The first time I saw Mount Washington I was pregnant with my
first child, weighed over 300 pounds, and couldn't conceive of ever undertaking
such an arduous physical journey. I had never been to the Whites of New
Hampshire and Kevin convinced me it was where we should go for a brief getaway
before our lives were forever changed by the constant presence and needs of a
tiny baby. He had a passion for the mountains and wanted so desperately to
share it with me, but we were restricted seeing as I couldn't actually go climb
the mountains with him. He had long talked about me coming on one of the many
trips to New Hampshire where I could maybe go sightseeing or wander around
aimlessly while he and my brother, David, adventured. It was well meaning of
him, he just wanted me to be there, to be a part of it, to not leave me behind,
but I always was unwilling to go knowing it would hurt more to be left behind
with the mountains at my fingertips, than it would be to be left states away.
The first time we drove into Crawford Notch I was stunned silent.
Kevin drove slowly and tried desperately to point to things way above our heads. He pulled off to the side of the road and we got out so he could show me the things he had climbed, the places he had been, where the best adventures were. Having never hiked anything like the mountains I was seeing I had no way of truly understanding the massive undertaking some of these ascents were. I couldn’t process the height of the land formations towering over my head. I felt small, something I rarely felt, and I felt in awe, but I couldn’t connect to the land the way Kevin did, how his eyes lit up as he told me of his adventures. Then it was essentially a, but wait, there’s more sort of situation. Onto Pinkham Notch.
Washington was shrouded in cloud at the peak. Kevin tried to help me understand how massive it was, even based on the fact that its summit was out of sight. He tried to point out the ravines from across the road, looking back, but I didn’t understand the land like I do now, and I couldn’t grasp how those ravines would tower over a hiker, leaving them enveloped by the mountain as they worked hard against ridiculously steep and difficult terrain to pull themselves out onto a ridge far above. I felt much as I had looking at the pictures they always brought back from their trips, where he would point out Wildcat so far away, almost small looking, and I was supposed to understand how big these mountains were, how small he was, and what an undertaking it was to get to where that photo was taken.
Kevin took me into the cabin at Pinkham Notch and I remember feeling like the most ridiculous imposter ever.
I was pregnant, severely overweight, and here I was surrounded by people coming and going, clomping around in mountaineering boots, weighed down by layers, bearing fully outfitted packs, their faces either grim or anxious as they considered what was ahead, or relieved by what they had left behind, or joyous for what they had accomplished or seen. I honestly couldn’t wait to get out of there, feeling like the greatest misfit. While seeing those mountains for the first time was incredible, and I could appreciate their beauty, my best memory from that trip was dinner at The Common Man, how toasty warm it was with fires roaring, old, dark wooden floorboards, delicious cheese as we waited for a table with the skiers surrounding us, still in their gear, tired after a long day on the mountain. The food was delicious, warm, and hearty, and I was in love. I didn’t allow myself to feel sad that these mountains were unattainable for me. It had become a fact of my life. I instead wanted to focus on Kevin and the baby inside of me. That next morning he had laid in bed feeling her kick before I was awake and had told me later it was his first time alone with her, something he’d always remember. And those are my memories of the first time I saw Mount Washington. They are lovely memories, but they speak to a time when I lived life incompletely and not as my entire, true self. There is a nugget of pain at the base of them, something nagging, something yearning to break free.
I thought of this first visit to Washington of mine not while I hiked Lion Head, not while I struggled on the summit cone, not while I stood on the summit, 6,288 feet up, not while I stood stunned on Boott Spur looking across at what I had done, not while my legs began to wobble at the base, not in the comfort of my car after having accomplished my greatest outdoor feat to date, but weeks later, on Square Ledge, looking across at the beauty of the Presidentials with my kids by my side. Back then, that first time, I couldn’t have even done the Square Ledge hike. There I stood, having taken a solo trip to New Hampshire with the kids, and I looked out across at Mount Washington. It was like seeing it with different eyes than six years ago. Its ridges, its ravines, its folds and curves, the mound of Lion Head in relief against the summit cone, the deep gashes of Huntington, and Tuckerman, the velvet dark carpeted bowl of the Great Gulf, I knew this mountain now, and I now see all mountains not just as a whole, but their intricate details, as I once couldn’t. I knew if I could be the woman I was years ago at the base of a shrouded Washington, an imposter, and I could look into my own eyes, these years later, as I stood there on Square Ledge, I would have seen that glimmer I had seen in Kevin’s eyes, the one I yearned to know and understand.
So this isn't entirely about summiting Mount Washington, this is also about who I have become and how I relate to the land. This is how the depths of a person's being can rise to the surface and bring with it a new way of seeing, feeling, and being part of the world.
Kevin and I managed to secure two nights away from the kids to celebrate our anniversary. The kids hadn’t yet spent more than one night away from home, and we certainly felt more than ready. Washington had long been on my mind. When I set my goals for the year I noted the Tripyramids and Katahdin as contenders for the “big ones.” I still thought I wasn’t ready for Washington. But as the year has worn on, as I’ve become outside more and more every day, as I’ve continued to improve my strength and my skills as a hiker and climber, I decided there was no better time than the present. Life is short. What was I waiting for? So I told Kevin I was ready to do Washington. We set up a plan and made our childcare arrangements on Thursday, the day before we would head up to New Hampshire. This is how we often do things. It might be on our mind, we might be twisting and turning it in our heads, silently, often to ourselves, for months, weeks, days, and then suddenly we come to a final agreement and we’re off. So for our anniversary we drove over four hours north, went to bed, and woke up to summit the largest mountain I’ve summited to date, to go to bed, wake up, and drive four plus hours back home. It was perfect.
The night before climbing Washington we double checked our packs, made sure we had all of our essential gear, our food planned out, our water ready to go. I set alarms for the next morning and we went to bed earlier than we usually do. We got up at 5:00, first morning light sitting thick over the blue dawn clinging to the muted colors of the sleeping world. Butterflies in my stomach I got dressed, checked my things again, put my favorite stud earrings from my brother in, and we headed out into the chill that comes even with early summer mornings up north. Kevin asked if I wanted to stop quickly at the pull off that affords a view of the Presidentials before we headed into Pinkham Notch. I got out and snapped a quick picture. Washington was still enshrouded by early morning clouds. I texted my brother, Dave, with whom I missed so many adventures over the years and asked, “Guess what I’m doing today?”
I don’t care how cliché it sounds to say my stomach flip flopped, had butterflies, however you want to phrase it, because there’s no other way to describe that carefully crafted mixture of feelings churning inside your soul, of excitement, anxiety, fear, hope, anticipation. My stomach did it all as we drove through the notch and pulled into the Pinkham Notch parking lot at 6:30. Here I was where I had once felt like the world’s greatest misfit, an imposter. We got out of the car and put our hiking boots on, grabbed our poles and packs, and made a stop at the pit toilets before heading out onto the trail. There was no hesitation. I knew I would summit this mountain today, that loomed so far above me. We were surprised to see Tuckerman’s, the trail we had chosen, was closed due to avalanche risk. We adjusted our plan without delay, deciding to take the popular Lion Head route. The trail is an incredibly easy trudge for a good long stretch. The sun poked up over the trees behind us as I texted a good morning to the kids at 7:30. Kevin pointed out the summit cone far, far ahead of us, and instead of filling me with dread I found myself excited to get there.
This confidence made me realize just how far I had come.
We couldn't have asked for more perfect weather.
As the sun continued to rise we were greeted by bright blue skies, cloud free, an occasional breeze, not too much heat yet. As we began to gain elevation I found myself enamored with the views ever increasingly becoming visible. When Boott Spur was finally an obvious ridgeline stretching on, and on, such a perfect mate to our ascent of Lion Head, so different, but just stunning and tempting, I decided before we even reached Lion Head that we would descend via Boott Spur. I didn’t say it for sure, just toyed with the idea aloud, to see how Kevin felt. He advocated we wait and see how we felt after summiting, seeing as Boott Spur adds over a mile to the trip down. But I knew in my heart I would stand on that perfect ridgeline, that I would have the views no doubt afforded from that trail, looking back at our ascent route and the summit we had made that day.
As we broke out onto the final scramble leading up to Lion Head we found ourselves starting to be free of the trees and a sweeping view of the mountains across and to our sides opened up. First the views of Wildcat and beyond, and of Huntington and Nelson Crag closer took my breath away. I was shocked by how far we had come already as compared with my level of exhaustion. I was stunned by how energized I still felt, how early in the day it was, and I looked up at Lion Head thinking it was incredibly close. It was the first destination, really, and a mark of success for me, a point at which I felt the summit would feel within reach. And then the summit began to come into view, a massive peak bubbling up over the ridgelines that had once seemed so far ahead. It was still so far away and yet seemed so manageable to me. I wasn’t used to feeling this way. We took our time heading up Lion Head, going at a moderate pace up the steeper slopes and the true beauty of Tuckerman burst into view. I could see why the ravines would be fun to travel up, and how they would engulf you as a hiker, but I also could see why Lion Head is such a popular route. And there, in July, was snow. Laugher bubbled up from deep within, uncontrollable. I smiled at Kevin and we continued up, Lion Head still above our heads, blue skies beyond.
At 11:00 we looked out at the most amazing view, from Lion Head, down into Tuckerman’s Ravine, out across Boott Spur, to Wildcat and beyond, and then as we turned, looking out to the Alpine Garden and the summit cone beyond.
I felt really amazing about our timing, and still full of energy. We sat for the first time and had a snack as we took in the incredible panorama views, choosing to sit with our faces to Tuckerman, Boott Spur stretching out to our left, then sweeping past the ravine to the views out to the summit.
It seemed so close to me, but I wasn’t realizing that I had essentially already summited the biggest mountain of my life and had a whole mountain of rock scramble left to go.
As we set off toward the Alpine Garden I was full of bliss.
It’s a comparatively simple hike across to the summit cone with gorgeous views of a verdant garden. There certainly is no better way to describe it. The ridges began to be dotted with large cairns and I could picture being up there in the snow and needing the cairns, how different, vast, wide open, windswept this must feel in the winter. As we carried on and I turned back, Lion Head stood out like a thumb, a clear mound behind us. Tuckerman’s Ravine looked more and more like a bowl dug out from the earth. Each look back afforded me a new view. Nothing is ever the same on the mountain. The ridges shift with distance, take on new shapes. The ravines curve and carve out the earth in new ways from each vantage point. The trails spread out before you in new and unexpected ways, melding with the landscape around them, relating to the mountain they’re a part of, first to this piece you can see, then to that, then the pieces coming together, and the trail cutting through it all.
And then came the rocks. And I thought, I’ve got this. What Kevin didn’t tell me was that what looked like the summit wasn’t the summit, that at some point we would take a turn and there would be more, and more, and more rocks above me. I was in good enough shape at that point to go slightly off route to rock climb a small section. The people behind us asked incredulously, “Is that the trail?” And we laughed, “No, we’re just taking an adventurous path.” I had people passing me often, I had people paced with me, and sometimes I was passing people. I was happy with how I was doing. Looking up at the dots that were people on the rocks above me, I pushed onwards. I’m not going to lie. The summit cone was a beast. I began to tire as the observatory came into view. I knew how close I was but there was still a lot of climbing to go. But I was never winded, I never stopped and sat down, I wasn’t struggling so much as feeling great exertion. Suddenly we broke out onto the top of the boulder field, greeted by people taking selfies by a roadside, cars pulling in and out of a parking lot. It was kind of hilarious.
We made a beeline for the summit plaque to realize we would be waiting in line to take a picture with it, over half the line being people who drove up. I won’t lie here either, it was irritating. I had just accomplished this amazing physical feat, something that I didn’t consider final until I touched that plaque, and I had to wait in line with others who drove up. I was also hungry and wanted desperately to sit down. I thought my emotion would be zapped from me by the time we finally got to touch the plaque, but it wasn’t. Around noon I teared up as Kevin snapped my picture. 6,288. I had done it. I reached down and touched my fingertips to the official marker, then to my lips, and back again to the marker.
We wandered out over the observatory to take in views of the Presidential mountains that had been hidden from sight by Washington’s summit. We looked out over the Cog Railway and watched the trains chugging up. After a minute or two we looked at each other and knew we wanted to find a quiet spot away from the crowds to have our lunch. We settled away from the observatory, nestled in some rocks with a view of the railway, people summiting from the Gulfside Trail or Clay and beyond, sweeping views of Jefferson, Adams, and Madison- a delicious sight. I choose the word delicious carefully here. I believe this is when I knew I’d be planning a Presidential Traverse.
I was surprised to not need my jacket. That’s how amazing the weather was. We happily spent a great length of time basking in the sun, resting, occasionally talking to other hikers. I told Kevin I intended to descend via Boott Spur and he agreed. Then we went inside and meandered around the gift shops picking out stuffed animals for the kids, which Kevin would carry down. We took on more water in case, and around 1:30 we headed out, having somehow spent an hour and a half on the summit.
We made good time down the boulder field, our knees taking a bit of a beating, but still feeling rather energetic. The view across Boott Spur was amazing. It looked as if the trail might work its way, over time, over the edge of the rim of Tuckerman’s Ravine. The way the earth flowed, like rolling water, over the edge of the Ravine was simply breathtaking. Davis Path was studded with cairns, and from the base of the boulder field it didn’t look like it would be very rocky, as it turned out to be. I had hoped to be beyond the knee killing rocks after the summit cone, but much of Davis Path and Boott Spur was like that. The view from the top of Tuckerman’s Ravine offered me yet another way of seeing this mountain. Lion Head to my left, Boott Spur stretching out to my right, the land giving way and rolling down below me at the center, I first looked back at Washington. The summit cone stood out in all of its massive glory in a way it didn’t from Lion Head. I looked at Kevin and told him had I seen it from this vantage point I might not have attempted it. I laughed because I knew it wasn’t true, but it certainly looked imposing from Boott Spur.
Much like had occurred on the way up, every time I glanced over my shoulder I was greeted with a new, always impressive view. I loved the way the summit cone became more and more a part of everything else, the further away we got. I loved how the colors, indicating rock, or trees, or shrubbery, or snow, looked so mottled together, nothing distinct, everything blending the further out we were. We took a short rest on Boott Spur proper and enjoyed the views. I did some yoga with the folding mountains as a backdrop, and we looked down at the miles ahead of us. The boulders were tougher than we had figured on, and by the time we made it to the Boott Spur Link at about 4:00 I was tiring, and also had managed to smash my tailbone.
We played around at split rock, as recommended by Dave, and came down to a beautiful opening, what would be our last stunning view, back across Tuckerman, a clear sightline of our ascent, the summit, and what we had already descended. It made me feel small, but also big, because I had done this, and I was proud.
There isn't much to say about the rest of our descent.
We became increasingly tired. At some point my knee really started to bother me, a problem always present due to the weight I had forced it to carry for so long, but awakened into a fury when I trouble it with something like summiting a 6,288 foot mountain. I was surprised how long I made it without jelly legs, but they did show up eventually. Kevin and I were shocked by how few people we saw and we came to the realization that a stunning amount of people hike up and catch a ride down, something you can pre-purchase tickets for, or have family meet you at the top for.
When I realized we still had a mile to go I became upset. I’m honest about this because I want to say that while this was super attainable for me, it did leave my body quite exhausted. I began to tell Kevin we’d never hit the fire road. I began to feel like I wouldn’t make it, which was ridiculous, but that’s the tired coming through. Even through this though, I kept saying I was glad we took the Boott Spur. Even knowing we would already have been down had we returned via Lion Head, I was happy. As we broke out onto the fire road I picked up my pace. I have a habit of starting to rush when I’m so tired I just want to be done. The end was within sight and Kevin tried to tell me to pace myself, but I wasn’t having it. I stumbled ran down the trail and broke out of the trees finally, the parking lot in view. I smiled and laughed, hobbled to the car and peeled off my boots and socks. I pulled myself into the car at 7:00, looked at Kevin and declared I wanted some chocolate. Exhausted and utterly happy we pulled out of Pinkham Notch and headed towards a gas station for some Reese’s. We returned to our room at the inn, took showers, dressed our aching bodies, and headed out to eat a phenomenal amount of pizza.
On the drive home the next day, aching and sore, I told Kevin I wanted to do a Presidential Traverse. Washington took the most comfortable seat available in my brain. It cozied up next to my warmest memories, and the view from Boott Spur remained imprinted on my brain through the coming days. As each day passed I felt closer and closer to the mountains even though I was states away. Distance gave me what I needed to reflect and I began to realize just what that summit meant to me. It wasn’t merely a symbol of how far I’ve come in my lifestyle change, in becoming outside, it was validation. Validation that I can push my body to achieve great things. I never had any doubts that I would summit Washington that day because I know what my body can do now. Validation that I belong and am not an imposter. Sometimes on the trail or the wall at the crag I still feel like I don’t belong. Imposter syndrome is real. Sometimes when I decide to run down a trail I catch the eyes of the people I pass and look there to see if they are shocked by my presence there or what I’m doing, or if they hardly register me because I do in fact belong. Washington showed me that I belong. Validation that I can see these mountains in a way I couldn’t before, that climbing them, the way they allow me to share in all they have to offer for a fraction of time in their awe inspiring lives, I am able to see them for what they are as a whole, what they are together, and what they are in their little individual pieces, nooks and crannies, ravines and gullies, folds, creases, outcroppings. Validation that this is something I love so, so much, that there is nowhere I’d rather be.
And so like all seeds that get planted since this lifestyle change, I started to water the dream of a Presidential Traverse.
I began to wonder if I could get my skin removed before setting out on it, or if I could get my skin removed how that might impact my ability to accomplish it next year, or if I couldn’t get my skin removed how that might impact my ability to accomplish it next year. But more than anything, I began pouring over trail maps. And then new plans emerged. New seeds to water. Maybe I would attempt Washington in the winter this year. And then even sooner, another seed, maybe Kevin and I would do King Ravine, summiting Madison and Adams via that stunning and challenging hike. And so I became the person I once wanted to be even though I couldn’t understand the motives behind the hands tracing over contour lines, examining spider webs of trails, making sense of those pieces of the mountain based on what a flat piece of paper told them. I have started spreading the Presidential Range trail map out on the floor and have been studying those lines, the cabin locations, the dips, the folds, the ravines. And I know my eyes have that sparkle, that my voice carries that excitement when I bring up my plans, first with Kevin, then with friends.
The trail map is partially folded, not put away, under the end table in the living room because I pull it out so often. But I want to say this isn’t an obsession. It is a passion. It is a bit feverish, yes, as I attempt to take back years lost, as I hike trails, ghost trails following suit, the paths I could have taken all of those times gone by. Every day I work on accepting who I was, the choices I made, remembering the happiness of my life before this greater completeness I know now. I work on pushing aside feelings of regret and focusing on what I have now, the life I get to live now, and that means the joy I take in finally being me, in totality, and finally using my body as I’ve always dreamed of using it, can sometimes come across intensely. But there is an intensity to it, to living one’s life so fully, to living one’s best life, to not disappointing anything within one’s soul, ever again.
I referred to myself in a poem once, years and years ago, as a tiger prowling the same worn line behind a cage door, back and forth, back and forth, waiting to break free.
When I’m in the mountains I feel that tiger burst out of my chest. It takes off through the woods, its soft hair shining in the sunlight, its bright colors contrasting against the brown earth, the green trees, the blue skies.
It runs, unstoppable, its breath coming in a quick pattern, its legs stretching out, then it bounds, then out again, and it bounds. With every step I take, that tiger feels the sun, that tiger breathes the air, that tiger runs faster, and faster, and faster.
