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Since there's at least an hour to kill before Hugh and Sage arrive, Alex and I enter the hut and register our family for the evening.

Built out of wood and run on solar and wind power, Lakes of the Clouds offers an illusion of roughing it at high elevation. The overnight guest is served a three-course homemade dinner before retiring for the evening to a bunk draped with three warm woolen blankets (there are six to fifteen bunks per room, stacked three and four beds high). A hearty breakfast is served the next morning at 7:00 a.m., and then guests are expected to fold their bunk's blankets before leaving for their next destination. To a seasoned hiker, spending the night at Lakes of the Clouds is a luxury; for those hundreds of tourists looking for a unique alpine
experience, Lakes is looked upon as a backcountry novelty. For us, it will be both. A luxury, because we'll get to eat and sleep very well while bagging a couple of peaks. A backcountry novelty, because, well, we've never done this before.

After our gear is stowed by our bunks, Alex and I exit the hut to lie about and soak in some sunshine. We sprawl for a while and stare at the blue sky, stretching our legs and relishing the feel of warm stone on our backs. Eventually, Alex tires of being still, so I give her my camera and allow her to go at it. She snaps pictures of the little windmill on top of the roof, my hiking poles, her feet (which have been temporarily freed from the bondage of her boots), and the door that leads to the “Dungeon,” a small room separate from the rest of the hut. Lakes of the Clouds is closed, boarded, and vacant from October through May; I've read that the Dungeon is kept unlocked for winter hikers who find themselves caught in foul weather and unable to descend to the valley below. It's not an advertised space, and it's not meant to be used except in times of emergency. Alex asks if we can take a look inside, but the door is closed, and I have the feeling we should leave it be.

Alex finishes snapping her photos, and we continue to rest happily. We watch the clouds float over our heads, we look down and out at the trees far below, we look at our map and try to name all the mountains we can see. It's a perfect piece of time. I'm glad we have
this opportunity to just sit and not have to worry about getting back down to the car. The hut is a nice option. Breaking up this hike was the right thing to do. Even if Alex was capable of doing the entire thing in one day, it would be a shame to have to head back down to the valley after having just ascended on such a beautiful morning. It's simply too lovely out here to have to return to a place of low elevation.

An hour passes and we turn our heads toward Mount Washington, searching for two familiar silhouettes. Finally we see two figures coming toward us, one tall, one very short, both dressed in black. The tall person ambles with a seemingly casual gait, the result of walking on artificial legs and feet. The shorter figure hops and bops, exuding an energy only youth can generate. They draw nearer, and Alex shouts, “Papa! Sage!”

Sage raises her head and runs toward us, sailing over several jagged rocks with each hurried stride. Alex runs toward Sage, feet pounding in quick succession. They collide about thirty feet from the hut and knock each other over; then they roll in the dirt and giggle madly while Hugh smiles and tells me that Sage walked the entire way down on her own two feet.

After leaving Hugh's pack inside with the rest of our gear, the four of us take advantage of the rare and peaceful weather by staying outside as long as we can. I procure a few children's books from the hut's tiny “library” (a few shelves near the main eating area), and
the four of us sit in the sun, beautiful scenery at our feet, together as a family. It's wonderful—for about sixty seconds. I am halfway through the second page of Dr. Seuss's
The Lorax
when the bickering begins.

Have you ever noticed how differently your children behave when they're not around each other? Don't get me wrong—I'm a huge proponent of family time and of nurturing sisterly/brotherly bonds. We are homeschoolers, after all, so my girls spend most of their waking hours together, or at least within proximity of each other. Though they usually get along very well and consider themselves best friends, squabbles are a normal and common part of our existence. Glorious phrases such as “Stop it” and “Don't look at me!” can be found floating through the air of our home at least three or four times a day.

Get each of them alone, however, spend a large chunk of time with just one, without the other, and you see an entirely different side of your child. Alex, for example, is a mature, happy, focused, and incredibly wise human being. That's easily apparent just by talking with her—when she's without her little sister. Sage is a sweet, intuitive, deep, and loving soul who wants nothing more than to talk with you for hours—when she's without Alex. Put the two of them together, and you get two kids who routinely act up and vie for their parents' attention. They love each other, no doubt, yet they engage in sibling rivalry nonetheless. Therefore, the quality of individual parent-child interaction is
usually higher when Hugh and I take turns being with each daughter alone.

I'm up to where the first Thneed has been produced when Alex and Sage start accusing each other of breathing too hard. By the time the last Truffula tree has been chopped down, each daughter is glaring, and both are making rude faces at each other. I decide that now's a good time for Alex and me to bag Mount Monroe. I ask Sage if I can read the rest of the story to her when we return. She agrees, and Alex and I take off while Hugh starts a different book with Sage.

The summit's only five-tenths of a mile away; we reach it quickly and easily. Alex climbs onto the highest rock and sits. The mountain breeze gently lifts her hair from her forehead, and the sun's light intensifies the sky-blue color of her eyes; she sits with her knees drawn up to her chest, looking calm, looking peaceful. The two of us spend a few minutes taking in the stunning 360-degree views.

Alex asks to use my camera, and I hand it over. She takes myriad photographs, capturing the shapes and outlines of Mount Franklin, rising close to our southwest, and of Mount Washington, huge and domineering to our northeast. She clicks away at the glistening surface of the two small bodies of water lying near the hut (the “lakes of the clouds” after which the hut is named). A half mile immediately downward and to our east, we see the broad outline of the Gulfside Trail guiding a handful of hikers northward. As Alex points
the camera toward the travelers, a few words of their conversation float up to our ears. I recognize the words
great, hut
, and
Washington
. The rest is a jumble of jovial noise.

Alex hands the camera back to me with a smile, her spat with Sage completely forgotten. She is her usual congenial self when we return to the hut.

Now it's time to snuggle with my youngest. I take Sage outside for the rest of
The Lorax
while Alex plays cards with Hugh. I treasure this time with my littlest daughter; her warm, compact little body rests against my side as I hold the book in front of us. After I read the final page, she climbs onto my lap, and we share a happy silence as the sun slowly sinks toward the horizon.

The evening meal is served by five college-age men and women who are loud, purposely comical, and friendly. The ninety guests of the hut sit family-style on benches around ten large wooden tables. The “croo,” as the hut workers are called, dish out a hearty and homemade meal, starting with vegetable soup. Next comes a colorful salad, followed by a hot turkey dinner complete with mashed potatoes and green beans. This is hiker food; this is the stuff that nourishes those who walk up mountains. Full as I am after the main course, I make room for the chocolate-chip confection that is dessert. Yum.

The girls have eaten their fill, and both look as though they are going to pass out on their crumb-filled
plates. I bundle them off to their bunks and tuck them in; Alex is asleep in four seconds, Sage in five. I crawl into a bunk across from them and immediately follow suit.

Alex and Sage are extremely happy the next morning, their mood bright after their enjoyable hut experience. They talk of the short, silly sketch the croo performed after breakfast: a strange, costumed fairy tale that served as a tutorial on the proper way to fold the hut's blankets. My two daughters laugh with each other as we pass between the two lakes … but soon Sage's pace diminishes to a speed too slow for Alex's liking. Hugh and I agree to separate and meet at the top. Alex and I skip ahead while Sage takes her time walking up the summit cone, patient Hugh by her side.

The Crawford Path between Lakes of the Clouds and Mount Washington's summit is well constructed and easy to follow. Large and carefully built stone cairns adorn the sides of the trail every few dozen feet, improving the path's visibility during fog or blowing snow. The grade feels moderate most of the way, and the two of us make quick progress, slowing only when we come to the trail's last, steep section. We huff and puff our way to the plateau that marks the summit area, and … oh my goodness.

It's 10:15 on a Sunday morning atop New Hampshire's highest mountain, but it looks like a Saturday afternoon in Boston. There are structures all over the place! We walk into the largest one, the Sherman
Adams Summit Building, which houses a cafeteria, a weather observatory, a museum, a post office, public restrooms, a gift shop, and an information desk staffed by a park ranger. There's a small crowd in here, mostly people sporting shorts and T-shirts and exhibiting a profound lack of sweat. Alex and I, both dressed in our base layers and carrying backpacks and hiking poles, are the recipients of many a stare as we amble about. I hear more than one person gasp, “Did that kid hike up?” I'm a bit put off by the degree of their amazement. Alex and I are now used to people looking surprised when they see us coming on the trail. These tourists who ascended using the Auto Road or the Cog Railway, however, are outright flabbergasted. Perhaps it's because they themselves don't hike, so they think such an activity is outright impossible for a small child? Alex and I do not stay inside for long, for we both feel odd under the gaze of so many eyes.

The next building we explore is the restored Tip Top House, a hotel that sheltered overnight guests in the mid-1800s. Now a museum (separate from the one in the Summit Building), it displays the kind of accommodations summit visitors experienced one and a half centuries ago.

The Tip Top House is close to the actual high point of Mount Washington, so the obligatory summit shot on top of “the rock pile” is next on our agenda. It's more than a bit odd, having our picture taken on this summit. We stand not only in the midst of buildings
that don't seem as though they should be here, but also tourists who, in Alex's words, cheated. These people drove cars; they rode the Cog Railroad—in short, they didn't put forth any effort. Yet they want their picture taken on the high point all the same. Alex and I stand in line, balancing ourselves on the rocks, full of righteous indignation and feelings of superiority. A small part of my brain recognizes that we're being snobs, but the rest of me doesn't care. We should be allowed to cut in front of all those who rode up here. We hiked the entire distance, so why do we have to wait behind the drivers? Finally, it is our turn, and the picture is taken. Excellent. Now all we have to do is wait for Hugh and Sage so we can say our good-byes before hiking down into the valley.

We wander around the Auto Road's Stage Office, the upper terminus of the Cog Railway, and the FM radio transmitters, then head back to the Crawford Path to sit and wait. Just a minute or so later, Sage's head pops up over the immediate curve of the mountain, and Alex lets out an excited shriek. Sage sees Alex and grins widely. The two run toward each other and, just as they did outside Lakes of the Clouds, collide and knock each other over. They giggle madly and hug each other as they lie on the ground, acting as though they haven't seen each other in months. Those two—they're either in each other's arms or on each other's nerves. Normal sibling behavior, I guess.

Hugs and kisses are exchanged all around; then
Alex and I begin our long descent via the Gulfside and Jewell Trails. It's an onerous and, quite frankly, pain-in-the-butt hike. The Gulfside Trail is a literal jumble of giant rocks that we must step on and over very, very carefully. Some of these miniature boulders are loose and wobble beneath our feet. Others are solid, but piled at strange angles. The occasional cairn is all that marks the way; there is no obvious path to follow. We are forced to walk with our heads down, constantly watching our every step.

The rocks stretch out for miles, running the distance between Mount Washington and its four immediate neighboring peaks to the north: Mount Clay, Mount Jefferson, Mount Adams, and Mount Madison. We are small and insignificant in this barren landscape, and once again I thank Mother Earth for keeping the weather in check. I would not want to be out here during a thunderstorm.

The beginning of the Jewell Trail is more jumbled rock, and I start to grumble. When will we see a packed-dirt path? We stop for a while and rest. The day is clear and the scenery is beautiful, but I'm really tired and would like to be back at the car. Alex is doing well and isn't complaining, but I know she must be tired too. We've three miles to go, and again I reflect on the convenience of Lakes of the Clouds. Alex and I aren't yet ready to do this kind of hike all in one day.

A million years and many weary bones later, we reach the valley and climb into our car, dirty, smelly,
and proud of ourselves. Upon returning home, I immediately investigate how many other long-distance hikes we can break into two or more pieces by using the hut system. Luckily, quite a few. During the months that follow, Alex and I stay at several other huts in order to tackle some of the more difficult mountains. We also make use of backcountry shelters and campsites. Alex and I enjoy our overnight adventures, and Alex learns that any distance is attainable if you break the journey into bite-size pieces.