Peak Experiences: Danger, Death, and Daring in the Mountains of the Northeast

Coming Home

Martha Leb Molnar Coming Home I’m of average height, weight, and age, but when I hike I feel tall, svelte, and young. Some of my friends are getting facelifts. Some are starting second or third careers. Some are doing both. Instead, I come to the woods, alone. Gliding through them at a brisk pace restores me to a self when the world was fresh and I was full of wonder. The hikes I like best follow the ancient rounded mountains of the Taconics in southwestern Vermont. Here, there are no soaring heights, shadowy canyons, or roaring rivers. Gentle rises and dips in dense hardwood forests, punctuated by ponds and small streams, define the land. This means I can move swiftly mile after mile, taking huge steps and running jumps. The earth’s energy enters through my feet. Each toe finds its finely molded indentation . My knees bend to meet the earth’s crust like a finely tuned feat of engineering. My arms swing long like an ape’s. My body lengthens as it leaps over rocks and fallen trunks. I notice the flick of a white tail 100 tree trunks away, but don’t stop. Miles turn into muscle, hours lengthen into sinews. The freedom of my legs gives freedom to my mind. It takes half of the 4-mile trip to the turnaround before its dartings form into a steady direction. It takes halfway back before all the noise in my head evaporates and my mind is empty, open to this close, forested world. I’m usually alone on this hike. Conversation of any sort—or being forced to adjust my pace to another’s—would turn my escape into a mere walk in the woods. On this October evening though, with the sun only a memory in saffron clouds, I’d like to see another human being, preferably one with a flashlight, a cell phone, and immense forest lore: the man of the woods himself. I started out too late, turned around too late, dawdled too long on the one ridge with distant views. Mostly, I didn’t realize how rapidly that high white disk in the sky retreats these days. Useless “if onlys” repeat themselves endlessly. If only I’d waited to do the laundry . . . if only I’d let the answering machine pick up that call . . . if only I’d left earlier, just an hour earlier, if I’d walked faster, eaten faster, turned around earlier. If only . . . I wouldn’t be here after sunset, alone, wondering how long before the widely spaced blazes became invisible. 312 pe a k e x pe r i e n ces Because I know the trail well, I know that I’m now less than 2 miles from the road. If I can make it to the pond, it’ll be easy to follow the trail as it hugs the shore. After that, there’ll be a narrow passage for a mile or so through thick stands of white pine, but by then I might hear the road. Still. I’d never been here in the dark, or in any wild place without full camping gear. I’d rather not be here now. My fingers begin to tingle and my nose starts its inevitable drip, a sure sign that the temperature is sinking. I stop to drink the still-hot tea, grateful that I packed it despite the promising day. But why not a flashlight? Part of my “take nothing extra,” “keep it simple,” “that’s the beauty of hiking” principles. Snippets of repetitive conversations play themselves out in my brain, which has by now reverted to its noisy default stage. Pushing on, my pace quickens to an athletic speed-walk. “Sure you want to go alone?” my husband inquires, again. It’s not that he wants to come with me—he gets bored with the same hike after the tenth time—but he’s willing to chaperone me. “Take my phone . . . take a flashlight. . . . what if it rains . . . what if you twist an ankle, what if . . . what if . . .” He’s right and I’m foolish, but I choose not to be pragmatic. I refuse to believe that I’m anything but safe in these benevolent woods. So familiar that individual trees hold memories of themselves in spring flower or autumn disrobing. So known that my body molds itself to the land’s contours. Despite the chill in my fingers, my shirt is sticking to my back. I...