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On the heels of MadRiver comes Karen, an affable lady who has hiked with us twice before. She and MadRiver will assist with my gear. They will carry most of the contents of my backpack so that I can put Sage in there when she becomes unable or unwilling to hike any farther on her own two feet.

Sage. My beautiful youngest child. She has been so patient and understanding of Mama's time away. If there is anything I regret about the past year and a half, it's been the time away from my littlest girl. That has been the price of this adventure, for I now feel somewhat distanced from her, as though I have lost an important amount of time that can never be made up.

More people are arriving now. There's a group of ten around us, most of whom I know only from the Internet. I put trail names to faces as they introduce themselves, and Alex greets each and every one with a huge smile on her face. Her day has come, and she is thrilled.

I kneel and draw Sage into my arms. “Would you like to go camping with me next weekend? Just you and me, on our own?” I ask.

Her cute little face splits into a grin. “Yeah,” she answers in her squeaky, high-pitched voice. I resolve, right then and there, to spend the next year taking Sage hiking or camping almost every weekend, just as I've done with Alex. We don't have to do 4Ks. We don't even have to do mountains. There are waterfalls to visit, ponds to explore, hills to climb. We just need to get out there, she and I, the two of us. I've missed her.

The time has come. The mountain beckons. More than a dozen people accompany us as we set our boots on the trail. Other hikers will arrive at the trailhead an hour or so later and catch up with us; still others will ascend different routes and greet us at the summit. There are so many well-wishers, so many friendly folks to chat up Alex, myself, one another. Our group moves along the trail at a relaxed pace, Sage skipping ahead with MadRiver, the two of them walking ahead of the crowd. Alex hikes in the center of the hubbub
and converses with a sister-brother duo, the daughter and son of a fellow hiker. These children are nine and six years old, and this will be their third 4K. I hear snippets of their happy back-and-forth, getting-to-know-you questions. “Where do you live?” “How old are you?” “Do you have any other brothers or sisters?” “What's your favorite mountain?”

It's a perfect day. The temperature is just right, and the bugs are behaving themselves. We quickly reach the halfway point: a tree bearing a sign marked Last Water, standing tall over the bubbling Gorge Brook. We take a break here, though there is barely enough room in the small clearing to hold everyone in our group. Water bottles are refilled, snacks are consumed, and the crowd continues its happy chatter. When we ready ourselves to leave, Sage tells me she is tired and asks to be carried. I place my empty backpack on the ground and hold it steady while she climbs in.

Apart from coming to me for the occasional snack, Alex has thus far remained with her newfound friends. This is to be expected, as she is a bright, friendly, and lively child. I had never thought she'd stay by my side during this, our final 4K hike. Not with so many agreeable faces surrounding her, not with so many opportunities for cheerful chatter.

Though I am happy for her, I feel a twinge of sadness. So many hikes together, just her and me. So many memories. The time Alex discovered she had a live inchworm on her tongue and spat it onto a nearby leaf,
where it inched away, unharmed. The time I walked face-first into a large, bug-filled spiderweb, and Alex shrieked with both laughter and alarm. The time we saw bear tracks in the mud in front of us and spent the following hour walking with hammering hearts, hoping never to see the actual bear (we didn't). The many times we sang Monty Python songs to make steep sections a little easier, the many times we made up stories to get us through the final mile back to the car, the many times we counted slugs on giant slabs of granite.

Today's hike is nothing like the ones that have come before. There are so many people with us! I am grateful to them all for being here, for this is how it should be. My daughter deserves this grand celebration. However, in my mind, our shared 4K quest has already come to an end, for our mother-daughter duo days are in the past.

The hike just previous to this one, the last mountain Alex and I ascended on our own, had been a quiet and pleasant climb up Mount Flume on Franconia Ridge. We walked the lovely and well-maintained Osseo Trail in peaceful harmony. Alex enjoyed that hike, especially the upper part of the trail with its many wooden ladders. When we arrived on the bare and rocky summit, I lifted her into the air and let out a
whoo-hoo!
of victory. I knew, standing there, that that would be my last moment alone with my wonderful five-turned-six-year-old peakbagging daughter, and I wanted to relish every
second of it. After putting Alex down, I opened my pack and removed two chocolate whoopie pies, a departure from our usual candy bars. The two of us then sat side by side and ate, feeling wonderful and carefree in the warm summer sun.

“Alex,” I had said after swallowing a mouthful of the deliciously sweet confection, “thanks for doing this with me.”

Alex looked at me, chocolate crumbs on her lips and cheeks, her face quizzical.

“Why are you thanking me?” she asked.

“Because you've put up with me. With all of my nagging and hovering and
be carefuls
.”

Alex gave me a huge smile. “You're welcome. I really love being out here. I wish we could live high up in the mountains.”

Then we said nothing more, but simply sat and chewed our whoopie pies in the gloriously fresh mountain air.

We're on the move again, and oh my, is Sage heavy! Her weight is not evenly distributed, as she crouches low in the backpack in an effort to make herself comfortable. I make it half a mile before my spine begins to give way. A member of our group, a kind man named Tim, offers to carry her for me, and I gratefully acquiesce. A couple tenths of a mile later, Sage's snores tell us that her efforts to make herself comfortable have succeeded. Her lolling head protrudes out the top of
the untied main compartment, and her blonde, wispy hair flies every which way as Tim steps over rocks, roots, and mud.

We're almost above tree line now, just a little while longer and we'll have the summit in our sights. One of Alex's new friends, the six-year-old boy, complains of
being tired. His father encourages him onward.
We're almost there … you can do it … I'm so proud of you
. It's a gentle push, with an offer to sit and rest for a few moments before ascending the remainder of the trail. The two lag behind while the boy drags his feet, but his pace quickens after a few minutes, and he soon catches up with Alex.

I love witnessing gentle pushes, for I think that children are far more capable than most adults realize. Sometimes they just need to be reminded of their own strength. When some parents take it too far, turning the push into a shove, that's another matter. Those are the ones with small children sitting in the middle of the trail, begging to turn around and crying because their legs are too tired to go any farther. I've never actually seen that occur in the Whites. While gentle pushes are good, it's important to respect kids' feelings as to when and what they want to hike. This boy today: he's tired, no doubt, and he may think he just can't do it anymore. But the truth is, he can, and his father knows he can. More important, the boy
wants
to reach the summit. So, far from expecting too much of him, the father is helping his son realize his potential.

Sage wakes as soon as we step above tree line. We stop so Tim can take her out of the backpack, as she's more than capable of walking these last few tenths of a mile.

This is it. I can see the peak a quarter of a mile away, a large jumble of massive boulders under a blue and
cloudless sky. Dark silhouettes move about up there, early arrivals waiting for Alex to ascend. A few dozen yards ahead of us, a familiar figure leans against a tall cairn. It is Hugh, who arrived at this point an hour ago and is waiting to summit with the rest of us. Alex runs to him and leaps into his arms. Sage follows and throws herself around his knees.

Time for the final push. Alex leads the way, head held high, blonde hair blowing behind her in the cool mountain breeze. The crowd up top spots her and begins to cheer. Alex's pace quickens, and soon we are just below the final boulders. There are so many people! As we approach, a few kind folks line up on either side of the path and stretch their hiking poles up and over us, creating an arch under which we merrily walk. Now just fifteen feet from the summit sign, I can more clearly see the crowd that awaits us. Most of the people stand close to the high point, waiting with cameras in their hands, smiling at Alex and cheering her on. Ten feet away, then five, then two … Alex pulls herself up and over the final rock, stands, and touches the summit sign. The crowd bursts into noisy applause.

She's done it. My little girl's done it. All those months, all those miles, all that joyous work and happy sweat. She smiles and laughs and revels in her accomplishment, surrounded by the wonderful men and women who have hiked this mountain to show their support and make my little girl's day.

Someone tells me to get up there with her, so I do.
Cameras
click-click-click
away, people are clapping and hooting and hollering, and I am overwhelmed by—and very grateful for—all the positive attention.

B., a stout hiking enthusiast who has hiked all forty-eight of the Four Thousand Footers numerous times, approaches and hands each of us an Appalachian Mountain Club Four Thousand Footer T-shirt and me an official 4K patch. MadRiver does the honor of handing Alex her patch; she beams at him in response. As I pull Alex's shirt over her head, I ask her how she feels. “Great!” she answers. “This is better than Christmas!”

Formalities taken care of, we step down and mingle with all the lovely individuals. Alex joyfully goes from person to person, shaking hands and chatting up everyone she greets. Sage is more reserved and stays with her father, on a sunny bit of rock apart from the hubbub. At one point I go to her, hoping she is not put out by all the attention being lavished on her sister.

“How are you doing, Sage?” I ask.

“Fine.”

I look at Hugh, who nods his head at all the people and smiles at me as if to say, “Go on, enjoy the moment.” After kissing Sage's cheek, I leave the two of them and go back into the crowd.

The next hour is a blur of handshakes, smiles, and greetings. A few hikers give Alex presents: a compass, a stuffed animal, a bandanna. She happily accepts these items and thanks each person for their generosity. Sage also receives a gift: a stuffed animal to accompany Alex's. The girls play together, then join the other two children in a game of follow the leader, hopping from boulder to boulder and tramping along the trails.

This is the definition of Good Times. Everyone is chatting amicably, getting along, loving the mountains, and enjoying life. All is right with the world.

The second hour of celebration draws to a close, and it's time to begin the descent. Groups of people head off in every direction, taking routes of their own liking. After bidding everyone adieu, our family heads back down Gorge Brook Trail.

We leave in a group containing the two other children, their parents, MadRiver, Susan, and a few others. Sage once again rides in the backpack, now shouldered by another gracious adult whose back is much stronger than mine. Alex walks ahead of me, talking to the other kids. I'm a little stung.

Hey, wait! Doesn't she realize who made all this possible? Doesn't she remember who accompanied her up the other peaks? Doesn't she remember who carried all the gear and who drove to all the trailheads? Did she forget who brought all the food?

I'm not really upset, of course—the moment is just a little bittersweet. Okay, more than a little. My hiking buddy hasn't been by my side once on this hike, except for a few short minutes at the very top. She doesn't need me so much anymore. She no longer depends on me for every little thing. She's taking big steps up there, with the other kids. Steps away from me.