Choosing between Prudence and Courage

We step out from the shelter of the ice-shrouded firs onto the bold, rock summit of Mount Moosilauke. Here the wind howls to a screaming pitch, forcing the snow to slam into our skin like frozen sand. My ears ache, my cheeks burn, and my eyes become narrow slits. Up ahead, I see nothing but white. I know the top is close, but how close? 100 yards? A half a mile? The difference feels like it could be a lifetime.

“Twain, I am not sure about this!” I look back at my husband. His cheeks are bright pink, and the fringe of his bangs are frozen into white barbs. I have to shout to be heard. The walk up to this point had been a long, steady incline, a five-mile meander through the safety of thick spruce and fir forest. It had given no hint as to the intensity we would find near the top of this mountain. Now we have to make a decision. We are trying to climb all 48 of the 4,000-foot mountains in New Hampshire, as a way to combat middle-age and COVID fatigue, and getting close to one of the summits doesn’t count. If we don’t make it, we have decided that we will have to climb all this way again.

“I can see a cairn up there!” he shouts. “Let’s just get that far and then decide!” I try to slip deeper into the neck of my parka and pull my hat more firmly over my ears. The snow is blasting into every crevice it can find.

“Okay, but that is it!” We scurry forward, through the blizzard to the rock cairn. Up ahead, I think I see another one, leading us to the top, but could it be a small, ice-encased, gnarled tree instead? “Okay, I will go to the next, but really, then we are just being stupid and should turn back. I don’t want to get lost up here!”

I am often in a quandary about whether I am being a wimp, or using good judgment. I really never know. How hard should I push myself? When is enough actually enough? When am I letting my optimism become a liability? I have been in the wilderness countless times and have even led many expeditions, yet all my experience amounts to little in these moments.

Heads bowed, faces turned to the side to avoid the full brunt of the icy gusts, we continue on, the wind bandying us about like human flags. My skin is burning now, and I begin to feel afraid. A slight panic pulls at my chest. “I want to call it!” I shout to Twain. Before he has time to respond, I see the hazy outline of a man about 40 feet ahead. “There is someone up there. Let’s go to him, and see how close we are, but then, really, that is it!”

We stagger across to the figure and see he is wearing back-country skis, goggles, snowpants, gaiters and over-mitts. It looks like this is not his first adventure. “It is terrible up here!” he shouts. “Real frostbite weather! Cover your skin!” I try to, but my scarf has turned to a stiff board and is no longer pliable enough to snug around my neck. “We are almost there!” he bellows. “Follow me!”

He continues forward into the white, his skis handily allowing him to stay above the drifts that have collected around the ice-covered boulders that seem to be circling the top. Twain and I are not so lucky, and post-hole behind him. Soon the post-holing turns to crawling to keep up closer to the top, pushing our mittens like boxing gloves into the snow.

Then, there it is. The sign that marks the top. I smile at our helper, trying to convey my thanks, and turn to try to scurry off this ridge as soon as possible. No time for niceties. I look back towards the cairns that will lead us back to the safety of the tress, but now I see nothing. Nothing. It is all white. Suddenly I understand how people can get lost 100 feet away from the safety of a shelter. A white-out is indeed just that.

I look down and see the holes that our crawling and post-holing have left behind. They can be my guide if we move quickly before they fill in. They are like the quickly disappearing bread crumbs left by Hansel and Gretel. And so we do, from one to the next until we reach a cairn, and then the next, and then the next.

And then we are safe. Once we reach the ice-encrusted trees, they create a wall, protecting us from the merciless wind. My hair is frozen into long ropey icicles, my hat has become a block of ice, and my cheeks burn, but inside I am warm. Hot even.

We decide to run down so we don’t get chilled, and we bound through the snow, stuffing sandwiches into our mouths as we move. The snow cushions our footsteps, and the woods spread out before us in a muffled beauty. “This is idyllic,” says Twain when we stop to catch our breath. I look around and take it all in. I feel the strength in my legs and in my chest and my heart. I feel like a child again, out playing in this world. Today, I made the right choice.