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—Christopher McCandless Autumn 2008

A
lex and I are a mother-daughter team. Our first sixteen peaks were hiked without company, save for the ascent up Washington's summit cone with Sage and Hugh. We've been on our own for three reasons: (1) we haven't yet socialized with other hikers; (2) for safety purposes, I don't request trail companionship on the hiking forums, since telling hundreds of complete strangers our future whereabouts infringes upon my sense of safety; and (3) Alex's pace is too slow for the vast majority of 4K—that is, adult—hikers. I don't mind this relative isolation, since time spent alone with my daughter strengthens the bond between us. However, I do notice that every time someone passes us on the trail, Alex perks up and quickens her pace. I can see that she might enjoy this experience even more if she were in the company of other people.

For Alex's benefit, I begin looking for opportunities
to meet other outdoor enthusiasts. Fall arrives, and a “family hiking” trip up Mount Cardigan is announced on one of the Internet hiking forums. Excellent. Mount Cardigan is not a Four Thousand Footer, but it's a good-size peak and one that I think Sage might be able to handle. We mark the date on our calendar and let the organizer know that the three of us will be coming. Hugh will unfortunately be away that weekend, but I don't mind taking the girls by myself.

The day arrives, and we show up at the appointed campground with full backpacks and high spirits. Alex cheerfully introduces herself to those already gathered, then sits on a log to wait for those who have not yet turned up. I smile at everyone and give them my name, then try to pry Sage off my legs. She's shy around strangers and spends the next ten minutes glued to my side as the group waits for last-minute stragglers. Eventually the man who organized this get-together—a tall, affable fellow who goes by the name of “McRat”—declares it time to get moving. We're to take the Holt Trail, then the Clark Trail; it will be a mellow 2.5-mile ascent for Alex, but a challenging climb for Sage. I reassure my youngest that I will carry her when needed, but the presence of the other hikers seems to infuse Sage with extra chutzpah, and she insists that she will make it up there on her own two feet. Admiring her determination, I tell her that I know she's strong enough to accomplish such a goal, but my arms will be ready for her if she changes her mind.

We start our ascent in the company of four other adults and two older girls, ages eleven and twelve. Alex is thrilled; she is completely ecstatic. She keeps pace with the tweens and happily converses with them, apparently unaware that she's six and seven years younger than the taller kids who walk beside her. The older girls are kind to Alex and listen to her constant chatter as she bounces along. I walk behind the group with Sage, who holds my hand and steps slowly but steadily. The group hikes ahead, then sits and waits for Sage and me to catch up, then goes ahead again, then sits and waits. It's a pleasant, relaxed ascent. Everyone seems content to take it slowly and enjoy one another's company. Alex has a grand time, sometimes hiking with Sage and me, but mostly hiking in the midst of her new friends, each of whom treats her as a peer in spite of her young age. It is an enriching experience, one that demonstrates how much more can be added to a hike when in the presence of fine company.

We break out of the woods and encounter a handful of bare, sloping ledges. These are the final obstacles to overcome before reaching the actual summit. Sage is exhausted but proud of herself. Alex hops and bops as if she had just walked a few blocks instead of a couple of miles. We all climb the ledges together, as a group, and reach the top without incident.

Having a summit to oneself is a beautiful thing. One can sit and listen to the silence, feel the wind, and connect with one's Higher Power. It's a priceless
sensation, and some people refuse to hike with others because they feel they must have that experience during each and every hike.

Sharing a summit, however, is also a beautiful thing. I sit, look around me, and smile at what I see. An adult from our group has whipped out a blue and yellow kite from her backpack and is flying it over the valley below. Alex and Sage are giving some of their Goldfish crackers to the tweens, who in turn share some of their sandwiches. McRat is immersed in cheerful conversation with someone he met two seconds ago. Everyone is joyful, everyone is pleased, everyone is sharing their positive energy with everyone else. The best parts of human nature are on display up here.

The girls come over and ask for the trail mix. We sit together for a while, the girls picking out bits of food they don't like and placing the morsels on my outstretched leg. My knee is soon covered in raisins from Alex, my shin in peanuts from Sage. Once the girls have sufficiently weeded their snack, they leave me and return to the tweens. I pick their rejected items from the fabric of my pants and pop them into my mouth, too engrossed in my noshing to notice the arrival of another member of our party. Only after I hear an unfamiliar voice comment on the day's clear sky do I look up and see a tall, fifty-something-year-old man with salt-and-pepper hair, standing a few feet away from me and talking with McRat. He is wearing a kilt.

My eyes are immediately drawn to this odd bit of clothing (how could they not be?). The dark green material flutters lightly in the breeze, sometimes whooshing up to reveal the black hiking shorts he sports underneath. The newcomer sees me looking, smiles, and introduces himself as MadRiver. My cheeks turn red, and I feel as though I've been caught looking up someone's skirt. Oh, wait a minute—I have. I mumble my own introduction and point out my daughters. He nods when I finish, then turns and continues his conversation with McRat. He disappears after a few minutes, and I don't see him again until we return to the campground.

Our descent is a slow one because of Sage's fatigue. She refuses to let me carry her, so we take tiny, slow steps and soon fall behind the rest of the group. Eventually, I tell everyone to go ahead and hike all the way down, that the girls and I will meet them at the campground later. Alex asks if she can go ahead with everyone else. McRat insists that Alex's company would be their pleasure, so I give my permission. The group disappears down the trail, Alex happily skipping alongside the adults.

By the time Sage and I make it down, there's a fire going, and Alex is consuming marshmallows by the handful. I congratulate Sage on her accomplishment, then sit her next to Alex and place half a Hershey's bar on her lap. Sage is completely worn out, but very proud
of herself, as she should be; five miles up and down Mount Cardigan is a lot for a three-year-old to handle. I leave the kids to their candy and join the adults, who are engaged in animated conversation about various New Hampshire mountains and trails. One person keeps to himself, however. MadRiver sits on a folding chair and sips from his water bottle, gazing into the fire. I make my way over to him and say hello.

There's a second or two of silence; then he says, still staring into the fire, “Your kids are interesting. I've read the trip reports you post on the Internet. Alex is … different.”

“Yes, she is,” I respond. He's referring to the blog I created a few months ago. When it became apparent that Alex was probably going to hike 4Ks on a consistent basis, I created a blog that featured online pictorial essays of our adventures.
Trish and Alex Hike the 4000 Foot Whites
(
www.trishandalex.blogspot.com
) was my way of sharing our travels with my extended family and the online hiking community. I'd often include links to our posts within certain hiking forums; these always received favorable responses and plenty of supportive comments. Every once in a while, I'd get an irate private message telling me that the 4K peaks were no place for small children. These diatribes were infrequent, rarely written in a coherent manner, and easy to dismiss.

Later, after eating our fill of toasted marshmallows under a brilliant, star-filled sky, the girls and I
are zipping up our coats and stepping away from the campfire when one of the other adults, an especially outgoing and friendly woman, asks if I can step aside with her for a moment. The girls sit on a boulder while she and I take a few steps into the woods.

“There's something you should know about that one,” the woman says, her voice low and secretive, as she gestures toward MadRiver. The kilted man still sits by the fire, a hundred feet away. “He doesn't like children.”

Um, okay. What does that mean? What am I supposed to do with this information? “Are my kids safe around him?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.

“Oh—oh yes, nothing like that,” she looks down at her feet, flustered. “It's just that, well, he can be kind of gruff with them.”

“Doesn't he have kids? Today's hike was supposed to be for people with kids, right?”

She raises her eyes to meet mine, an intense and earnest expression on her face. “No, he doesn't have kids. He came because he's a friend of McRat's. He met us at the top so he wouldn't have to hike up with a bunch of children. Some of us refer to him as ‘the child hater.' ”

I stand there, not knowing how to respond. The child hater? Really? Am I supposed to keep my kids away from this guy? What would happen if Alex accidentally bumped into him? Would he yell at her?
Smack her upside the head? And why is she telling me this now, right before we leave? Wouldn't this information have been useful much earlier in the day? Before I can ask any of these questions, the woman turns and quickly walks back to the fire. I take the girls and leave the campground in a state of utter befuddlement.

Deciding that it's safe to post our plans on the “members only” section of one Internet hiking forum, I let folks know of our upcoming ascent of 4,500-foot Mount Garfield. There are no responses to my announcement, so I assume it will just be the usual two of us tromping our way toward the summit.

The morning begins with a bit of a mystery. When we arrive at the trailhead, the parking lot is completely full. It's 7:00 a.m., the time Alex and I usually start, a time when most other hikers are just rolling out of their beds. We are used to arriving at a near-empty lot—why is there no place to park today? I leave my car off the road, across from the lot, and hope there's no ticket waiting on its windshield later this evening.

It's a scenic autumn morning. Alex and I crunch our way through the fallen leaves, admiring the reds, yellows, and browns. Gone is summer's greenery. Gone also are summer's little nuisances. There are no bugs, no sweaty armpits, no hot foreheads. We breathe the
delightfully crisp autumn air and walk through the near-barren trees.

Our ramble is an easy one, in spite of the five-mile distance from car to summit, since the trail stays cooperatively moderate in grade. We are clipping along at a solid pace and are only a few tenths of a mile from the peak when the first jogger crosses our path.

There are more than a dozen in all, and they follow one another in rapid succession. Dressed in regular nylon shorts and tennis shoes, they are an odd addition to the typical mountain vista. We move out of their way in amused bewilderment, Alex's eyes opening wide. We haven't seen anyone run down a mountain trail before. I marvel at how gracefully they move. How do they run over these rocks without twisting their ankles?

Our confusion increases when we reach the top of Mount Garfield and see a giant penguin standing on the summit. Or rather, a man dressed as a penguin. He greets us by waving a large and fuzzy wing.

“What the …?” Alex says, laughing. My thoughts exactly.

“We're part of an intercollegiate race,” the penguin explains. “College kids are running up neighboring Mount Galehead, across the ridge, and then down Mount Garfield.”

Though the wind is cold and blowing, we linger to watch the energetic, underdressed dynamos whiz by. Alex chats with the penguin, and he offers her some hot chocolate from a thermos sitting on a nearby boulder.