William Wordsworth's Mountain

(Photo is of Mount Washington this afternoon.)

Last summer I discovered the poetry of Mary Oliver. Her contemporary words hit home as much as any written in the days of old by Muir, Emerson or Thoreau. Each time I find one of her poems, I read it again and again until it lingers with me. Many of them refuse to let go.

Then, just this past week, I encountered some of her prose. It is from her book of essays called Long Life: Essays and Other Writings. The essay which will not let me go is “Wordsworth’s Mountain”. It hits me for I too have had experiences like Wordsworth in facing a mountain in darkness. Mine came on a January night after traversing across Middle Carter, South Carter, Mount Hight and Carter Dome before dropping down into Carter Notch and then climbing back up again to travel along the numerous peaks of Wildcat Mountain. When Atticus and I reached the ski slopes – our exit from the mountain top – and started our descent, even in the still of the night I could look across Pinkham Notch below and up at the looming shadow of Mount Washington. It was as if that great peak was breathing, watching us descend, stalking us in such a way that at any moment it could reach out and lunge with all its might at us.

It was an experience both frightening and thrilling. I can remember being foolish enough to turn off my headlamp as so not as to be seen so easily by Agiocochook and feeling my heart beat as if I was being hunted.

It is an experience I will never forget. It appears William Wordsworth, the great English poet who embraced Romanticisms call to nature and individuality instead of to the church, had a quite similar experience as a child. Mary Oliver writes of it here:

“And now I am thinking of the poet Wordsworth, and the strange adventure that one night overtook him. When he was still a young boy, in love with summer and night, he went down to a lake, "borrowed" a rowboat, and rowed out upon the water. At first he felt himself embraced by pleasures: the moonlight, the sound of the oars in the calm water. Then, suddenly, a mountain peak nearby, with which he was familiar, or felt he was familiar, revealed, to his mind and eye, a horrifying flexibility. All crag and weight, it perceived him; it leaned down over the water; it seemed to pursue him. Of course he was terrified, and rowed hard, fleeing back across the water. But the experience led him, led his mind, from simple devotion of that beauty which is a harmony, a kindly ministry of thought, to nature's deeper and inexplicable greatness. The gleam and the tranquility of the natural world he loved always, and now he honored also the world's brawn and mystery, its machinations that lie beyond our understanding — that are not even nameable. What Wordsworth praised thereafter was more than the arrangement of concretions and vapors into appreciable and balanced landscapes; it was, also, the whirlwind. The beauty and strangeness of the world may fill the eyes with its cordial refreshment. Equally it may offer the heart a dish of terror. On one side is radiance; on another is the abyss.”

Wordsworth has been on my mind as of late because he plays a prominent part in the most recent John Muir biography, A Passion for Nature. So when I came upon the Mary Oliver piece it excited me even more. Since then I have found Wordsworth’s own poem, or a segment of it actually, describing that night from his childhood and that looming mountain. It is from his “Prelude” (1850) and it follows below.

One summer evening (led by [Nature]) I found

A little boat tied to a willow tree

Within a rocky cave, its usual home.

Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in

Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth

And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice

Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;

Leaving behind her still, on either side,

Small circles glittering idly in the moon,

Until they melted all into one track

Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,

Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point

With an unswerving line, I fixed my view

Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,

The horizon's utmost boundary; for above

Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.

She was an elfin pinnace; lustily

I dipped my oars into the silent lake,

And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat

Went heaving through the water like a swan

When, from behind that craggy steep till then

The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,

As if with voluntary power instinct

Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,

And growing still in stature the grim shape

Towered up between me and the stars, and still,

For so it seemed, with purpose of its own

And measured motion like a living thing,

Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,

And through the silent water stole my way

Back to the covert of the willow tree;

There in her mooring-place I left my bark,--

And through the meadows homweard wen, in grave

And serious mood; but after I had seen

That spectacle, for many days, my brain

Worked with a dim and undetermined sense

Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts

There hung a darkness, call it solitude

Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes

Remained, no pleasant images of trees,

Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;

But huge and mighty forms, that do not live

Like living men, moved slowly through the mind

By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

This is one of the reasons I love the mountains as I do. They inspire thoughts in us so powerful and provocative that we feel a close kinship with the likes of Emerson or Thoreau or Muir or even some of the great White Mountain painters like Benjamin Champney or Thomas Cole.

90 Minutes In Heaven

Before Monday I’ve never stood atop North Moat before but I can now verify what I’ve long been told: of the three Moats the view from the northern triplet is the best.

Stunning, simply stunning! And what a day we had for views, too: just the slightest whisper of a breeze; a warm sun; day-dreaming blue skies without a cloud in sight.

Standing there I thought of something Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: “Our faith comes in moments…yet there is a depth in those brief moments which constrains us to ascribe more reality to them than to all other experiences.” (I often find myself revisiting Emerson atop a scenic summit.) And that, I thought to myself as Atticus meandered around the edges of the small summit looking out this way and that, is what makes life worth living. It’s all in the magic we find here and there – not unlike stars poking through the vast darkness of the blackest night.

That’s the great thing about these mountains of New Hampshire; they deliver us from the mundane, time and again. You can park your car, and in the case of North Moat, walk into the woods, first keeping company with a ‘little poem’ of a brook (to borrow a term from John Muir), move through a sunlit forest carpeted in untouched snow, climb ledge after open ledge of steep pitches and then reach a place where you can turn your back on the troubles of this life and find a reason to smile, no matter what ails you. And literally, by turning your back to the east and the outlet stores of North Conway below, you face west directly into the wilderness.

At 3,196 feet, the summit of North Moat is more than 3,000 feet shorter than the summit of Mount Washington. But bigger is not always better. I can tell you that simply by looking at my diminutive hiking partner. When planted firmly atop North Moat as we were on this stunning day, try convincing yourself it is anything less than Washington. There’s a good chance you will lose the argument. In many ways, the view is far greater, simply for the proximity to the Sandwich Range to the south and the Pemi Wilderness to the West. It’s as though you can reach out and touch Chocorua or dip yourself into the waters of the Pemi where mountains break from the earth like wild waves.

The climb from Diana’s Baths to the summit is at first easy for two and a half miles, then difficult for the last two, but it is well worth the effort. While summit sitting I had to remind myself it is still winter. But it was so pleasant we stayed for 90 glorious minutes and all I wore over my shirt was my summer windbreaker. No gloves. No hat.

Watching Atticus summit sit – Buddha like – on the various outcroppings, I recalled something I was asked during the Animal Planet interview. I had forwarded the producer my book proposal so he would know about our complete story. In it I wrote about how Atticus sits and takes in the views. He reminded me of the term ‘Buddha-like’ and asked me if I thought of Atti as my spiritual guru of sorts.

At first I laughed. For whenever I think of gurus I think of how in “Eat, Pray, Love” Elizabeth Gilbert went traipsing around the world for a year in search of a guru when all she really needed to do was sit on a mountaintop with a little dog. But the answer I gave was simply: No, but by watching Atticus and following him over these mountains for the last few years I remembered what I long ago forgot. It is all about the primitive. Somehow, we lose it. We grow up and leave much of the magic behind. But by watching him, I was reminded time and again of the best part of myself – the child within. I’d lost him. It took four decades and a little dog but what was once lost is now found.

And so it was that on Monday morning while much of the world was at work, Atticus led me back to the primitive once again and to one of those beautiful Emersonian moments.

Summit Snoozing

What a perfect summit for a little nap. No wind. No cold. No hurry. We stayed on the summit of North Moat today for 90 minutes.

A Picture Perfect Day On North Moat

Today we hiked North Moat. What a glorious day atop this wondrous peak! I'll have more on this later. But for now, here are some shots to tide you over.

An Animal Planet Update From Powderhouse Productions

This from a comment left to one of the posts just down the page. It's from one of the good folks at Powderhouse Productions...

Tom, we're not sure when the show will air. it may not be until september or october of this year! but the piece is being edited and looks fantastic so far. again thanks for your participation. give atticus a pat - and keep in touch. we will do the same.

Mount Washington In National Geographic

For those of you who didn't see last month's National Geographic, they focused on Mount Washington and her horrendous weather. To read the article click here. To see the photos that appeared in N.G. click here. Perhaps my favorite line from the article is this: "It is a regular star in television forecasts, a coffee shop conversation starter, a murderer." The photo above is from last winter when Atticus and I stood atop Washington on a spring-like day.

Filming Follow-Up

In the next couple of days I'll be sharing our experiences throughout the Animal Planet shoot. For now, suffice it to say the crew from Powderhouse Productions made this a very pleasant experience as did the people at Angell. On Thursday we filmed a lengthy interview at the Nereledge Inn in North Conway; they took footage of us hiking through the snow to the top of Elephant's Head at the bottom of the Webster-Jackson Trail; took footage of us walking through downtown North Conway; then finished up with some more filming in the Met coffeehouse. Yesterday, Atticus and I drove to Jamaica Plain where some more footage was shot at Angell Animal Medical Center. Besides the folks at Powderhouse, I am thankful to the staff at Angell for making themselves available for filming yesterday. Particular thanks goes out to Atticus' doctor, Maureen Carroll, for taking the time to drive to North Conway for her own somewhat lengthy interview and then making herself available while she was working yesterday. I have no idea what the footage looks like but I'm told it looks great. We shall see. I was told the show should debut in April. And finally, not enough can be said to Diane Mello and the rest of the staff at the Met for their continued warmth and welcoming ways! An update will be following soon.

Photos From Yesterday's Animal Planet Visit With Atticus

Some photos from yesterday's Animal Planet shoot with the crew from Powderhouse Productions. Top photo is of the producer, Joe Sousa, warming Atticus on top of Elephant Head. Then the cameraman and sound engineer filming Atticus on the trail while they walk backwards. Final shot is of the crew together surrounded by winter at the foot of Mt. Jackson.

Four Photos From Yesterday

Today is not a hiking day and this is not a hiking winter. Yes, we have done five hikes since winter started, but this is our first winter to hike leisurely after three winters of cramming peaks in to the point of getting burned out on it. Instead I'm concentrating on my book proposal this winter. Nevertheless we hiked Passaconaway yesterday and tomorrow we're going right back out there (if the weather holds) to hike the Willey Range (Mt. Willey; Mt. Field; and Mt. Tom). Then on Thursday we'll be meeting with the people from Powderhouse Productions while they film Atticus for Dogs 101 on Animal Planet.

Here are some shots from yesterday's hike. All shots were taken from the one viewpoint just before the summit (which has no view).

1. Atticus in front of a view into the Pemigewasset Wilderness.
2. A panoramic shot into the Pemi with white-capped Franconia Ridge to the left; the Hancocks right in the foreground in the middle; and Carrigain off to the right.
3. A better shot of the Hancocks and Carrigain.
4. North Tripyramid with the Osceolas in the background.

A Pleasant Surprise

Wonderful of Beth Maddaus to honor us with a post on her blog today with news of Atticus being on Animal Planet.

Atticus M. Finch To Be On Animal Planet

I've always said that Atticus is the brains, brawn and beauty of this operation and just to show you I'm not the only one who thinks so, Powderhouse Productions, the people who run Animal Planet's Dogs 101, are coming to the White Mountains to film my diminutive friend. It will run as part of their segment on miniature schnauzers. At this time the plan is for them to climb a mountain with us...or at least go on a hike to get some footage of Atti in his element.

Gray Jays on Jackson

When we hiked Mount Jackson the other day we had the pleasure of having the summit to ourselves...well, actually, we shared it with a trio of Gray Jays. The wonderfully bold birds make it a habit to visit for food on several of the peaks in the Crawford Notch area.

Wandering in Tamworth

Our time in Tamworth is winding down. While I have no set departure date it is only a matter of time before we move to a more permanent location in North Conway in the near future. Atticus and I will depart Tamworth a bit better off for having spent time here. It is a charming place with more natural understated nooks and crannies than any other place I’ve lived.

While we will only be up the road some thirty minutes we’ll never have the same convenience of the treasures Nature has given us to unwrap these past five months. Here, in the shadow of the eastern edge of the Sandwich Mountain Range, there are streams and fields and rustic mountain views exclusive to the area. And as we wander these rural roads or hiking trails I embrace them, knowing we may never be on them again – for such is the wealth of wonders throughout the White Mountains. There will always be more to discover and celebrate.

On Monday, the halfway mark of winter, Atticus and I rolled out of bed, ate a little breakfast, walked down the road a half a mile, and then faded into the woods along a snowmobile path worn to a sidewalk by weekend enthusiasts. This is the same path we walked along the very first day we moved into the area in late August. On that golden afternoon we ambled among mossy rocks and lush ferns beneath a green and gold sun-dappled canopy. On Monday it was a different world – all white and frozen in sleep. No ferns, no moss. And even the trail-side stream was partially frozen; the only canopy was the dark, naked bark of tree branches reaching towards a gray, featureless sky.

Sylvia Plath had perfect lines for such a scene years ago: "Winter dawn is the color of metal, / The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves." You know the look. It may even contribute to your seasonal depression but I have own antidote for such things: I simply avoid the ‘color of metal’ while following the flop-eared saunter of a little dog who repels the cold indifference with his happy-go-lucky wandering along the trail. It’s like finding yourself guided through a black and white movie by a colorful cartoon dog. What a simple joy it is to travel these trails with Atticus!

The snowmobile trail may not be the steepest hike in the Whites but it is still an uphill walk and before long my body warmed enough to sweat and my heavy breathing joined the bite of my snowshoes as the only forest noises. We walked for close to a mile before reaching the summer road (closed for the winter). Then it was to the left a little ways and a bit more of a climb until we reached the tower atop Great Hill.

Atticus has never liked open-backed stairs and while he adores summit sitting he’s no fan of hill or mountaintop towers and so I carried him up the narrow stairs. Sure he could have stayed down below but he would have missed the amazing view of the entire Sandwich Range as it stretches from west to east and this once-blind dog loves his views. Off to the far left stood Sandwich Dome, looking more impressive than many of the 48 peaks taller than she is. There stood the Tripyramids and the Sleepers and Whiteface and the hulking mass of Passaconaway – along with Wonalancet, Paugus and Chocorua: more mountains named for legendary Indians of days gone by. Such glory all in a beautiful panoramic view!

If it weren’t for the chill of the early morning we would have stayed longer. As it was we stayed long enough for our bodies to shiver. Then it was back down the stairs and out to the summer road. Instead of returning the way we came we walked down the closed road with me just a foot or two in front of Atticus. (He’s no idiot. He let me use my snowshoes to break the trail for him.) On we plodded and in our private walk through deep snow my mind wandered here and there until it came to rest on something that was pointed out to me this past week. Atticus and I were mentioned in Mary Baker Eaton’s popular Newburyport Blog (www.marybakerart.com/newburyport/). She wrote:

There was a time, long, long ago, when Tom Ryan ruled the political Newburyport earth, and had a local political journal called “The Undertoad.” Mr. Ryan had an astounding radar for what drove any particular human being nuts. And if a Newburyport human being crossed a particular Tom Ryan code of ethics, that human being got “Toaded,” i.e. slammed in the Undertoad, and all their particular buttons got wildly pressed.

It was not a pleasant experience for those who entered into the very, very long (and actually it was becoming somewhat distinguished) list of the Newburyport Toaded.

I figured, writing the Newburyport Blog, that it was only a matter of time, before, I too would get Toaded. But Mr. Ryan went on to bigger and better things, like being given the Human Hero Award by the MSPCA-Angell Animal Medical Center, receiving it at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, and headlining the award ceremony with Emmylou Harris. Not a bad gig.

My big defense against getting Toaded—a bunch of stuffed frogs. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, it seems a little out of touch with reality. Oh well.

But the frogs and I had a grand old time (and for goodness sakes we still may). There was a good deal of eye rolling, especially by male readers of the Newburyport Blog, about my beloved frogs. I was told once that no serious reader would read any post that contained green critters, except this person had read all the posts containing green critters. Go figure. I was also told that because of the frog thing, I was totally whacked. Yes, “No Comment.”

However, it is my experience, that weirdly, the more political power an individual actually had, the more they actually liked my cadre of green things. A sort of interesting frog political Rorschach test. I was listening to a friend talk about a (national) politician, and they were talking about this person not exactly being a
“prince,” but no “frog” either.

And that got me to thinking. Maybe all those readers who didn’t like my frogs, were actually frogs themselves. And no amount of frog kissing would ever turn them into “princes” or bring about some sort of fairy tale ending, like being honored at the Kennedy Center for a humanitarian award and headlining that 21st Annual Animal Hall of Fame dinner with Emmylou Harris.

Ain’t life grand.

This simple little three-mile loop over Great Hill may not be a hike along Franconia Ridge but it’s special in its own way. But that’s the charm of these mountains, isn’t it? Even the simplest adventures – the little comings and going and quaint secret places are enchanting in that they are enough to make a man want to stop writing about what’s wrong with the politicians of the world and instead turn his focus to what’s right with the world. In my case that’s this grand and magnificent place – and a remarkable little dog.

A Fine Day on Mt. Jackson Today

Atticus posing on top of Mt. Jackson at the trail junction with

Mt. Willey & Mt. Field in the direct background.

Sweet Pierce Shows Her Wild Side: January 12, 2009

To know the best of January’s mountains is to see them dressed in a gleaming, virginal white under an azure sky. That contrast between heaven and earth shatters me; it blinds me and binds my heart in wordless rapture. It is what drew us out of the warmth of our little hobbit hole to hike on frigid Monday.

Crawford Notch was as it always seems to be in winter: bitter and threatening. The winds shrieked at us to return to the car and subzero temperatures bit at any exposed skin. But we’ve been in the Notch before in similar conditions and I understand the Notch’s bark is worst than its bite and soon we were sheltered by the trees while walking along a well-packed Crawford Path.

We’d left the wind behind but we couldn’t outdistance the cold but it didn’t seem to matter, not when I looked up at the snowy branches against the deep blue background. We were in an enchanted forest and as carefree as can be. But soon, that was to change. The bright aspect of the day was lost and dreariness draped itself over the tree tops and everything turned a lifeless gray. We had walked from a cartoon Technicolor world into an old black and white movie.

Others may say the most difficult part of winter is breaking trail or the dangerous conditions, but because I monitor both and choose the easiest routes for little Atticus in the best conditions, the biggest challenge for me is what happens when the lights go out. It’s not a physical condition but a mental one. All color bleeds out and the cheery magical trees coated heavily in snow become almost sinister. It is no more dangerous than trekking through a troubled dream at night, but still, just as in the dream, I feel it and it weighs on me.

And so when the color left the woods on Monday morning, the journey turned inward. We walked in silence: no sounds other than my snowshoes (not even the wings of the wicked wind flapped above the treetops could be heard); no scents: no vibrant colors – just a walk through a monotone landscape of strange and unusual shapes.

In spite of the more somber mood of the hike I found myself smiling from time to time at the sight of Atticus moving happily along. His purple Muttluks gave him an almost clownish look that was well-suited to the absurdity of his tiny body in these great mountains. How could I not smile? But even that could not warm me as much as I would have liked. I held onto myself by concentrating on by my breathing: the in and out rhythm needed to feed my cardiovascular system.

On my regular 10 or 20 second stops I found myself getting chilled. This is unusual for me. I took another break, put on the hat and gloves and layer I’d taken off earlier and set off again but still it was difficult to get warm. The higher we climbed the grayer, colder and harsher it became. But still, at least there was no wind.

We marched through the long tunnel of trees until at last we came to the curve in the trail where the trees fall off to the left. This is why I chose Pierce on this bluebird day: from this point on the views are beautiful. But where views typically come into place, there was nothing but a gray abyss. Then the wind was on us again. It was so gray it was hard to see. The trees, snow and sky looked all the same. Atticus stopped to let me go first and I broke through knee deep drifts and when we curled towards the trail junction and into the exposed shoulder of the mountain, I was rocked by the wind. We reached the junction and turned up towards the summit of Pierce but even though I’d been there many times before, it all looked foreign to me. The drifts funneled us towards the left, away from the trail, and after a few steps we righted ourselves even though the cairns had been enveloped by the fog.

The wind whipped and raged. Atticus was blown sideways and he staggered like a drunk. I called to him to keep close so that I could shield him from the wind but it robbed my voice from the air and Atti pressed ahead of me up towards the summit as he always does. His little spirit pressed on, as if it had a voice of its own that called out, “Wind be damned!”

I’d never seen gentle Pierce like that before and we hurried to touch the summit cairn. Once on top the wind died a bit and we collected ourselves and I fed my friend thick slices of ham and quickly drank a smoothie for my own strength. We found ourselves surrounded by a winter wasteland of hopelessness. We were just three miles from our car but it may as well have been a thousand.

It didn’t take long before we both started shaking and we set out to return the way we came. Stepping off the mountain’s crown and onto the exposed area again it was like stepping into a raging sea. It was savage, fierce and so overwhelming I was momentarily frightened.

It’s in moments like this that I find myself pushed beyond my comforts and it’s where I find some of the most beautiful treasures. Like all of us, I come from a processed world. The mountains, when they unleash themselves like that and we are taken by surprise; it’s a shock to the system. But in surrendering to it – what a gift to feel as savage as the wind, as strong as the ice and snow covered rocks, to feel one with the mountain even as it tried to shake us off of her. We rode the wind, faced its teeth and I found myself equally unleashed, roaring just as lustily. It was like that moment Walt Whitman describes in two telling lines from his “Song of Myself”:

“I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.”

This time, the wind did not eat my howl. I would be heard.

Time stood still, the wind seemed to freeze in place and I longed to live in that dangerous moment for a few more seconds, if not years, and be wild and unfettered. But madness soon eased and clear thinking returned and man and dog hurried down into the bellowing wind until we stood there looking into a vast gray abyss off the edge of the mountain where the world ended. Once again I stood still on the edge of reason and wanted to feel even more of what surrounded me. I wanted to feel that loneliness and the void. But coldness reeled me in and I realized we needed to get out of there.

We turned onto the Crawford Path and hurried back towards the Notch. Within a few minutes we were sheltered again. We moved quickly, trying to warm ourselves up. When we stopped for the first time we were a mile down the trail and back in the gray woods. From that safe but frozen haven I found the danger above to be amazing. I was awed by its power. I was frightened and exhilarated and fulfilled.

That night, safe and warm in my bed, with Atticus tangled in his favorite fleece blanket next to me, I was stirred by a thought – something Kierkegaard had written: “To venture causes anxiety, but not to venture is to lose one’s self. . . . And to venture in the highest is precisely to become conscious of one’s self.”

Mt. Tecumseh: January 4, 2009

When I was ten years old and found a rare moment of alone time in the house I grew up in, I cracked open my father’s dusty and musty copy of “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations” and discovered the brilliance of Ralph Waldo Emerson. At that very first meeting Emerson’s words ran through me like a terrible ache, both beautiful and fierce – the way only truth and love can. It was a bold awakening for a little boy who never enjoyed reading children’s books.

In the years since that fateful meeting Emerson has often offered me stars to navigate by even on the darkest of nights. And yet, of all of the profound things the author said and wrote in his lifetime, the ones I find myself stumbling over again and again on the trail over the past three years come from his simple little poem titled “Fable”.

The mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter, "little prig":

Bun replied,

You are doubtless very big,

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together

To make up a year,

And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you,

You are not so small as I,

And not half so spry:

I'll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;

If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut.

It is a lesson in where we all fit. We have our places, no matter how big, no matter how small. In many ways it has become the anthem that often plays in my head when I follow Atticus into the woods on a way to the mountaintop:

“And I think it no disgrace to occupy my place.

If I’m not so large as you, you are not so small as I…”

My little friend carries that same audacity with him wherever he goes and refuses to apologize for his size, or better yet, lack of it.

On Sunday I watched Atticus bound from the road onto a snow bank, deftly cross the icy stones in the stream and charge happily into the woods at the beginning of our trip up Tecumseh on Sunday. I recognized something I haven’t seen since last winter. We walk in the woods nearly every day and while he obviously enjoys it, there’s something different about a hike when we are climbing a mountain…especially in winter. He senses this is where he belongs, as if he’s home again. Whenever I see it in his eyes I feel as though I’m witnessing the reunion of two long lost friends bound by something so intimate that I’ll never fully understand it but I cannot help but fully appreciate the beauty of the moment.

The barometer of his happiness is often his ears and on Sunday they were flying high as he passed along the packed snow through January’s dark, naked trees while catching their growing shadows on the white snow. Occasionally he would stop his bounding long enough for his ears to cease flopping and wait up for me. But it was clear he wanted me to move faster – such unmitigated joy! If he could he would have grabbed me by the hand and dragged me along in his excitement.

After dipping down into the last stream crossing he was just as eager as he waited for me in each bend of those switchbacks before we started that long steady ascent towards the summit. But even in his excitement he slowed down and we began our long-nurtured routine that comes naturally. He leads; I follow – usually a constant ten yards behind.

Tecumseh may be the smallest of the 4,000-footers and one of the shortest distances from road to summit, but that stretch of 1.2 miles is steep enough to cause me to trudge along, one foot in front of the other, a 10-second rest for every 200 steps taken. But on Sunday there was something different about our climb. Perhaps because it was the first of this winter and we were both happy to be out again. We made it through the steeps quicker than I had expected. Once beyond the junction of the Sosman Trail we entered into that wonderful corridor of evergreens that leads to the fork in the trail. As always I let Atti choose the way at the fork and as always he chose left. You see, it clearly goes up, more noticeably than the trail to the right, and for whatever the reason he understands we go up until there is no more up.

When we came into the sunshine and the views to Moosilauke draped in a sheer, thin blanket I chose my footing through the icy rocks carefully, letting the points of my microspikes dig in, but Atticus dodged and weaved and hopped along the craggy trail without much care. Then it was into one last corridor of trees for the short wind to the top. The trees were coated in pixie dust and it glinted in the fingers of sunshine that poked through the dense growth. That’s where I lost Atticus. That’s where I always lose him. It is the place in each hike where he no longer waits for me. He understands the top is near and cannot hold back.

When I caught up to him he gaily circled that row of angelic trees standing guard over the cairn. He was not sniffing or looking for any specific thing but frolicking in a queer little tap dance. Strange little dog, I’ve never quite seen anything like it from him on a mountaintop before but when you spend as much time together as we do you master the game of charades quite well and know how to read him. His message was simple – we’re home. We are home!

Just the other day a friend asked, “Which of the 48 is your favorite?”

Like many of you I have no one single favorite, but even I was surprised when Tecumseh made my list of favored peaks. For us it has never been ‘just Tecumseh’ or a simply a mandatory check mark on a list. Don’t ask me why for I cannot explain it. There’s just something about it that lights my senses afire and inspires me in the most primitive way. Watching my little friend dance around the breezy summit on Sunday, it’s clear he feels the exact same way.

Perhaps for me, part of the charm of Tecumseh is that it resembles Atticus or Emerson’s ‘little prig’; it may be small but it contains all the wonders of the Universe. Because of the little dog I go through life with I’m often reminded that the mass of a thing means little in defining the breadth of its spirit.

And so we came to Tecumseh once again and once again I was the better for it.

Merry Christmas To Our Friends At Angell

To our Angell Family this Holiday Season,

The course of my life was determined by a cigarette. Forty years ago tomorrow, my family fell into a spiral it never recovered from when my mother, long-suffering from MS, died in a hospital bed after dropping a lit cigarette. I was eight years old, the youngest of nine children. The hub of our universe was gone and all the spokes splintered and went their own ways like survivors of a ship wreck – man and children doing their best to somehow survive each on their own.

My father never recovered from this loss and when he died this year it was a relief to him to finally go and join the woman he loved. Some my siblings never recovered either. God bless them, I still root for them. But being the youngest and with a grand view of all of them, I wanted something more. I loved them but didn't want to be anything like them. And so the past four decades became a quest to seek a path where there was none to follow. Sometimes awkwardly, often blind, I wandered and tried to find my way to the top of a mountain I had dreamed of. Step by step, piece by piece, I put together the life I had dreamed of through the best and the worst of times.

Because of what you all do for a living (and obviously for love) you will appreciate that the last steps could only be taken after being touched by two wonderful dogs, my dear Max, whose ashes now grace the top of each of the 48 4,000-footers and, of course, dearest Atticus, who helped me spread those ashes. I did all I could do to reach the mountaintop I had dreamed of in the darkest hours of loneliness but there are some things a man needs help with, some things he cannot do on his own. I learned what I could on my own, but I needed these two souls to teach me what I could not learn on my own - love.

This journey to the mountaintop is a walk from a parking lot (society); into the woods with faith there is something more even though you cannot see it; blood, sweat and tears in climbing over rock, root and other obstructions; challenges of cliffs, ice, snow, high rivers, wild winds; and then when things seem bleakest, when there seems to be no end to the fight for survival, the never-ending journey does end with a brilliant view from a mountain peak.

Atticus brought me to that mountaintop, then when he was sick last year I feared I would lose it all.

That's where you came in. What hit me most about Angell was not that I thought you all could solve anything, but that you brought us hope and hope is a very bright star on the darkest of journeys. It is what is needed most, especially when it seems so far away. There are thousands who have received much more from Angell than Atticus and I have, but I wanted you all to know if you touched us as deeply as you did then, and in knowing that you will always be there for us, there are so many others out there who feel just as deeply and appreciative for what you do as we do.

Richard Bach, in his wonderful little book "Illusions", wrote: "The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other's life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof." First Max, and then Atticus, proved this to me. And you, our Angell Family, have proven it more than you will ever know.

We both thank you for being perfect at what you do. If I could afford it I'd buy each of you anything you would have this Christmas, but since that is not possible, I offer you the only thing I can afford to give – our love and thanks for all you do. I'm sure you hear such things quite often but as far as I am concerned, you all can never hear it enough.

This Christmas Eve, when Atticus and I climb a mountain for our now annual dinner (complete with Christmas lights), we'll give thanks for the gifts you have given us and thank you for touching our lives again and again.

Onward, by all means,
Tom Ryan & Atticus M. Finch

PS: For our other readers, as you know, Atticus and I are not going to be fundraising for Angell this winter while I work on our book, however, giving to Angell and the great work they do is always worthwhile. When our book is published, we’ll be offering a portion of each book sale to the Angell Animal Medical Center. If you are looking for the right gift to give to the animal lover in your life you can always make a donation in their name to Angell. Our contact, and oh, what a contact she is, is Kathleen Santry. If you would like to make a donation so that other animals can have the same care Atticus received, you can email Kathleen for information on how to give at ksantry@mspca.org.

Hall of Fame Dinner Program

For whatever the reason I continue to stumble when it comes to scanning in the photo page from the program of the MSPCA-Angell's Hall of Fame Dinner at the JFK Presidential Library when Atticus and I were honored with the Human Hero Award. It's nearly two months coming, but here it is...finally.

Our Latest Column for the Northcountry News

Ah, the annual holiday issue. With that in mind, here’s a little something different from Tom & Atticus – some ideas for the winter hiker on your holiday list.

Two or Three Headlamps: In winter, it gets light later and gets dark earlier. Spend enough time on the trails and you will hike sooner or later with a headlamp on. One will fail sooner or later, so bring extras. And always bring extra batteries. A headlamp serves the additional purpose of head protection. Yes, head protection – for when your spouse wants to slap you upside the head because you have the bedroom light on at 4:00 a.m. while getting ready for your hike.

Balaclava: You’d be warm, but also considered the biggest dork in your neighborhood if you wore a balaclava to walk the dog. Fear not, there’s nothing dorky about face protection on a frozen, windy day above treeline in the mountains. As a matter of fact, it is essential. A balaclava protects much of your face from frost bite and serves the additional purpose of making all photos look that much more dramatic. Stand on a mountaintop with a balaclava on and those back home looking at photos of you will understand immediately how dangerously cold it was that day on the mountain – even if it wasn’t. (A little drama never hurt any story.) And of course, if you are like me, balaclavas have a slimming effect when they cover up that double chin.

MSR Snowshoes: More often than not I see city folks in the mountains post-holing through deep snow with crampons on and I’m thinking, “What the hell?” Yes, snowshoes are far more commonly needed than crampons but folks don’t see them as sexy. They watch television shows on climbing Everest and they have an image of what they want to look like when they hike to the top of any of the White Mountains. That image consists of something more manly than snowshoes. They even look so much more dangerous than snowshoes with their big jagged spikes. (And believe me when I tell you they are, as many novice winter hikers will tell you when they gash one of their legs with their own crampons.) The beauty about MSR brand snowshoes is that they are far more aggressive than regular snowshoes when it comes to climbing. To attest to this, I’ve climbed each of the mountains in the Presidential Range at one time or other in snowshoes. Sure there will be times when you need crampons, just not as much as the egotist hiker will tell you. You want to look sexy? Hike in a thong.

Carbon Graphite Trekking Poles: Most hikers will tell you they use trekking poles to ease the impact on their knees while coming down a mountain or for balance while crossing icy rocks in a stream or traversing a snow field high above treeline. That may be so, but the real use I get out of them is that they give me something to hold onto when I can’t go any further and I’m cursing my body for being out of shape while my head hangs in defeat between my slumping shoulders while my arms are extended outward holding onto the pole handles. Usually the phrase that accompanies such a position is “I will never hike another #@@$$%$%! mountain for as long as I live! What was I thinking?” If the poles weren’t there, I’d fall face-first into the snow and look even more pathetic. (The carbon graphite versions are extra light weight and extra strong, if you happen to be like me – extra large.)

Microspikes: These things are fantastic. No they are not as sexy as crampons because they are ‘micro’ and not big manly spikes, but there are times when neither snowshoes nor crampons are needed but you need some traction for good footing. They slip on over your winter boots with ease and come off just as easily, even while you are wearing gloves. They can also be used as a marriage aid. No, not talking about you folks into S & M here, but they will give you a good grip on the ice on your walkway and driveway back home so you have no excuse not to take out the trash even in the iciest of conditions, which will help keep your home life ice free.

Wool Socks & Ziploc Bags: I know you are thinking this is just downright silly but trust me, they are needed. Sure you need one or two pairs of wool socks on your feet in a winter boot, that’s easy to understand. Socks serve other purposes besides just keeping your feet warm. They can work as extra mittens if – God forbid – and emergency arises. They can be used to keep your water or Gatorade from freezing up in your pack. Slide the full bottle in upside down and tuck the stuffed sock into the middle of all your other gear. If that doesn’t keep it from freezing, at least having the water bottle upside down will ensure the freezing takes place at the bottom of the bottle. As for Ziploc Bags, they are the most important of all pieces of winter equipment for they carry those wondrous miniature Snickers bars. Unwrap them before going and put them into the Ziploc Bags so you won’t have to take off your gloves to eat; then stick the little bags where they are easily accessible.

Dog Gear: The best protection you can give to your dog in winter is to not put him or her into a dangerous position. However, when you’ve determined it is okay to bring your own Atticus out in the winter there are two pieces of gear I’ve found to be of great help. The first is his set of Muttluk boots (Muttluks.com). I put them on my little hiking partner when the snow is loose or the ground extra cold. When on ice, I take them off him so he can use his claws for traction. Muttluks are also great for summer use above treeline. All too often dogs leave a trail of bloody paw prints behind because their owners haven’t put much thought into their care. The other piece of equipment Atticus uses is a body suit that comes from K9 Top Coat (www.K9topcoat.com). Sure he looks like a perverted Aqua Man with his paws and privates revealed for all to see, but everything else is covered with fleece on the inside and neoprene on the outside. I use it on extra cold days, or when he has to trudge through deeper snow. In all fairness, I should point out that Atticus hates to put these things on, but once they are on he does very well with them. He is, after all, a nudist by nature, but I have no doubt he still appreciates this gear.

These are only a few things you need when hiking in the winter. When shopping for them, remember the independent retailers closest to you. Stand by the little guy who gives back to your community whenever you can. But no matter where you get your gear, be safe out there. The mountains can be dangerous.

A High-Flying Dog and his Curiosity of Cats

Atticus and I have moved our operations to North Conway for two weeks. We're house/dog/cat sitting for a friend. While here we are exploring the woods around North Conway and hope to get some good hikes in. You can see how happy Atticus is to be here by his high-flying photo above. You'll also note his curiosity of cats. (He's not sure what to make of them.) Hopefully while here I'll get an opportunity for some good writing. I've also included a photo of the view of the back deck here. Mt. Washington is in the clouds but you can see Adams' pointy top.

A November Walk In The Woods

There is never a time when I'm alone in the woods, thanks to my four-legged talisman. He leads, I follow, until, that is, we come to a trail junction and he wants to know which path we will take next. Then he looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to point either right or left. As great as it is to have Atticus for company, I’m even more blessed because my hiking partner is the best kind of company – silent; and he takes as much joy in the woods as I do. Ralph Waldo Emerson liked the church best when it was empty. I am the same way with the woods: reverence through solitude.

On Sunday morning, it was bitterly cold and we were early enough to have the woods to ourselves. The only sounds were the crunch of frozen leaves underfoot, an occasional melancholy birdsong, the rhythm of my breathing and the wind hissing through the trees. The plan was for a quick hike along the Morgan-Percival loop in Holderness overlooking Squam Lake before heading over to Newfound Lake to join two of my brothers for lunch. However, after the mild meanderings of the lower portion of the trail and the short steeper section in the last portion of the Mt. Morgan Trail, I changed my mind.

Atticus sat by a trail junction sign: Straight ahead (and up) to Mt. Morgan (0.4 miles and eventually over to Mt. Percival); or left to Mt. Webster (1.4 miles) along the Crawford Ridgepole Trail. Because we were now higher and more exposed and the wind was strong enough to make me pull my balaclava over my head and cover everything other than my eyes and we were in a hurry, the logical thing would have been to climb Mt. Morgan and then hop over to Mt. Percival and finish the loop with plenty of time to get to my brother's. But a funny thing happens to me in the woods – even when they are naked and so cold it's uncomfortable to stand still for more than a minute. I become a child again.

I'd never been to Mt. Webster (nor even heard of it) and decided it would be a fine time to go. And so Atticus and I followed our hearts instead of our plans and headed to points unknown.

The trail rolled pleasantly along through the November woods and we walked quickly in the cold, dark shadows of the ridge to the south with little protection from the bitter wind coming from the north. Soon, ice crystals formed on my eyebrows and eyelashes. If there had been snow on the ground it would have passed for the heart of winter instead of the Sunday before Thanksgiving.

While alone with Atticus in the frozen woods with gusts bearing down on us something wild was awakened in me. It had to do with making the choice to leave a warm bed and the Sunday paper behind to be out in elements most would never venture out in and until three years ago I wouldn't have either. We were suddenly as feral as our surroundings, out in untamed world, and perversely I found comfort in my discomfort. It came from within…and without. For the woods were frozen and harsh but still seemed to pulse with unseen life; just as my body did under several layers of clothing.

A friend of mine recently described a feeling she had deep within when she was moved to tears by something warm and beautiful and unexpected. It wasn't a pang in her heart but lower, but not in her gut either; perhaps, I surmise, it was in her soul. That's what it was like for me on Sunday morning. I felt a pang in my soul standing on the mountainside and thought of something the painter Andrew Wyeth said: "I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure in the landscape – the loneliness of it – the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it – the whole story doesn't show."

There's something about there being more to the story, to the mystery of nature and what happens when we become part of the story simply by participating in it.

I could write on and on, I suppose, about how we eventually found the spur path to the summit of Mt. Webster and then two-tenths of a mile later found a nice outlook with a view down on the lake and over towards Whiteface's snowy white face and the pointed peak of Chocorua. Or I could tell you how when we turned back and made it to the summit of Morgan that there was a river of ice along the trail and we had to rock and root hop our way to the top and when we reached it we sat shielded from the wind in a warm sun overlooking a brilliant Squam Lake rippled by the wind. However, to me the day was defined by a whimsical decision to stray from the route and we found ourselves enjoying this most unlikely weather on a lesser-used portion of trail. It is special indeed when you find yourself graced to become part of what you love, as wild as the wind and as primitive as the mountainside itself. And we were there not because we went with friends or because I was checking it off this or that list but simply because something within stirred me out of bed and urged me on. It is the story of why we go to the woods in the first place, even as children. It is the feeling of being part of something not available to us anywhere else but in the forest.

Some of our best journeys outside take me inside. Such is the simple and uncomplicated joy of being in the woods.

My November Guest

I’m not sure if you are familiar with Robert Frost’s poem, “My November Guest” or not. It’s beautiful for the starkness it evokes and suited my purpose this morning while wending along a path next to the Saco River this morning in North Conway. When we lost the path we stumbled upon a rustic threadbare road, no more than tire ruts through short wet grass, bare of trees but carpeted with slick brown leaves. It was while walking along this road and following Atticus between the gray trees under gray clouds lingering after the rain (perhaps wondering if their job was done), that I thought of a few lines from the poem:

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow…

Frost, I’m told, was writing about the beauty of melancholy or loneliness. Perhaps so. But I was feeling anything but melancholy – I never do in the woods – and find those three lines to be very beautiful. They strike at my throat like a lover’s glance from across the room.

And, of course, how could I be lonely? Not while following this trotting little hobbit and his swaying fanny, his flopping ears. He is excited by the forest. Not like other dogs I’ve had or known. He does not take off in hyperactive wild loops weaving madly through trees, chasing scents and the slightest movement. Instead he stays on the trail. He’ll stop to sniff a bare branch of some forgotten shrub but then before I am on him he moves on, intent on leading the way.

We moved silently this way for a while, enjoying the morning. From time to time Atticus stopped and looked through the woods as if he saw something, but after a moment or two he’d be on his way again until one time he didn’t move. He stopped and looked to the left through a thicket. Eventually he sat and watched. It took me a little while to see the doe, not 20 feet away, as still as a statue. Ever so slowly I sat on the ground next to Atticus and we watched that deer for fifteen minutes. Our eyes never wavered from her graceful form when she began to relax. Then, as if remembering an appointment she was late for, she bound through the forest in the opposite direction, her white tale rising high with each kick.

My God, talk of how stunning nature is!

It’s hunting season here. To think that a hunter could see that doe as we did and still pull the trigger is beyond comprehension. I will never understand how propelling a bullet into such a elegant creature enriches a person more than being able to share the woods with her.

Atticus sat and watched her departure, then looked at me. We met in a glance halfway between our two species in a world we’ve grown comfortable with. I think we were thinking the same thoughts, feeling the same things, both in love with the ‘bare November days before the coming of the snow’.


My November Guest
By Robert Frost

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

Our Winter Plans

This morning when Atticus and I walked, it finally felt like November: bare, steel-gray trees; brown lifeless leaves; the lazy drift of snowflakes that will amount to nothing; a chill in the air and my bones. I’m hoping we can get two such long walks in each day while I get myself into winter hiking shape.

During the previous three winters we’ve had very busy schedules. In the first – our first winter of hiking – we attempted to do all 48 in the 90 days of the season but fell short by two hikes with 41 peaks. The second winter we raised money for the Jimmy Fund and Dana-Farber Cancer Institute by trying to hike all 48 twice in the 90 days. We fell short by four hikes with 81 peaks. Last winter we attempted the two rounds again, raising money for Angell Animal Medical Center, but, well, winter decided to be winter. Record snow totals held us to 66 peaks gathered. Funny, three winters in a row we have fallen short of the goal I set. And yet the experiences have been rich and tangible and many will be with me for as long as my memory works.

This winter? I’ve given it some thought and know that we’ll be hiking. However, I’ve decided we won’t go for a full round. It will be strange not to have that obsession to sink myself into but also a bit of a relief. That doesn’t mean I don’t have goals to reach for. This winter I intend of concentrating on my career by working diligently on the book. My goal is to write every day, surrendering to that great adventure.

Physically, I have a different goal. It has been announced that the road to the Cog Railroad at the base of Mount Washington will not be open this year. For the last three years it has been, and this has made ascents of Mt. Washington and Monroe and Eisenhower much easier. This makes reaching the summit of Washington and Monroe much more difficult. Therefore, I think the goal this winter will be to do something I’ve given thought to the last two winters but things never worked out: we may just attempt a one-day Presidential Traverse. It would take us over Madison, Adams, Jefferson, Washington, Monroe, Eisenhower, Pierce and Jackson. (Okay, maybe not Jackson. I’ve yet to make up my mind on that one.)

Is a winter Presidential Traverse feasible? Two winters ago, when we hit the 81 peaks, I think we could have done it then. Last winter we never got into a rhythm and therefore didn’t get into good enough shape. Winter is only about six weeks away so I need to do some work between now and then: diet and endurance work. The endurance work I don’t mind. The diet, well, it will have to take place if I want to reach this goal. Part of our training will be to hike the 4,000-footers that were sponsored but never reached last winter.

From what I know, a dog has never done a Winter Presidential Traverse before. I don’t doubt that Atticus can do one, if we get the proper weather. The question is, can I do one?

While on the subject of our last three winters, I’ve a confession to make: in attempting to do either one or two rounds in 90 days, I found myself putting a lot of pressure on myself, especially when using the quests as a fundraiser. By the time each winter ended I needed a break from the mountains. My mind was spent. Then again, that was part of the endurance event. This winter I’m hoping that by hiking only what I want to hike that won’t happen. I love hiking too much for it to turn into a commitment I have to do and I don’t want to resent it. If we set out to do two rounds again, mentally I wouldn’t have what it takes this time around. Perhaps you can understand why I felt burned out on peak-bagging when you consider that during the last three winters Atticus and I have hiked 188 peaks. That’s 188 more than I ever imagine we’d hike in the winter only four years ago.

As for fundraising for Angell, that’s not done. When the book is sold to a publisher part of the agreement will be that a portion of each sale will go to Angell Animal Medical Center. And besides, there will be other fundraising adventures coming our way in the future – just not this winter. Here’s a few possibilities: Tom & Atticus Hike… the Adirondacks; the Appalachian Trail; all NH 48 in one month.

That’s it for now from a very chilly Tamworth.

Our Most Recent Column for the Northcountry News: A Return to the Trails

It has been said that the great poet philosophers of past centuries debated over the number of angels that could fit on the head of a pin. For us, the more fitting question is how many angels can fit on a hike without tripping over each other.

Draped in prayers carried forth by a legion of angels from good-hearted people around New England and various corners of the United States, a little dog entered the woods as he always has – with a sprite-like bounce any self-respecting wood faerie would envy. Carefree, irrepressibly joyous, with ears bouncing up and down (his sign of happiness in movement), the scars of his psyche have faded as much as those on his throat. It is as if the attack never occurred and a hole was never ripped in his throat.

Our objective for our return hike was Potash Mountain, the fair sister of Hedgehog Mountain. Yes, I know Potash is not a 4,000-footer, and therefore not a sexy climb to some, but I’ve gotten over my prejudices in such matters, and much to his credit, Atticus never had them. The woods are the woods and the White Mountains are the White Mountains. Besides, while the elevation gain is only 1,400 feet in 1.9 miles, much of that comes in rather steep sections of ledge. My body tells me it is as tough a climb as Hale, Tecumseh or Jackson, and the views to be had on top are far more beautiful than what can be seen on two of the three aforementioned peaks.

We moved easily through the first section of woods and counted it as good luck that everyone else in the full parking lot apparently took a left at the fork in the trail and headed to Hedgehog instead. The stream was high after recent rains so halfway across I picked up Atticus and carried him like a loaf of bread over ten or so feet of rushing water. Once across he shook of the indignity of his portage and once again led on. In that section the trail climbs up through the woods before flattening out again, and so did we. Then we crossed the old logging road (we would take this out to the Kancamagus Highway on the return trip to avoid the stream crossing) and were on our way again, up again.

These are the magical woods of moose and other invisible woodland creatures but in the meditative ebb and flow of my breathing it may as well have been Tolkien’s Mirkwood Forest. I wouldn’t have been shocked to see a wayward dwarf or a fast-fading elf feast just ten trees away. As I wrote before, the woods are the woods. No matter where they are located I find myself transported to my most innocent states when in them. Moreover, since I have this gentle little hobbit of a creature serving as my guide, who can blame me for these little fantastical side trips?

We scrambled up tree-roots and rock ledges kept slick in the shadowy forest and towards a tunnel of light that led us to a ledge with a great view out to Passaconaway. There we sat in the brisk breeze and bright sun, Atticus eating peanut butter crackers out of my hand and then sipping his water; me checking him for any ill-effects and finding none.

From that ledge, the trail twisted and turned along the southern side of the mountain and seemed to go on forever with the last pitch always just around the next corner. After rocky undulations along a thickly wooded area we came to that ankle-testing angled ledge walk. Then came the final steep push up and to the right.

Atticus is always just ahead of me, 10, maybe 20 yards, ahead at most – until we get to the summit. That’s when he hurries forward like a child on Christmas morning, rushing to see what Santa has left under the tree. When I caught up to him he was on the northern ledge catching the breeze with his floppy ears, looking out the Hancocks and Carrigain. When I sat him in the crook of my arm, he could see over the trees and turned his gaze towards white Mount Washington and the clouds sailing rapidly over it like specters on a haunt.

After a spell, we moved out of the wind and took in the view on the leeward side – Passaconaway, the Sleepers, the Tripyramids, the Fool Killer, and the two Osceolas. We made the hike with our friends Ken and Ann Stampfer and their son, Mark, and we sat together eating our lunches. Atticus ate his London broil – you don’t get to celebrate a return to the trails every day – and when he finished he sat and then stretched out above us in the sun.

Perhaps our conversation bored him or maybe he wanted to see what else the mountaintop had to offer, but after a bit he wandered off. When I interrupted him several minutes later he was off on his own on the other side of a small wall of trees and shrubs looking towards Chocorua.

Our return trip was a pleasant walk in the woods in the fading light of the aging afternoon. None of us had a care in the world. We had passed the test in our return to the trails and there was much to be thankful for.

There is a gift in these mountains and I receive it each time I tread a forest path or stand looking at sights I never imagined existed. But a greater gift comes to me in sharing it in silent communion with an a little dog who knows both the light and the dark life has to offer and yet continues to evolve in ways I can only dream of.

Dr. Nick Trout, a veterinarian at Angell Animal Medical Center and author of the NY Times bestseller “Tell Me Where It Hurts” recently wrote something to me. In it was this sentence: “Animals come into our lives prepared to teach, if only those of us on the human side of the bond would be humble enough to learn.”

In my journeys, I am forever humbled by the mountains of New Hampshire and even more so by life lessons learned from a curious little dog who teaches me a great deal about being a better human.

The Mountain Ear Updates Atticus' Condition

In the most recent issue of The Mountain Ear (November 6, 2008; Volume 33, Number 25, Page 24), Steve Smith’s “Nooks & Crannies” hiking column has an update on Atticus. It reads as follows:

Nice to hear from Tom Ryan of Tam- worth that Atticus M. Finch, his re- nowned peakbagging miniature schnauzer (who in the last two years has made nearly 150 winter ascents of 4000-foot peaks for fundraising efforts), is rapidly recovering from a nearly fatal attack by a larger dog that occurred during a walk on a trail in early October. Last weekend they were back out in the woods climbing Potash Mountain off the Kanc. Atticus is one tough pooch. Ryan offers high praise for Dr. Christine O’Connell at North Country Animal Hospital in North Conway, who treated Atticus after the attack. You can follow the adventures of Tom and Atticus at www.tomandatticus.blogspot.com.

Thank you, Steve.

Thanks For Voting YES on Question 3

Massachusetts residents: Just a quick thank you from one little dog who hated to see other dogs abused as they have been in the Greyhound racing industry. Thank goodness that's over. Now, if other states will only follow suit. (By the way, the photo is from our hike this past weekend to Potash.)

Great Thanks to the Flying Fifties for their Support of Atticus

That energetic group of ski enthusiasts in Lincoln, the Flying Fifties, have get well wishes for Atticus on their website: http://www.flyingfifties.com/. If you scroll down their website [which is interesting in its own right] you will see Atticus and their good wishes towards a full recovery under the title: "Our Prayers For The Complete Recovery Of Atticus". In the short post they write:

Tom and Atticus climb the White Mountains as an inseparable team and publish their exploits in the Northcountry News. But Atticus recently met with some very unfortunate bad luck that resulted in severe injuries to a little guy we have all grown to love in the North Country. We're all praying for a complete recovery.

A Return to the Trails

Yesterday, three weeks after the attack on Atticus, we returned to the trails without a hint that it ever occurred. We climbed Mt. Potash with Ken, Ann and Mark Stampfer. It was a brisk but beautiful day in the woods, as Ken's photos (above) attest to. Potash is a great 'little' mountain that offers wonderful views close up of some of the Sandwich Range and as far away as Washington.

What a pleasure to see little Atticus back in his favorite setting, walking peacefully and purposefully through the woods, then summit sitting, enjoying the views. I hope to get back on the trail quite often this November as we gear up for a different kind of winter challenge and I need to get back into shape. As of Wednesday this week, Atticus and I will be shifting over to North Conway for six days and plan to get on some of the trails in that area.