Grandpa
My grandfather told us grandkids stories of his hiking adventures before I really even knew what The Whites were all about. As a little kid, I knew The White Mountain National Forest for its trail hikes like Echo Lake and Diana’s Baths, and so his story about blowing out a knee on Falling Waters and lifting his leg by the pant of his dungarees with every step to get down didn’t really land like it does when I think about it today. If they had that convenient little passbook for logging the 48 and 52 in the 1960’s like they do today, I’m sure he would have checked off every one. Every hike I complete and tell him about, he has a story for that trail.
Most weekends in 2020 and 2021 I hiked on Saturdays and was at his house on Sundays to recount the day prior and share the host of pictures I took. One such Sunday, I followed him up to his office and he pulled off two books from his shelves that I’d stared at hundreds of times before and never registered their existence. One of those was a 1972 edition of the AMC’s White Mountain Guide. I took it down to the living room and spread the brittle paper maps stored in the front and back covers out over the carpet to take them all in. While some of the mountains have since been renamed, the trails described are undeniably unchanged.
My grandpa is the first person I want to tell about a recent hike. He’s who I think of every time I pull out my camp stove and look up to see those old maps, now framed and hanging all around my house.
Also in the folds of that AMC guide, was a handwritten paper note that I could read a hundred times and still get a chuckle out of. It’s very characteristic of my Grandpa:
“Food, compass, ace bandage, bandaids, oranges, gorp (M&Ms – raisins) , gum, poncho, cup, socks, sweater, hat, matches, map, lemonade, loose pants, tent, pad, sleeping bag, pillow, tarp & stakes, stove & stand, rope, lantern, pants & utensils, lighter, chair, rain gear, tee shirt, shorts, socks… Don’t bring too much.“
Auntie Carol
My great Aunt Carol, my grandfather’s sister, usually tucked a crisp bill into my Christmas card, just as she did with all her other great grand nieces and nephews. Except one year, after she found out I had completed a few of the 4000 footers in NH and was starting my journey to the 48, she gave me a gift wrapped in a bag. Noticing everyone else still received the usual envelope, I was curious to open it. I found a pair of bright red and geometric patterned socks that said “Darn Tough” across the toes. I looked up to find her in the crowded room full of Christmas cheer to say thanks. She told me “Those are Darn Tough socks. All the good hikers wear them. Trust me.”
Auntie Carol ran the KOA in Bar Harbor right outside of Acadia National Park, for the majority of the time I knew her. It was always clear she loved the outdoors and I was so thankful to have this mutual connection with her. The conversation about Darn Tough socks led into more about the importance of a good long john, about how my dad when he was my age had to borrow a pair from her friend, Daisy, when he was tight on time and missing his long underwear before a big hike. We talked about the wildlife she’d seen up in northern Maine and all the best hikes in Acadia.
Those darn tough socks remain my favorite pair to date. They’re thin, breathable and wicked tough. Not a thread is out of place. My Auntie Carol died due to complications of COVID-19 in 2021. I so wish she would be around to watch me finish the 48 and all the other hiking endeavors that I have in store. She left a little money to each of her nephews, grand nephews, and grand nieces and so when her estate was split up, I bought myself a pair of winter hiking boots. I like to think that she’d approve.
Dad
My dad is a teller of tall tales. He borrows movie quotes from films my sister and I haven’t seen and pretends that he made them up, weaving them into his normal vocabulary. I thought he made up the line “Happy Trails” until I heard it as a greeting once by a passing hiker. So when growing up and he boasted (often) about this hard-core course he took in college called “Winter Wilderness Backpacking” I really thought he was pulling our legs.
Here are some of his famous stories of this seemingly fictional class:
“I got dropped off at the foot of Chocorua in the middle of the winter, with paper maps, a compass, and some emergency gear and had to make it to the top and back down.”
“My classmates and I one night camped on Washington in a snowstorm and were told we needed to get out of there because it wasn’t safe. To hell with that though, we had our tent covered in snow and a fire going in there. We were toasty. I didn’t want to leave.”
“My pee froze and made pinging sounds as it hit the metal walls of the pit toilet.”
I attended the University of New Hampshire, just as he did. Entering into my freshman year, the entirety of the course catalog at my finger tips online, I curiously typed “winter wilderness backpacking” into the search bar. What was returned were several upper-class level courses on winter expedition programming and wilderness navigation. Son of a gun. He was telling the whole truth.
My dad continues to hike in all seasons. In the winter though, he’s more likely to ski down the mountain than go out and back on boots alone. He’s my go to resource for backpacking questions and if I tell him “hey, I just did this trail” there’s a good chance he comes back with “Oh yeah, I’ve done that one before too.”
The Wild East 