Middle Mountain Today

Don't ask me what he's thinking in that top photo. I really have no idea. I just knew that I wanted to get Atticus's photo when I saw him looking at me like that. In the second photo he's awaiting one of his favorite summit treats, Stella & Chewies Carnivore Kisses.

It was a mostly overcast day for this hike up Middle Mountain but we still had some great views. The snow is getting softer as spring approaches and there were a couple of times I actually postholed with my snowshoes on. Won't be long before all the snow is gone and we'll start seeking out snowfree trails.

In Praise of Midnight Mike's Oddity

There’s a fellow named “Midnight” Mike Bromberg who has earned quite a name for himself in our White Mountains through the years. He is a skilled cartographer and his map of the Sandwich Range is a thing of beauty. He was only the fifth person to hike all 48 4,000-footers in each of the twelve months (and he did it long before it became the latest “monkey see, monkey do” craze that it is today). And he has hiked each of the 4,000-footers at night, standing on their summits at midnight – hence, the nickname.

That’s how Midnight Mike first caught my attention. I’d read his name in the back of Steve Smith and Mike Dickerman’s Four Thousand Footers of the White Mountains in a section called “Feats & Oddities.” My first thought was why would anyone in their right mind want to climb mountains at night?

That was way back when Atticus and I first started hiking and the Smith and Dickerman book was the last thing I read before drifting off to sleep – assuring me sweet, mountain dreams of places we’d never been, but would soon see.

Some five years later we’ve been up more than a hundred different mountains and I’ve decided that my favorite thing to do is to climb them at night. It’s a special treat, a chance to see the trails in an entirely different manner. And an opportunity for Atticus and I to experience them on our own. There’s little chance we’ll run into people on these hikes. There’s even less chance we’d ever emulate Midnight Mike’s feat (or is it oddity?), but I can now see the pleasure he derived from it. It’s no longer unusual for me to wait until the sun sinks behind the mountain ranges before grabbing my pack and starting out.

Strangely enough the urge to do this often comes later at night, when I should be settling down and getting ready for bed, or when I’m already in bed. A faint whisper calls out to me and Atticus puts up with this madness, even if it wakes me in the middle of the night. He’s come to think little of going to bed and then rising with me two or three hours later.

Such was the case the other night. I awakened with so clear and clean a thought it was as if I hadn’t been sleeping. Winter is almost over. Soon the snow will be gone.

You see, night hiking is richest in winter, when the ground is white, rocks and roots are smoothed over in layers of snow and ice, the trees bare, and the night cold, but crystal clear.

Once again I got dressed, grabbed my backpack, snowshoes, and poles, made certain I brought all three of my headlamps along. All the while Atticus looked at my appraisingly until I finally asked him, “Well, are you coming?”

Our latest nighttime rendezvous came on the small but beautiful peaks of Stanton and Pickering. They’re only five miles away from the house and an easy enough climb. Stanton comes first at 1.4 miles and along the way it offers cliff-top views of Mount Attitash to the south long after the last skier has departed. But the better outlook comes on Pickering, just another 0.7 of a mile along the trail. On the summit there were trees between us, the ski area, and the town of Bartlett. With civilization literally behind us, Atticus and I stood under brilliant stars piercing the black sheet of night. Looking north up at the multitude of unadulterated lights I tingled and butterflies took flight between my heart and my gut.

“My God, it’s beautiful,” I said aloud, as Atticus was tucked in a sitting position in the crook of my arm.

How often I’ve uttered some semblance of those words here in the Whites! He’s so used to it he no longer looks at me when I speak of such things. Instead he sits looking raptly out as if taking inventory of every last bit of heaven before us. Then, as always, he allows his weight to sit fully against me and, relaxing his body, he sighs. Often we both sigh.

The contrast of the night sky and the mountains below was spectacular. In front of us stood the hulking shadow of Iron Mountain, looking bigger from the top of Pickering than it does from anywhere else. Its enormity makes me see its full force. Beyond that, its white gown glowing majestically and flowing down into the dark valley below, sits Agiochook. That was the name the Abenaki gave her, long before “civilized” man changed it Mount Washington. But there are times when you see our highest peak - she with the wicked winds, frozen temperatures, lives taken, and the stuff of legends and lore – and Agiochook fits better.

Recently I came upon a John Muir quote: “Civilized man chokes his soul.” It’s true. We try to tame the wild places, to best them in some way instead of just appreciating them. Nature teaches us things and often the best we can do is to just let her be. Let her inspire us without putting some kind of stamp on her. And let her be Agiochook: home of the Great Spirit.

The next morning Atticus and I stopped in at the White Mountain Café here in Jackson and Crystal, who works the counter most days, asked, “Are you guys going hiking today?”

“Already been,” I said. “We got in about 3:00 this morning.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “You two are crazy!”

Perhaps we are, I suppose. Just crazy enough to be happy living a life that most might think a little odd. Although I think Midnight Mike would approve.

Now That's Wall Art!

Just received a poster of the book cover from our publisher, William Morrow. How fun is this! Now to get it framed.

"Following Atticus" Chosen as the Book for this Year's Mount Washington Valley's 'One Book, One Valley'

Each autumn the various communities of the Mountain Washington Valley, led by each town's library and the local book store, choose one book for everyone to read. This will be the sixth year of the event and today I received a call out of the blue that they chose Following Atticus as this year's title! It really is an honor for us. And it's the first time they've chosen a hardcover book. Typically they go with a book that's already gone paperback. Past authors have included Chris Bohjalian and Howard Frank Mosher, among others.

The event will kick off at our book signing at North Conway's White Birch Books in September. Throughout the next two months each library hosts discussion groups to talk about the book and it culminates in November when Atticus and I will appear on stage to discuss it with everyone in attendance.

We'll use this year's event as a fundraiser for two local animal shelters: Harvest Hills Animal Shelter and the Animal Rescue League of New Hampshire - North. I'll be donating the stipend they offer to each year's author, and we'll be asking people who show up at discussion groups to bring food for cats and dogs at the shelters, plus other supplies such as cat litter.

The link to One Book, One Valley is here. There are 11 communities involved in the event.

I'm honored they chose us and happy to be able to give something back to two great organizations.

Following Atticus on facebook.

Penguin U.K.'s Book Jacket for Following Atticus

While we sold our US rights to Following Atticus to William Morrow, we also sold foreign rights so far to Germany, Italy, and the U.K. Penguin U.K. shared their book jacket with us today. It's the same photo William Morrow used, with a nice sprinkle of snowflakes. Where the difference lies is in the words on the back.

Pierce in the Clouds

We’re happy to be inside today wrapped in all the comforts of home. Outside the wind blows and snow is falling. The forecast call for perhaps ten inches in what could be one of the last storms of the winter. The season is drawing to an end. Of course here in the White Mountains spring doesn’t arrive when the calendar tells it to. It takes its own sweet time coming around again. Call it a bit of Yankee stubbornness. Nevertheless, it always gets here.

Yesterday, while climbing Mount Pierce by way of the Crawford Path, with hopes of also making it over to Mount Eisenhower, we started out under blue skies. I’d hoped that Atticus and I would get great views from both summits but that was not to be the case. The clouds preceding today’s storm came early and by the time we reached the halfway mark to Pierce a couple of bold gray jays appeared and ate some snacks out of my hand, but the sun was already gone. Cloud cover, first vaguely opaque then increasingly darker, filled the sky.

It’s been a while since we had snow and the popularity of the Crawford Path helped to make the trail as flat and firm as a city sidewalk. Surprisingly, yesterday we had it to ourselves. Whenever I pull into a parking lot to hike and see that there are no other cars there is an excited feeling – a rush, ripe with anticipation, tingling with delight, and a wee bit of nervousness as well – that courses through me. It’s always a distinct pleasure to have a mountain to ourselves. It’s exceptionally rare to be alone on the Crawford Path since it is a major thoroughfare that sits right across from the AMC’s Highland Center and is the oldest continually used hiking trail in the country. Then again the last time we were on the same trail we had it to ourselves as well, but that was a night hike.

The closer we got to treeline the darker and windier it became. Trees long frozen into grotesque forms and coated by layers of snow and ice stood as silent witnesses to our progress, and the wind howled and hissed at us just above the treetops. Even more eerie was the thick and moist fog that descended on the mountaintop. It was almost spectral, like a large snake coiled up around the upper reaches of the peak slowly tightening its grip. I could feel it moving by me – feel the damp of its underbelly, feel it creep along the skin of my face. We stopped to put on Atticus’s Muttluks and my balaclava and only my eyes were revealed but still I could feel the clouds coiling around us taking hold of the mountain. When we reached the last section of trees, a place where the views of the highest peaks in New England are first revealed, there was nothing to see but the inside of the cloud.

This is one of the things I enjoy about having a mountain to ourselves in winter. It could turn out to be the most picturesque day I’ve ever seen, so pretty it makes my heart ache with unutterable joy; or it could evolve into a lonely wasteland of frozen shapes, gray skies, and haunting mists, where the banshee cry of the wind is all there is for company.

There is a side trail off of the Crawford Path that leads to the summit of Pierce and the slant of the mountain plays tricks on your eyes. Many hikers are fooled by where they think the trail is supposed to go and they veer left. But it’s a hard turn to the right. All mountains look different in varied weather and I have also been fooled on more than one occasion, but Atticus never is. I simply have to follow his little body with his legs bowed against the wind, and his ears taking flight like little flags.

He put his head down and marched forth toward the summit. He never misses when he knows where he’s going. Once we reached it he sat by the cairn to have his picture taken – yes, this has become a routine for us on every mountaintop and he knows where he sits for the summit shot. But when we had stopped a way back I put my camera away, safe from the elements. He kept waiting for me to take the shot until I told him there was no camera. So he stopped posing and went onto the next step, which is coming over so I can pick him up and we looked off into the distance together. Of course there was no distance to see. But still, ritual is ritual. After a minute of standing up holding him he nudged me with his nose.

Spend enough time with an animal and you no longer are man and animal, instead you meet somewhere in between and communication is much easier. I knew his nose nudge meant it was time to have our lunch so I put him down and opened up the backpack while he sat peering over its open mouth with anticipation. He was not disappointed. I’m on the South Beach Diet these days and that means it’s chicken sausages and cheese on the summit. He loves both.

The original plan was to head over to the dome of Mount Eisenhower but without views there was no reason to go. Nevertheless, when we returned the way we came and reached the Crawford Path Atticus turned to walk towards Eisenhower.

“Not today, my friend. No reason to go.”

He stopped and looked at me as if to say, “We’re not done yet.”

“Let’s go home,” I said. When I turned and started walking down the trail I noticed he was protesting. He wanted to go on. “Not today. Let’s go home.”

At that he trotted over and took the lead position again working our way down the mountain.

There’s much to think of on a hike but it occurs to me that my thoughts going up and coming down are often different. Going up I think of the hike more. I think about the work of getting up a mountain and I take inventory of my body. Since this past summer’s surgery that’s even more the case as I still don’t feel quite right. However, so long as I pay attention to my body I make do. On the descent my mind is freer. We’ve reached the summit and the easy part begins. My mind flows and thoughts come and go.

Yesterday, on the way down I was thinking about horizons and what we see. On a mountaintop in beautiful weather there are other mountains to see – mountains and valleys, rivers, lakes, and ponds. Occasionally there will be a dramatic cliff, or the long black line of a distant road fading off into the distance. But there’s rarely a clean view of the horizon. However, just last week, for the second winter in a row, Atticus and I went to the Outer Cape. It’s less expensive in winter, there are no crowds, and it feels as though my soul is crying out for more light. We get it there. Most days we walk the beach at sunrise and sunset. And Provincetown is one of the few places in the world where you can see both.

There was something fitting about yesterday’s hike to a cloud-covered peak that stood in stark contrast to the wide expanse of horizon from our beach walks. It reminded me that here in New England we are blessed to have such a varied landscape with everything within driving distance. And no matter where you are – mountaintops or seaside – nature is beautiful wherever you encounter it.

Following Atticus on facebook.

Following Atticus on Twitter

There's so much to say about our trip to Provincetown but that will have to wait for a day or two. But first, a little housekeeping: Tom and Atticus are now on Twitter. It will be a great way to follow us as we approach the release of our book this year and where we'll be going to promote it. Who knows? We may even end up at your local bookstore.

Spring!

Well, not really. It just feels like it today. The winds are gone, the sun is out, the temps are stretching towards fifty degrees! We took our usual walk along the Province Lands Trail and it felt so good to be out we stretched the five and a half mile loop into a ten mile walk with side trips to Herring Cove and Race Point.

I took off my gloves, then my sweater, and when we came to our favorite dune we stayed there for over an hour. We split our time there between watching the ocean and napping.

On the way back to the Beech Forest, where our car was parked, we came upon an amazing sight. Eleven squirrels were using the bare branches of nearby trees for a race track. We watched them leap from branch to branch, from tree to tree. It was obviously play time for them and I listened to their squeaks and squeals and imagined it was their song of delight and they were saying the same thing Atticus and I were, "It's spring! It's spring!"

We watched them for a while and when we started moving they all stopped, like race cars on a toy track as if someone had cut out the power, and watched us move. Then they appeared to follow along, leaping with exuberance from tree to tree to shadow us until they came upon the last tree and there they all stopped - eleven of them! I thanked them for the entertainment and then Atti and I passed out of sight leaving them to play their squirrel games.

Sunset on Race Point Today

Some Provincetown Sand Dune Sitting for the Little Buddha

We pulled into town on Friday, saw a great sunset, then slept heavily through the night. It's good to be back in Provincetown. We came here this same time last year and fell in love with the Outer Cape in winter.

In the heart of winter it's vastly different than in summer when the streets are filled with color and everyday is a festival. In February it's harsher. There's more light than there is up in the White Mountains and sunrise and sunset are both spectacular, but the wind came be strong and there's a desolate feel to the dunes. That being said, I find myself drawn to the land here at this time of year. It's starkness stirs something within me.

Like last year we'll be here through the entire week and we'll walk, write, and read. Other than that there's be plenty of napping.

Contentment in a Crazy World

Recently Amy Chua’s book about strict and demanding parenting, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother has been riding high atop the bestselling charts. Her method stands in stark contrast to Claire Dederer, another recent bestselling author; whose book Poser: My Life in Twenty-Three Yoga Poses espouses a gentler approach. In a recent New York Times Book Review Dederer was quoted: “Raising kids is the toughest temp job you’ll ever have. Maybe part of the job is teaching them the value of contentment in a disconcerted, grasping, climbing world.”

What does all this have to do with hiking? For me it has a lot to do with it.

You see, nature, and particularly hiking, offer me a connection to my late father, Jack Ryan. I may live in more complicated and faster paced times, but he lived in a harsher world. He grew up in the Depression, fought in World War II, raised nine children (some of us after my mother died), and his parenting technique fell somewhere between Chua’s and Dederer’s. In all honesty he was much more like Chua, but whenever he took us to the mountains we saw the best part of him emerge – the gentler side. We’d ride the tram up Cannon Mountain, stand on the viewing platform at the top of the mountain, look towards the Kinsmans to the southwest, Franconia Ridge to the southeast, and beyond both to a whole undulating sea of blue swells of never-ending mountains. It was there in the heart of Franconia Notch that I first noticed a rare look on his face. It was the look of contentment.

Jack Ryan never actually climbed a four thousand footer and he didn’t climb many mountains at all, but in some ways he actually has made it to the top of each one. For he has been with Atticus and me every step of the way. Sooner or later I feel his presence on each hike and it is so real I find myself saying aloud, “You would have loved this, Dad.”

Recently Atticus and I have been enjoying the simple act of tramping through the winter woods. Lately a favorite is to walk past the well-packed trail to Diana’s Baths and continue past the frozen falls along the trail towards North Moat. A mile into our walk we come to a stream that is covered tightly by the ice and all that can be heard of it are gentle murmurings. They sound almost like whispers and you only hear them when you stop and the snow is not crunching beneath your snowshoes with every step. Whenever we come to the stream crossing we pause and listen to that gentle song for a minute or more. It’s something that could easily go unnoticed when hiking with others. But when it’s just Atticus and me we not only hear the different sounds the forest makes, we seem to feel them.

Right around the stream crossing we turn onto the Red Ridge Trail. This will also take you to North Moat but in a more roundabout manner. Most people reach this point and turn back towards the falls giving themselves a nice two mile walk. But lately we’ve ventured further. It is a private piece of the forest, not so private that no one ever goes there, but it’s seldom enough that we’ve never seen anyone out there.

While walking out that way in the late afternoon the western sun slants through the woods and gives the dark bark of the winter trees more color and no matter how cold it feels things seem happier – more cheery. After a mile we come to another intersection and here we take a left onto the Red Ridge Connector. That’s where the climbing starts. It’s not horrendously steep, but it’s steep enough to make me sweat and occasionally stop to catch my breath. On this third leg of our journey there are very few snowshoe prints so we are promised even more privacy. We climb through the sun-lit forest, over crusty snow, into the waning afternoon and after a half mile or more of good work we come out on the backside of White Horse and Cathedral ledges. From there you can look down on the North Conway – both the quaint village and the bustling outlets stores.

We usually love our viewpoints, but on this regular trek it is the walk through the woods that is most special. I suppose it’s because it’s so close to the civilization we always enjoy escaping from. It’s not like when you are on the summit of Garfield or West Bond where you see nothing but everlasting nature. Here you can see Home Depot, Hannafords, and Lowe’s. And yet, it is a fine work out both for body and mind.

The return trip is easy and our strides are longer. We don’t have to stop while descending…and yet we often do. I find myself standing in the woods alone with Atticus, not another soul around, and I can feel that same thing my father introduced to me so long ago. It’s that feeling of contentment. It swells and warms me; it soothes and sings to me. It reminds of him at his best and reminds me that I’m on the journey he often dreamed of but never undertook.

I think Dederer had it right. My father was a beaten man by the time I got to know him. Life had worn him down. In spite of that he unknowingly passed onto me the value of contentment. As I near fifty I realize that it is perhaps the most valuable thing I have and the greatest gift he gave me.

Following Atticus on facebook.

Following Atticus Book Cover

For Following Atticus on facebook click here.

Playing on Chocorua Lake

460

The storm is full on now and both of us are warm inside after a snowy morning walk. Atticus has settled down with an old marrow bone I filled with peanut butter. I’m at my desk with a pot of tea. Plows regularly rumble by while the flakes continue to fall. The tree just outside our main window that looks out over the backyard is perfectly frosted. And the dainty tracks left by our neighborhood raccoon which crisscrossed the old snow in the yard only yesterday, are now filled in. I’ve refilled the bird feeder and sprinkled extra seeds on the ground for the squirrels but it appears all our little friends are sleeping in today.

Our apartment is filled with the aroma of simmering turkey, onions, carrots, and mushrooms in the crock pot and I’m glad we are inside instead of on some mountaintop. Atticus seems to agree. He was more than happy to step out of his boots and body suit. He’s always been a nudist by nature. However, he’s very content to wrap himself in his favorite blanket as he worries at his bone.

Yesterday, I received an email from my editor at William Morrow. She really is the best. I was once warned I would be warring with any editor I worked with but nothing could be farther from the truth. I actually look forward to her emails and yesterdays’ was exciting because I got a glimpse of what marketing will be sending out along with the advanced reader copies of the book this coming April. It was a little write up about Following Atticus and it closed with a small piece about the author and, of course, Atticus. But some of the information was outdated since I sent it to them when I first wrote my proposal.

I had to stop and think when it stated how many four thousand footers Atticus and I have climbed. I’ve actually stopped counting. So last night I sat down with a piece of paper and a list of the four thousand foot mountains and figured it out. In the five years Atticus and I have been hiking we’ve now climbed 460 of them. I was shocked by that number for it seems to me we haven’t been collecting that many high peaks as of late. But when you consider that during that first and second summer we did more than 48 both times. In our first three winters we climbed 188 mountains – that gives you an idea of the jump we started with.

We’ve continued to hike them, just not at the same pace. Instead we’ve concentrated our efforts over the past two years of peaks that aren’t quite as tall and because of that not as crowded – and yet every bit as magical. And most of these peaks, other than perhaps the popular Mount Chocorua, which nearly always has a crowd on it, are sparsely populated.

However, I must admit that as of late Atticus and I have returned to many of the higher peaks and have kept it quiet. It felt good to have them to ourselves by hiking them on less crowded days and at less crowded times. I’ve particularly grown fond of hiking at night. It still can be unnerving, but it also life affirming.

As for my reason on keeping quiet about most of what we’ve been climbing I’ve done it for two reasons. The first reason is that soon enough our lives will be an open book and when that takes place we’ll enjoy having little secret places to go to and bits of our lives that no one else can touch. Secondly is the mania currently sweeping the hiking community that is clearly evident on various websites where people are making note of how many peaks they climb because they are chasing after one list or another.

In our first summer we set out to do all forty eight. We did the same our first winter. In our second summer we did them again, but only because we’d raced through them so quickly the first time through and I wanted to see them all again. During our second and third winters we used the forty eight as fundraising tools in our attempts to do two rounds. After that I had no desire to keep an accurate count of what we were hiking and when.

The only reason I sat down last night to figure out how many we’ve climbed is because of what it will say in the little author’s bio about Atticus and me. What I discovered was that we have actually climbed Mount Waumbek 16 times! Jackson 15, Pierce and Tecumseh 14, and Garfield – which was our first peak and is perhaps my favorite – 13 times. Bond, Bondcliff, West Bond, Zealand, Madison, Adams, and Owl’s Head tie for peaks we’ve reached the least number of times at only 7.

The latest craze for hikers is to do the Grid. That translates into hiking the 48 in each of the 12 months of the year. Used to be only a select few had reached this milestone of 576 peaks. And while a friend points out that our latest total puts us well within reach of the Grid, I decided long ago that Atticus and I would not chase after it. While it is fine for others to shoot for, for me it seemed the only reason we would do it was to get notoriety - to receive a patch and to get listed on yet another website. But that’s not our game. I gave up the external gratification hiking thing when I realized it meant nothing, especially when compared to internal gratification.

Atticus and I may eventually climb all the mountains needed to do the Grid but we won’t officially join that club, just as we’ve never become members of the 4,000 Foot Club or received the cherished scroll and patch. And when I was asked if we wanted to be listed on the website that celebrates the select hikers who have done them all in one winter I politely declined.

Five years ago we came to the mountains because of how they made us feel, not to see how others would feel about us. We came for the personal experiences, not for patches, scrolls, or notoriety on websites. That’s not to say that such things are not right for others. The beauty of the mountains is that everybody gets to hike his or her own hike. We all have our own reasons for being up here. If people seek to chase after membership in various clubs based on achievement they are welcome to it.

While I’ve not ever asked him, I don’t think Atticus really cares that he doesn’t have a patch or a scroll nor that has his name is not listed on a website. What seems to matter most to him is that he gets to walk in the woods, catch the wind in his ears, and sit Buddha-like on the summits while taking in the views.

I figure if that’s good enough for Atticus, it’s good enough for me as well.

Walking into the Night

What a strange night it was.

I was in bed around ten reading the Autobiography of Mark Twain until about eleven, when I turned off the light and went to sleep. Not two hours later I woke up and was lying wide awake in bed. When I went to the bathroom for a glass of water I saw my reflection in the mirror above the sink and took a minute to really look. In the dim light I realized I’m not as young as I think I am.

I’ve never been one to think all that much about age and I definitely do not feel my own age. But when I looked at myself I saw the years leaving their signature in the soft lines around my eyes and saw a bit of salt and pepper in the stubble on my chin. I slowly ran my fingers over my face, then through the brown and gray curls in my hair and leaned in for a closer look.

Strange to be looking in the mirror at one in the morning and have lines from a poem drift into my head. It was the opening stanza to a Robert Herrick poem and I said them aloud.

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.”

Atticus stuck his head around the corner and nudged my leg with his nose pulling me away from my thoughts. Dogs don’t worry so much about age, or so I’m told. Then again they don’t worry about much of anything. In Atti’s case it seems the only thing that he is concerned with is me.

Considering the early hour and my middle aged years and how fleeting life is I made the curious decision not to return to bed but to instead get dressed in my hiking clothes, grab my backpack and head out the door. It was 2:30 am and four degrees out when we parked the car in Crawford Notch and took off up the Crawford Path. We were kept company by a half moon and clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Occasionally the upper reaches of the trees thinned enough for me to turn off my headlamp.

“Weren’t you afraid,” a friend asked me later that day.

“Yeah,” I said, "It's kind of weird, I know. I used to be afraid of the dark when I was a kid and hid my head beneath the blankets when I went to bed. But I think that’s partially why I hike at night from time to time.”

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“Nothing bad is going to happen in the woods at night. What I fear more than anything is the black of the night and the thought that something bad could happen. But my thoughts aren’t rational.”

And it’s true; my trepidation is not about moose or coyotes or falling down and injuring myself. They are instead of the fears of my childhood imagination – of things that go bump in the night, albeit not quite as harsh as they used to be. Hiking at night brings about a rich paradox of ingredients that makes for a savory stew. On the trail I am filled with emptiness and loneliness, those haunting childhood fears, freedom, and exhilaration. I get the feeling that I’ve jumped head first into my shortcomings and I breathe deep and am reminded that I’m alive. In the dark there is nothing much out there, but that’s what can be so disarming about it. And yet I’m out there nevertheless.

The higher Atticus and I climbed the deeper the snow was on either side of the well-packed trail and my snowshoes slapped the frozen path with every step. After a while I took off my balaclava and my gloves. I’m rarely cold in the winter when I’m moving and on a hike I am a furnace. The icy air was invigorating and where it met the sweat on my scalp it tingled. From time to time we stopped so I could rest. I’m still not quite the same as I was before this summer’s surgery and because of that I struggle more than I used to – but I’m getting there.

Higher we climbed and trees morphed by winter storms into grotesque shapes lurked along the boundaries of the beam of light cast by my headlamp. And on those occasions when I turned it off and walked with only moonlight to light the way those trees, swollen into sordid creatures in the gloom appeared to be keeping a close watch on us.

Higher we climbed, farther away from our car, farther away from our warm home, and the comfort of our bed, and towards a reminder that I am alive and well even as the lines of my face remind me on rare occasions that I am no longer young. The farther we walked from all that we knew, the more I returned to me. It’s ironic how a walk in the woods does that to a man.

In the woods sooner or later you come face to face with who you are. There are no distractions and you are reminded about the simple but important things in life. And in return you return to nature and are welcomed home time and again.

Two hours after we left the notch Atticus and I made our way out of the trees and into an ethereal mountain mist. I could no longer see the moon but its glow gave the fog life and I decided to go without my headlamp and walked to the summit of Mount Pierce with nothing but Atticus and the eeriness of the moment for company. When we stood next to the cairn marking the high point I picked up Atticus as I always do and we looked off into the distance towards where Washington was even though we could not see anything. I imagined that if we were on top of Washington instead, just a few hours walk up the Crawford Path, we’d be looking down on the clouds and the moon would be bright and the night crisp and the undercast would be something that dreams are made of. But standing as we were it’s not like I felt we were cheated out of anything without a view for there is something wondrous about standing on top of a frozen mountain while the rest of the world sleeps.

I put down a fleece blanket and sat on it and Atticus climbed up on my lap and we split some cheese and chicken sausages. I drank water and Atticus ate snow and when we sat long enough to start to get chilled we packed up and returned the way we came.

I find little to be as invigorating as choosing to do something that may be out of the ordinary for it pushes the margin of what’s normal and predictable. We work our entire lives to feel safe and comfortable, and yet once we are there the only thing that truly keeps us there is to at times venture away from it into the unknown and out onto an edge.

The lines around my eyes may tell the stories of my years, but they are also full of life and the possibilities of what’s to come. Life may be fleeting but that’s all the more reason to fit as much into it as possible.

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…”

Along the Red Ridge Trail

Yesterday, at 4:30 am Atticus and I stood shrouded in clouds and darkness on the summit of Mount Pierce. This afternoon we took a four mile hike along the Red Ridge Trail up the back side of Cathedral Ledge and the entire time we were awash in the golden light of a cold but wondrous winter afternoon. I've included a photo album on our facebook page.

White Mountain Photographer Ken Stampfer

Our friend Ken Stampfer, a wonderful White Mountain photographer, the man responsible for the photo on the back cover of our upcoming book (above), and a good friend to Atticus, has started a website and you can now buy his photo cards featuring White Mountain scenes. You can see them here. And as always you can get his cards at Steve Smith's Mountain Wanderer in Lincoln, New Hampshire.

Atticus Finch, Meet Atticus M. Finch

The United States Postal Service is releasing a Gregory Peck stamp this year. The picture of him is from his role as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. A few months later our book Following Atticus will be introducing the world to the distinctive Atticus M. Finch. It take this as a good sign.

Last night, Atticus and I climbed Mount Pierce and my trip report will be up within the next day so check back.

Blue Dog

Not to be confused with George Rodrigue's Blue Dog, Atticus is looking a bit blue (not to mention small) at the end of today's hike.

Four Thousand Footers Of The White Mountains of New Hampshire Map

This map of the Four Thousand Footers of the White Mountains will appear in Following Atticus. It was lovingly created by Jackson, New Hampshire artist Kathy Speight Kraynak specifically for the book. She will be making some minor changes to the map and it will come out as a poster that will be available for purchase throughout the White Mountains. The poster will be available around the same time as the book is published. (It will not have the picture of Atticus or the Tom & Atticus logo on it.)

A Place I Return To Time And Again

I often poke fun of my hiking friends who are religious in their pursuit of the almighty "Grid," that once rare accomplishment where each of the four thousand footers is climbed in each of the twelve months. That's a total of 576 peaks and once upon a time it was only done by long time hikers who realized that through all their years of tramping through the woods that they were so close to accomplishing the goal that they decided to go for it. It was truly rare and admirable. But eventually new hikers started setting their sights on reaching the holy land of the "Grid" and now so many people are out to do it that it no longer seems like such a big deal. Dare I even say it will soon be passé?

(Now there's even a website for those who finish. Not only is their name bronzed for all time on the Internet, they each receive the hiker's equivalent of the Holy Grail - a patch. Hikers just cannot help themselves when it comes to getting patches. You receive one when you climb each of the 48, another if you do them in winter, another if you climb each of the 67 4,000-footers in New England, and yet another if you do the 67 them in winter. You can get a patch for the doing the Adirondacks’ 46 4,000-footers, doing them in winter, doing all those in New England and New York, and once again another for doing them all in winter. Getting dazed yet? There's more. Do each of New England's 100 highest peaks you get another patch, do them in winter - and you guessed it, you get yet another. The moral of the story is this: tell most hikers they'll get a patch for walking gerbil-like on a spinning wheel for a week and they'll do it.)

My zealous friends are so enamored with the exercise that many forsake any peak that doesn't top out above 4,000 feet. And God forbid if it’s January and they've already climbed Mount Lafayette in January - there's just simply no reason to do it again. Many of these folks miss out on the grandeur of Black Mountain, Chocorua, Hedgehog, or Pemigewasset simply because they aren't 4,000-footers. But chasing after the "Grid" reminds me too much of punching a time clock and heading off to work. As a poster on my blog once wrote, "Keeping track of peaks you've climbed is like keeping track of bowel movements." In the long run it simply doesn't matter. Hikers appear to chase after the "Grid" simply because others have done it and received notoriety for having done it. Monkey see, monkey do.

However, I should come clean and admit that I am no better than those I lampoon. You see, as of late I've been on top of Mount Waumbek not once, not twice, but thrice!

I returned again and again, not so much to see the summit, for I've been there so often I can sketch the setting from memory, but for that wondrous stretch of life and death that lies in the saddle found halfway between the woebegone peaks of Mount Starr King (topping out at a pathetic 3,907 feet) and Waumbek, which is 4,006 six feet. Who knew that ninety-nine feet would make such a big difference? Truth be told, to me it doesn't. I no longer climb for the sake of reaching check marks but for harvesting experiences and there is a section in that saddle between Starr King and Waumbek that is like no other. It is both enchanting and frightening. It is where life and death comingle. The northern wind blows through it with anguished moans and groans and has laid several older trees to waste. They lie strewn about the forest like dead soldiers on a battle field. On a dreary, dark, and forbidding day, it can seem almost haunted – New Hampshire's own version of T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland.

I swear that you will not find many places in this world more desolate where loneliness wraps her bony arms around you on a stormy day.

On our first winter trek up there a few years ago Atticus and I had the trail to ourselves and shuffled half-heartedly through the snow. It was gray and the wind whipped at us and howled like a banshee. The tangle of trees is marked by the gothic Old Man's Beard, a cousin to Spanish moss, that dangles from the trees is writhes about in ghostly movements. All I could hear that day was the wind and the emptiness I felt within. At one point I sat down on a fallen tree simply because I didn't know if I wanted to go on. So alone. So lonely. When out of nowhere, in the frosty trees I heard life! It was a bright headed woodpecker busy at work. I was startled by his appearance and sat in rapt attention. His tap-tap-tapping broke the spell and after watching him until he flew away, Atticus and I continued on.

Other hikers look cross-eyed at me when I tell them of my love of Waumbek. It's a mountain with only a couple of views and it sits far away, joining Cabot as the only 4,000-footers above Route 2 in Jefferson. It’s a forgotten mountain in a forgotten town.

So why do I go back? Why do I return to that sad place where death is clearly evident? Because life is also evident as well. Not only are there many tall trees standing in that enchanted stretch of forest, but there are countless saplings springing up at the feet of their dead relatives. A tree tumbles to its death and leaves its seeds behind and, more importantly, space where the sun can reach new born trees and gives them a chance to grow. The cycle repeats itself again and again. It will be that way until the end of time.

In the eight dry days leading up to the snowstorm, Atticus and I were there three times because I just couldn't get my fill of that place. Once we were there at dawn, once at midday, and another at dusk. One of the days it was sunny and the enchantment didn't feel quite as strong. To appreciate that forest you need a windy, dark day. So we returned to see it in its various shades of light. It reminds me, as it always will, of the journey of life. From birth to death. Yes, it can be lonely and dismal, but it also reminds me that I'm alive. So when the world gets so crazy I feel numb and need to be reminded to breathe, or something as sinfully senseless as what just happened in Arizona takes place, I need to feel nature all around me. I need to remind myself of the cycle of life and the magic of that journey. So I return, as I imagine I always will.

And please don't tell those chasing the "Grid" this, for they would surely think me appalling - but I've been there far more than twelve times.

Snow...Finally

Snow if falling in Jackson...finally. It's only the second time this winter we've had snow and the last snowfall took place so long ago up until this morning we've had a lot of bare, brown ground up here. Forecasts call for up to ten inches up here, less than what they'll have along the coast. The area desperately needed this storm as the local cross country ski areas have been closed for business. The mountains had a bit more snow but the trees had been naked. Today's storm will bring winter at its best to the mountaintops over the next several days.

As I put off shoveling for as long as possible, someone (look above) is happy to have snow to play in again. For the full photo album you can check out our Following Atticus Facebook page, where you can keep up to date on everything going on with our book. You can access that page here.

Happiness Is...

...an pre-hike snack of dried beef esophagus this morning.

Follow 'Following Atticus' On Facebook

If you are on facebook make sure you check out our 'Following Atticus' page to keep up with what's going on with our upcoming book. Simply go to facebook and type in the search words "Following Atticus." Once you get to our page push "like" and you can follow the process of what it takes to put a book out.

It will be published by William Morrow in October of 2011. Once it is published you will be able to follow along through media appearances and book signings.

Following Atticus

This morning Atticus and I stopped off at the Jackson Public Library so that he could prepare himself for his big year.

As most of you know, our story Following Atticus: Forty Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, & and Extraordinary Friendship is being published by William Morrow in October of 2011. And just in case you didn't know - the last dog book Morrow published was John Grogan's Marley & Me. We are honored to be published by the same house and in some foreign countries as well. When this autumn rolls around you'll be able to read about our adventures here in North America, as well as throughout the United Kingdom, in Germany, and Italy.

The Winter Woods on Waumbek

"The goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature." ~ Joseph Campbell

On a recent morning a few days prior to the first storm of winter when the snow fell and the wind roared, Atticus and I woke up long before the sun. Whenever we wake up that early I figure we should make the most of the day. So instead of pulling the covers up, rolling over, and going back to sleep, we got out of bed, had breakfast, grabbed my backpack, got in the car and headed off to hike.

It was a cold morning, a mere seven degrees, and we were on the trail before sunrise, my headlamp pushing the darkness away. We moved quickly over the hard frozen trail to warm ourselves up and it wasn't long before I was taking off my jacket, then my hat and gloves. Soon my outer shirt came off as well and we were well on our way.

When it comes to winter hiking one of the hardest things to do is to simply get out of bed. It's cold and dark and my first inclination is to sit down to a nice hot breakfast, put on a sweater, and stay warm and safe inside. But on those early mornings when I put off comfort for adventure I'm ultimately glad I did.

And on this morning as we climbed the mountain while the sun was just cresting the horizon I was doubly happy to be out and about. The woods were empty, not just of people, but of other life as well. Oh, I suppose something somewhere was stirring, but not that we could tell. In other seasons bird song greats you or chipmunks scurry by. Even the trees themselves are different because of their lush leaves and their softer bark, and the earthen path has a scent to it. But in winter before the snows fall, especially at such an early hour, there is nothing. No sound, no smell, nothing moving. It's simply the dark gray of tree bark and the unyielding trail below our feet. Being alone in the cold like that you'd think I'd long for the comforts of home all the more, but that’s not the case. There was the gentle thrill of being "out there" by ourselves.

When we reached the first set of ledges after a mild but sweat-inducing climb, we watched the sunrise. It was warm and golden and we sat for several minutes admiring it. It's not rare that we get to see the sunrise, at least not in winter because it comes so late, but often we think so little of it. We witness it because we have to, because we are up early for work or off on some errand. But to sit on the side of a mountain and welcome the day - well, it's a wondrous thing. It is a gift to great the day on your own terms.

We were climbing South Moat and much of the upper two thirds of the hike are ledges. While there was no snow there was plenty of ice, just not enough to wear my crampons. Instead I wore Microspikes but they weren't always hardy enough and I slipped and fell three times on our climb. Atticus had little trouble. He picked his way around the icy slabs and often sat above me bemused as I slipped and slid down the mountain for the third time. I went a good ten yards before I could grab onto a tree. As I lay there gasping for breath, taking inventory of my bones, making sure I was merely bruised and not broken, he sauntered down the way he came and looked down at me. I laid there for a moment longer, got to my feet, and then followed him up the trail.

Because of my falls I considered turning back but I was doing okay and the ice was diminishing and the views started to come into play. Never underestimate how your spirits soar when you are tired and bruised but seeing stunning sights.

There was Chocorua peering up over the shoulder of South Moat. There were the views down towards the Ossipees and the sea of thin clouds filling in the valleys to the south. Then came Whiteface and Passaconaway, the Sleepers, Tripyramids, and Osceolas of the Sandwich Range stretching off to west just below the Kancamagus Highway. The higher we climbed the more we saw and the happier I was that we’d continued on. Eventually, with one last push, we stood on top of the mountain and the world revealed herself to us. Everywhere we looked there were mountains and they were bathed in the early morning glow of the sun. The higher peaks were topped with snow but none more so than Washington.

South, Middle, and North Moat have turned into my favorite mountains for that very reason. There is not a place in the White Mountains are the views more fulfilling for me. And no place is more underrated. You can see so many of the great peaks of New Hampshire without restriction and yet it is so close to the hustle and bustle of North Conway. The contrast is telling. Nature towers above the outlet stores, hotels, and restaurants, making them insignificant. Turn to the west and you put society behind you and the Pemigewasset Wilderness in front of you and life feels as it should.

We stayed on the summit for quite some time and then walked over to Middle Moat. There we lay on our backs under the sun and fell into a blissful nap. It no longer felt like winter, but more like spring.

After a couple of hours of enjoying the top of the Moats we made our way down. Once again I slipped and slid while Atticus wondered why I had so much trouble, but after we passed the last of the ice and I started to relax we encountered our first company of the day. Other hikers were making their way up the mountain. We ran into four groups, the last was just leaving the parking lot as we returned to it. Each time I warned them of the ice but also told them of the views.

Oh, there’s something grand about taking a great adventure and yet being home at noon. It’s part of the joy of living in these mountains, and of getting up before the sun.

Anatomy of a View

As many times as I seen it, I'm still moved by how much this little dog loves the mountains, specifically the views. I'm impressed by the lengths he'll go to, the heights he'll scale, and the amount of time he sits and ponders. Check out this short slide show of the Little Buddha. He ended up sitting on this perch for about fifteen minutes and only came down when I told him it was time to leave.

Slide Show: South & Middle Moat

Our slide show from Saturday's early morning hike to South and Middle Moat mountains can be found here.

“Between every two pines is a doorway to a new world.” ~ John Muir

The mountains remain a mystery to me. It’s deep in December here in Jackson and it feels like winter with temperatures dipping close to zero nearly every night. The ground is frozen solid. Rivers and ponds are well on their way too. The only thing missing is snow. How strange to be this close to the holidays and be faced with a completely brown Christmas. Usually there is at least a trace of snow, but not here.

Just twenty miles up the road though – or ten miles as the crow flies – in Crawford Notch, winter rages daily. I know well the icy winds in the upper reaches, just a stone’s through from the Gateway to the Notch, but yesterday it was so bracing that Atticus and I nearly got right back into our car and headed home.

Weather in the notch can fool the uninitiated. It is not unlike a dog whose bark is worse than his bite. You simply have to put your head down, ignore the hungry howls of the wind, the whipping flecks of snow and ice, and head with faith towards the woods. But it’s not always an easy journey. That was the case yesterday. The storm fought us every step.

With Atticus in his Muttluks and me in my snowshoes we pushed through snowdrifts and snow flying directly into our eyes and hurried towards the shelter of the woods. The wind roared. The cold found its way into our bones and joints. But just as is nearly always the case, once stepping over the threshold into the forest everything stopped. I couldn’t even hear the wind and the snow drifted harmlessly about us. We had entered that realm that comes with the winter woods. It is a separate world. Sure it was still cold, but not to us. If anything it was like returning to an old friend whose been gone for nine months.

The trees were caked with thick, fluffy icing and the ground was soft beneath his boots and my snowshoes. I’m always amazed by this phenomenon – how the outside world literally disappears. You leave everything behind.

John Muir once wrote, “Between every two pines is a doorway to a new world.” That new world is called enchantment.

At a junction we turned left for the trail to the summit of Mount Willard but recent rainstorms had turned the shallow stream into a large pond and there was no getting around it. We tramped around in the woods a bit just to make sure there wasn’t an easier crossing but after finding none we turned back. Once back on the main trail I figured Atticus would head for the car, knowing his post hike snack was be waiting for him.

I should have known better. After all, he and I have been at this for a while. Instead he turned up the trail towards the Willey Range. I let him lead. It didn’t matter to me where we went and since he seemed to know where he wanted to go I followed. Our next stream crossing was easier to negotiate but still too deep and wide for Atticus so he hitched a ride on top of my backpack.

At the next trail junction we had another decision to make: right towards Mount Tom, left towards Mount Avalon and Mount Field. Atticus chose left and I followed. The climb gets steeper in that section of the Avalon Trail and the snow grew deeper. At the next intersection the wind was audible above the trees but not able to get at us and Atticus had another decision to make. It was up the short steep pitch to the summit of Avalon or continue on towards Field. He stopped, waited for a minute as if trying to decide, then turned back at me looking for direction.

“It’s up to you,” I said. “Go ahead.”

He chose Avalon. There had been on-line reports that someone had climbed it recently but with the new snow it was impossible to tell. We pushed through the virgin power and when Atticus topped out his ears took flight in the wind. Now others might feel the frozen fury and step back behind the rocks, but Atticus stepped out towards the edge of the mountain where he was more exposed. He stood on the edge and looked back at me to make sure I was there. When I cleared the top he turned his face and looked off into the storm.

There were no views and it’s not like this is the weather or the time of the year for summit sitting, but he seemed content looking off into the gray abyss. For the first time since we had entered the woods I felt a shiver run through me and I wondered how much longer he wanted to stay. But Atticus didn’t seem to mind the cold. Watching him like that, it was one of those moments that seem a lot longer than it actually is, where time slowly moves forward. I shivered; he faced the wind, his back towards me. Then, as if satisfied, he turned towards me, looked up at me and then pushed gently by and made his way down the mountain back into the refuge of the trees.

On the drive home, just four miles down the road we were back out of the storm and there was no more snow on the ground. In the rear view mirror I could see it still raging behind us. But here we were driving towards a partly cloudy blue sky.

It is days like this where you might not want to get out of your car, where there are no views, and it feels as cold as death that you are happiest that you decided to venture further. It reminds you that you’re alive and everything has much more meaning.

Today on Avalon in the Willey Range

Our Thanksgiving Column for the Northcountry News

(Photo by Ken Stampfer.)

Three years ago, when Atticus and I moved north from Newburyport, we lived in a small apartment in Lincoln. One of the first hikes we set out to do was Mount Hale which wasn’t all that far a drive. Hale is one of the four thousand footers but it’s not too steep nor all that challenging, and the distance to the top is just over two miles. It had rained the night before and all throughout the morning, but by early afternoon the sun arrived and it turned into a golden October day so we hit the trail.

We were happily walking under the colorful canopy of trees and making good time until we came to a small stream which is never deep but it cuts a rocky trough across the trail and eventually falls into a little gorge. We had climbed Hale several times before and it is so narrow at that point that Atticus always leaped across the sleepy stream. But after the rain it was making a ruckus and running higher than usual. I easily hopped from one side to the other and I waited for Atticus to do the same. However, for the first time ever on that trail he didn’t hop across it. Instead he stood looking at me from the other side of the water. It was clear he wanted nothing to do with the crossing. So I hopped back across and went to pick him up but instead of arching his back up like a cat as he always has so I could reach under his belly and lift him, he lowered himself into a sphinx position on the rock. He not only refused to cross, he didn’t want me picking him up either. We sat there for a few minutes and when nothing changed we returned to the car and drove back to Lincoln.

The next day we returned. When we came to the same stream Atticus refused to cross once again. He lay down and the message was loud and clear, “I don’t want to go across to the other side.” For the second day in a row we turned back.

We returned on the third day and the water was no longer running high nor was it roaring by us. This time Atticus went ahead of me and in a single bound made the other side and we went on to climb to the top. On the way down the mountain we ran into a friend, an incurable peakbagger. When I told him how we turned back twice in the previous days he couldn’t believe it. “Why didn’t you just pick him up and make him come?” he said.

“Because Atticus has a say in all of this,” I told him. “If he wants to turn back, we turn back.”

People often want to know the secret of our success up here when it comes to the number of mountains we’ve climbed in each of the four seasons. Well, that’s the way it was from the very beginning. Atticus has never been spoiled but he’s always been allowed to have a say on whether or not he felt comfortable with challenges found on a hike. In the past several years he’s only turned back six or seven times on hundreds of hikes and I smile when he does it, simply because I know he takes advantage of his right to make a decision.

To us it’s all about trust. And that was ingrained from the very beginning when he arrived as a five pound puppy just eight weeks old. His breeder told me, “Carry him everywhere you go…and don’t let anyone else hold him for the first month. Y’all will bond that way.” I followed every bit of advice she gave me, including that little morsel, and she was always right. We bonded from the very beginning and that has made all the difference in every aspect of our life together.

Friends in and out of the hiking community often marvel about Atticus’ almost human demeanor, his sense of security and his comfort, and they ask me how I got him to be that way. I joke that the key is to have a dog that is smarter than me, but then I tell them about how I was told to carry him around that first month. But there was another component to the way I raised him from the very beginning and I don’t go into it because its roots are complicated. The truth is I’ve always treated Atticus the way I wish I’d been treated when I was growing up. I don’t typically tell him to do anything. I often ask him and always say “please” and “thank you.”

You can laugh if you want, but it’s gone a long way in allowing him to be the dog he wants to be. It even led Maureen Carroll, one of Atticus’ doctors at Angell Animal Medical Center, to say to the people on Animal Planet that Atticus is a little different than other dogs, “He speaks English with his actions.”

I’m often asked by other hikers, “What’s the key to developing a relationship with a dog in the mountains when hiking?” It’s simple. Don’t treat him like a dog. Treat him like a friend. My old Catholic upbringing reminds me this is simply the Golden Rule: treat others as you wish to be treated.

Interestingly enough, years after I got Atticus, I approached his breeder about her advice to carry him wherever I went and not let anyone else hold him. “That worked so well,” I told her. “Where does it come from?”

She smiled, paused as if wondering whether she really wanted to tell me, and then said in a soft, almost vulnerable voice. “That’s the way I always wanted to be loved.”

In this complicated day and age when the world seems crazier with each passing month and the American Family has gone through change after dysfunctional change, we’ve come to understand that families come in all shapes and sizes. And sometimes the family you end up with is not exactly what you pictured when you were growing up and watching all those Hallmark commercials.

Atti’s breeder put it best a couple of years ago, “Love is love. God tells us we are supposed to have love in our life. He doesn’t say it just has to be between a man and a woman. Seems to me Atticus gave you the family you always wanted.”

And she was right. I often think about that when he and I are standing atop a mountain and looking off into the distance together. It’s a place where two individuals from different species cross over and have found our own little world. It’s kind of like Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote, “Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction.”

On Thanksgiving Day this little dog and I will pack up some turkey, stuffing, vegetables, apple cider, and water, and head to a mountaintop. We will share the view, our meal, and our good fortune in finding what nearly everyone is looking for.

Here’s hoping all of you spend Thanksgiving in the way you wish and with those you love.

Some November Shots (Today's)

Some October Shots

It's now mid November and the leaves are gone, but these shots are from a morning walk through the Pudding Pond area. Going through my files today I found them and decided to put them up.