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“Are you okay?” I holler. I try to read Alex's emotions, but the task is impossible; her facial expressions are hidden beneath her face mask and balaclava.

“My hands hurt!” she yells.

I look down and finally realize what Alex is missing.

“Mama, they really hurt!” Alex's shout is tinged with panic, and I realize my daughter is frightened and in pain. That's that. This ascent is over.

We're now perhaps two hundred yards from the
summit, an easy five- or ten-minute walk if the wind weren't behaving in such a contrary manner. I know full well we're going to abort, but I want to give Alex the courtesy of making the decision herself.

“We're very close to the summit now. Are you okay to continue, or do you want to turn back?” I ask, prepared to exercise my veto power should she make the wrong choice.

Alex hesitates for a literal second, then answers, “Turn back!”

Excellent. My daughter has good sense.

Without another word, I pull Alex to a standing position and lead her back down the trail, battling the confrontational wind every step of the way. As soon as we are back in the protection of the trees, I get to work on her hands. I remove her gloves and put her bare skin on my stomach, underneath my four layers of clothing.

“Are you okay?” I speak in a normal tone as the wind no longer whips about our ears.

“Yes,” Alex answers. She removes one of her hands from my stomach long enough to yank off her face mask. “I didn't like that wind—it really hurt my fingers.”

“How are they now? Are they warming up a bit?”

“Yeah.”

Her face clouds as she stands there, hands on my stomach, goggles askew.

“We didn't make it to the top, Mama.” The words
come slowly, as though she's giving me some unexpected and unfortunate news.

“I know, honey.”

“Is that okay?”

I smile. “Would you rather we went all the way up but lost a few of these fingers?” I take out her hands and kiss the fingers in question.

She answers in the form of a lopsided smile. I hand over her three layers of gloves.

“Do you want to try again? Now, I mean.”

Alex slowly shakes her head.

“Good!” I exclaim. Her eyebrows rise. “I'm proud of you, kid. You just became a real hiker. Real hikers know when to continue and when to turn back.”

“Even when they're really close to the summit?”

“Especially when they're really close to the summit. Better to turn back ten feet from the summit than to reach the peak but not make it back to the car. How are your hands?”

Alex smiles broadly and declares her fingers toasty. Her expression seems satisfied, proud even. She
should
feel proud. She just exhibited good, sound judgment, and she doesn't seem all that upset at having to turn back. It's important for her not to become too disappointed if she doesn't reach the top. Her mind should always be on safety first and the summit second.

We make our way down the Carriage Road feeling rather good about ourselves, Alex humming a random tune and me congratulating myself on a successful
winter hike. Who cares if we didn't reach the summit? We're both safe and having a good time.

At the top of Glencliff Trail, Alex is struck by a brilliant idea. More than two and a half snowy miles of downhill trail lie at our feet. How can we not take advantage? She sits, a mad gleam in her eye, and announces her intention to “butt slide all the way back to the car.”

And that's exactly what we do. We laugh and shout and fly down the mountain, my giggles sounding every bit as childlike as Alex's. Down the packed trail we go, at a clip fast enough to provoke involuntary hoots of glee. When necessary, I act as a human brake for my daughter; she laughingly slams into my back whenever I slow our descent. The two of us behave in the silliest fashion, and by the time we reach the car, we are thoroughly convinced that winter hiking is more fun than, well, anything.

Alex and I summit six peaks during the official calendar winter season. In doing so, we discover that the joys of winter hiking far outweigh the inconveniences. Heavier packs and colder air are happily managed; such things are a small price to pay for the sight of snow-capped summits and icicled trees, the ease of snow sidewalks, the feel of crisp mountain air, and the joy of fast and furious “butt sliding.”

We are never again forced to turn back. Much of that probably has to do with the fact that I become very picky over which days we venture out. On extremely chilly days (subzero in the valley), we stay home. On days with considerable snow in the forecast, we stay home. On days where the following nights are supposed to be considerably cold, or considerably snowy, we stay home. I also keep us below tree line, as I know, from our Moosilauke experience, that the number of potential problems increases exponentially once you step into the windy and barren alpine zone.

As the weeks go on and my trip reports are posted, my Internet critics silence themselves, and our informal approval ratings soar. Several people write and tell me that they had been worried when they found out I was taking Alex up the 4Ks in the winter, but now that they've read my blog, they can see how prepared and levelheaded I am. Though I'm not usually one to
care what other people think, these messages buoy me. I can't help but feel good about receiving the support of my hiking peers, and it can't hurt Alex to have people thinking favorable thoughts about her.

Though Alex and I enjoy winter hiking, we are ready for the reappearance of rocks and sunshine when the season eventually draws to a close. Spring arrives, bringing with it warmer temperatures and longer days. As pleasant as spring may be in the valley, however, we soon discover it's a horrible season for hiking.

Peak #30: Mount Moriah, April 25, 2009

S
pringtime in the Whites brings the return of many natural treasures: abundant sunshine, warmer temperatures, the reappearance of rocks and leaves, the sounds of birds, and the tracks of bear. Springtime also means a lighter burden on the shoulders, as the heavy winter sleeping bag can be switched out of the backpack for a lighter three-season one, and the emergency camping stove can be replaced with an ultralight box of weatherproof matches. In addition, it's no longer necessary to carry a multitude of water bottles. The frozen brooks are melting; water can be collected and purified with iodine tablets wherever there's a stream crossing.

These are the positive aspects of the advent of spring. There is, however, one negative aspect. One nasty, ornery, pain-in-the-rear aspect: snow.

Snow during winter is delightful. It's solid beneath
your feet, and it stays in place. If you're wearing snowshoes, you can float on top of it, and there will be little to no inconvenient sinks as you make your way up and over a mountain.

Snow during springtime is, simply put, awful. It's not the nice white fluffy stuff. It's old, it's weak, and it's rotting. One second you're walking on a firm sidewalk, the next you're dropping through slush, even with your once-trusty snowshoes strapped to your feet. Much of the time, in spite of your best efforts and psychological preparations, you sink to your thighs with every other step. It's maddening.

Such are the words of warning given to me from well-meaning hikers upon my announcement that Alex and I will hike straight through the spring. I take these folks seriously, and I also remember the failed Tecumseh attempt the year before, when I had both girls with me, and I hadn't a clue yet as to what I was doing. However, Alex and I now have twenty-nine peaks under our belts, and we feel adequately prepared and experienced to take on this challenge. And honestly, Alex and I cannot fathom taking a four- to six-week break from hiking. We figure we'll just take it slowly and adjust to the unstable hiking surface. We managed winter; we should be able to manage spring.

The day starts out well enough. The snow has completely melted from the lower portion of the Stony Brook Trail, and we ascend the first leg of 4,049-foot
Mount Moriah feeling warm and fine. Free of our winter fleece and base layers, both of us sport shorts and synthetic T-shirts. We feel good. We feel
light
.

The first mile is an easy jaunt toward Stony Brook. We cross the water without much ado, the soles of our boots barely touching the water as we skip across the stepping stones. I mark where we cross well, for this brook will probably look very different when we return later in the day. The sun will melt the snow throughout the afternoon, and the excess water will pour down the mountain, swelling all the streams and rivulets. It may be necessary to get our boots and legs wet on the way out, or I may choose to camp if the water appears too deep to cross. No worries: I have all necessary gear, and my cell phone works on this section of trail, so I can contact Hugh if the need arises.

Onward we trek. The trail turns upward. And there lies the snow.

Initially, it's not so bad. Rocks poke their heads above the sea of glistening white, and Alex enjoys hopping from stone to stone. It's an amusing novelty, wearing shorts under a bright sun while stepping over winter's leftovers. However, soon the snow covers the path completely, and it's necessary to step directly onto—or, should I say,
into
—the cold and wet stuff.

Alex makes her way through the next few tenths of a mile by walking in the middle of the trail where
it's firmer, packed down from last winter's many snowshoes. I, being much heavier than my daughter, sink constantly no matter where I step.

It doesn't take long before the snow situation worsens. With each foot of elevation gain, the snow becomes softer and deeper. I don my snowshoes in an attempt to make life easier for myself, but the effort is in vain. I continue to sink repeatedly, making giant snowshoe-size holes in the melting snowpack.

Alex continues to have a better time of it. As long as she keeps to the center of the trail, she is usually able to stay on top of the mess. Her face doesn't look all that happy, though. I chalk it up to the rotting snow.

We keep at it for two miles before deciding to take a snack break. The dry top of a medium-size boulder provides a convenient island on which to sit. Finally, something pleasant! For the first time in months, we're able to sit without immediately becoming chilled. My sports watch informs me of the temperature; it's a seasonal sixty-five degrees.

Twenty minutes go by in silence. Had this been months ago, when Alex and I were first starting out, I would have worried about her quiet demeanor and peppered her with questions. Now she is seasoned enough to tell me what she needs, and I no longer have to nag her about drinking enough, eating enough, or wearing the proper amount of clothing. I concentrate on my peanuts and choose not to interrupt her thoughts.

Alex eventually puts down her bag of trail mix,
looks at me, and pulls the lid off a big can of troubling discussion.

“Jacob told me I can't be good at math because I'm a girl.” Alex shoves her foot down into the snow and then yanks it back up, splattering little bits of pebbly white granules everywhere.