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It's not enough to simply buy the gear, of course. We each have to know how to use it. Alex and I spend a few hours setting up the bivy and placing our mat and sleeping bag inside of it. I show my daughter the new PLB and teach her how to push the right button. Hugh and I sit Alex down and explain how she is to keep herself warm, hydrated, and fed in the extremely unlikely event that I am somehow rendered unconscious. We stress that this will probably never happen, but that she must know what to do anyway, just in case. We emphasize that it sometimes takes search and rescue an entire night and day to find a lost hiker. We have her set up everything by herself, over and over again, until both Hugh and I are confident that she completely understands what she is to do. These drills are less morbid than they sound—we are only preparing our daughter for the worst kind of scenario, just as parents tell their
kids what to do in the event of a fire. It's precautionary, all of it. Alex knows this and therefore does not become frightened.

We've now got the gear and as much knowledge as can be had without firsthand experience. We're ready to give this winter hiking thing a whirl.

November rolls around, the temperatures drop, and half a foot of snow falls the day before a planned ascent of 4,302-foot Mount Willey. To my great surprise, MadRiver, the “child hater” we met a couple of months ago on the family hike up Mount Cardigan, sends me a late-night private message through the hiking forums and asks if he can accompany us the next morning. He'd like to start later in the morning and catch up to us on the trail. I tell him sure, of course, but please understand if we hike at a much slower pace than what he's used to. He assures me that a relaxed ascent won't be a problem. I go to bed apprehensive about hiking with a man with a reputation for hating children, but excited for the new challenge that lies ahead.

And a challenge it most certainly is! Though it is still technically fall and not yet winter, the temperatures are so low I fear my daughter will become immediately chilled in the frigid morning air; we begin the hike dressed in all of our layers. We find it a struggle to accommodate our clothing; it's quite difficult to walk
wearing so much bulk. Our face masks feel awkward, and Alex has difficulty breathing because she keeps getting black woolen bits of fuzz up her nose. She finds she can't use her hiking poles because she can't grip them while wearing her heavy gloves. If she takes her hands out of those gloves for even a second, her fingers become painfully cold.

We struggle up the steep initial couple tenths of a mile of the Ethan Pond Trail … and then something odd happens. I start to feel hot. I look down at Alex, who breathes heavily underneath her face mask. I bring her to a halt and remove the fleece from her nose and mouth. Her skin is red and damp. A moment ago she was chilled, but now she is sweating.

In the time it takes us to remove a few layers of clothes, we become chilled again. I decide to keep the layers off and see what happens. Alex and I resume our former pace up the slope, and as we go, I realize that the trick is to dress lightly and move quickly. If we wear too much, we'll overheat while ascending. If we wear too little and slow our pace or stop for even a moment, we'll become chilled. It takes a solid hour and many starts and stops to figure out exactly how much clothing each of us should wear in order to stay consistently comfortable for the longest amount of time. Alex becomes frustrated with having to go through this learning curve. She's used to everything being relatively easy. To stop, start, and stop again, to wear four
layers of clothing, then two, then three, then one, then back to four … it's aggravating. I ask her many times if she wants to turn back, but she continually responds by saying, “We're here, let's do this.”

MadRiver appears just as we reach the Willey Range Trail, about 1.6 miles into our hike. He ascends with strong and steady steps, his kilt fluttering in the frigid breeze. Alex throws herself onto the ground and lies in the snow as he approaches, weary and frustrated. MadRiver reaches us, looks down, and gives my daughter a wave. As I give him a hello hug, I murmur in his ear, “We may end up turning back—Alex is not exactly loving this.” “No problem,” he quietly answers.

I take a picture of the two of them: MadRiver standing over Alex by the trail sign, looking as though he's just killed her as she lies motionless in the snow. As I put away my camera, I hear her pick herself up and brush herself off. She offers a polite greeting before continuing up the trail.

It is an extremely difficult hike. The trail is unrelentingly steep, and there's not enough snow cover to completely fill in the gaps and gnarls in the root systems. Often we put our boots down on what we think is solid snow only to sink ankle-deep into a lightly covered chasm. This awkward footing, combined with the precipitous grade of the trail and our continual on-again, off-again clothing ritual, makes for a very onerous morning. Alex stomps her way up the mountain,
constantly muttering at all the obstacles. MadRiver is amused at her fury and impressed by her determination. Though I too admire my daughter's tenacity, I realize that if MadRiver weren't with us, I'd have turned us around by now. This hike is taking much longer than I had originally planned; there are so many new things to deal with, and it is extremely cold out here! However, MadRiver
is
with us, and he has a fair bit of winter hiking experience under his belt. Each of us is warm, fed, and hydrated, and both MadRiver and I have enough gear to, as he puts it, “take care of a troop of Girl Scouts.” I feel safe continuing onward and upward.

We do eventually make it all 2.7 miles to the top, though it takes us five hours to do so. Reaching the summit chases away some of Alex's blues, and as we stand at a viewpoint and look down onto massive Webster Cliff, my daughter's face allows a smile to creep onto her features. Webster Cliff is one wide, scratched-up surface of rock that towers over the valley below. In today's bright morning, its frosty boulders sparkle in the sunlight. It's a scene my younger daughter, Sage, would love. There's fairy dust in mass quantities over there, shimmering happily, celebrating life's hard-earned pleasures.

Our descent is a completely different experience from our tedious morning climb. Going down is so much easier than coming up! The three of us chat
amicably. MadRiver does not speak down to my daughter; he neither uses a high-pitched voice nor insults her intelligence. Instead, he converses as one would with an adult. My esteem for him, which has already risen with every patient step he has taken, rises into the stratosphere. He asks Alex about the hikes she has already done, the kinds of things she likes to do, and how she gets along with her sister. Alex answers all his questions, then asks some of her own. Does he have children (no), is he married (yes), where does he live (close to us), and how many mountains has he hiked (too many to count). As I listen to the two of them banter back and forth, I can't help but wonder what prompted the woman at Mount Cardigan to warn me about this fellow. Though a strange sight with his grizzled gray hair and ever-fluttering kilt, he has been nothing but kind to us. Not many adults would willingly walk so slowly on a winter hike with a child who wasn't their own son or daughter.

We reach a flat section of trail, and Alex skips ahead, her energy surging as it always does during a descent. When I think she is out of earshot, I gather my courage and say, “You know, I heard that you weren't that fond of children.”

MadRiver smiles and answers, “I'm not. I don't like whining, I don't like screaming, and I don't like misbehaving brats. But Alex doesn't whine, she doesn't scream, and she's definitely not a brat. Actually, I don't
think she's really a child. She's a twenty-year-old hiker trapped in a very small person's body.”

Okay. I can roll with that.

A couple of snowy weeks later, Alex tells me she's ready to give another winter mountain a go. This surprises me, since she was so miserable during our ascent of Mount Willey. I take her at her word, though, and search the Internet for recent 4K trip reports. It doesn't take me long to find a post regarding a trail that has been recently traveled and “packed out.” Since many people hike the 4Ks, even during winter, snowshoe paths along the usual routes are quickly established, even after a heavy snowstorm. The footing, therefore, becomes extremely easy if the snowpack is deep; this we first discover as we climb 4,802-foot Mount Moosilauke using the Glencliff Trail on a brisk December day. The ascent is a piece of cake. It feels like we're walking on a smooth (albeit steep) white sidewalk, and, unlike our experience on Mount Willey, there are no exposed rocks or roots for us to trip over. Even our clothing becomes less of a hassle as we get used to the frequent putting on and removal of layers.

Alex and I move up the mountain in very good spirits. I continually hand my daughter an insulated bottle of hot chocolate, from which she drinks in hefty gulps. This liquid refreshment keeps her both hydrated and
energized, and she bounds up the trail an extremely happy camper. It is a joyous morning, and Alex frequently comments on the splendor of the winter wonderland through which we travel. Each branch of evergreen holds a little pile of snow; every tree trunk is coated with sparkling ice. It's as though Hollywood were here before us this morning, creating the perfect scene for its next Christmas blockbuster.

Everything goes well—so well that I almost feel we have this winter thing under total control—until we reach the intersection with the Moosilauke Carriage Road. This intersection is close to tree line, and we now begin to hear the wind whipping around the mountain. Every few seconds, a renegade gust blasts its way through a branchy gap and shoves itself in our faces. It is an extremely unpleasant feeling at best, for that wind is mean; it's nasty. It bites at our cheeks and makes us wince. We drop our packs and hastily don all layers of clothing, starting with headwear. I make certain that every inch of Alex's skin is covered, as it won't take more than a few minutes for her skin to succumb to frostbite if that wind remains so brazen. I take special care with her face, adjusting her goggles so they overlap her face mask, tightening the straps so that her head movements can't shift the material. Once we're above tree line, it will be difficult, if not impossible, for me to make certain none of her skin is exposed at any time. Most of my focus will be in keeping the two of us upright.

I am so consumed with making sure her precious face and head are protected that I forget to pay attention to the rest of her body. As a result, when we step out of the trees to begin the final push toward the summit, just a few tenths of a mile from the peak, Alex is not wearing her windproof gloves. She does wear two layers of woolen mittens, but these do nothing to protect her fingers from the wind. Without that outer layer, the thin skin on her digits can feel every icy and unmerciful blast.

I do not immediately realize my mistake. The wind roars with indignation at our bold approach and does its best to push us over. I grab Alex's arm and practically drag her up the slope in an effort to keep her on her feet. She yells something at me, but I can't make out her words. A wall of air slams into us, and we both fall off the path. Alex tumbles into a nearby cairn, and I dive after her, momentarily worried that she will blow off the mountain.