The One with all the Mountains

I could not tell if I was stepping on earth or tree branches. Maybe it was both? The ground looked like pine branches and the branches looked like ground. They blended together forming one color of nature. One blur of where I was breaking through to step next. There was no end. No way out of this pine needle massacre. Blood stained my shins and cuts sliced through my arms from the raw wilderness. My sister and I lost trail and I was quickly beginning to lose hope. We were bushwhacking.
Bushwhacking to the top of the last mountain I needed to climb in order to become a 46er.

This had all started years ago. I was only 16 years old when Bethany, my older sister, took me up my first high peak in the Adirondacks of Northern New York. There is a total of 46 high peaks above 4,ooo feet, and the first one I climbed just had to be one of the hardest. It was ruthless. A straight upward climb, twisting along waterfalls and a rocky trail. Giant was the name of this mountain and its name held true. I was thankful to make it back to the car in one piece. I thought, I have 45 more hikes like this to accomplish before I become a 46er?
Doubtful. Very doubtful.
In the summers and visits to follow, hiking became a regular ritual for Bethany and I. As much as I dreaded the size and strain of the mountain, I began to look forward to our trail talk. This was our time to explain, ask questions, catch up on what we had missed in each other’s lives. I have had some of the best conversations with Bethany while hiking a mountain.

On Giant Mountain, we both wore bikini tops. Bethany went barefoot. It was my first high peak and the summit was encased in a white cloud. We sang Bruce Springsteen songs on the descent.
On Mt. Marcy, we wore skirts in honor of our Great Aunt Katherine who passed away a week later due to Pancreatic cancer. We took a picture of our muddy shoes at Marcy Dam. That dam no longer stands.
On Whiteface and Ester, I talked about how going home felt different to me now that I was in college. Home was not home anymore.
On Algonquin, I lost a winter hat my mother knit for me due to the fierce summit winds. We talked about what hiking meant to us. I said it meant Freedom.
On Big Slide, it poured. We had to down hike in order to find a place to cross a raging river. We talked about what we were going to eat for dinner that night. I think we had rice and beans.
On Skylight and Grey, we talked about how old we were when we first got our period. We talked about religion and when the last time we cried was.
On Seymour, the rule was whoever fell first had to buy beer that night. Neither of us fell. I still bought a 6-pack of something.
On Santinoni, our toes froze. We thought about going ahead and hiking over to Panther and Couchsachraga, but we came down and went to our favorite thrift store instead.
On Allen, I cried talking about a dream I had the night before about our grandmother. I continued to cry when I talked about how our grandfather didn’t think I was doing anything purposeful with my life. And I cried again when we talked about the last time we were truly scared. We talked about fear and how men can be assholes. Sometimes.
On Marshall, my 46th peak, we began to plot out an idea for a children’s book. We started to make up characters, storylines, and scenarios, when suddenly we became so intertwined in this made- up world we lost trail. It was when we were discussing the color of feathers my character would have that we took a wrong turn and kept going.
Hiking straight up; completely the wrong way.

“Hello,”
“Hellooooo,”
“Hello is there anyone out there?”
“Is there anyone on Marshall…”
Nobody was climbing Marshall that day except for us.
Nobody could hear our screams and nobody could point us in the direction of my last high peak.
After a half hour of bushwhacking and the disappointment of a false summit, Bethany decided if we couldn’t find the Marshall summit in an hour we had to turn around. She used the compass that hung around her neck as a guide and reference point. She knew where we were, but she didn’t know where the trail was. She told me to look for dark mud or any sign of a trail.
I could barely look five feet ahead of me; the thought of mud or the trail being anywhere near us seemed impossible. But it gave me something to focus on besides our dire situation, so I looked for mud.

There was a fire beginning to burn inside of me.
At any moment, I believed one whack of a tree branch would put me in tears, would turn me into a scorching flame of anger. But the tears never came.
Mountains had taught me to never give up, to persevere, even when I wanted to give up and begin climbing down. Even when I wanted to scream out, I can’t do this! I don’t want to climb anymore! Who cares about the view?
Mountains symbolize life. The ups and downs, the highs and lows, the soft trail and fierce bushwhack of this thing we call life. This scary and precious journey that you sometimes have to press on through to reach your desired summit.

At first, I did not hear her when she yelled out “Trail!”
“Mal, trail! I found the trail! This way! Mal! I found it!”
I ran to her voice, ripping through the branches and over the fallen down trees, to finally find an open area of mud. A well-worn trail.
The sight of footprints told us we belonged here. We had finally found our way. Bethany hugged me when I emerged from the woods, she grabbed my shoulders and pulled me in.
“Go get your peak sister. You are the one who needs to find it now.”

I started down the trail skipping, practically running, to my last peak.
Looking back now, I would do it all over again if I wanted to.
Life feels the most alive when you are tested to live it.  When you are lost in the mountains, climbing your last high peak, and the sight of mud never looked so beautiful.
And kissing the Mt. Marshall summit sign means something so much more than joining a club of 46ers.