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When it's time to descend, Alex is sky-high. “That was great!” she shouts as we make our way down the first rocky few tenths of a mile. Her euphoria increases more than I think possible when we suddenly hear a voice holler, “This must be Trish and Alex!”

An exuberantly jovial man and a more reserved, smiling woman stand a few dozen feet down the trail. They stride toward us with quick and confident gaits, and I take an instinctive (but unnecessary) step toward Alex. Within seconds, my hand is being grasped and powerfully shaken.

“Nice to meet you,” the man booms. Then, to Alex, he says, “I've read all about your hikes. What a tough kid you are! We were hoping to meet you today!”

Alex's grin takes over her entire face.

The couple, avid White Mountain hikers, briefly depart to tag the summit, then quickly catch up to us during our descent. As we continue downward, the outgoing woman from Mount Cardigan, the one who warned me about MadRiver, comes up the trail, greets us, and declares that she too hopes to hike down with young Alex.

My daughter's self-esteem skyrockets, and she happily walks the rest of the way down the trail with her three new hiking buddies. It's obvious that Alex's joy is increased to the nth degree if she can share her appreciation of nature with other people.

From this point forward, I attempt to include others during our quest for the 4Ks. My efforts are rarely met
with success, however, as Alex and I have our boots on the trail long before most get out of bed, and Alex's pace is far slower than that of the average adult hiker. Everyone we meet likes Alex and enjoys her company, but few choose to get up before dawn and hike at a speed that is too slow for their comfort. We do, however, manage to secure companionship for a good handful of future ascents. There is one person who becomes our most trusted hiking partner and a constant source of moral support: the kilt-wearing “child hater,” MadRiver.

Though I am less of an extrovert than my daughter, I too take pleasure in hiking with others. The hiker whose company I most prefer, of course, is Alex. This realization hits home the first time I hike by myself.

Faced with the prospect of spending hours walking through cold drizzle, Alex decides to stay home one weekend with Hugh and Sage. When I ask if she minds if I go ahead and hike without her, she looks at me suspiciously for a few moments before granting her permission. She does, however, issue one caveat: I am not to hike anything “new,” anything we haven't yet ascended. Respecting her wishes, I choose to tackle 5,716-foot Mount Jefferson, a mountain we've already crossed off our list.

Alex and I had taken the Caps Ridge Trail when
we climbed this peak, so, wishing for a bit of variety, I choose a different route for my solo adventure. I'll take Caps Ridge to the Link Trail, then take the Link to the Castle Trail, which will take me up Mount Jefferson's northwest face.

The beginning bit of Caps Ridge Trail is as I remember, with one startling exception. I don't have a small person commenting on the beauty of various natural details. I walk across some planks of wood, and no one tells me how interesting my footsteps sound. If there are flowers next to the path, I don't see them, because I'm not the one who notices such things when Alex and I hike. No one laughs when I walk into an early morning spiderweb that stretches across the trail. It is incredibly quiet. Too quiet. I miss my hiking partner.

My melancholy somewhat diminishes when I reach the Link Trail. This is something new, something I haven't seen before, something that might take my mind off of Alex's absence.

The
AMC White Mountain Guide
describes the Link Trail as heavily eroded, with difficult footing. As I slowly step my way along this mess of a path, I realize that the description is a huge understatement. Though the trail does not significantly ascend or descend, it is overgrown and completely falling apart. Countless times I put my hiking poles on what looks like solid ground, only to have that bit of trail crumble beneath my feet and slide down the mountain. Trees are overturned everywhere, and I have to climb over
many root systems. I step on boulders, big ones with trail blazes on them, and they go toppling over and off the path. There are countless animal dens around and underneath the trail. The path itself is narrow, and tree branches grow over its middle. I give up avoiding sharp limbs and spiderwebs after the first half mile and resign myself to coming off the trail covered with dead insects and bloody scratches.

Though I am glad Alex doesn't have to deal with these nuisances, I can't help but wonder what she'd think of all this. Would she have as much trouble as I am having, hopping from solid piece of ground to rock, jumping off of boulders as they start to slide? The mother in me is relieved I don't have to worry about her safety out here. The adventurer in me recognizes that my daughter, a fellow adventurer, might find this trail exciting.

My ponderings are interrupted by a most unfortunate event. As I step over an impossibly large and gnarled root system, my camera slips out of my open front pocket, falls to the ground, slides down some loose dirt, and drops into a giant hole. Crap.

Off goes my pack and out comes my headlamp. My beam of light illuminates the camera; I can see it way, way down there. No living creature appears to be in current residence, so I decide to try to fish the thing out. I stick my arm into the hole, but my fingers grasp at empty air. I overextend a hiking pole, but that doesn't do the trick, either. I overextend my other pole,
duct-tape the two together, end to end, and give that a whirl. Now I can reach the camera, but I still cannot succeed in moving it up the dirt walls of the hole. I become frustrated—I want my camera back! How else can I share this hike with my family, with Alex in particular?

Finally, I admit defeat and bid a very sad and fond farewell to my precious little camera, which, though I can plainly see, I simply cannot retrieve.

Now in a very bad mood and fully adorned with dirt, leaves, and spiderwebs, I continue my hike and quickly reach the intersection with Castle Trail. I climb up and over each of the Castles (large, tall outcrops of rocks that look like … well, castles) and witness breathtaking views into Castle Ravine. I would be filled with awe if I weren't too busy being distressed about my inability to take pictures.

After much steep hiking and a fair bit of rock scrambling, I arrive at the summit of Mount Jefferson. Gray clouds hang over my head, but the views into the valley are clear. It's a pretty sight, I guess. Somehow it's not as beautiful as it was when I was here before, with Alex.

Cold drops of rain begin to fall, so I don't spend much time lounging about. Down the Caps Ridge Trail I go, carefully stepping my way over the massive, inconvenient rocks. The drizzle is short-lived, lasting only a half hour at best. I am still a few hundred yards above tree line when the sun reclaims the sky.

What follows is the appearance of the most stunningly beautiful vision I have ever seen. To my right, just over there, almost so close I can touch it, is a rainbow so bright and clear that it seems as though my girls have drawn it with their oil pastels. There is a second, much fainter rainbow above the main one. They are both beneath me, the top of the second one just level with my eyes. The two rainbows stretch down and straddle the west side of Mount Jefferson, one pair of ends disappearing into the immediate trees below and the other pair reaching into Castle Ravine. It is a spectacular sight, and it takes my breath away. However, there is one thing missing, one thing that would perfect this experience. Alex. She would think this sight fantastic. I wish she were here.

Later, when I attempt to share my day with her, Alex gives me royal five-year-old attitude. Though at first she was okay with the idea of my hiking without her, now, after the fact, she is not. She asks if we can ascend something tomorrow. We can't, since our family already has plans. Alex doesn't speak to me again until the next morning, and even then she remains a bit of a sourpuss.

I tolerate her anger with good humor, for I feel it's a good sign. She's upset because she didn't go with me. This confirms that she's hiking all of these mountains because she wants to, and not because she's trying to please me. I don't want her to hike for me. I do love her
company, yes, of course—but she has to want to be out there; that desire has to come from within, and she needs to know that I'm okay going by myself should she ever decide she doesn't want to do this anymore.

Luckily for me, Alex never wants to stop. However, every once in a while she does decide to take a two- or three-week break. During those times, I satisfy my own hiking urges by repeating peaks solo, even though the mountains aren't nearly as beautiful without her in them.

Winter 2008–2009

W
inter approaches, and I worry how Alex will keep herself content during our assumed four- or five-month hiatus. Will she go stir-crazy if she doesn't get out there on a regular basis? As the fall weeks tick by, a seed of thought takes root in my head. Does Alex really need to stay home? Can we hike right through the seasons? Is it possible for a child to hike a 4K during winter?

Though I have no winter hiking experience, my gut feeling is yes, if Alex wants to learn how to winter hike, then she can. We can do this together. I need to talk to people, learn from them, figure out a few things, but sure we can. Where there's a will, there's a way.

Hugh did a lot of winter hiking and camping as a child, so I direct my first questions to him. With his guidance, I buy a winter sleeping bag and a sturdier bivy sack, both of which are roomy enough to hold
Alex and me in an emergency situation. Should Alex and I become stranded overnight, the use of these two items will keep us comfortably warm and dry, even if the temperatures plummet to thirty degrees below zero.

The next stop in my search for practical information is, of course, the Internet hiking forums. Unfortunately, as soon as I let on that I am thinking of taking Alex up the 4Ks during winter, I receive a good share of flak. Though some hikers are supportive, especially those who have met us, others are skeptical and pointblank call me insane. I don't blame them. I keep forgetting that most five-year-old children aren't climbing mountains at all, let alone during the coldest months of the year. I take the virtual hits but persevere. I know there is potential danger in this venture, however, I see no reason why we shouldn't try. If we're prepared, if I'm carrying all the things necessary to spend an unintentional night out, and—most important—if I don't mind turning back at any time for any reason, then why not give it a go and see what happens?

Our refusal to sit out winter ends up costing a pretty penny. Hugh insists that we not skimp on the gear, so I end up purchasing high-quality (and expensive!) items. The winter sleeping bag costs $800, the sturdier bivy sack costs $300. I buy dozens of chemical hand and body warmers, small packs that emit heat once exposed to oxygen, for a buck or two apiece. Winter boots, the kind that keep toes warm in subzero temperatures,
are $85 for Alex and $180 for me. Microspikes, little sharp points that attach to the bottom of your boots and make it possible to walk up slick trails without slipping, are $50 a pair. More base layers, fleece garments, and heavy woolen socks are purchased. Wind and rainproof pants and jackets, goggles (for snow glare and prevention of frostbite around the eyes), balaclavas, face masks, hats, windproof gloves, woolen gloves (worn under the heavier, windproof ones), more plastic whistles, snowshoes, insulated carriers for liquid (so our drinking water doesn't freeze), a large foam mat—all these things need to be bought, and carried! A bigger (and heavier) backpack in which to put all this stuff is also purchased. The final thing I buy is an updated personal locator beacon (PLB) for $650. This
handheld device, approximately the size and weight of an early 1990s cellular phone, will alert search and rescue personnel across the country of our exact global positioning system (GPS) location within three minutes of our pressing an SOS button. The grand total of our winter-prep purchases is between three and four thousand dollars. I justify the expense by telling myself (and Hugh) that even if Alex decides not to winter hike, we can use almost everything right outside in our backyard. Instead of hours on the trails, we'll spend hours building snow forts, no matter what the weather. We could winter camp a dozen feet from our front door.