The Following Atticus Book Trailer

Excerpt (No. 2) from Following Atticus: Forty-Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, and an Extraordinary Friendship

Atticus M. Finch on the ledges of Mount Moriah looking
off towards the Carter and Presidential Ranges.

Last week we shared the first of several excerpts from our book, Following Atticus, with you.  We're back this week with another.  I'm often asked how I kept Atticus safe throughout our winter hikes.  Here's a passage that tells you who we dealt with it during our first winter in the White Mountains.  Click here to read the second excerpt from our book.

Kirkus Reviews On Following Atticus

Kirkus Reviews, which bills itself as "The World's Toughest Book Critics," reviewed Following Atticus and gave us a great write up.  Thank you, Kirkus.  It follows below in its entirety. 

Lyrical memoir of an adventurous New England journalist and his trusty canine companion.

Photo by Ken Stampfer.

Ryan spent many years single-handedly owning and operating the Undertoad, a newspaper covering the police and political beats (and their interrelated improprieties) in eccentric Newburyport, Mass. ("Norman Rockwell meets Alfred Hitchcock"). The author's journalistic exposure of local scandals didn't sit well with folks in power, however, and he feared violent retribution. Quelling his paranoia was the "commitment" of adopting an older miniature schnauzer. Sadly, his time with that pet lasted less than a year, but spurred him to adopt schnauzer pup Atticus Maxwell Finch. After a frustrating training period, Ryan and Atticus struck a harmonious human-animal rapport, a uniquely interactive relationship the author clearly reveled in. A few tastes of majestic New Hampshire mountain climbing with his brothers brought back fond memories of better days with his estranged father, a haunting presence throughout the memoir. That family hike challenged Ryan to scale all 48 of the White Mountain range's 4,000-foot peaks in 90 days with a dog Ryan fondly writes was "made for the mountains." The experience became therapeutic, transformative and spiritually enlightening for both. Without regret, Ryan retired the newspaper and, in honor of cancer victim Vicki Pearson, galvanized himself and Atticus to, again, hike the 48 peaks (twice!) as a cancer fundraiser. Rivetingly portrayed, both valiantly braved the vicious winter elements (Atticus in booties and bodysuit), but the dog's darker days were only just beginning. There's immense pathos in the frank depiction of the author's turbulent relationship with his father, both in describing his physical abuse as a youth or finding forgiveness in adulthood.

In befriending Atticus and carrying his father's memory to those serene mountain peaks, Ryan admits he discovered a rare peacefulness, a quality that underscores this touching chronicle.

The Bond

Seattle Kennel Club Reviews Following Atticus

The latest review of Following Atticus is in, and it comes from the Seattle Kennel Club. Among other things they write: “Following Atticus” is a compelling mix of simple and lyrical crafted in a vivid, cultural context. It connects powerfully with readers with its crisp wit, true grit and colorful mosaic of characters. In the process it beautifully captures the essence of the human-animal bond.

You can read the entire review here.

Following Atticus Makes Indie Next List

"Reader, beware! This is not just another dog book! When Tom Ryan welcomed Atticus M. Finch, a miniature schnauzer, into his life, little did he know what courage, pluck, and unwavering love he would get in the bargain. This is a beautifully written book about the very special bond between a man and his dog, an amazing quest, and the mountains that healed them." ~ Barbara Drake, White Birch Books, North Conway, NH

We are thrilled that Following Atticus has been voted on to the Indie Next List for the month of October!

And how nice is it that out of all the people from around the country who nominated Following Atticus it's Barbara Drake's quote about our book that was chosen! Barb works at White Birch Books, our local independent bookstore here in the Mount Washington Valley. Thanks, Barb! As well as everyone else who nominated us to be on this list of twenty notable upcoming books. You can see all twenty titles by clicking here.

Here's how the American Booksellers Association describes the Indie Next List:
"The Indie Next List, drawn from bookseller-recommended favorite handsells, epitomizes the heart and soul of passionate bookselling. Independent booksellers are and have always been discoverers of the next big thing, the next great read, the next bestseller, and the next undiscovered gem. The monthly Indie Next List flier, sent to members via the monthly Red Box and available for download online, includes a bookseller quotation and complete title information for each outstanding book. Each monthly flier also announces IndieBound hardcover Great Reads now available in paperback. The Indie Next List is also featured on the consumer website, IndieBound.org."

Excerpt 1 from Following Atticus

Over the next couple of weeks we'll be releasing excerpts to our book, Following Atticus. Here's the first excerpt. Hope you enjoy it...and be on the look out for more.

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.