I laughed hysterically as steam rose off my shaking body. It was the funniest thing I’d ever seen, and I couldn’t understand why my hiking companions weren’t equally as tickled. The muscles in my calves convulsed and rainwater pooled under the bench I was sitting on. My hands shook as I tried to eat a snack, but everything was too damn funny.
“We should probably turn back,” Max said as he handed me a cup of hot chocolate.
“What? No, I’m fine,” I said between giggles, “I just need to change my socks.”
Max and Will exchanged skeptical looks as I wiggled my shoeless feet at them.
It was around 7am and we had reached the peak of the first of eight mountains. Our goal was to complete a grueling, eight peak, twenty-mile, point to point hike called the Presidential Traverse in one day. We’d been planning it all spring, and I thought that my marathon training would have been more than enough for this adventure. The White Mountains were quick to put me in my place.
We started our hike at around 4am and set out at a brisk pace up Mt. Madison. It was a humid June morning and we walked in silence for the first mile with our headlamps bobbing. Slowly, the grade began to steepen and the pleasant mist that started about thirty minutes into the hike gave way to a steady drizzle, which quickly turned into a torrential downpour. The mountain became steeper and the rocky footpath turned into a roaring waterfall. My rainproof gear was not rainproof enough, and soon I was damply fighting my way up the seemingly endless mountain. As we finally broke the tree line, the rain tapered off and was replaced by a biting wind. Our pleasant June weather turned winter-like, and we trudged forward toward the Madison Spring Hut where we knew we’d have the opportunity to get in from the elements and have a warm drink.
Once we were safely inside the Madison Spring Hut I devolved into hysterics. Max and Will had an easier time going up the mountain and must have sensed that I was sliding into dangerous territory. My clothes and shoes were soaked, I’d barely eaten anything all morning, and I was acting like a lunatic. The poor guys had to convince me that going forward was not an option. Eventually, I agreed to pull the plug on our adventure and we headed back down the way we came.
I was disappointed at the failed attempt but had one of the best weekends of that summer. Once down the mountain, the three of us laughed hysterically over pizza and margaritas as we joked about the crazy innkeeper of the property we stayed at. By the end of the day, the failure no longer felt like a shortcoming—it had turned into a shorter-than-planned adventure with a promise to return.
A month later I went back to the White Mountains to climb the tallest mountain in the Northeast, Mt. Washington. My dad, sister, and I climbed to the top of the mountain with the worst weather on earth with no incident—and although we complained the whole way down, we had a good time. A few moose sightings, a warm beer in the car, and a few pounds of barbeque later, I marveled at this new hobby.
Hiking didn’t come with the same set of rules as running. I was not chasing personal records or beating myself up about pace. I simply climbed up, climbed down, and then ate a good meal. After a year of feeling like a failure after every run, hiking seemed like a mandatory mental rehab. Much like a rebound after an unsuccessful relationship, I fell for hiking, hard and fast.
I went all in on my new obsession, and spent the next year jumping at every opportunity to be on a mountain. Once it got too cold, and after a bumpy attempt at an icy solo hike, I took to the mountains in a new way: I picked up skiing.
I was not, and likely never will be, good at skiing. I agreed to it because my mountain friends switched to skiing in the winter and I figured it was better than the alternative of spending weekends alone. While my friends skied, I complaisantly took ski lessons and enjoyed my slow turns on the bunny slopes. For a number of reasons, I never got much better at skiing, and after one season I called it quits. As spring rolled around I was left with a bruised ego, a broken heart, and a hesitancy to go back to the mountains.
It took me about a year to lick my wounds before I decided to give the mountains another try. The mountains were challenging, immovable, and started calling to me again in the summer of 2019.
That July I headed out for the ultimate off-grid adventure. Instead of relying on the company of friends or family I brought my dog Baxter, and we drove into the middle of nowhere for a weekend in the woods. There, alone with my dog, looking over a lake at the top of a mountain, I fell in love again. I spent the rest of the year chasing mountains, hiking breathtaking switchbacks in California and conquering the tallest mountain in Maine.
I had never lost my love of mountains, but I had become increasingly worried about failure. At some point the mountains stopped being fun and became tied to my ego. I had forgotten that the mountains were not about the people that I brought with me, or the skills I may or may not have; I’d forgotten that the mountains were there for each individual, meetings us where we were.
Now, my heart races when I think of the mountains I still want to climb, and the experiences that are awaiting me.
“The mountains are calling, and I must go.”