me. But since the surgery he's now much closer. He knows it hurts for me to breathe deeply and he stops and looks back on me often with a concerned look on his face. He also seems to understand that I have to stop more often than I used to but this doesn't seem to bother him. He's home again, happy to be where he is, happy to be leading me towards the mountaintop.

On Tuesday we hiked Hedgehog. It's a favorite and we do it every year, sometimes twice. I chose it because it was step up from Black Cap in both elevation gain and distance, but not too much of a step up. As much as I'd like to be doing something longer and higher this drainage tube in myside reminds me not to get too ambitious. As it turned out, Hedgehog was ambitious enough. We went around the loop counter clockwise and stopped for a much needed break on the summit. We drank, shared almonds and a roast beef sandwich. We took in the views of the Tripyramids, Sleepers and Passaconaway (which looms above Hedgehog and looks more massive than it does from any other place I've seen it). There was a breeze and there were beautiful white clouds riding across the blue sky. In a few minutes I forgot all the pain I went through getting to the top.

From the summit we moved down to the next challenging part, a partly steep decent into the forest and there were places where I had to leap or run down a few strides. With each of these Atticus stayed behind and watched me with an appraising eye. Then when it was clear I was okay he'd join me. For the numerous times we've done the Hedgehog loop I never thought of that section as particularly challenging but everything's different these days. We're starting from scratch, learning to walk again by putting one foot in front of the other.

I decided to go counter clockwise because I knew fatigue would grow and I saved my favorite part of the hike for the second half. The East Ledges of Hedgehog are one of my favorite places in the Whites. There is a naturally formed stone couch that sits on a wide and deep flat porch of mountain rock. It drops off suddenly into rolling sea of lush green forest and that flows along until it starts to climb again, leading towards mountains named after some of the greatest Indian chiefs this land has known: Chocorua; Wonalancet; Passaconaway. We sat on the couch, drank some water and took in the view. We visited for a while and were pleased to have it to ourselves.

That's the great thing about a mountain. No matter how hard you have to work to get to the beautiful places, all difficulty is forgotten and all that remains is the grandeur. It doesn't matter whether the mountains is 6,000 feet or 2,500 feet. It's always the same.

Legend has it that when Passaconaway, the father of Wonalancet and the grandfather of Kancamagus, died in 1666, a sleigh pulled by wolves rose up flew through the sky, delivering him to Agiogochook, which is now known as Mount Washington. I took a long look at the mountain named after him, closed my eyes and imagined that sleigh flying overhead on its way towards Passaconaway's heaven. I then though about Passaconaway. I'm sure he would be relieved knowing that most of the mountains he loved were spared and protected from development, just as he would have wanted.

After spending time on the East Ledges and bidding adieu to Passaconaway we entered the forest again and worked our way back towards the car. It was slow down the trail but since we had nowhere to go it didn't matter. We simply had to make it down the mountain and back to our car.

That night as Atticus and I sat on the couch together a cool autumn wind teased us through the open window and I thought about how content we were. Six weeks prior doctors wondered if I was going to live. Now, we're back to climbing mountains again. Now we are back home again.

Slide Show of this Morning's Hike Up Hedgehog.

Today marks the six week anniersary of my surgery. The drainage tube is still in my side (and it still hurts). It makes it difficult to move quickly, bend over, reach for things, and most importantly...breathe. At night when I yawn the pain goes through my torso. And yet as slow as we moved today it was so worth going to the mountaintop. We both needed it. And although the five mile loop went slower than ever for us, we finished safely and we're now home relaxing and remembering a fine day on Hedgehog.

The slide show can be seen by clicking here.

On Hedgehog This Morning

The Atti-Cycle

As we gear up for a hike tomorrow with posts to follow, here's a shot just sent to us by Susan Dunker-Bendigo, the head librarian here in Jackson. It's from earlier in the summer when we had the Atti-cycle out to run errands. Susan got a kick out of it and took a picture.

Slide Show from Black Cap Hike Today

It was a little warm and a bit hazy but boy did it feel good to get back out on a mountain again. My body didn't always agree since I'm still recovering from surgery but this was simply soul work and I really needed that. Here's the slide show.

Four Weeks After the Day of Surgery

I think my doctors are more than a little surprised how much Atticus and I have been walking so soon after surgery. (After all, they weren't so sure I'd be leaving the hospital when I was at my worst.) Yes, as I reported last night, the tube and the surgical site still hurts and I have to be careful when I move. However, we're out and we're active. And if Dr. Battle and Dr. Tilney were surprised by how much we were walking before, I've got another surprise for them on Thursday when we meet to decide if I need more surgery or not. This morning we climbed Black Cap.

Now Black Cap is not the area's biggest mountain nor is it difficult to reach. But it is a good little workout even when I'm in shape. We've been up top several times before but today was a little different. I couldn't wear my hiking shoes. That would mean I'd have to bend over to tie them and that hurts a bit too much. I also didn't fasten the straps on my pack. That hurt too much as well. We went a lot slower than I've ever gone but I'm told by a friend we brought with us that she couldn't have gone much faster herself. And that's something else that was different: we hiked with another. As you know, Atti and I usually fly solo, but today I was a bit insecure and if I got into trouble I wanted someone there.

Happily there was no trouble. My side ached and this tube is causing it to throb as I sit here hours after finishing. But all-in-all it was a success.

For the past four weeks I've been living under other people's rules...to some extent. Today I took back some control and it felt good. There are times you just need to get out of your head and out on top of a mountain.

Four Weeks Ago Tonight

Four weeks ago tonight Atticus and I were given a ride to Memorial Hospital in an ambulance. Although I didn’t know it at the time things weren’t looking all that good for me. Oh, I knew I was sick and couldn’t make the trip myself – that’s why I called 911. I just didn’t have any idea how much danger I was in.

When the EMTs took my temperature I was 104.9. My blood pressure was extremely low. And I was in something called septic shock. I didn’t know much about it at the time but I’ve learned a great deal since then. This was all because of a gangrenous gallbladder that I weathered thinking it was a stomach virus. I was sick for more than a week, then hiked four out of six days, then was sick again for five days. On that fifth night I knew I couldn’t take any more.

As doctors have noted, it’s a good thing I called then. Had I not, I might not have been able to call and my corpse would have eventually been discovered.

And things were so bad within me, the poison of the sepsis was already in my blood when they cut me open the following day and I wouldn’t know it until after I was out of the hospital that my doctors were very concerned about me even after the surgery for six or so more days.

My doctors, Stuart Battle and Bob Tilney, have told me more than once how tough I am, how others might not have survived. They talk about my pain threshold and my fortitude.

I know differently. The day Bob signed me out of the hospital I had him show me how to change my own dressing so I could save money by not paying a visiting nurse. Well, that first night I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, Atticus looking up at me with more than a little concern on his face. Slowly I peeled back the large dressing that covered most of the scar, some wicking material sticking out of a hole, and a drainage tube coming out of another hole. The tube was long and ran down to a large bag and I was supposed to drain the bile from it each day.

I did okay at first and it took me ever to unwrap the bandages since I was being extremely cautious. When I first came eye to eye with the scar, the holes and the drainage tube I was okay. I didn’t feel nauseous in the least bit. But after about five minutes of standing in front of the mirror I started to feel faint and I had to go lie down.

I change my dressing every day and each day and while the wicking material is gone a small hole remains, I still see the long scar and the tube, while no longer emptying into a bag, remains. It’s always strange sight to see it there, sticking out of me like a tail. And every day when I look at it I get weak in my knees.

See what I mean? Not so tough after all.

To further prove my point: When Bob Tilney took the wicking material out and told me I could take a shower for the first time in two weeks I didn’t run right home and shower like you might think I would. I was afraid to. It took two more days before I could build up the courage to stand in the shower.

I’ll never get used to the tube and it hurts as much now as it did in the beginning. I suppose some of the pain also comes from the deep tissue that was cut open in the neighboring area. It takes a while to heal. But I associate the pain with the tube.

I’ve come a long way since my first day back in the house. I looked around the house and wasn’t sure how I was going to get around. And yet life is so different than it used to be. I think about every move I make now and calculate how much it will hurt.

Do I really want to get up for that drink of water? Am I really hungry? Can I put off going to the bathroom? How far can I roll over in bed before the pain kicks in?

The good news is that I’ve become pretty self-sufficient and Atticus and I get out for three walks a day: two of 1.6 miles each and a shorter one. This took some time to build up to and I can feel myself getting stronger. It takes a while to loosen up and my right hip is kind of sore because I favor that side without even knowing it.

Whenever I go to the hospital for a checkup (about once a week) either Bob or Stuart remark how strong I look and how it doesn’t look as if I’d had surgery. But I know better. I never feel as strong as they tell me I am but they make a point out of how far I’ve come, how I’m still alive, and how I’m progressing rapidly.

Last Friday Atticus and I were back at the hospital. He’s become a favorite there. Some have heard about the book and some just know about Atticus himself. While we were waiting for my appointment in radiology we sat in the lobby and seven or eight staff members came by and took his photo with their cell phones. He sits and looks at them as he’s always sat and looked at people who remark how different or cute or smart he is – like it’s no big deal. And they take his photo and go on their way.

Of course the nurses up in ICU and in the regular section fell in love with him. He was my constant companion when I was in there. My friends retrieved him every night, much to his chagrin, but he spent each day with me. We spent a lot of time walking laps together. These were our first steps towards taking a hike. They were, of course, baby steps. And unlike a hike, where he always leads me, in the hospital, while I struggled along slowly while trying to catch my breath, he walked right by my side as if he was going to catch me if I fell. He really is something else.

When we were in radiology a doctor shot dye in my drainage tube and it ran right up to the area where the gallbladder used to reside (they took out two thirds, leaving the remaining third because they didn’t want to endanger me – that’s how messy it was when they were in there) and the common bile duct. This was done so they can decide if I’ll need another surgery. I’ll meet with my doctors this coming Thursday and they’ll tell me how they think we should proceed.

There will be a drum roll in my head when they enter the room and tell me the verdict. Of course I’m hoping the surgery is all done and I can get back to living a somewhat normal life.

That’s what I was thinking about tonight as Atticus and I walked the 1.6 mile loop a lot slower than we used to. I thought about how nice it will be to let these holes in my body heal up and to eventually get rid of this hideous tube. I was thinking that as my right hip limped along a bit and I tried to move slowly enough so that the surgical site didn’t hurt. But more than anything, as I took category of all that took place and how close I came to losing my life I thought about what a gift such a night as this one is. Sure the walk went slower and I moved along with some pain but I’m alive – alive and able to enjoy a walk with Atticus.

Looking at him sleeping on the couch now as if he didn’t have a care in the world I'm reminded that it's the simplest things that matter most - no matter the cost of admission. Life is good.

The way I see things these days is not unlike how Robert Frost saw things in his four line poem "A Question":

"A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth."

A Happy Couple Drops in on Us

While in recovery mode things have been pretty quiet around here lately. So it was big news when two playful hummingbirds started coming around. I took these photos this afternoon and have yet to find a way to set my camera fast enough to catch those amazing wings. As you can see, I'm not the only one captivated by the fast-flying couple.

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.