Adirondack Peeks Summer 2024

that “someday” happen—and that her plans would in volve me. One evening, as we were finishing dinner, my mom announced we would be hiking up Mt. Washington the next day. I remember looking at my friend, who had bravely tagged along for a rustic summer adventure, and thinking that my mom would never be so rude as to make my friend hike a mountain. My mom was that rude. The next morning, at a sickeningly early time, my mom very loudly woke up all of us and declared that it was time to go. Not having hiking-appropriate gear, I donned the only sleeveless shirt and shorts that I owned (both cotton), pulled on my (cotton) socks, and my only pair of sneakers (very well-worn by that point). Mom pulled out several small backpacks, water bottles, and apples, and told us that each of us would be carrying our own water and snacks. The only thing that sounded worse than having to hike up a mountain at that moment was hiking up a moun tain carrying anything at all. I tried to leave the backpack in the cabin. Mom found it and made me take it. I tried to leave myself at the cabin. Mom wouldn’t let me do that, either. I don’t think that I am a particularly dramatic per son, but anyone who was on the hike with us that day would state otherwise. I was miserable. Absolutely, com pletely, and utterly miserable, and everyone within ear shot knew it (which, when you’re on a mountain, is far more people than you may otherwise realize). The entire way up the Tuckerman Ravine trail on Mt. Washington, I bewailed my angst. Loudly. Repetitively. And with great emotive expression. I decried that I hated hiking (which I did). That I was sore, uncomfortable, hun gry, tired, thirsty, and didn’t want to go any further (which was also true). That I hated carrying anything (including myself). That I was bored (which wasn’t technically true, since I was so busy being dramatically miserable). That my mom was mean for making us hike (which I certainly felt at the time). And that I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever willingly hike. In retrospect, I am slightly in awe of my mom’s lung capacity, which enabled her to threaten, reprimand, and tell me that I was wrong, the entire way up the moun tain. To my constant stream of invective, my mom kept replying that she didn’t care if I hated it, was sore, uncom fortable, hungry, tired, thirsty, or didn’t want to keep go ing, didn’t want to carry anything, or was foolish enough to say that I was bored when I obviously had so much that was keeping me busy right then. She didn’t care if I thought that she was mean, because one day, I would love hiking, and would thank her for making me go. When mom made that last statement, we had reached the krummholz and the glacial erratic pile o’ rocks near the top, so even my angsty teenaged self real ized that I needed to conserve my oxygen. Rather than responding in kind, I kept my seething thoughts to my self. As I gasped and wheezed and tripped my way to the top of the mountain (gaping at one point at a ridiculously spunky octogenarian who cheerily bounced up the rocks,

Marybeth with Friend, Middle Sister, and Mom

his hiking-patch-covered backpack bouncing along with his ponytail and boppy feet, as he sped by a much young er, slower, and crankier me), I internally reiterated to my self that I would never, ever, ever willingly hike a moun tain. Somehow, we made it to the top, and despite my even more dramatic heaving gasps for air, my mom made us all pose at the summit sign. She asked strangers to take the photo for us, telling them that she wanted all of us to remember that we hiked Mt. Washington together. Tucking the camera back into her backpack after our photo was taken, my mom led the way back down the mountain, insisting that we stop and refill our water bottles from a spring flowing near the top of the moun tain and take time to enjoy the taste of the crisp, ice-cold water. She told us that we needed to remember always to take time to enjoy nature and not to be so busy that we failed to enjoy what it had to offer us. I remember that she was calm and centered on that hike down the mountain, smiling to herself (possibly because at that point, I wasn’t complaining anymore). My mom paused every so often to point out a pretty flower, some unique rock (at least to her—a high school teacher by vocation, her favorite classes to teach were always earth science/geology, and she always loved identifying rocks to her captive-not-by-choice audience of her chil dren), and to harvest a small handful of wild blueberries (reminding us of the rule of thirds and to always leave enough for nature). By the time we made it back to the cabin, my mom was the happiest that I remember her being throughout my entire childhood. She remained that happy the follow ing day, sassily reminding me that I should have listened to her, and not collapsed and stopped hydrating after the hike, as she breezily moved about the cabin, while my lac-

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