Finding My Footing in the Granite State

We were about three hours into the day’s hard hike when we took the first wrong turn. Then, about an hour later, on a slim path of slick granite boulders perched precariously along a cloud-dense cliff’s edge, we became consumed with death, specifically hikers who’ve perished, but in worse weather. By then I had broken my trekking pole, my shin’s skin, my shoe and my spirit. I couldn’t keep my backpack balanced, nor steady my fatigue-shaking legs.

Anyone familiar with the Presidential Range in New Hampshire’s White Mountains knows it’s difficult terrain, but I didn’t. I hadn’t done all of my homework. I also hadn’t physically prepared as well as I could, consumed with work deadlines and a family emergency in the weeks leading up to the trip in August 2016. But our team of two was determined to “bag” five peaks that day despite high winds, rain squalls and poor visibility.

So, ever the businesswoman, I did a quick SWOT analysis in my head – taking in my strengths (my endurance, high threshold for pain), weaknesses (poor equipment, tight muscles), opportunities (aid a quest, push physical boundaries) and threats (bad weather, dangerous conditions).

Then I made an executive decision: Let’s get the hell out of here.

No shame in turning around

My far better conditioned friend, Tracy, was more than mildly disappointed when I pulled the plug. After all, we’d planned for this for almost a year. It was a big deal. But she never moaned about missed opportunities, nor let other hikers later know I was responsible for our aborted plan.

That first day, when we hiked up Tuckerman Ravine, we had plenty of company. It was a gorgeous day to be out in the wilderness. I’d had yet to begin my succession of malfunctions, but our pace cost us a choice of bunks when we finally made it to the Lake in the Clouds AMC hut that late afternoon. I was overwhelmed by the volume of cheery hikers at dinner and later, the communal sleeping arrangements. I needed sleep and to let sore muscles rest but both proved elusive endeavors.

The next morning at breakfast we were warned the weather had turned, quite significantly, and there was no shame in adjusting to more conservative, less ambitious plans. Specific warnings were issued for those hiking along the ridge, which would include us. We’d first summit Mt. Washington in the opposite direction and notice a lot more people taking the train down. Then as we moved in the mist toward Madison Springs, we encountered fewer and fewer people. One woman going in the opposite direction had fallen on her face. I became consumed with faceplanting. 

From the heavens above

I’m not proud of my behavior that day, though a couple of years later it doesn’t seem as intense. We got lost, and it cost us time and all of my confidence. I kept my mind occupied privately singing an Enya song and at one point, unable to keep up or negotiate loose granite boulders as well as everyone else, I started to cry. I’d lost my mother just a few months before and I began to pray to her. I promised, if she helped me out of this, I’d do as I had previously and publicly declined: to help my dad take care of my siblings, who were all struggling in the wake of her passing. 

I must have kept up this internal conversation for a good 10 minutes. “Please, Mom, just get me to the next hut safely,” I thought repeatedly. Then, I started noticing the clouds thinning. Faint sunshine returned. The ground of granite gave way to dry dirt. I cried a little harder.

I kept that part of the journey to myself for a while, privately believing it as much coincidence as spiritual intervention. Then, maybe a week after I got home to San Diego, my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer with a poor prognosis. 

She knew.