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Our group is flying, and Sage is snoring in the backpack again, her blonde hair sticking out the top of the main compartment. Everyone is chipper as we approach the trailhead.

Wait, I'm not ready for this to be over! I want to dig in my heels and bring everyone to a screeching halt. For though I strongly suspect that Alex will continue to hike during the months and years to come, these next few minutes mark the end of something special and something uniquely ours. There won't be any more first
ascents for this particular list. There won't be any more counting down or figuring out how many more weeks it will take us to finish. There also won't be any more buckling her straps, as she now knows how to fasten them herself, or tying up her bootlaces, or stretching out her microspikes, or zipping up her coat. She has become self-sufficient in all these matters and no longer requires the help of her mother. There won't be any more explanations of north, south, east or west, or of what cairns are, or of how to read a map. She understands now; she knows.

The trailhead's in sight—it's right over there! Alex has almost reached it with her new friends. I call her back. She dutifully comes to me.

“Alex, this is it—we're almost there!”

She nods her head.

“Do you mind if we reach it together? Walking side by side? It would mean a lot to me.”

Alex happily grants my request, but I strongly suspect that she would prefer to end the hike with her buddies up front. This is selfish of me, I admit. I should let her go forward. I should be okay with allowing her to finish before me and without me. But I can't. There's a nasty pang in my heart that I don't like. My baby is getting older and more independent, and though I know it's my job to let her go bit by bit as the years go by, I cling to these last few moments with the despairing air of a mother who wishes the clock could tick backward.

Less than a minute later, we reach the trailhead and officially finish our quest for the New Hampshire Four Thousand Footers. I pick up Alex and kiss her on the forehead. She smiles, then asks if she can go catch up with her new friends, who are halfway across the parking lot. I give my consent, put her down, and watch as she moves away from me, strong feet crunching up the gravel as she walks into her future.

July 2011

A
lex is now eight years old.

It's been more than three years since she and I first stood atop Mount Tecumseh, her first 4K. She wasn't yet five and a half at the time, but it never occurred to me that she couldn't ascend that mountain. I never saw her as the young girl most probably did. I saw her as she acted, as she moved, as she was capable. She was my firstborn, so everything she did seemed normal. I was proud of her, sure, but her age was just a happenstance.

Sage is now six years old, and I am extending her the same courtesy I extended Alex; I do not restrict Sage's opportunities to what popular culture deems appropriate; instead, she is free to live up to her own unique capabilities and talents. Two winters ago, when she was four, Sage decided she wanted to give Tecumseh another try. She, Alex, and I chose a sunny, relatively
warm February day and played our way up the mountain. It took us six hours to ascend two miles, but we had a blast. After reaching the summit and sharing some chocolate, we sledded down packed trails amid shrieks of laughter and continual giggles. Since then, I've taken Sage hiking whenever she's asked to go. As of today, July 10, 2011, she's halfway through the Four Thousand Footer list. She also has dozens of smaller, but just as scenic, New Hampshire mountains under her belt. I am fortunate to be able to hike with her, just as I was, and still am, fortunate to be able to hike with Alex. What's important to me is not the size of the mountain scaled or the number of miles hiked, but the enjoyment of my children's company while they nurture their love of peaks.

Hiking has become our family sport, one that is shared and loved by each of us. There is, however, one serious drawback. It's something that never fails to catch me by surprise, though I probably should have gotten used to it by now. After all these months and years of hiking with one or both of my daughters, I am still taken aback by certain questions asked by the unbelieving and sometimes outraged adult. I am especially sensitive to abrasive interrogations concerning the girls' 4K accomplishments: “Do they
like
hiking?” “Do they really get up those mountains without being carried?” “Are you pushing them?” “Isn't this really all about you?”

Such questions are always voiced by strangers, by
those who have heard of the girls' hiking prowess but have never seen them on a trail. Those who have spent any amount of time hiking with us already know firsthand that Alex and Sage love to be out there, and that I don't force my kids up trails. They also know that, since the age of four, neither Alex nor Sage would allow herself to be carried up a 4K peak. They would be highly insulted if I were to even suggest such a thing.

As for all this being about me—well, to be honest, yes and no. No, because my girls enjoy hiking, and their goals are their own. I did suggest the 4K quest to Alex, but the suggestion was made on a whim. I initially thought we'd do four or five peaks a year and finish when she reached the age of thirteen or fourteen; it was not immediately apparent just how strong and capable my little daughter was. Shortly after we began our quest, I realized we would be hitting the trails not once, but two to four times a month. My preparation and strong back made that possible, but the drive itself to get out there every week, or every other week, came from Alex. Now, in the summer of 2011, the drive comes from Sage, who wants to finish the list by the end of this year. I don't see any reason to slow her down; as long as she remains happy and healthy out there, I'll support whatever she wants to do.

I would be lying, however, if I didn't admit to feeling immense pleasure in being there with each of my girls as they meet and exceed their own expectations. Did I love every second of Alex's 4K quest? Absolutely.
Do I treasure the times I spend with Sage as we climb over boulders and rocks? Of course! So yes, all this is for me, in the sense that I get to be with each of my daughters in outrageously beautiful settings and share moments that are intense, vibrant, and fully lived.

How to explain all this to the skeptical inquirer? How can I make the outraged individuals, those who swear that taking a kid up a mountain is akin to child abuse, understand? Is it really so difficult to believe that kids—girls in particular, for I suspect I would not be the recipient of so many questions if my children were boys—might actually enjoy hiking, and that they might possess strong abilities to pursue their passion with great interest and fortitude? Are Alex's, and now Sage's, accomplishments really that surprising?

We live in a world where it's perfectly acceptable to plop your kids down in front of a television and allow them to watch almost anything they please, for hours at a time. Video and computer games consume American culture, and the school systems keep children indoors for most of the day. Most kids are not outside for long periods of time. I must forcibly remind myself of these facts whenever I meet someone who finds Alex's story jarring.

What would happen, I wonder, if everyone threw out the television and all other forms of electronic entertainment? What would happen if parents told their kids to get outside … and stay there? What would happen if more moms and dads took their very young
children hiking and gave them the opportunity to go as far as they liked, and at their own pace? Perhaps kids like mine really aren't so rare after all.

Alex and Sage lie on the floor of our motel room and pore over their favorite comic books. Both girls are tired from today's fifteen-mile hike up and down 5,344-foot Mount Marcy, the highest mountain in the state of New York, but they are not yet ready for bed. A huge sense of accomplishment keeps sleep at bay, for both girls have just successfully checked off their thirty-sixth state highpoint. Last summer, they stood atop the highest points of almost every state east of the American Rockies. A couple of months ago, we flew to Hawaii and drove up Mauna Kea. Next month, we'll climb Maine's 5,267-foot Katahdin, and the month after that we'll head west and hopefully summit 8,749-foot Guadalupe Peak (Texas), 12,633-foot Humphreys Peak (Arizona), and possibly 13,161-foot Wheeler Peak (New Mexico). This new game, highpointing, is a great excuse to travel around the country; one ascends the highest point of every state, and any method of ascent and descent is allowed. We've now run out of drive-ups; all we have left are the ones in which hiking's the only option. That's okay—the girls are physically ready for this year's adventures.

We still, of course, continue to hike the Whites.
Sage will probably finish the New Hampshire 4Ks in between this year's highpointing excursions, and Alex wants to complete the “winter 4Ks,” hiking all forty-eight mountains strictly within winter seasons. She has a particular fondness for winter and wants to experience each of New Hampshire's highest peaks in the ice and snow.

Should either one decide to stop hiking tomorrow, that will be fine with me. I think I've made that abundantly clear, perhaps annoyingly so, to both my daughters. There's no pressure on either one of them to keep going. They've the rest of their lives to climb and explore. There's emphatically no expectation that we'll actually finish the highpointing list, since several of those mountains—Alaska's 20,320-foot Denali and Washington's 14,411-foot Rainier being two obvious examples—require extremely advanced mountaineering skills that my girls may or may not decide to procure. The decision to advance to that level will be theirs, and that decision is, at the very least, eight or nine years away. In the meantime, we'll have fun ascending the mountains Hugh and I feel the girls can handle.

Of course, if Alex and Sage get sick of all of this and stop hiking tomorrow, that's fine too. If they never want to set foot on a mountain again, that's also fine (but highly unlikely). They've both already fulfilled at least one incredible goal. Alex finished the New Hampshire forty-eight. Sage got up Tecumseh on her
own two feet. Everything else is icing on their cakes. The primary missions have already been accomplished.

What matters now is that they know, from experience, that they can accomplish something big, something huge. What matters is that, for the rest of their lives, both my daughters understand that to reach a goal, they must put one foot in front of the other and persevere. They know that they must expect and prepare for challenges. They know to ignore the naysayers and, instead, to have faith in themselves and their abilities to learn what they need to know. Above all else, they know that little does not mean weak, that girls are indeed strong, and that practically anything is possible.

Whatever the future holds, I'm confident that Alex and Sage will continue to take strong steps forward, in whatever direction they choose.

Which will probably be up.

Sage, my wonderful youngest daughter—you are every bit as strong and capable as your sister. Had I known you were eventually going to share Alex's love of hiking, I would have waited and written something that included your accomplishments as well as hers. Thank you for supporting Alex and this book. You've turned into quite the dynamo during the past twelve months and I've enjoyed our time together on the trails. You and your sister make a wonderful team; I look forward to watching the two of you fly higher and higher as you both grow older and more experienced. You are my beautiful bundle of sunshine, and I love you, kiddo.

Alex, this has been an amazing journey. Thanks for getting me out there. Thanks for asking me to write it all down. Thanks for being a kind and loving sister to Sage. Thanks for being all that you are. I love you.

Hugh, you stood back and allowed me to take our
very young daughters up the rugged New Hampshire mountains in all four seasons; you gave your blessing when I took the girls across remote regions of the United States for months during our 2010 highpointing spree; and now, as I write this in August 2011, you're in Massachusetts while the girls and I are en route to Texas so we can hike in an isolated region of the Chihuahuan Desert. Thank you for not blocking our way with unnecessary and overprotective barriers. We could not do what we do without your understanding and support. Thank you.