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The views from the top of Bondcliff were every bit as good as the views from Mount Bond. Both mountains, as well as West Bond, had been, in my opinion,
spectacular. As we retraced our steps over Mount Bond, then past the trail to West Bond, and then finally down to our campsite, Alex and I chatted about how great the weather was, how spectacular the views had been, and how much we both looked forward to heating up a can of soup. As we kicked off our boots and put on our camp sandals, I asked Alex if these were now her favorite mountains. To my great surprise, she immediately responded in the negative.

“No! I didn't really like them all that much.”

“Really? Why not?”

“The bumblebee.”

All that good stuff, overshadowed by one dying bumblebee?

“But Alex, what about the views?”

“Oh yeah, the views were nice. Especially on West Bond. I did like West Bond. West Bond didn't have a hurt bumblebee.”

“But you didn't care for the other two?”

“No, not really.”

“Because of the bumblebee.”

“Yeah.”

“But there wasn't a bumblebee on Bondcliff.”

“Yeah, but there were spiders.”

“Alex, you've seen spiders on trails before. You've never cared about them on other hikes.”

“But there were so many of them this time! Where were they all going? Why were they all in a line? That freaked me out.”

“The very top of Bondcliff didn't have any spiders on it,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but I was worried the whole time we were up there. I thought I'd see more spiders.”

The Bonds, cream of the White Mountain crop, tainted by a bunch of spiders and one dying bumblebee. An adult wouldn't have given these creatures a second thought. An adult would have become too overwhelmed with the scenery to notice the bugs below. I smiled at Alex and admired her ability to focus on the so-called little things. Even if such focus does cause her grief at times, an appreciation of details is a gift. The more one can notice and see, the more one can intensely experience life.

Now, half an hour later and safely sequestered inside our two-person tent, Alex has nothing to fret over. She can see neither bee nor spider nor mosquito.
Wup!
There goes another one. Alex laughs with delight, and then floors me by declaring this the “best day ever.”

Wait a minute. Now I'm confused.

I don't want to spoil her positive mood, but I'm too curious not to ask. “What about the bumblebee and the spiders?”

“Oh … well, this makes up for it,” she says before poking at the shadow of yet another unfortunate bug.

Such is the mind of a six-year-old, I guess.

I smile and join Alex at her bug bopping.

Peak #44: Owl's Head, July 25–26, 2009

A
lex, climb over! Now!”

My patience is rapidly vanishing, for the mosquitoes are unbearable. We're being dive-bombed by the nasty critters, and I simply cannot stand still for one second longer. She needs to get over that log, pronto.

“I can't!” Alex wails.

MadRiver throws me an uncharacteristic look of impatience.

“Alex, just do it! We're being eaten alive here!”

“But they're everywhere!” Alex protests, referring not to the bugs, but to the giant bundles of moving mucus covering the bark in front of her. The slugs are massive, the biggest I've ever seen. At least five inches long and three pencils thick, they are swollen, slimy, and the color of rotten orange peels. MadRiver and I noticed them when we stepped over this fallen tree five minutes ago, but we were too consumed with the
menacing mosquitoes to fully appreciate their unpleasantness. Alex, however, reached the log and came to a dead stop. At six years old, she is much shorter than we are and therefore closer to the ground. The top of the log MadRiver and I casually stepped over is level with her waist. She now stands staring helplessly at the not-so-little creatures, refusing to move.

It's late July, and Alex and I are closing in on our goal. This mountain, 4,025-foot Owl's Head, is number forty-four out of forty-eight. It's one of the more challenging peaks, as the summit is located nine miles away from civilization and the trail leading to it goes through a few potentially dangerous water crossings. I have once again enlisted the aid of MadRiver, as I do not want to venture so far into the wilderness without the company of at least one other adult. In addition to trusty MadRiver, a fellow with the trail name of Dave Bear, an affable New Hampshire native and all-around outdoorsman, will meet us about a mile from the summit. The four of us plan to reach the top of the mountain, then descend the summit cone and camp.

This morning, MadRiver and I decided to go off the trail and navigate a straight line through the woods in order to spare Alex the water crossings. We should eventually pop back out on the trail close to the summit cone. Unfortunately, going off-trail turned out to be a more serious endeavor than I had anticipated. The vegetation is thick and full of spiderwebs, and pushing our way through the never-ending series of branches has
done quite a number on our energy and good spirits. Mosquitoes have been our constant companions, successfully avoiding our swats and landing on our skin at every opportunity. Mud has sucked at our boots and pulled them off on more than one occasion. It's been a difficult time in the woods, and I will be extremely happy to reach the end of this so-called shortcut and step back onto a maintained trail. I've already decided, without asking Alex, that we will take our chances with the water crossings on our way out tomorrow. I've fed enough mosquitoes on this hike, and my daughter has evidently seen enough slugs.

I step back to the log and survey the bark. There, to her right, is a bare spot, free of slug and slime. “Alex, look, step there.”

“What if I stumble and squish one?”

“Then it'll just have to squish,” I say, my tone rising as I feel yet another mosquito bite the back of my neck. The incessant
buzzing
is getting to me; she has to get over this friggin' log already so we can get out of here.

“But I don't want to kill any of them!” she cries.

Ah … so that's it. Part of my frustration was my confusion at Alex's refusal to move. Never before had she behaved as though she were repulsed by a living creature. She's a friend to all, be it bird, butterfly, or bumblebee. Evidently she's a friend to slugs too. Her hesitation is not due to fear; it's due to concern.

“Just hold on to my hand as you step. I'll make sure you don't slip, fall, or stumble.”

I stretch my hand out to her. Alex does not take it.

“Honey, do you want to climb this peak or not?” More buzzing, more biting. My question is gentle, but I feel I'm close to losing my cool. Call me cruel, but I would happily sacrifice all the slugs on the planet just to get away from this particular bit of forest.

Her hand grips mine, and I pull her up and over. She doesn't stumble; she doesn't fall. The slugs carry on in peace, their slimy, swollen shapes unsullied.

I look over at MadRiver, who is staring at Alex with a look of surprise. He's just witnessed a rare occurrence of Alex acting her very young age, and the scene has shocked him speechless. He gets over his astonishment enough to give my daughter an encouraging smile as she approaches, then he turns and continues to trudge in a north-northwest direction.

The longest hour of my life later, we emerge from the forest and step onto a nice, clear path. Alex lets out a whoop of relief. Our way no longer impeded by branches, mud, or slugs, we hurry up the trail, relieved to be finished with that portion of the ascent.

Dave Bear stands waiting a few hundred yards up, and together the four of us search for a place to set up our tents. Eventually we discover a spot wide enough to accommodate us, and we spend the next hour preparing the evening's sleeping quarters. Once camp is made, we head for the Owl's Head slide.

The first few tenths of a mile go well enough. It's a bit of a challenge, but we expected as much. We are, after all, walking up the site of an old landslide. The grade is steep, the footing is difficult, and bits of scree—loose rock mixed with dirt—go tumbling down the slope with our every step. Alertness and great caution are key. One misstep might send us sliding down the mountain on a carpet of moving pebbles.

Alex is in front, climbing slowly and carefully, finding her way up the slope. The path up the summit cone is neither blazed nor adorned with cairns, as the peak lies in a protected wilderness area where no official trails are permitted to exist. In spite of the lack of markers, the path is fairly easy to discern. There's only one direction to go when climbing a slide: up.

We're doing well. The day is warm, but not unbearably so. Alex appears strong in spite of having already hiked eight miles. It seems we're going to make it to the top and back down to our tents with plenty of time to spare before nightfall. Owl's Head isn't really so tough, especially when one takes two days to hike it instead of one. The bushwhack wasn't much fun, true, but overall, things are going much better than I had anticipated.

Until now.

We are two-tenths of a mile above the base of the slide when Alex freezes above me and lets out a small gasp. I look up to discover the cause of her abrupt lack of motion, then I freeze and let out my own gasp.

There's a young moose standing to the left of us, just
a dozen or so yards above our heads. Its front hooves are planted in the exposed and loose scree of the slide while its hind legs remain in the shelter of the trees beyond. It's just standing there, unmoving, looking like a curious contribution from a peakbagging taxidermist.

“Look at the moose!” a man and a woman call from about fifty feet above us. They are distracted by this unexpected sight and are descending rapidly and carelessly in their excitement. Scree pours down the trail as their feet kick into the slide, and I avert my eyes to prevent dust and gravel from injuring them. The couple's footsteps come to a halt, and the stream of scree slows to a trickle. Looking up, I see them level with the moose, on the other side of the slide. I suppress a groan as I realize what they're about to do. Sure enough, the man and woman start to edge toward the moose, big grins on their faces.

“Stay where you are,” I murmur to Alex, though there's no need for me to do so. My daughter knows better; she would never purposely walk toward a wild animal. I watch the couple advance in the direction of the juvenile with dread, fervently hoping their folly does not result in someone getting hurt or killed.

As a general rule, moose don't attack people in the Whites. They prefer to avoid the company of humans and will usually leave an area as soon as they hear someone approaching. That being said, moose are large, unpredictable animals. In other parts of the country, people have been trampled to death after making the
mistake of getting too close for the moose's comfort. Though this particular specimen is a juvenile, it's still large enough to inflict some serious damage should it decide to knock someone over. Also, and more important, where is its mother? If Mama Moose is nearby, then we all might be in for a very interesting afternoon.

Alex and I remain motionless, feet stuck to the side of the rock slide as the couple come to a stop immediately next to the young creature. The man reaches out his hand to touch its back (
What are you doing!
I inwardly scream)—and nothing happens. The moose doesn't move. It doesn't even flinch. It just stands there, looking straight out at the valley, as though it had decided to amble on up and take in the view. No Mama Moose comes crashing out of the trees to drive away the strangers; no one comes stomping to its rescue.

Something's obviously wrong. Why is this young animal just standing there?

Wanting to put some distance between Alex and this scenario, I whisper, “Let's go.” We climb past the couple as quickly and as quietly as we can, sticking to the opposite side of the slide. Dave Bear and MadRiver follow. After a few minutes, we stop to look down. The other hikers have resumed their descent, leaving the moose standing in its fixed position.