Adirondack Peeks Summer 2024

That miserable Santanoni hike was the beginning of a new chapter for me and my love story with hiking. My husband and I completed the 46er challenge in a little over a year, and then completed them again the following year with our teenage daughter. We are currently working on the NE115 and the Terrifying 25 NH hike lists, inter spersing those hikes with ones in the Adirondacks and Appalachians. More than 20 years after climbing Mt. Washing ton with my mom, I hiked it again, willingly, but this time, via the Huntington Ravine. Like the photo taken the day my mom dragged me up Mt. Washington, the more re cent photo of me at the summit is with a group of people, friends, and my husband. But, unlike the last photo, this time, my face is beaming. My mom was right, I absolute ly love hiking, and I am glad that she made me hike Mt. Washington all those years ago. My mom celebrated when my husband and I, and then our daughter, completed our 46er challenge. And every time I showed her photos from our hikes, she would say that she told me I would love hiking and I would thank her one day for making me go on that first hike. I would give anything to hear my mom tell me that she was right, one more time. My mom was recently diagnosed with late-stage Alzheimer’s Disease. Sometimes when I talk with her, she knows who I am. Most of the time, she does not. When I talk with my mom, I share good memories with her. I know that she does not remember them, but I do. And for now, that is enough. So, I tell her of my recent hikes and of my hiking plans for the future, because I want to share these plans with her while she is still here. Even if she does not know that it is her daughter who is sharing those hopes and dreams with her.

Marybeth and husband Andy #9281 on Macomb

tic acid–infused muscles prevented me from moving with any sort of groan-less fluidity. During the next few years, when my mom remi nisced about that hike, I vehemently reiterated that I hat ed hiking, and would never do it again. My mom would smile and tell me that one day, I would love hiking, and that I would thank her for letting me go that day. Spoiler alert: my mom was right. Many years later, while living in the Adirondack Park of New York, a friend told me about the 46er chal lenge. At the time, I thought that my friend was crazy. Who would want to hike four-thousand-foot mountains, espe cially when the trailheads were in the middle of nowhere? And what crazy person would want to hike, willingly? Despite my naivete and reservations, my friend invited me to go on a group hike in the Santanonis to sum mit Panther, Couchsagraga, and Santanoni. Knowing ab solutely nothing outside of the fact that I hated hiking, but

also willing to hear my friend out, I tagged along. This time, I willingly carried my wa ter bottle and apple, and dressed in hiking boots, but still wore cotton shorts, shirt, and socks. During that hike, it rained and thundered the entire time. I hoped that I would not die via lightning strike. I sprained my ankle (while heading up Panther), was swarmed by blackflies (while waiting at Times Square for the rest of the group to head over to Couch and back), and belly crawled my way across the bridges that washed out due to the streams swelling from the rain. As I collapsed in the van for the ride back home, my sprained ankle wrapped in 550 cord, my body covered in mud and black fly bites, soaking wet, exhausted, sore, and starving (apparently, one apple doesn’t cut it for hiking fuel), I realized something. My mom was right. I loved hiking.

Mom and Marybeth at Marcy Dam

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