Being Boston Strong, My History With The Boston Marathon

This weekend I turn 52-years old.  As a gift to myself I'm
returning to running for the first time in 22 years.

I'm at the tail end of a bad cold and the last thing I wanted to do was climb a mountain.  The first thing, and what I've mostly been doing, is rolling over and going back to sleep. 

Then Monday came.  Not just any Monday but Boston Marathon Monday.

It used to be my favorite day of the year.  As a kid we had it off from school and were charged with excitement because of the early morning reenactment in Lexington and Concord, the morning start of the Red Sox game, and, of course, the marathon itself.  Growing up in the suburbs of Boston only a couple of towns away from Hopkinton and having an older brother who was a great runner who ran in the race when only a teenager and being nurtured on the legends of Johnny Kelly, Tarzan Brown, Clarence DeMar, Johnny Kelly the Younger, Jock Semple, and Katherine Switzer, I couldn't help but be seduced by the drama of the day.  To me these people weren't mere mortals - they were gods capable of superhuman abilities. 

On one of those Patriots Days when I was young I was one of four friends relaxing in the shade on a neighbor's front porch listening to the race and we all made a pledge to run the marathon by the time we were twenty-five.  But those were the days before my legs went bad.  In junior high and high school I spent the better part of two and a half years on crutches.  Four full legs casts immobilized my left knee, one did the same to my right.  There were also two surgeries on the left knee to combat the problems in my legs and when the surgeries were completed the doctor was pleased. 

"You'll be fine.  You'll be able to walk without trouble but don't plan on being any kind of an athlete," he said.

I believed him.  For a while.  But as my teens turned to my early twenties I remembered that front porch pledge we four friends made and I tried running.  It wasn't easy.  As a matter of fact, back then it was always painful.  But I knew pain from those earlier years and I knew I could deal with it so I ran on.  Not far, just enough to say I was running.  Maybe four miles.  I never entered any races but always thought about one.  The one. 

Patriot's Day is the third Monday of every April.  The date floats.  As fate would have it my twenty-fifth birthday fell on the day of the marathon.  With a few months to go I upped my mileage.  Still not very far but I was still running.  Ten days before the race I ran the farthest I'd ever run - 11 miles.  Somehow after that I knew I could do it.  When the day came I lined up with the rest of the "bandits" (unofficial runners) in mass behind the numbered runners who had qualified.  Before even reaching Heartbreak Hill I wanted to stop.  I'd run fifteen miles and I'd had enough.  My head dropped, I put my hands on my hips, and admitted defeat.  Around then I felt a tug on my arm and a fellow said, "Come on, if I can do it, so can you."  I wanted to reach out and slap the man with the voice and tell him about my legs and their troubled past.  When I looked up he was standing next to me looking quite lean and fit and . . . with only one leg.  The other was a prosthetic.  His name was Pat Griskus and on that day he pulled me along with him and we ran several miles together.  Eventually I finished in just under four hours while Pat set a record that day for a runner with a prosthetic. 

I would run Boston for the next four years and graduate to Ironman Triathlons...three of them.  The first was on the Cape, the next two in Sunapee.  All the while I looked as out of place as I have on the mountains.  I was never chiseled and lean.  I had strong legs, a strong heart and lungs, but a double chin.  Those experiences in my late twenties would later fuel my belief in my endurance in these great mountains we hike in.  And once you run Boston it is always in you.  It's part of who you are and will always be.  It made me believe in myself. 

So on Wednesday, with the unthinkable actions of the previous Monday in my head and sunken heart, with the thought of three dead - one an eight year old boy, and legs amputated and other limbs lost, not to mention hopes and innocence lost, I decided that my cold would have to take a back seat while we sought our reality.  We didn't hike too high or too far.  Instead we worked slowly up a steep section that wears me out at my best and I stopped often, coughing and sneezing.  I ached a bit, wore my fatigue like a heavy coat, and took a seat more than I'd like to admit on the way up.  But there on that slow climb I sat sweating, catching my breath, watching spring fight through the last remnants of snow and ice, and heard the birds sing - and I could feel the mountain come to life and me with it.  

 

We climbed to some of our favorite ledges, I lay on my back looking up at the sky and when I was rested I sat up and took a seat next to Atticus who was looking out at distant mountains and down at a nearby lake.  I thought of the life we led back in Newburyport, a forty-minute ride from Boston...a life filled with chaos and the corruption I covered in my newspaper and what now in comparison looks to be a dizzying pace of life and I was thankful for these mountains of my childhood we rediscovered together.  Sitting up there surrounded by nature I said my prayers and everywhere I looked I saw God.

John Muir has a great quote that goes like this: “The gross heathenism of civilization has generally destroyed nature, and poetry, and all that is spiritual.”  I thought about those words and how crazy the world can be and how it seems as though it's getting crazier all the time.  I thought about those who would terrorize us, those who would destroy not just nature, but the nature within us and a totally different thought came to my mind.  When I remember that horrible day I will not remember one person's horrific deed, but the reactions of so many more.  I'll remember that some runners, having run twenty-six miles, decided there was something more important than rest and ran an additional two miles to Mass General Hospital to donate blood.  I'll remember the doctor who ran the marathon and then went to work and operated on some of the victims.  I'll remember the incredible humanity of the first responders who ran toward where the bombs were exploding to help others.  When I think of these things I understood that terrorists will never win - if we don't let them.  Humanity is too strong for that. 

And this is why I climb mountains.  It's for the perspective.  It's for the way it sets my mind straight and helps me see what's most important.  Most importantly nature and the mountains resets my soul.

Life is not about what some would take away; it's about what we put back into it.  it's about possibilities.  Whenever I get tired climbing a mountain I think about my first Boston Marathon and how an amputee stopped to help a full-bodied young man who was ready to give up.  That spirit has stayed with me and always tells me that anything is possible.  It's what makes me and so many others Boston Strong.

Another Great Adventure for Will

Will has decided to stick around for a while...and become a television star.

As of late we’ve been enjoying the bridge between winter and spring by taking several adventurous hikes.  There were trips up Cabot, Moosilauke, three of the southern Presidential peaks, the Moat Range, and even the simple but scenic Boulder Loop Trail.  However, as I as sit here writing this I’m thinking instead of a hike that’s yet to come.

A year ago, in a state without any mountains, an elderly dog – deaf, mostly blind, and arthritic – was dropped off at a kill shelter by the only family he’d ever known.  (They had reportedly grown too old to take care of themselves, never mind the old dog.)  Imagine what that had to feel like for him: to be fifteen with hindered senses and left in a strange, cold, and unfamiliar place far away from home.  Imagine the shock to his system, the fear, the sense of betrayal.  Even worse, imagine the utter hopelessness.  Understandably the little dog was angry and flashed out with his teeth whenever he could.  Sometimes he did it, I’m sure, not out of anger, but because he was in so much physical pain.    

To add insult to injury he was hungry, had been crated for so long he paced in circles and didn’t understand freedom, thought little of stepping in his own feces and often his hips were so weak he’d fall in his urine and didn’t have the strength to get up.  He just lay there suffering in his own waste.

Who would want such a dog?

His prospects for another chance were grim.  When all was darkest, all hope had to seem lost, someone at the shelter with a big heart reached out to the New Jersey Schnauzer Rescue and let them know of this old dog and impending death sentence.  The good people at NJSR swooped in and saved “William”.  But saved him for what, you might ask.  Sure, he would no longer be put to sleep, but what kind of life would he have and who would want to adopt him? 

That’s about the time we were asked to help find him a home.  And we did – ours.  We understood it was only a temporary arrangement.  We were simply giving him a place for the last month or two of his life (if he made it that long), and were affording him the opportunity to die with dignity. 

Before we met him and I realized how bad off he was, I had hopes of getting him up a smaller mountain in hopes that he would get something out of it.  Then I met the poor little wretch and knew that wasn’t going to happen.  He couldn’t walk very far and he was in such pain and had so little trust that whenever I picked him up he tried to bite me.  That very first day I wondered why anyone had bothered to keep him alive. I felt the humane thing would have been to put him out of his misery and I wondered how long it would be before I did that.   

Well, May became June and June turned to July and by this time Will was a bit stronger.  He ate well, slept plenty, and learned to trust my touch.  There were still flashes of rage and I had to be careful how I handled him so he wouldn’t turn on me.  When September rolled around Will surprised us by making it to the autumn and he even appeared to be getting younger. 

When October arrived we reached my original goal, which had seemed absurd that first day.  Will made it to the top of Pine Mountain with the help of a wheeled cart, not unlike a child’s stroller.  We pushed him up the dirt road, up part of the rocky and root-crossed trail, and even carried it in places.  It was a grueling day and you could ask why we did it if this little dog was so far gone, even with the advances he’d made?

The answer is an easy one for me.  I believe in the magic we find here in the White Mountains.  I believe this is a special place and that the mountains are here for anyone…even a little deaf, arthritic, and mostly blind dog with trust issues. 

After I had announced our plans to get him to the top of the mountain there were “dog experts” who questioned my sanity and felt what we were doing was cruel but we did our best to ignore them.  And because we followed our hearts instead of their advice a funny thing happened that day.  When I held Will in my arms as Atticus sat by my side on that flat summit, that once-angry little dog who couldn’t see much of the view reached out and did something he’d never done to me.  He licked my cheek.  A simple kiss.  He then lowered his head against mine and looked out with his cloudy eyes.  And there we stood sharing the view together, just as Atticus and I have stood thousands of times before.

I won’t pretend to know how much he could see and I don’t imagine he could hear any of the bird song or the way the wind sighed in the autumn leaves.  But it was clear that something changed that day.  Will, who had been mending a bit, became even younger.  He grew closer to us and more appreciative.  For the first time he started following us around our apartment and wanted to be included in what we were doing. 

Now I’m sure there could be many reasons for this but my romantic heart likes to think it had something to do with the same magic Atticus and I have felt in the mountains since the first day we climbed Mount Garfield in 2004.  And why not?  You don’t have to see or hear to feel love or magic or the presence of God, no matter which god you worship.  The Abenaki Indians knew this was a special place.  So did the White Mountain Artists who flocked here in the 1800s along with writers like Hawthorne, Thoreau, and Emerson. 

If Will’s story had ended that day it would have been a fitting conclusion to his life and while we would have missed him, we’d have been quite happy for him and for ourselves to have witnessed his redemption.  But it didn't end there.  The unexpected happened.  He lasted through the winter months and now while the snow melts he’s bouncing around, not like the sixteen year old who has several special needs, but like one who understands he’s been given a new lease on life. 

Will can walk, but not very far, and his ears still don’t work, and his eyes can still only see shapes and shadows, but he now loves being held, and I’d like to think he loves this life we’ve given him.  He greets each day with a dance the first thing in the morning – an enthusiastic, twisted, drunken, half-pirouette which often ends with him tumbling over and sprawled out on the floor like baby Bambi on ice.  And yet he gets up, dances again, falls again, and does it all with joy. 

His body may be broken but his heart has grown strong at the broken places.  The little guy is straight out of a Frank Capra movie and is as joyous as George Bailey was at the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” 

Will's become every happy ending we could hope to see.  Except there's one catch.  There doesn’t appear to be an ending in sight. Instead Will is busy writing the next chapter of his life.

Last September, Atticus and I were invited to hike with Willem Lange and the “Windows to the Wild” film crew.  We took them for a five mile hike up Hedgehog and told them a bit about Will and his redemption, which back then was nothing compared to what it is now.  The show aired last week on New Hampshire Public Television and ratings went through the roof while on-line hits were astronomical.  The show’s producer emailed us and asked if we’d like to do it again.  And we are.  But this time we’ll be joined by one more.  This time we’ll be taking Will to another mountaintop by pushing him up in his Will Wagon and they will capture this trek on camera for all time! 

You cannot imagine how much this truly thrills me.  Not only does it prove that no matter how bleak our prospects may seem, no matter how dire and dark and hopeless, there’s always a reason to go on – just as Will has.  It’s a perfect lesson in faith.  To believe in what we can’t see. 

It also pleases me in another way.  Too often there are some who think these great mountains we live in belong only to those with great physical abilities: to the endurance athletes, the fitness fanatics, and the peakbaggers.  But I prefer to see the White Mountains as more universal, just as the Abenaki did, as did the White Mountain Artists and Thoreau, Hawthorne, and Emerson did.  To me they are beyond words and comprehension because of how they make us feel. 

Here in the White Mountains anyone can be inspired and renewed.  It is our own Eden where each woodland trail, sparkling stream, and mountaintop offers us a glimpse into vast but simple mystery of what it means to feel the miraculous and to feel alive again.  And we’re all invited to experience the magic of it all.  Even a sixteen year old mostly blind, completely deaf, once hopeless dog.  If you doubt me, just tune in next autumn when the show airs and see for yourself.    

The Choices Made On One October Hike Continue To Shape My Life

Life is about choices and Will has chosen to live.

We lost a good friend recently.  The cause of death was the past.

When Atticus and I moved north from Newburyport I began my life anew.  Some would say that it wasn’t dire that I make such a drastic change because I had a pretty darn good life as it was, but after seeing what the mountains had to offer and who I was when I was in them I surrendered to our new adventure to see what would come of it.  I sold my newspaper, The Undertoad, said goodbye to many friends I wouldn’t be seeing as much of anymore, and stepped boldly (if not a bit nervously) into my new life. 

I brought only what was necessary, leaving behind many possessions, and I shocked friends by even leaving behind all the copies of The ‘Toad.  More importantly I gave myself permission to leave behind much of the stress, anger, drama, and chaos that used to fill my days. 

On one of the first afternoons Atticus and I lived in our little place just south of Franconia Notch, we set out on an afternoon hike up Cannon Mountain.  It was midweek and we had it all to ourselves.  We reached the summit, sat high atop the tower, and looked down at autumn as she spread herself beneath us everywhere we looked.  Until that day I had mostly hurried up and down every peak we climbed but something changed on that hike.

While we were on top of that viewing tower a smile slowly spread across my face, my eyes crinkled, and with only Atticus and the mountains as my witness I laughed long and hard as if I had just been told a great joke.  My little friend nudged my leg with his nose like he wanted to hear the joke as well.  I lifted him up in my arms and there we stood, slowly looking out in every direction.  His body relaxed into mine and I heard him sigh and then I did, too.  All the while that smile stayed on my face. 

The afternoon sun washed over us and we lay down on the platform, my head resting on my backpack, his on my chest, and took a nap.  I have no idea how long we slept for but when we awakened I was refreshed.  

We took our time walking down the grassy ski slopes and after a while the pine trees gave way to October’s colorful foliage and the sun dropped lower in the sky and eventually behind the mountain.  We were draped in a pleasant late afternoon shade and every now and again I found myself laughing.  How mad I must have sounded to the mountain gods that day – a man breaking out in laughter for no apparent reason. 

Throughout the afternoon we hadn’t seen another person and as we rounded a bend four souls turned their heads to look at us when they heard the laughter. We stopped where we were, Atticus sat by my side, I smiled, and gave the onlookers a wave.  They simply watched us bemusedly, I imagined, but didn’t say a word.  Then again bears don’t talk.      

We had stumbled upon a mother with her three cubs playing in the grass and when it was clear we weren’t a threat they went back to what they were doing.  When it was clear they weren’t a threat I sat down next to Atticus and we watched them frolic and tumble over one another.  Occasionally the mother bear would give us a look but seemed to give us very little thought otherwise.  We must have sat watching them for half an hour on that perfect afternoon. 

It was on that day that I finally understood I had escaped a life that wasn’t bad, but wasn’t the life I was meant to lead.  When that family of bears disappeared into the woods we made our way down the lower stretches of the mountain and I made a promise to myself. 

In spite of what some of the critics of my newspaper would say – or those I exposed, I’m no fool.  I understood then, as I do now, that life throws a lot at us and we can’t escape the ups and downs that challenge us.  We can, however, decide which ones to deal with.  I decided then and there that the only drama I would allow in my life was the kind that was unavoidable.  The real life and death kind.  People get sick or hurt or lose their jobs or their homes.  Life happens and it's not always pretty.  You can't avoid that kind of thing.

 Not long ago the woman I love asked me, “Don’t you worry about anything?” 

“Yes,” I said.  “I worry about you and Atti and Will but that’s about it.” 

On that October day five years ago I swore off negative people and those who didn’t add much to my life so that I could better appreciate those who did.  I let go of much of whatever it was I was angry about from my past and came to the realization I was responsible for carrying it with me all those years.

Bobby Kennedy loved quoting Aeschylus, “And no one was angry enough to speak out.”  The Undertoad was many things and it helped shape a city but part of that came from my being “angry enough to speak out.”  However, its impact came with a cost. 

Each day brought something new to be angry about, people who loved chaos and lies, and I found myself choosing to live in the darker shades of life.  A lot of good came out of it all in the community I loved.  Lies and scoundrels were exposed; heroes celebrated.  But trying to right many wrongs for eleven years in a seething little city took its toll on me.  Nietzsche wrote, “Be careful when you fight monsters, lest you become one.”  At my best I did wonderful things; at my worst I looked into the mirror and saw too much that I didn’t like.

And that’s why I was laughing on Cannon Mountain.  I finally gave myself permission to leave that old life behind.  Like a snake I shed my old skin and I could feel the past dropping away. 

A renewed man was born on that hike and I was free to choose what I wanted to be and do for the rest of my life.  I’d fought my battles and demons outside and in, but the mountains gave me a new chance.  By following Atticus over thousands of miles and hundreds of mountains I discovered my bliss and learned to enjoy life's simpler pleasures.

Since that day I’ve done my best to ignore the unnecessary stresses. The old newspaperman in me can see a toxic person from a mile away and I steer clear of them whenever I get the chance.  In my Undertoad days I was quite outspoken.  If you’ve ever seen me at a book signing you’ll know that part of me still exists, but it comes with a smile these days.  Deep within, however, I reserve my old edginess for those who aren’t so nice and I guard my happiness and those I care about with all I’m worth. 

So recently when a friend who meant a great deal to us repeatedly exhibited that they couldn’t let go of their drama-filled past and actually continued to welcome it into their life in a way that impacted our friendship I made a difficult decision.  I knew I had no right to ask that person to change, so I made the choice to say goodbye.

It’s not easy to lose a friend because lord knows true ones are hard to come by and I didn’t take my decision lightly.  It only came after we had many discussions. 

Not an hour goes by where I am not saddened by the loss of our friend.  But here’s the thing, I don’t question my decision. 
 
Life is too short for the things that don’t and shouldn’t matter.  More importantly we define our lives by the choices we make and the boundaries we keep.

Whenever I’m weary over the loss of our friend something I do several times a day reminds me what’s important and how I should live.  As many of you know, Will cannot make it up and down the stairs on his own and we live on the second floor.  Whenever he has to go to the bathroom I gently hoist him up and we hug each other, his head next to mine, and I carry him outside.  This was something that was impossible and dangerous to do in those first days we were together.  Will had been abandoned and was in great pain. He was angry and came with his own wagonload of drama and I knew to avoid his teeth whenever I tried to pick him up.  Back in May, when he first arrived, he didn’t like being touched all that much or carried and my hands still carry the scars of that first couple of months. 

Today you wouldn’t know he’s the same dog.  Gone is the anger and the pain.  Gone is the resentment and his own share of drama.  He let it go and let love and trust and a new life in. 

So you see, whenever Will is cradled in my arms I’m reminded of the me I saw on Cannon Mountain that October day.  We both arrived here in the White Mountains a bit worse for wear and had to figure out how to get to where we needed to be.  

Life is made up of choices.  I made a choice that day and continue to choose a better life than the one I used to lead.  Since he came to live with us Will has made the same choices and that has made all the difference - in both of our lives.  

A Song of Renewal

 

When I let friends know we were adopting Will, a fifteen year-old with special needs, I heard a lot about the heartache that was sure to follow.  I heard about the vet bills and the way we’d never have the benefit of truly knowing him and we’d only witness his demise without any of the joy that comes from living with an animal.  I heard of the way his last weeks or months (if he lived that long) would be utterly depressing and would drain our home of happiness. 

When Will first arrived I was indeed heartbroken.  For before me stood (barely with shaking legs) an angry, betrayed, neglected, and perhaps even abused dog.  There were many temper tantrums.  There were flashing teeth and threatening growls.  There were the challenges of getting him up and down the stairs without an all-out war breaking out between us because he didn’t always want to be touched and hated being picked up.  And yes, the vet bills came fast and furious right from the beginning, especially when we decided to do something about his rotten teeth.

He was in such a miserable state back in May I wondered why anyone had bothered to keep the poor wretch alive.  I even talked with our vet about how long I should give him and I cursed myself for taking in a dog only to have to put him to sleep. 

I told myself we were simply giving him a place to die in dignity and on his terms.  But it’s now February and March is coming and soon after spring will be here and looking at Will…well, he doesn’t look like he has plans to be going anywhere sometime soon.  He likes his new life, enjoys the luxury of many beds to choose from, and his contented snores fill our little home as happily as healthy food fills his once tiny belly and pumpkin stains his whiskers.  This in itself would be enough to make me happy about the journey we’ve taken with Will.

But there’s more.

What thrills me is that he’s not waning, as I would expect of a sixteen year old who came with rotten teeth, had been crated far too long to be humane, and was clearly neglected through the years.  It’s just the opposite.  He’s entered into a second puppyhood.  He’s become a geriatric puppy where wonders abound on a daily basis for him.

Sure he cannot always see them and he never hears them but he certainly is aware of them, even if at times he slips and falls on his way to getting to them . . . or us. 

And to be honest, that’s the part the delights me most of all – the “or us” part. 

Numerous treats and several beds to choose from in a warm home where he’s free to walk around is one thing, but what makes Will live is what makes us all live.  It’s his heart.  It’s love. 

He’s not just surviving, he’s thriving.  And it’s because of love. Our love for him, his ability to accept it, and now his ability to return it to us. 

In Will’s case the Beatles were right, “All you need is love.” 

After we returned from our hike on Saturday we walked in and there was Will stretched out on his bed.  In the first couple of months we’d return to find him that way and he wouldn’t even know we were back. He’d sleep for another hour or two.  On Saturday though, he lifted his head up immediately, ignored the age in his old bones and the creaky joints, and did his best to run to us and chase after us.  It was a beautiful scene – little happy and excited grunts rising from somewhere in his throat, his front legs kicking up like a horse bucking, his back hips not able to keep up so his leaps turned into half leaps, but with an abandon to them that was nothing less than joyous. 

Remember when you were a kid and you had that nightmare where a monster was chasing after you and no matter how hard you tried or fast you ran they were always right behind you?  You slipped, tripped, and stumbled and all the time they got closer and closer and the anxiety and panic rose in your dream.  With Will, it’s the same thing, only reversed.  All of it.  He’s doing the chasing but there’s no way he can keep up.  He stumbles, he slips, and his back hips just can’t propel him when he chases us.  And best yet, there is no anxiety or panic.  It’s a jubilant dance.

He rumbles after us, his back arching through the slow-motion gallop like an old Slinky and the determination on his face is priceless and through it all he cannot catch us. . . . until we let him and then the old dog who used to growl and show his teeth and nip and bite no longer does any of that.  Instead he pushes his head into us and wants to be pet, wrestled with, hugged, picked up, and carried around.

This has been the greatest gift of all.  For both Will and me.  I’ve not witnessed his demise.  I’ve witnessed his resurrection.  He has risen to new heights with his limited body and limitless capacity for love and renewal.

When I contemplate Will’s last chapter, which he continues to write, I often think of Tennyson’s poem “Ulysses” that ends like this….

“Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

That last line has always been a favorite of mine.  But it’s those last three words in the next to the last line which gives you a clue to why we no longer call him “William”. . . “strong in will. . . “

What a Little Moonlight Can Do

I don’t spend too much time living in my past, so it’s no mystery why I don’t spend much time wondering about what Will’s life was like before he came to us.  I concentrate instead on what his life is now.  But the other night as I was carrying him outside I was struck by the calm black water of the harbor and the way it caught the low flying luminous full moon and scattered its reflection toward us.  There was Will cradled in my arms like a baby, his full heart and equally full belly reaching up toward heaven, his nose tucked under my chin while his little body shivered at the first bite of night air. I felt in my arms a living, breathing soul who is so dependent on us and a thought entered my mind for the first time. 

“Sixteen long years ago Will was a puppy…someone’s precious puppy…and his life and theirs was bright with the promise of what could be and was touched by his innocence.”

For some reason this stopped me in my tracks and I thought of what an honor it is to be able to give him this gift, to allow him to feel precious again as he most likely did as a puppy.  As I pulled him close and thought of all this, caught under the magic of the moonlight, a tear rolled down my cheek for Will and the splendor of this moment and my little ancient friend stopped shivering just long enough to lick it with his tongue and look up at me with those cloudy eyes. 

So funny, this was a dog who was so angry, betrayed, and confused when he came to us that I had to be careful what I put near his mouth for he was vicious and made me bleed several times.  But nine months later he was comforting me with a kiss as I held him against the cold.  I hesitated before putting him down to go to the bathroom because I wanted to hold onto that moment, not just for what I was thinking but more so how it felt.

There have been many moments where I’ve witnessed Will redefine himself and I’ve noted when we’ve reached milestones together.  But none of it compares to what happened the other night and I realized how far we have come together. 

As for how I felt?  It was a mixture of many things. I felt proud of him for choosing to live life when he could have quit. I felt joy in knowing we had given him a home when he needed one most. I felt a twinge of sadness realizing that no matter how much time we have together it will be sad to see him go. I felt gratitude for the bond of love we now share.  So many emotions ran through me but none was more powerful than how honored I felt to know that he completely trusts us now and how we are blessed to see him through to the end of his days. 

Last May when I told a friend we were adopting Will she said, “Don’t do it, Tom.  It’s horrible.  There will be nothing but heartache.  He won’t last very long. He’ll soil your floors and there will be costly medical bills and it will all stress out Atticus and it will end in heartache.  It’s a thankless thing and I think you’ll hate it.”

She was right about most of it: the medical bills have been steep at times; he has soiled our floors; and this will surely end in heartache when we have to say goodbye to Will.  But she was wrong about something else.  It’s not thankless.  Not at all.  It’s an incredible gift to share what we do with Will and to receive what he shares with us. 

I’m sure when all is said and done and the years pass I’ll remember Will in many ways, but I doubt there will be a more lasting memory than the one we received the other night standing where the water met the land near midnight while the reflection of the full moon reached across the harbor to embrace us with her light.         

The Long Night Calls

We woke up just before seven this morning and it was still dark out – dark and cold.  Daylight continues to dwindle while the night grows.  And yet it felt warm and bright within our  little home this morning. 

There is a comfort in getting out of bed and turning the thermostat up on these frigid mornings.  Then there’s the stove and the frying pan awaiting the blueberry pancake batter; Bing Crosby singing carols in the background; and the Christmas tree glowing in the corner of the room with its little while lights and silver and gold ornaments.  Outside in the backyard, on the other side of the picture window, stands another tree; it’s wrapped in blue lights and is our beacon in the morning drear.  The other day it looked like a greeting card dressed in a thin layer of snow and we all stood in wonder as we gathered around it. 

Then there is Will, who is nearing sixteen.  He may be deaf and see nothing more than shapes and shadows, with hips so weak they often collapse beneath him – and yet he wakes up every morning tangled in joy.  He leaps to and fro in his desire to play and if his legs were stronger and his aim truer he may actually be able to catch us as he “gallops” like a slow motion drunken horse.  His front legs are ambitious but are disconnected from the rear ones that don’t have the heart to do go very fast and they are unsure of themselves.  So he rears up to give chase and then realizes it’s not going to happen.  There are even times he topples over.  But none of it dissuades his happiness.  And yet this spectacle is nothing compared to the unmitigated celebration that explodes within him when I’m getting his breakfast.  Every morning is Madri Gras for Will here in Jackson! 

On the other end of the spectrum, Atticus waits.  He sits and watches patiently.  He also eats but neither food nor happiness has ever been withheld from him so he exhibits a stately grace compared to Will.  Besides, although he likes food, what delivers elation to Atticus can’t be found indoors.  It waits outside beyond the fraying edges of the gray morning in the trees and the paths that wind their way through them.

Later today, we’ll leave all this comfort behind.  I’ll get dressed in my hiking gear and bring my three headlamps because I know that night will fall early, and we’ll head out into the woods and up a mountain.  That’s where Atticus is in his element.  It doesn’t matter how cold it is, how much the wind is blowing, or whether we’re being watched by the sun or the stars.  What matters is that we’re out there and up there together. 

For Atticus he is most at ease with me, but he is happiest when we are together on a mountain.  But still, he takes it all in stride, as if this is what life was always supposed to be and what we were meant to be together.  When it comes to me though, I cannot tell you the pleasure I find in being out in the woods when the sun falls behind the mountains and darkness grows.  It used to unnerve me and the darkness fed on a fear that grew with the night.  But now I find comfort in the dance that leads from day to night. 

I even find comfort in the long nights in the coziness inside and the excitement outside.  I like how the wind taunts and harasses me.  I like that I’m warm in my gear with just a hint of discomfort to create an edge.  And I like that together we are far away from anyone else.  It took some time but I finally learned to appreciate that Saint-Exupery quote: “Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive.  When the destructive analysis of day is done, an all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again.  When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree.”   

And that’s what I feel like when we are miles away from the rushing world, especially around the holidays like now, when roads and restaurants and stores are crowded and everyone is in a hurry to get somewhere other than where they are.   

In recent hikes night fell on us as we travelled carefully down the icy trail along the Three Agonies as we descended Lafayette; we watched the sun dissolve behind the Tripyramids on the Sandwich Range when we were just a third of the way down the ledges of South Moat; and watched a pregnant moon with its perfectly round belly rise over the little boxes of the village of North Conway below us while we traversed Cathedral and White Horse Ledges.

I derive a delicious pleasure of being where once I feared to be and when considering those steps taken in the forest at night I thrive on the simplicity of it all.  Let the world unleash itself on us as it does from time to time and you can find us on a mountaintop in the dark where I am reassembling my “fragmentary self”.

There’s also something else that’s pleasurable about being on a mountain this time of year when it is cold and the winds are howling when darkness falls.  It makes you feel raw and utterly alive, but it also makes you appreciate a place called home.  It’s adventure that plants the seeds for later contentment. 

So tonight, long after this has been sent off at deadline, we’ll be up on mountain, cloaked in darkness, little lamps lighting our way as we trek across icy rocks leaving behind whatever troubles we’ve accumulated throughout the past days and there will be one thought on my mind – home. 

And when we return home we’ll be happy we ventured away from it, only to return to it with a renewed appreciation and greeted by a little blind and deaf dog who has redefined that term for us – and in the process discovered his own home.      

Will in December

Will greets the morning snow on December 2nd. It's good to be alive!

It’s a fine December morning and we’re feeling good.  There’s a coating of crusty snow on everything and it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas here in Jackson.  Better than that, as you can see by the photograph, Will is enjoying the snow. 

There was a time I wasn’t certain he’d live long enough to see it. 

When he arrived in May he was frail and bitter, he was in pain and ill-suited for much of anything but snapping and getting angry. He threw temper tantrums and did his best to bite me whenever he could. The first morning I took him outside and he shivered, even though it wasn’t cold.  I didn’t think he’d last a month or two.  Worse, I feared I’d have to make a tough decision so soon after bringing him into our home because, quite frankly, I wasn’t sure why he was kept alive. 

He was fifteen, had been neglected and abandoned.  He struggled to walk.  It was nearly impossible getting him in and out of the car or up the stairs to where we live without him attacking me.  He was alive, but he wasn’t living.

I was so depressed that first day I met him and wondered what we’d gotten ourselves into.  But I remembered why we took him in in the first place – to give him a place to live out his days with dignity, and a place to die with dignity. 

With that in mind I set out to make him comfortable, to help him understand he was allowed to be himself, even if that meant getting angry.  Because, quite frankly, I’d be awfully angry if the only people I ever knew dropped me off someplace where I was left alone without much sight, without hearing, without an ability to get around, and there was a good chance no one would want me and all that was left for me was to be put out of my misery. 

I also decided to give him what he wanted – food!  He was starving for food and I wanted to put some meat on his bones, always a touchy balance because of his decayed hips (he’d been crated for far too long), just in case he made it to the autumn so he wouldn’t be cold.

And when his guard was down – when he was sleeping – I’d drape a blanket or towel over his shivering, elderly body and put flowers, which he seemed to like, near him for when he woke up.  I played music so he could feel the vibrations.  I lay on the floor with him – on his level – and we started to bond, and I talked to him, even though he couldn’t hear me.  I also touched him, a lot.  I touched him whenever I could when we were on the floor together.  Oh, there were times he’d still bite me, and even then I gave him permission to do that if that’s what he felt he needed to do.  I guess I did this to let him know I’d respect him, respect his right to feel whatever he was feeling and allowed him to express whatever he wanted to express.  (Thankfully, he never went after Atticus, only me.  Then again, Atticus saw his behavior and stayed away from him, always seeking comfort where he most finds it – by climbing.  Not mountains, since we don’t have any in our home, but onto the furniture, where he’s always been welcome and Will couldn’t reach.)

Over time Will stopped being so angry.  Like most of us, he simply wanted to know he could be mad if he wanted to be.  Give someone that opportunity and they rarely stay made very long – that is, if they have half a heart.  He realized, I guess, that he could simply be Will.  And while there are times he still throws a minor temper tantrum, they are so rare they happen less than once a month and they are mostly associated with the pain he is in.    

Since arriving in May Will has gained seven pounds and we’ve cut back on the food and he’s a rather happy, well-fed fellow who no longer shivers outside, even when it’s only 25 degrees, as it is this morning, or 12 degrees as it was the other night.

And Will, who was in such pain he didn’t like being touched, well, this morning when it was time to come inside, I scooped him up into my arms and rolled him over on his back and carried him up the stairs like a little baby, his rear legs stretched out and his head dangling in about as relaxed a position as he could possibly be in.

So yes, it is a good morning.  I’m happy to report that Will has become Will.  He’s alive and well, happily living out his days.  He takes comfort in eating good food; listening to (or feeling) music; smelling beautiful flowers, greens, and candles; being touched and held and even gently wrested with; watching the shadows move about him; and most of all, he simply loves being loved and knowing he belongs. 

The best part of each day here is when Will wakes up.  He’s an old fellow and he groans in his bed as he takes inventory of his aches and pains and looks for a way to get to his feet – which isn’t easy.  When he does, he stumbles about a bit, usually bumping into a wall, and finds his balance. Then when he sees me something magnificent happens. He becomes a puppy again. He greets me by wanting to play. He’d jump on me if he could.  He spins and dances and prances about and joy flashes brightly in his eyes and overcomes the dullness of his cataracts.  It is a morning ritual we can only smile at and laugh with.  It’s pure, unmitigated elation. 

Will is my morning reminder to show gratitude.  I’m not only grateful he’s still alive and doing well, he’s grateful, too, and he shows it each morning.  What better way to start each day than by giving thanks?

With Christmas on its way, I’m happy to report that the tree will go up today and eventually there will be presents under it for a little dog we didn’t think would live long enough to see it.  But Will not only lives in our happy little home in the heart of the White Mountains, so does gratitude, peace, hope, and love.   

Order Personalized Autographed and Pawtographed Copies of Following Atticus from White Birch Books for the Holidays and You May Win One of Our Following Atticus T-Shirts

 

We do so love independent bookstores and here in the Mount Washington Valley we’re fortunate to have a great one in White Birch Books.  It’s my favorite place to stop by in North Conway and has been since we moved to the valley.  They’ve always welcomed Atticus, and now they welcome Will, too, which makes me like them all the more. 

From the day Following Atticus first came out in hardcover Laura Lucy and her staff have been great supporters and they’ve now sold more than 2,000 copies.  Below you will see a photo of Laura and Barb with Atticus and the cake HarperCollins sent them congratulating them on 1,000 sales.) That’s an astounding number for any bookstore, but especially so for a small indie bookseller in the mountains. Every author should be so fortunate to have a place like White Birch Books in his or her corner.  And since day one they’ve handled special orders for personalize autographed and pawtographed copies of our book and sent it throughout the country, and even overseas.  

They are now busy at work doing just that with the holiday season upon us and this year we’re teaming up with them to give away our next Following Atticus t-shirt.  Between now and December 15^th, anyone ordering a personalized autographed and pawtographed copy of Following Atticus from the good ladies at White Birch Books will be entered into a drawing for a Following Atticus t-shirt.  And the more special orders you make the better chance you have of winning.  For instance, if you order one book, you get one chance of having your name drawn on December 16^th. If you order five, you get five chances of winning the t-shirt. 

So if you are giving Following Atticus as a gift this holiday season and want to make it extra special, call White Birch Books at (603) 356-3200 and we’ll be by the shop two or three times each week to personalize them for you.  Better yet, you could win the t-shirt they are giving away.   

Pieces of Heaven

Thank you.

They are perhaps the two most powerful words in the English language when you connect them.  And I find myself saying those words again and again lately, especially while remembering – fittingly enough – our Thanksgiving Day hike.

Every time we climb a mountain I understand it could turn into a savory memory, and most hikes are memorable in some way or another, but whenever we make it to Franconia Ridge and step out of the trees above treeline with the world beneath us and heaven not just above us, but by our sides as well, there’s an even greater chance it will be a day to remember. 

We haven’t been on the ridge for a year and a half and I’ve missed it.  The entire night beforehand, knowing we’d be up there soon enough, I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve.  You see, I often avoid popular routes because of the crowds and we seek them out only on off times when people are busy with their lives.  Midweek in winter is a fine time to go. So is night.  And, as it turns out, Thanksgiving Day is also a perfect time to do this hike. 

The morning air was cold but fresh as we made our way along the lower reaches of the Falling Waters Trail.   At the numerous stream crossings we had to watch our footing because of the sheen of ice on the rocks that was often hard to pick up.  Fortunately we safely made all our water crossings and then started that slow, methodical climb to the top.  It’s a steep hike, at times challenging, but it’s a beautiful walk through mythical woods and as we followed the switchbacks through the forest the sun climbed the cloudless sky and turned everything a golden-green.  That in itself would have been memory enough worth saving, but on this day there was more to come.

Just before we exited the trees near the top, we reached an ice bulge in the trail and stopped to put on our MicroSpikes.  There’s a sense of comfort and insurance whenever I feel their little metal teeth cutting into the ice.  First I hear it, then I feel it, and I’m always glad I brought them along.  And once through the icy section of the Falling Waters Trail we exited onto the ridge above treeline and there was not a cloud to be seen.  Blue skies draped themselves over the mountaintops and the faintest of breezes and the warm sun joined together to make sure we’d spend a pleasant two miles on the ridge.  But we were hungry after working so hard to get to this point and this being Thanksgiving; we stopped to have our dinner.  For me it was a first – a vegan Thanksgiving, and even though the traditional turkey dinner (and leftovers) is my favorite meal of the year, I didn’t miss it in the least bit.  Instead the three of us sat, listened to music, took in the views, and ate a meal of quinoa, sweet potatoes, avocado, black bean salsa, walnuts, and pumpkin seeds.  We talked, we laughed, we counted our blessings, and we enjoyed the shared solitude.  Our only regret was that we didn’t stay longer but there were miles to go and the day was slipping by and soon the sun would be slipping towards the horizon.

On the climb up Mount Lincoln I watched Atticus maneuvering up the rocks, between them, and around them.  I tried to remember how many times we’ve been over Lincoln and Lafayette but I couldn’t.  What I do know is that we’ve been climbing them for the last seven years and we’ve done them in all kinds of weather and in every season.  I also know that while Atticus will soon be eleven and he still moves well, he won’t be doing these hikes forever, and so I watched him closely with the same love and admiration I always do, but with the tiniest sense of bittersweet sentimentality. 

He moves in these mountains as if they are his old friends.  He’s always felt comfortable with them.  There’s an ease to him wherever he is, a self-assuredness that make me look on joy for him. But on a mountain it’s different.  I understand that somehow or someway he was made for this and each time we climb it’s like he’s coming home again.  And while I don’t think Atticus really cares whether we climb four thousand footers or other desirable peaks, he knows these places so well and has grown fond of them.  They are familiar to him.  

It’s for this reason that I have decided that over the next year or so we’ll get to each of the forty-eight at least one more time while he’s still healthy and moving well.  I understand that while that doesn’t necessarily have to be the case, it could very well be our last time together on these two mountains.  But instead of looking at that day that hasn’t come, I decided to put my thoughts to the memories being made on that trip.    

On top of Lincoln I picked him up as I always do and we looked back to where we’d come from. (That stretch of rocky trail always reminds me of the Great Wall of China as it follows the jagged and narrow spine of the ridge.)  Then we turned north and looked toward Mount Lafayette, the next peak on our hike.  It’s a special place – the summit of Lincoln.  You not only get the breathtaking views of Cannon, the Kinsmans, and Moosilauke to the west, you get Garfield, the Twins, the Bonds, Owls Head, the Presidentials, Carrigain, and the Hancocks to the east.  To the south are Flume and Liberty and the east-to-west running Sandwich Range.  But on top of all that, you get the perfect view of Lafayette, which towers in front of you like some magical beast that will one day awaken. 

The climb up Lafayette is always a challenge, but it was easier because of the special views on a cloudless day.  We stopped often to appreciate everything that was special and for what we were experiencing.  Better yet, we’d seen a total of five people above treeline.  Such sweet solitude made even more special by the friendship it was wrapped in….three hikers in our own little world, in our own paradise, dancing over the mountains, making memories, and having much to be thankful for on a day made for giving thanks.

We weren’t moving all that quickly.  There was no need to for we were where we wanted to be and there was much to see and do and say.   It had become one of those days destined to be remembered.  You know the kind.  You recognize them as they unfold and notice the way you slip right into them and are then wrapped up for safe keeping so that you can always pull it back to you in a daydream for life is not always so kind and we need these pockets of special times where we can reach them. 

The poet William Stafford has a few lines in one of his poems that go like this….

Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven
left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People won’t even see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.

As we left the summit of Lafayette and walked down the mountain and into the sunset before making our way through the last couple of miles under the guidance of a bright moon and starlit sky, it was clear we’d made a memory with those little pieces of heaven we’d found throughout the day and they will always be there for us when we want or need them, just as they are now. 

The Bare Necessities of November

There’s a charm to the November woods and it is found in their simplicity. They are the secret warmth that lasts after a long weekend when everyone else has gone home; the woman you love who is even more beautiful lying next to you at night after the day is spent and her makeup is off. The November woods are pristine in their nakedness.

In November the crowds who flock to enjoy October’s colorful flourish are gone. New Hampshire – the real New Hampshire –where wood and rock and running water meet far from the outlet stores and restaurants the true charm of our state lives like a secret.

Within the past month everything has reversed. All the decorative leaves that had burst forth overhead now form a luxurious (if at times slippery), bronze carpet underfoot. And where once there was the pleasant clutter of millions of leaves now there’s nothing but bare bark and open air. The forest has shed her clothes and stands there as stark and stunning as can be.

In the Irish fairytales of old, the Little People were always just out of sight around the next corner. They could be felt, almost imaginatively heard, but never seen, and the essence of their magic hung like a wisp of a disappearing dream. They were forever hidden because nature knew how to keep their secret, but not so much so that you couldn’t feel their presence. There was always the belief you’d come around a bend and there they would be sitting, a startling bit of enchantment looking you right in the eye, causing your heart to race, and reality to swirl. In November you see through the forest, you see the secret places, at times beyond to the great views you never knew existed. Take a turn in the trail you’ve taken ten times before but now because there are no more leaves to block the view you look up and see a mountain towering close by. It catches you by surprise in just the same way. It fills your heart with quivering excitement.

It’s these private moments on the trail before I even get to the mountaintop that draws me in this time of year. Solitude is the song that plays from tree to tree in the open spaces of the formerly dense forest.

When I was younger and less sure of myself, I found loneliness in the woods this time of year.  Now that I’m older and know who I am, it’s just the opposite. There is the murmur of the thrill that races through me as I feel myself in a place most know nothing of. It’s an escape from a hectic and drama filled world where everything is fast-paced, loud, and blaring.  At the same time it’s a coming home to a place safe and secure.

This past weekend we took the simplest of hikes – a local loop we’ve taken many times up from the shores of Pudding Pond to the small “jutting” peaks that sit like an understated backdrop to the big box stores of North Conway. I wonder, at times, how many even know they are there or even bother to look up at them. But they are forever a part of our landscape and I think even those who don’t notice them would miss them if they were to disappear.

As we trod the earthen paths that loop up over both summits affording views from the mountaintops of Middle and Peaked, it feels to me like we are visiting a familiar friend. It’s the kind of friend you can be yourself with and this is a come-as-you-are kind of hike –not so taxing or dangerous that you feel the need to plan ahead or get geared up for it. It’s more like a simple walk with backpack and water and little else needed other than a summit snack, not so much for energy, but for enjoyment. Oh, you have to work to get to the prize at the top so it’s a workout after all; it’s just not the hike one takes to get to the more challenging peaks.

But that’s the allure of such a hike.  It lies in its simplicity. 

My favorite mountain is one we can be alone on, and while we did see three people on this day, for the most part we had the trails to ourselves.  When we reached the top of Middle Mountain we sat down, shared some treats, and soaked in the sun.  It felt warmer than November and stood in contrast to the cooler, shady parts of the hike up where an inch or so of snow crunched underfoot.  The view is wonderful, but again, on this day, at this time of the year the best part for me Is how the forest allows me to feel alone but not lonely.  It’s stripped of everything that is not essential and the silver and brown trees connected the vibrant blue sky and the brown leaves on the ground. 

I’m still getting acquainted with my renewed body that weighs eighty pounds less than it used to, and the ease with I now move.  I’m amazed at how stress-free the climbs are now compared to what they used to be and as we curled up from the cleavage between the two peaks around to the northern side of Peaked and worked our way up the ledges Atticus was is in his glory pushing up toward the summit and I followed happily along.  By this time the white-capped Presidential Range came into view behind us as did views up into faraway Crawford Notch.  It was the best of all worlds. We were alone in the woods, with views far and near, dear friends doing what they like and do best – being together while the craziness and entanglements of the world were left behind. 

We took in the views from the summit of Peaked Mountain for a good long while and then I leaned back against the pine tree that stands like a sentinel , and took a nap while Atticus lay his head on my leg and did the same. 

These are the days and hikes we like best - the simple days. Put enough of them together and you get a humble but happy life.  And surprisingly, these November days have now become a favorite of mine for the same reason – their simplicity. 

Will Power

Will makes his first mountaintop.

As I write this I realize that my life is now different than it was six months ago.  I’m a changed man. . . . a better man.  I’m more than I used to be and inspired in both head and heart.  Friendship and love can do that to even the hardest most dubious man.  So can helping another become who he was meant to be. 

Two weeks ago I sent out the following email to a handful of close friends.

Today, what I had grown to think of impossible became reality when my best friend and I followed Atticus as we pushed and carried Will's hiking chariot to the top of Pine Mountain. It was a very difficult journey and much harder than we expected it to be, but throughout it all Will was comfortable, safe, and even happy. We chose Pine Mountain because of the dirt access road and the relatively short, but challenging (challenging when you are carrying up a dog in a carriage) trail to the summit.  The approach on the road is long and uphill and tired us out as we took turns pushing his little chariot. When we reached the trail itself, which we had scouted out yesterday, we were challenged by rocks, roots, mud (from this weekend's rainstorms), and slippery ledges and we tired quickly as we picked up either end of the rig and carried it over the rougher sections.

We stopped often to rest our shoulders, backs, and arms, and simply to catch our breath.  At one point my friend turned to me and said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not going to have a heart attack on me, are you?”

I assured her I was okay and we continued following the ever-patient Atticus up the mountain while carrying Will in his chariot.   

In the end we reached the mountaintop and I held Will in my arms as I have always held Atticus and that old, mostly blind and deaf dog sat there and sighed. I'm not sure what he saw, if anything, but he obviously knew it was something special because he leaned in to me, sighed, and licked my cheek - a first.

I am so proud of Will, who could have given up on life long ago. I'm proud of Atticus as well, for he's shared me with Will and didn't seem the least bit put out by Will's first mountaintop, even though it was Will in my arms and not him. And none of this would have been possible without my best friend. I first tried a backpack but Will's hips were too sore to sit in it. I gave thought to carrying him up in a sling but I didn't feel his old body could take the jostling, and I was ready to give up. But she came up with the idea of the hiking chariot and today we took turns pushing it up that mountain, and at times we carried it. In all of the mountains we’ve climbed, this was one of our most challenging.  It’s also now one of our most memorable.

Will is happily snoring at home right now and Atticus is just being Atticus. But we are worn out. But it’s a good tired that has us feeling fulfilled and happy.   

Six months ago Will was abandoned at a kill shelter by the only family he'd ever known for fifteen years. When we took him in he was broken, depressed, angry, and I didn't think he'd live very long. But not only has Will not given up on life, he's thriving and today he reached his mountaintop, and together the four of us made a memory that will last a lifetime.

There’s an old saying about taking in a shelter dog: “Who rescued who?”  But that question doesn’t apply to us.  Will, a fifteen year old partially lame (due to being put away in a crate so he wouldn’t be a bother), mostly blind, and completely deaf miniature schnauzer didn’t save us, for we didn’t need to be saved.  But he has taught us a thing or two about life and love.  He’s taught us, and everyone else who knows his story, that it’s never too late to love or to be loved; and it’s never too late to live. 

In the six months Will’s been with us he’s emerged from the shell of a dog he was to one who is aware, vibrant, and very much alive.  We’ve watched him grow and reclaim his life.  But nothing has changed him more than “climbing” Pine Mountain has.  Perhaps it’s just more of the magic of the White Mountains, but in the days that have followed he’s more self-assured and follows us from room to room.  He wants to be part of us and is so far removed from the little dog who hated to be touched, tried to bite me if I picked him up, and did his best to isolate himself in the very beginning. 

Now, as I sit here writing this, I realize how different everything is than it was in May.  Back then we took in an unwanted dog who had nothing left to live for with the idea of giving him a place to die with dignity.  I figured he’d last a month or two and that would be it and we would move on with our lives knowing we’d done a good deed. 

But as I look at him today I realize I don’t want him to go – ever.  And yet he is closing in on sixteen and the cruel truth is that the dogs we love only live a fraction of the time we do.  When I look at Will and see how alive he is I remind myself that he’s not getting younger, he just seems like he is.  And whether he lasts another year or two, or simply another month or two, it’s all too fleeting.  He’ll take a piece of me with him when he goes and there will always be a bit of Will in my heart.  (Just writing that has tears welling in my eyes for whenever we find a true friend, we never want to lose them.) 

At 2,400 feet, Pine Mountain is dwarfed by Mount Madison, the fifth highest peak in New England.  And yet on one day – a day I will always remember – it was for a little elderly once-broken and once-discarded dog, the top of the world.  We brought him there, and in turn he brought us along for the journey, a journey that will touch us forever.