The Extreme Athlete

Come What May

When the tempest begins, when the winds swirl and the rains lash and I lose my footing, that’s when I hold on to what we share – what we’ve always shared. I think of the simple things, the simple pleasures, the simple joys. I think of times I will never forget and how we got to where we are today and where we are headed.

I’m told that when our story is published less than a month from now it could get crazy. All writers should be so lucky. It will get crazy if the book takes off. As it is we’ll be on the road for the better part of three weeks. What first time author wouldn’t want that? And if things go really well, we could be back on the road again for who knows how long.

A friend of asked me, “Are you ready for this?”

Part of me doesn’t know the answer. The other part has been waiting for it my entire life. And so that’s what I told my friend.

“But how will you and Atticus stay centered if it does take off? How will you see to it that you both remain happy in the craziness?” she wanted to know.

The way I see it, no matter where we go, no matter what we encounter, the Little Bug and I have an advantage no one else has. If we are overrun by fans; or no one shows up; or the critics hate the book; or love it; or we are on the road so long we forget what our own bed feels like – we have a unique advantage.

We have each other.

So when we stand in front of a strange room with faces we don’t know looking expectantly at us and Atticus is sitting in the crook of my arm, whatever nervousness is coursing through my body I’ll think of the mountains. All those wintery peaks we’ve climbed, those miles through snow and ice and into the wind. I’ll think of how a good weather day up high is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen and the loneliest on the worst weather days. I’ll think of hikes started before dawn and finished after sunset when our only company at the end was my sore feet and the moon and the stars above. I’ll think about hikes where I felt like we were the only two left on the planet because we were so isolated.

But more than anything I’ll think about hiking with a little dog who surprised me from the very beginning. I’ll think about the friendship we share and the things we’ve seen. I’ll remember how he led me, until he went blind and then needed me to lead. I’ll think of how our most hopeless days were darker than the nights. And yet we made it through.

The advantage we have is that no matter what happens, we have each other.

And I won’t just be thinking of peaks where the temperature was fifteen below zero or the clouds draped over a mountaintop and took all hope away or the horrifying moments when the wind circled overhead like a great winged beast. Those are all memorable, of course. But I’ll also think of the softer times, the quieter times, the peaceful moments.

I’ll think about Chocorua as it was when we saw her last – just a couple of weeks ago – silhouetted by a ripe, round moon and how we could see stars falling off in the distance when we put that moon behind us. I’ll think about how just after midnight we reached the small table of her summit and sat side by side leaning against each other on a night cool enough to feel as if we were swimming through the air but not so chilly as to need anything more than a light fleece top. I’ll think of how we sat watching the miracles of the night and photographic negatives of the peaks fading into the distance and listened to classical music on a tiny, portable wooden speaker while everyone we knew was home asleep in their beds.

We were literally in a world of our own.

As we’ve always been.

Goethe wrote, “A talent is formed in stillness, a character in the world’s torrent.” I’ve come to believe the truest friendships are formed the same way: in both quiet and in wildness.

I’ll think about how after we sat on Chocorua’s summit until our eyes were so full we couldn’t drink another drop of the nighttime scenery that we carefully climbed off the highest and steepest reaches of the peak and then made our way like children through the night along the rock ledges looking out into the vast darkness on either side of us. And how when we reached Middle Sister, one of the sub-peaks, and readied to duck down into the trees and away from the views how Atticus stayed behind and sat down. He didn’t want to leave. So I joined him and we sat some more. This time without the music playing on my iPhone. This time with only the sound of his sweet sigh as I sat down next and he leaned his tiny body into mine.

There are some things you see and know you will never forget. And yet these pale in comparison to the things you feel and know immediately they are forever etched in your heart.

When we hit the road, two strangers rolling into distant towns with welcoming bookstores, Atticus and I will be traveling as no other first time author and friend has. Oh, I’m sure others have had their own secrets of success and comfort, but we have each other. And more than that there’s that sliver of magic that has always lived in the space between us in a world of our own making.

Let the storm come. Let the next adventure begin.

(*Photograph by Ken Stampfer.)

The Countdown Continues

New Hampshire Magazine Reviews Following Atticus in the September Issue

The Little Giant
An inspiring tale of a man, his dog and their quest

He might be small, but Atticus has a mighty spirit – one that helped him climb nearly 200 of New Hampshire’s tallest mountains in the winter (!), survive a brutal attack by another dog and endure a period of total blindness.

Oh, and his owner and companion on his ventures, Tom Ryan, is pretty amazing, too. Ryan wouldn’t mind that Atticus gets the high praise – he’s used to it. Ever since he adopted the dog he calls “The Little Giant” – and sometimes, when they are contemplating life together on the summit of a mountain, “The Little Buddha” – Atticus was the center of attention. And deservedly so.

In his book, “Following Atticus” [William Morrow] , Ryan skillfully tells the tale of the duo’s quest to climb all of the state’s 4,000 footers twice in just one winter, for charity and themselves. It’s a wonderful story of courage, endurance, discovery, deepening, anguish and joy.

I highly recommend it, and hope that some movie producer will see its potential for the big screen. The story would appeal to kids as a great adventure and to adults as a demonstration of how to live life to the fullest. –Barbara Coles

For a Personalized Autograph Copy of Following Atticus

If you would like a personalized inscription and autograph of Following Atticus when it comes out in September but can't make it to one of our signings, the good ladies at White Birch Books can hook you up. Simply contact them and they'll take care of the rest. Their website is http://www.whitebirchbooks.com/ or you can simply call them at 603.356.3200.

White Birch Books is our local bookshop and Atticus and I stop in several times a week. Simply give them a call, tell them what you want written, I'll write it and sign it, and they will send it off to you. They are well-versed in this exercise since they already do it for our neighbor, New York Times bestselling author, Lisa Gardner on an annual basis.

We love supporting independent bookstores and hope you support your local shop as well!

Following Atticus Comes Out Four Weeks From Today

A Letter Home from Mount Garfield (June 5, 2006)

I recently found a letter I wrote to my father back in June of 2006.

I wrote him many letters and often they'd appear in my paper, the Undertoad. It got to the point that even though Jack Ryan had never been to Newburyport, barely a day went by when someone didn't ask how he was...as if they knew him. And when he was injured in a car accident it was announced on the Newburyport radio station as if he was one of them. Gosh, I think he loved this bit of celebrity in a foreign land. My "Letters Home" turned out to be my most popular column and when I was back in Newburyport in April speaking about the book, one former subscriber asked, "How does your dad feel about the book?" When I informed the woman he had died a couple of years ago she looked sad, as if she'd lost a friend. And she wasn't the only one who looked that way for many who read the 'Toad felt they knew him - at least a little, because of my letters.

Because Jack plays a role in our book (Kirkus Reviews refer to him as "a haunting presence") I thought I'd introduce you to him.

* * * * * *

Dear Dad,

You would like it here.

You would like the way the rock abruptly ends and yields to a precipitous drop that leads to a vast expanse of green that stretches on for miles and looks so comfortable you’d think you could sleep on it. Garfield is one of my favorite summits for this very reason. It’s the contrast of gray stone above and green tree below and the various shades of forest that come together like a quilt in the Pemigewasset Wilderness and goes on that way until it reaches the hazy blue-gray of distant mountains.

From here the wilderness looks like anything but that. It appears peaceful, much the way the ocean looks from high above: no waves, no undercurrent, no danger, just a gentle rolling sea; peaceful, soothing. To the eye there are no trees, just a blanket of what looks like moss so lush you could feel its softness if only you could reach it to run your fingertips over it.

About now you’re sitting down to watch the Sox, but they will end up being rained out. Here in the White Mountains, there was until recently, a resplendent blue sky dotted with cotton ball clouds. Now the clouds have gone gray and stretched over the Pemi but they are not threatening. From time to time the sun pokes holes in the gray fabric to light the forest in a changing pattern of bright and dark greens.

If it weren’t for the black flies it would be a perfect day. It’s the first we’ve had in quite some time. Two weeks ago we walked through the pouring rain up to Starr King and Waumbek. The next day it was up the Osseo Trail to Flume and over to Liberty and down to Liberty Springs through mist and heavy clouds with no views. The following Saturday was bright, but hot and humid as we stood upon North and South Twin and then made our way to Galehead. The following day was the hike from hell. I melted in the high temperature and equally high humidity when we climbed Monroe, over Boott Spur and out to Isolation. On that final hike I broke down physically and the heat made the rocks on Boott Spur feel like a furnace, as if we were stranded on some strange wasteland. We stumbled out to the car at ten that night, tired, hungry, and thirsty. Yesterday on the way up Hale I was suffering again but by the time we reached the second stream crossing the humidity broke and I was reborn.

Today? Today is beautiful. Atticus, his dark hair a magnet for the hot sun, is happy the sun has decided to play hide and seek behind the clouds. Because of this his pink tongue is staying hidden.

As we sit here on this remarkably quiet summit we are surrounded by great mountains. To our left are the Twins and “little” Galehead. On the right is Franconia Ridge. Before us is Owl’s Head. (Oh, Owl’s Head, how I differ with most hikers when it comes to this mountain. I find it to be magnificent and self-assured and comfortable with what it is. Its large hump takes center stage from here. No need for a pointy summit. No need for rock above tree line or some dramatic peak. It is simply what it is and offers no apology for itself.) And off in the distance are the Osceola’s and Tecumseh and mountain after blue mountain.

I think of Garfield as the perfect front porch. It’s a front row seat to the world that stretches on from this point. Just sit back, put my feet up and I’m at home watching the world go by. It is a great pondering spot.

On this day, I could sit for hours and watch the sun and shade dance over the green below. It is mesmerizing. I am not the only one who thinks so. After a drink of water, some almonds and cashews, Atticus is taking in the scenes. I often wonder just what goes through his mind when he sits on top of a mountain and looks off in the distance like this. I’ve come to believe he enjoys these views from the top. Perhaps even more than I do.

If you could be here the only complaint you might have with this summit are the ledges. Your fear of heights would shake you if you got too close to the edge.

Recently I talked with another hiker about a shared fear of heights. We talked of ledges and slides and how when I’m atop them my legs quake and I feel gravity take hold of me, like a giant hand that’s about to reach up and pluck me over the edge. The other hiker told me of a different feeling, the worry is not so much about falling, but about coming face to face with the edge and taking a willing leap towards death.

I shuddered at such a thought and was reminded of that John Irving line that recurs as it is exchanged from one member of the Berry family to the next throughout the Hotel New Hampshire, “Keep passing the open windows.”

On those few occasions in life when life seemed unbearable I sometimes joked with myself to “keep passing the open windows.” But in all honesty, I don’t think I would ever have the courage to even consider suicide. Besides, the experience of life is just to interesting for me to pass up, at least at my age.

I find it interesting that you loved these mountains as much as you did and many of your children inherited that love from you, but the only 4,000-footers you have ever stood on top of are Cannon, Wildcat and Washington, where a tram, gondola, train, or an auto road reached. Because of that you have never been able to see some of the wonders I have seen this past year. Because of your age, your diabetes, heart, emphysema and everything else, the only way you will see some of these mountains are through my eyes, my photos, and my words. I try to remember that when I hike, try to be mindful of things you would find interesting, or be awed by. Unfortunately I fear neither photo nor word will ever do these mountains justice.

Today, while I climbed, I thought of you often. How could I not? Just a few days ago I discovered what you had been trying to keep from us: That 86 years is long enough and that you stopped taking your large inventory of medications and have decided to let nature run its course.

There’s something to be said for that. And it’s not like you’ve decided to stop passing the open windows. I understand there’s nothing left for you. You’ve grown old and tired. You feel broken and have missed mom for nearly 40 years.

Neither you nor I know how long it will be before your planned departure comes, but I want you to know that I am proud of you. It’s your life; it’s your choice. You are going out on your own terms.

Selfishly, I feel a little different about your decision. I will miss you. I feel foolish to have wasted as many years as we did in that awkward Irish dance father and son do. Too much time was wasted, time that can never be regained.

Knowing now more than ever that you will not always be there awaiting my phone call or my letters, I really wish you were up here with me today. Garfield was my first 4,000-footer and it is a love-at-first-sight kind of summit. I climbed it in September of 2004 and throughout the entire winter I returned many times in my thoughts. When the time comes years down the road, this will also be my last mountain. For when my ashes are spread, I think this is the place they will be launched from, so that I can be scattered over the thick, lush green wilderness below, surrounded by these mountains I love. These mountains you have loved, even if only from the valleys or from your recliner at home through fading memories and what I bring back to you.

You would like it here.

You would love it here.

Much love from your youngest son,
Tom (& Atticus)

Kirkus Reviews on Following Atticus

Publishers Weekly Review of Following Atticus

Library Journal Review of Following Atticus

His Heart

I couldn't help sending this series of photographs off to Rebecca Malakoff, Atticus's cardiologist at Angell Animal Medical Center. We had an appointment with her a couple of weeks ago to check out his heart murmur and Rebecca gave him a thorough going over, including an echo- cardiogram and an electrocardiogram.

His heart murmur was first detected by Maureen Carroll at Angell while he was in for a check up of his thyroid four and a half years ago. She sent us down the hall to cardiologist Gregg Rapoport. It wasn't much to worry about, he said, after giving Atticus an exam. But he also told me to have him come back for regular check-ups. Gregg has since left Angell, headed for a teaching position down at the University of Georgia - Athens. That's how we came to see Rebecca Malakoff. She's a wonderful doctor. (Haven't met one yet at Angell that I haven't liked and thought to be very professional and good-hearted.)

Atticus is now nine and a half years old. With his getting older I was a bit concerned over what would be discovered at the recent appointment. However, the tests showed that there's very little change in his murmur. There is a bit more leakage from the valves than there was four years ago, but it's so little Dr. Malakoff is not concerned with it. Still we'll keep our eyes on it.

When I was going through my photos of Friday's hike along Franconia Ridge I thought of Atticus on that table a couple of weeks ago, with strips of hair shaved off of his chest so that Rebecca could perform the echocardiogram. Then I thought of the wires that were hooked up to him and how when he was laying on his side I sat where he could see me, held his head in my hands as he held my eyes with his. From time to time his little, pink tongue flicked out and licked my hand, looking for reassurance. It was the only sign that he was uncomfortable in the least bit.

I decided I'd send this series to her so she could see what his heart allows him to do because some times it fascinates even me. I mean the pumping heart, not the loving heart. I've always have known what the loving heart can do...and yet there are times that continues to fascinate me as well.

A Breakfast of Blueberries and an Approaching Storm...August Is Here!

On the trail this morning the air felt different – cooler, cleaner, with a tiny snap of mystery to it. Then I remembered that we are now in August, and smiled. The bugs of early summer are gone and the high heat of July is thankfully also a memory. In August it can still get hot, but not as oppressive as July, and there hints of the next season come here and there. On the downhill slope of summer things just feel a bit better, more comfortable, and fresher.

I believe that when it comes to hiking there are only two months better than August: September and October. These are the prime hiking months. Long before the leaves change, the air does. Back in Newburyport the old timers used to look forward to what they called a sea change. The wind shifted and so did the atmosphere, if only for a short while, and so much freshness filled the city that you wanted to spend all your time outside drinking it in, filling your lungs with it. Here in the White Mountains this is the month when we get that same kind of change, but it’s different than it was back on the coast. Here it is not fleeting.

Our original plans for the day were scuttled when the forecast called for midday thunderstorms. When it comes to hiking the first and most important rule to follow is to take only what the Mountain Gods offer. And thunder and lightning is not an invitation to be on a mountaintop.

With the longer hike out the window, we settled for a leisurely walk up Black Cap in North Conway. It’s an easy climb with just over 500 feet of elevation gain, but the trailhead sits so high on Hurricane Mountain Road that by the time you reach the summit you’re standing at 2,369 feet and there are grand views unobstructed by the trees.

It’s easy to get lost on the rocky summit and the numerous ledges of Black Cap. Not lost as in “I don’t know where the trail is,” but lost as in a meditative way. About the only thing that has hastened our departure from there in the past are the number of people who can be on the trail at any one time. But this morning there was no one. Just us, the wonderful second day of August, and hints of the oncoming storm.

On the way up there is a fork in the trail and you can either reach the summit by those ledges in about a quarter of a mile, or take a half mile to loop round and come at it from the reverse side. We always take the longer, but easier route to the right. It’s not because it’s easier, because the ledges really aren’t all that difficult, it’s just because it brings us to a less traveled trail that has a nice out-of-the-way ledge that looks over at Chocorua and the Moats, and beyond to parts of the Sandwich Range. We have stopped there so often Atticus knows to turn down the little side path whenever we reach it.

Out of the trees and in the open, the air cooled us and we both sat and drank some water. I took out a few treats for Atticus and brought my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. I could almost hear the whisper of autumn in the music made by the turning and twisting and flipping leaves. Then I noticed we were surrounded by a tangle of blueberry bushes.

Like a child at Christmas I crouched down among the plants and excitedly plucked blueberries out of the bushes. I’d get ten or twenty in my hand and offer them to Atticus. Now let me tell you, Atticus has always loved blueberries so this was a welcome treat. Then the next handful was for me and we took turns that way. We were quite content in that spot for half an hour before heading back to the trail and to the mountaintop.

On the summit we settled down again and the breeze grew to be a gentle wind. Occasionally it would pick up and send Atticus’s floppy ears flying and we both relished the sweet coolness. While off in the distance, beyond the great hump of Mount Kearsage, the storm had rolled onto Mount Washington and the high peaks of the Presidential Range. We heard the roll of thunder, the boom, boom, boom echoing through the valleys and various ranges. The air was charged with the approaching storm and the two of us sat transfixed watching her approach.

There is nothing more exciting that an oncoming storm, especially up here...especially up high.

She hovered and seemed to grow over the Pressies, giving an occasional clap that was louder than the rest. Once she gained strength she moved south through Pinkham Notch, towards Jackson, and spread her great wings until I was awed by her reach.

She was coming and we were her witnesses. God, she was beautiful, casting the mountains in her shadow and mists.

She grew larger, fanning out as she approached. She was coming for us but I knew we had plenty of time to take cover and I figured we’d be back at our car when the downpour started. So we stayed just a little longer.

People wonder at the height of mountain peaks, at the raging rivers in spring when the snow melts, at seeing both moose and bear, but there is nothing as ferocious or enchanting as a storm flying wicked and determined on her route. Nothing stops a her when she is unleashed.

That’s what we were watching, feeling the tingle in the air and inside my bones. The boom, boom, boom grew louder like great kettle drums. Singular thunder claps sounded like gun shots whenever they exploded. Clouds grew darker, more dimensional, and day crept towards night at ten o’clock in the morning. How glorious!

By now Atticus was sitting right next to me, leaning into me. I’m not sure how long he’d been doing that or if he even realized he was doing it. We were both watching and it seemed as though neither of us wanted to leave the open ledges and our front row seats. But it wouldn’t be long before she was upon us so I said to Atticus, “Let’s go home.” At that we both got up. I grabbed my pack and we stood for a while longer to watch that great wing span of darkness looming over all those mountains.

Atticus nudged my leg with his nose. I picked him up and held him and still we watched her flying towards us. We did not want to leave. We wanted to spend time with her, to see her up close, but eventually common sense took over and I took a few steps down the ledges and put him down.

“Let’s go home, Pump.”

With those words he dropped his eyes from the sky to the trail and led us off the exposed rock and toward the trees. In the forest the air was even cooler and occasionally we would here the rat-a-tat-tat of rain drops falling on the leaves but we didn’t get wet. The storm was starting in earnest. She would save her best for a little later after we were back in the car.

And so our day started on a mountain with a breakfast of blueberries and Mother Nature putting on a great show. This was one of those mornings when I remembered just how lucky we are.

Touchstones

Sitting here at my desk, Mozart washes over me. The moon has replaced the sun, cool night has traded places with the heat of the day, and a candle flickers where a soft breeze invites herself into our little home. Atticus is sleeping close by and his nose points to the open window as if welcoming that gentle stirring. He’s sleeping as he always does, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. I envy him that. I sleep well; I just can’t remember ever being wrapped in so much innocence.

I think if anyone saw him like this they wouldn’t know the first thing about him. It’s like when people see him sitting up in the cradle of my arm. He looks like a stuffed animal and they get the impression he’s spoiled. Little do they know the miles he’s walked or the mountains he’s scaled, the ice, wind, snow, and heat he’s endured. I often forget it myself when looking at him. Especially when I see him like this.

However, I’ve been reminding myself of all those miles and mountains lately because I’ve been worried about him. His right hip has been nagging him for more than a month. He hikes fine. It only bothers him when he gets up off the floor. He takes a few steps while lifting that one limb up and moves along on three legs for a bit. No complaints though, no whimper, or look of sadness in his eyes.

It’s that hip that had us at Angell Animal Medical Center in Boston the other day.

In the week leading up to the appointment, the first of three we had at Angell on Tuesday, (the other two were check-ups for his long existing heart murmur, and his eyes) I watched Atticus carefully as he walked. No sign of a limp. But damn it, whenever he got up off the floor he looked like an old, wounded dog.

I now know that there is a direct connection between his limp and my heart. The more trouble it gives him, the heavier my heart sits in my chest. But as of late I’ve really done my best to think of him on our recent climbs instead: in the early morning through the blazing heat above tree line on Chocorua; in the pre-dawn hours on Jackson under a glowing ghost of a full moon; and an early evening hike up South Doublehead on the Fourth of July weekend.

I've especially been remembering the last one.

From the ledges of South Doublehead we watched the valley below grow dark; clouds sail leisurely along the mountains of Montalban Ridge and the Presidential Range, and the sun sinking inevitably below those shadowy peaks. And when all was dark and all was quiet the first burst could be seen below our feet. Then came a second. Fireworks exploding. One at a time; then several in a row. Varying colors and sizes. How wonderful to look at them as if they were flowers there one moment and gone the next? The sound of them followed the sight of them and then lived a little longer as they echoed through the valley and the nooks and crannies of these ancient mountains.

When the grand finale came, the sky below – how often do you get to say that? – was afire and we both watched, his head next to mine as we stood on the edge of a cliff and I held him in my arm. I saw the colors reflected in his eyes, star bursts coming and going; and I saw the intensity in the sense of wonder in his gaze. And then I felt it within me.

His innocence always leads me back to myself.

After the show ended and smoke hung lazily below us but above the valley floor, I changed my mind and instead of heading home we climbed North Doublehead, too. The forest between both peaks is rich and teeming with life and we came upon a porcupine and stopped about ten feet away.

“Gentle,” I whispered and crouched down. Atticus sat next to me and under the blaze of a headlamp so bright it made night feel like day, we watched that porcupine as he turned his back to us and showed us his quills. Strangely though, after a bit he looked over his shoulder, dropped his armor, and turned to watch us. After a minute or two waddled off the trail, leaving the two of us looking at each other, and there was that sense of wonder again, that innocence.

We reached the top of North Doublehead at 11:00 and no one was in the cabin so we took the short path through the trees behind it and stood on the natural stone steps looking off the eastern side of the mountain into Maine. I turned off my headlamp and we sat together watching the stars above and the distant lights of civilization twinkling below.

Such things I will never forget.

I was thinking about Chocorua, Jackson, and especially the Doubleheads while we sat in the antiseptic waiting room at Angell on Tuesday. Atticus upright on the wooden bench next to me; (sans leash) watching almost curiously as numerous other dogs were led by on leashes and cats were carried around in carriers.

That’s the secret we who climb and love mountains hold dear – you never climb a mountain just once. It’s with you forever and always waiting for when you need it most. And when you fear that maybe your mountains are numbered and there could be an end to it all, you hold them all the more dear.

When the doctor came for us I told him about Atticus’s hip. He asked questions, felt around, tested his range of motion, and shrugged. Seemed fine to him. Then he took x-rays. Nothing to see there either. He double-checked with the radiologist. Still nothing.

My worst fear was arthritis, maybe a hip replacement, perhaps an end to his summit sitting. But all that was said was “Just take it slow for a bit. Otherwise he’s fine.” (And since then, he has been.)

Three hours later we were with Atticus’s ophthalmologist. He had been considering doing some minor cryosurgery on some irritating lashes. But wouldn’t you know it, they were gone. All but one. No surgery needed.

And the last appointment, I approached that one with a bit of caution for he is getting older, was with his cardiologist. Major tests were done and yet his heart murmur hasn’t grown more than a whisper of a breath in four years.

I had gone to Angell aware for the worst, worried about innocence that could be lost, and Atticus being separated from his mountains and in a strange and wondrous twist, things couldn’t have turned out any better. And so it seems we have more mountains to climb, more wonders to share, and more memories to make together.

Life is fleeting and I’m happy to say we’ve never wasted much of it. As a matter of fact, that afternoon, in the three hours between Atticus’s first appointment and his next two, we drove out to Medway and made yet another memory. I hadn’t been there since 2009 for there’s been no reason to go. But I felt like we finally had that reason. Medway's the little town I grew up in, the place where my parents are buried.

When you read our book you will see that I don’t remember much about my mother. She died when I was young. But my father…he’s one of the few characters in the story - and what a character he was! He would be secretly thrilled that Kirkus Reviews wrote that he is, “…a haunting presence throughout the memoir.”

During the hour we had before heading back to Angell, Atticus and I sat on the grass, the little dog under the shade of a graveside shrub, and Jack Ryan’s youngest son leaning against the headstone. I said a few prayers and then I started reading out loud. I read Following Atticus to my father just as he used to read to me. I read and read. I read every bit he’s in and then some.

I’d like to think he would have loved it.

Mountains are there when you need them, but not all the mountaintops are in New Hampshire. Some can be found in an animal hospital where nothing is found wrong, while others – well, they exist wherever father and son connect. They are the touchstones to what matter in life.

The Following Atticus Book Tour

Following Atticus will be published on September 20, 2011 and we'll be kicking off our tour in North Conway at White Birch Books. Then we'll be hitting the road. Come on out and meet both of us and get a signed copy of our book.

Check back often for updates.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011
WHITE BIRCH BOOKS
2568 Main ST North Conway, NH 03860

Wednesday, September 21, 2011
BROOKLINE BOOKSMITH
279 Harvard St Brookline, MA 02446

Thursday, September 22, 2011
NORTHSHIRE BOOKSTORE
4869 Main ST Manchester Center, VT 05255

Friday, September 23, 2011
JABBERWOCKY BOOKSHOP
Mill # 1 50 Water St Newburyport, MA 01950

Saturday, September 24, 2011
THE MOUNTAIN WANDERER
,
Sunday, September 25, 2011
TOADSTOOL BOOKSHOP
12 Depot SQ Peterborough, NH 03458

Monday, September 26, 2011
BANK SQUARE BOOKS
53 W Main ST Mystic, CT 06355

Tuesday, September 27, 2011
NEW CANAAN LIBRARY
151 Main ST New Canaan, CT 06840

Wednesday, September 28, 2011
BROWSEABOUT BOOKS
133 Rehoboth Ave Rehoboth Beach, DE 19971

Thursday, September 29, 2011
FOUNTAIN BOOKSTORE
1312 E. Cary ST Richmond, VA 23219

Friday, September 30, 2011
CHESTER COUNTY BOOK COMPANY
975 Paoli Pike West Chester, PA 19380

Saturday, October 01, 2011
MORAVIAN BOOK SHOP
428 Main St. Bethlehem, PA 18018

Tuesday, October 04, 2011
NEW ENGLAND LIBRARY ASSOCIATION

Friday, October 07, 2011
BARNES & NOBLE, Newington, NH

Wednesday, October 12, 2011
BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY

Thursday, October 13, 2011
NEIBA

Saturday, October 15, 2011
SCHENECTEDY COUNTY PUBLIC LIBRARY

Simplify.

Kindred Spirits

Atticus and I have just returned from Pudding Pond. The day has a carefree, breezy, September feeling to it, with the leaves gently twisting and turning about and an occasional ripple seen on the water. Tomorrow the roads of the Mount Washington Valley will be choked with traffic for the holiday weekend and their mechanical whine and roar and the beeping of horns will be heard in those gentle woods, but today it’s peaceful.

When we walked around a bend near where the beavers have built a dam at the northern end of the pond, we encountered an elderly gentleman enjoying the peace and quiet. I didn’t want to interrupt him as he contemplated the water but when we drew near he turned and asked, “Is that Atticus?”

This gentle man’s name is John and we talked for a good twenty minutes while Atticus sat patiently either watching us or the pond. I’m guessing he is in his early 70s but when he told me of Boomer, a dog he lost two years ago, he could have been a boy. Watching his old eyes turn young, I smiled.

“He lived to be fifteen,” he said. “But he had cancer and he got worn down in the end but we still got out every day. One day I was sitting down on top of a mountain in Stowe and Boomer came and sat down next to me.

“I felt him lean against me and I knew he was telling me it was almost time to say goodbye.”

John paused, and he smiled while remembering his friend.

“It was the most intimate thing I’ve ever felt – to share that moment with him. I’ve never felt anything like it before or since.”

It would have been a sad thought for most, but I liked how this old man framed the memory. He considered it something special. After all those years together, after numerous adventures shared, two friends were getting ready to say goodbye.

Atticus is only nine, but lately I’ve noticed a catch in his rear hip. When he’s spread out on a dog bed or on the floor and stands up he lifts his right hind leg for two or three steps. Used to be I was the only one of us who limped after a hike, but his limp started a few weeks ago after a traverse of the Moats. He was fine during the hike, fine hopping out of the car, and had no trouble climbing the stairs to our apartment. It was only after a few hours of sleeping that he limped.

Four days later we hiked Caribou Mountain in Evans Notch and he was just fine. But that night the limp returned. Over the next week, especially during rainy days, the limp was clearly evident but only on the first three steps. After that it disappeared and he walked with a normal gait.

I made an appointment with Christine O’Connell, our local vet. I hoped it was Lyme disease because that’s something a bit of medicine can straighten out. My bigger fear was arthritis. Atticus finds himself on a mountaintop and I can’t imagine him enjoying life much if he can’t be up on top of one every now and again. Luckily, Christine said it was neither and even complimented his range of motion – especially for a dog his age. The problem is more muscular than anything else. So each morning and night I massage his hip and he lets me stretch it out and take it through range of motion exercises. He still limps when he takes his first few steps after lying down but at least now I feel like we are doing something about it. If it persists we’ll head into Angell Animal Medical Center and enlist the help of a specialist.

I figure no matter what it is; he and I will find a way to work things out, just as we always have. And yet while my bigger fears have been assuaged, I realize he’s not as young as he used to be. There were some hikes when we went over twenty miles where he would limp just the slightest bit the next morning but it never lasted long. But it’s never been like this. I’m smart enough to know that time does not stop and the years wear us down.

I was thinking about that as we climbed the Edmunds Path on Monday. We walked up the gentle grade at the beginning of the trail through the early morning diffused light of a lush green forest with spongy moss and healthy leaves all about. We climbed higher and reached a steeper section of the trail and we stopped to rest often, not for him, but for me. Our stops never last very long. Sometimes it’s just ten seconds, other times thirty. On rare occasions I sit down and when I sit he does too. It was while we were sitting there in that forest that I looked at his bright eyes and that little pink tongue and smiled.

These are indeed special times. These memories we’ve made, and are still making, will last my lifetime. Even something as simple as sitting for a spell in the woods on the side of a mountain casts its spell on me. How special it is to share that silent sacrament with another.

I’ve come to think of Atticus’s aging as a gift, for no longer am I deluded by my youth or his. We are both on an equal playing field these days. Even if he were to live another nine years it would still be too short a time for my liking. It’s like it says in Pooh’s Little Instruction Book: “If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.” Who among us who has known the company of a good dog can’t relate to that?

So these days I am thankful for not only where we’ve been but also for every experience we will encounter between now and the end of our time together.

On Monday, when we climbed above the trees, looked towards the towering Northern Presidentials, and found our way across the tumbled rocks on the trail to the intersection with the Crawford Path, I watched Atticus move as easily as he always has. And I did as I’ve done hundreds of times before, I watched this little dog who is so dwarfed by the great peaks of New Hampshire take his place among them as he sat and took in the view.

During our twisting climb up the switchbacks to the summit, I followed Atticus as I have for five years and when I stopped to rest he could sense I stopped and he did as well and waited for me.

At 4,780 feet Eisenhower is the twelfth highest peak in New England. Its flat top serves as a fine front porch that looks out at Franklin and Monroe, Washington and Clay, Jefferson and Adams. Even being so close from that twelfth highest peak, the others loom like giants in their varied shades of green from emerald to dark and the clouds cast shadows over the ravines and forests, rocky tops above and gentle valleys below. The dimensions are vivid and almost too colorful to comprehend!

There we stood together, Atticus and me, looking out at all of that. Eventually I picked him up and our eyes looked out at those mountains. I heard his familiar sigh and the comforting feel of his body leaning into mine.

So today when I heard old John telling me the story of how old Boomer leaned into him and offered an intimacy he’d never known – even though he’d been married and had children, well, I could relate.

Following Atticus: The Book Trailer

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Following Atticus Facebook Giveaway

As you can tell by this photo, Atticus loves his Bio-Cuddler from Muttluks. And when we go on our book tour he'll have on along for the car ride. He also loves the Bio-Mat from Muttluks as well and spends time sleeping on that as well.

Over on our Facebook page we're giving away one of each when we reach 800 'likes'. So come on over and join up. If you are already a member send your friends over to our Facebook page.

A Good Question

During my eleven years running a newspaper in Newburyport I found two things I’d always wanted: a place to call home; and a family. That small, charming city on the North Shore of Massachusetts was the first place I ever knew that felt like home. And the friends I met there became the close family I’d always longed for.

When I was there I watched a few of them move elsewhere or saw a few die of old age. Either way I was left brokenhearted. Then, three and a half years ago Atticus and I were the ones to leave. Now we look back on fondness on those years and our friends who remained behind tell me they miss us. One of those friends is in his late eighties and quite a remarkable man. Until he recently collapsed in his apartment, he’d never spent a night in the hospital his entire life. Unfortunately he’s spent quite a few of them there lately and he now resides in an assisted living facility. Time marches on…even if we wish it wouldn’t.

The other day Atticus and I were sitting with him in his new room and he asked with a worried look on his face, “How are you doing? Do you have enough money? Do you have a good life up in the mountains?”

I put my hand on his and told him not to worry. “Life is good, Ed.”

“Really? You don’t miss the life you used to lead here? It was a very exciting time.”

“No, I don’t miss it. I love the mountains. They feel like home.”

It’s a simple question and one we should ask ourselves from time to time, “Do I have a good life?” And I’ve thought about my friend and his dwindling days and his question a lot over the past week.

The day after we saw him Atticus and I parked at the end of Zealand Road and walked the four and a half miles through Zealand Notch to Thoreau Falls. Spring had come to the northern portion of the White Mountains. The trail was surrounded by new growth on the ground below and on the buds at the end of the tree branches above. Varying shades of green greeted us as we made our way over rocks and roots, across numerous footbridges, and along the tumbled-down boulders that used to be part of Whitehall Mountain. There was a gentle breeze that kept the bugs away and made the walk along the old railroad bed quite pleasant. When we arrived at the top of Thoreau Falls we sat on the rock slabs next to the high-rushing water and I took off my shoes and felt the chill of spring as I dangled them in the current while Atticus drank from the edge while staying dry. We shared our lunch, watched birds come and go, took some photos, and then returned the way we came.

On another day we set out late in the afternoon to climb Mount Tecumseh. Now some in the hiking community poke fun of the shortest of the 4,000-footers, a distinction it shares with Mount Isolation at 4,003 feet high, but they’re being shortsighted. It may not be as tall as Washington but it’s a tough climb and there’s a stretch a little over a mile long where you feel like you’re stuck on a never-ending rocky Stairmaster. Toward the top the trail levels out for a bit before it comes to a junction where you can go right or left. Both paths take you to the summit but for some reason each time Atticus chooses the path to the left – I think because it looks like it goes up while the other one wraps around the mountain. Having reached our destination we sat and ate and drank once again before making our way down the mountain. However, instead of walking back the way we came, we made our way over to the ski slopes of Waterville Valley and walked down the steep-slanting grass through the growing afternoon shadows. The advantage of taking the ski trails down is that it saves your knees and feet from the twists and turns of the rocks on the trail, but you feel it in your quads even more. The other advantage is that on the open slopes there are some wonderful views of the Osceolas and the Tripyramids you don’t get anywhere else.

That night we returned to our home here in Jackson by way of the Kancamagus Highway but it took a little longer than usual because we stopped and watched a Bull Moose eating in a pond.

A few days later we returned to Zealand Road and climbed Mount Hale, another 4,000-footer. In less than a week the green of the forest had gotten richer and looked more like the deep green of summer even where the sun splashed down on top of it and left bits of gold here and there. We started out later in the day and the heat and humidity made the mountain seem steeper and taller than it actually is. But by the time we reached the top we were rewarded with a refreshing, cool breeze that had us forgetting the difficult climb almost immediately.

Last night, while walking along the Wildcat River we saw a funny little branch with fresh greens swimming upstream against the current. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it was but we were captured by the attempts of that little branch to go where it was most difficult to go. And sitting there watching it for a while I finally realized that branch was attached to a beaver. After a bit that beaver gave up trying to swim upstream and instead came ashore not ten feet from us and started eating that little branch. He thought nothing of us watching him eat his dinner and we all sat and kept each other company for quite some time.

After leaving him we came to the tiniest of toads and I almost stepped on him. He froze underneath my hiking boot. Just as we had with the beaver we stayed with that little toad for quite some time.

Throughout all of these little adventures where we mingled with nature: sometimes working hard to get to where we were going, other times sitting and just enjoying a waterfall, beaver, toad, or moose, I thought of my elderly friend and his question.

He and I both know his days are numbered and worrying about me gives him something to hold onto. Since he asked me that question I’ve been writing him a long letter and it has included each of the things I’ve just written about. My conclusion is that I indeed lead a grand and fortunate life. Where I once catalogued the comings and goings of a city wrestling with the growing pains of gentrification as it tried to figure out what it wanted to become – and this all this all too often had to do with writing about the shortcomings of people – I now spend my days with a little dog watching the wonders of life unfold on a daily basis. And I keep coming back to something Camille Pissaro wrote, “Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.”

You see, that used to be me. I was one of those people who looked at a tree or a bird or a sunrise and saw nothing. It took a little dog and a lot of mountains to remind of the important things.