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Alex chatters nonstop all the way there, asking if we'll see any bears, if we'll need a rock climbing harness, if we'll be back in time for dinner. I answer, “No, no, and yes.” I'm fairly certain our noise will keep away any bears, I know this is a hiking trail and not a climbing route, and the hour is early … just before noon. We should be fine.

Sage is quiet and looks out the window, and I wonder how far up the mountain she'll hike before asking to be carried. I've no expectations that she'll make it up on her own two feet, as there probably isn't enough chocolate in the world to keep her motivated all 4.4 round-trip miles. Still … if I carry her when she tires, the three of us should be able to summit. Sage won't be able to apply this hike toward the Four Thousand Footer Club, but since she doesn't really understand or care about this, it doesn't matter. It's Alex who appreciates the club's concept. It's Alex who possesses the strength and energy to pull this off. We'll just take it easy and see what happens.

We pull into the ski parking lot and find the “trailhead,” the sign that marks the beginning of the hiking path. Mount Tecumseh Trail, the capital letters announce. I zip up the girls' coats and strap on my little backpack before leading my daughters confidently, arrogantly, into the forest.

Immediately there is a small stream crossing. We
tromp through the water and our boots do their job. Everyone's feet remain dry.

Now the path goes slightly uphill and meanders by a brook—it's beautiful. Alex comments on the sound of the falling water. “It's like music,” she says. Sage is less enthralled. “Can I have a snack?” she asks.

Even though it's only been ten minutes since we left the car, I pull out a bag of trail mix and hand it to Sage, whose face brightens into a smile. Maybe that will keep her happily occupied for a good half mile or so.

We follow the stream uphill for a few hundred yards, and then we reach snow. It doesn't look like anything we can't handle. In fact, it looks inviting. The snow on the trail has been so packed down from previous hikers that it resembles a flat sidewalk. Fantastic! If it's like this all the way up the mountain, then we should be good to go.

The girls and I step onto the snow, slide a little, then find our balance and gingerly continue on our way. Sage loses a few brightly colored chocolate pieces here and there, leaving a candy zigzag behind us. We leave her consumable litter where it is for the time being, figuring that we'll pick it up on the way out.

We cross another stream, and the grade steepens, making the snow difficult to walk on. The treads of our boots don't adequately grip the surface, and the girls slip continually, sometimes catching themselves before falling into the snow, but oftentimes not. Sage begins to complain, and Alex loses her smile. Looking up, I
see a relatively flat stretch just ahead and urge the girls onward.

We reach the flat stretch, but instead of experiencing a reprieve, the snow on this stretch has lost its firmness and we are no longer walking on a flat sidewalk. Every five steps, someone's foot punches through and makes a hole several inches deep. Sage continues to complain, her voice getting louder by the minute. Alex's forehead now has a furrow, and she asks if we can stop for a water break.

It's difficult to find a place to rest, since sitting means sinking into the snow. After a few minutes, we find a large rock whose flat surface is just above the snowline. I sit both girls down, dig out the water bottle, and hand it to my eldest.

Alex looks discouraged as she tilts the bottle to her lips. She doesn't seem fatigued, though. I wonder how far we've come … a mile? It's obvious just by looking around that we are nowhere near the summit. Can she make it all the way up? Does she want to?

Sage doesn't look discouraged. She looks downright upset.

“Are you okay, honey?” I ask.

“No,” she mumbles, looking down at her lap.

“Getting tired?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to carry you?”

“Yes.”

We continue onward, Alex and I sinking inches
into the snow with every step. Sage rides on my hip, her short legs gripping my waist as I struggle not to fall over.

Fifteen minutes later, the snow suddenly gets much deeper, and it becomes almost impossible to walk. Each step gives way under our feet, and I sink up to my knees, Alex up to her thighs. I can't continue holding on to Sage, so I put her down and ask her to try a few steps. She does, and immediately sinks to her waist. She is not amused, and proceeds to loudly bemoan the fact that her boots have just filled up with snow. We trudge onward, but the snow becomes deeper still. We sink repeatedly, and we exhaust ourselves by continually having to pull our legs up out of the snow. I notice that the middle part of the trail is relatively firmer, so I tell the girls to stay in the center as best they can. They try, but they repeatedly slip, fall over, and sink.

We come to a steep hill leading down to a larger water crossing. I've no idea how we can safely get down that slope continually slipping and sinking in such deep, rotting snow. I come to a halt, look down at my miserable kids, and finally admit to myself that we are not getting up this mountain. At least not today.

Alex looks down the hill and voices my thoughts, loudly and firmly.

“I don't want to keep going, Mama,” Alex declares. “I want to get up the mountain, but I don't like all this snow.”

Sage's face is as screwed up as a face could possibly be.

I squat down next to them, my face level with theirs.

“I'm sorry, girls. I didn't know there would be all this snow. Would you like to try again when the snow is gone?”

Alex says yes. She tells me she really wants to get up there, but not today, not until she can walk normally on dry ground. She then adds that not only is continuing on a bad idea—but that she flat out won't do it. She doesn't mean to be a bad kid, but she is
not
going one step farther in this mess, thank you very much.

Sage doesn't say anything. Her face continues to resemble that of someone with a mouthful of lemons. I reach into the bag and hand her a granola bar. Her face relaxes infinitesimally.

I'm disappointed and chagrined. I hadn't foreseen that there would be so much deep snow on the trail, and that it would be so difficult to walk on. I had thought I was well prepared, with snowsuits, boots, food, and water. Heck, I even packed a flashlight, map, and compass! Yet here we were, defeated and ready to go home.

A man hiking down from the summit approaches us. He's wearing snowshoes, and his backpack, which is much larger than mine, has a rolled-up foam mat attached to its outside. He takes a good look at both my kids, and a slight wrinkle appears across his forehead. I explain that we are about to turn back, and the
wrinkle quickly disappears. “Good move—the snow just gets worse the farther up you go,” he exclaims before quickly snowshoeing off. I notice
he
isn't sinking in the snow. Snowshoes! Wow, I didn't realize …

We make our way back toward the car, the hike becoming easier as we leave the deep snow behind. I carry Sage, since her mood has left the land of Irritated and is now residing in Outright Miserable. We reach the area of spilled chocolate, and I do my best to collect the dropped pieces.

We get back to the car, and Sage scampers into her car seat, grateful to be sitting down in a warm, familiar environment. Five-year-old Alex remains standing outside the car and watches me closely as I pop the trunk and toss in my backpack. Alex has never been one to keep her thoughts to herself, and I've a feeling I'm about to get a well-deserved earful.

“Are you okay, Alex?” I ask, and brace myself for her answer.

Though my daughter does her best to be respectful, she makes it clear this was a bungled operation. Why didn't I know about the snow? Why didn't I turn us around earlier? Wasn't there some way of knowing more about the conditions of the trail before we started? Good questions, these. They pour out of my young daughter's mouth in one long, miffed run-on sentence. My five-year-old has a wonderful capacity for language. She began to read at two years of age, and by three she was speaking in long, complex sentences.
Her verbal abilities now shine in all their glory as she scolds her mother for not being more prepared.

I allow her this outburst, as she is absolutely right. It was a foolish and ill-equipped venture. I didn't know what I was doing.

When she has finished venting, I kneel down and pull her close. “I'm sorry,” I say. “You are right. I will learn more about these mountains before we attempt another hike. Do you still want to try again, after the snow has melted?”

Alex backs away from me a little so that she can look directly into my face. “Yes,” she says, then kisses my cheek. “But Mama, please figure it out a little better next time.”

The next two months are spent doing exactly that: figuring it out. Soon after our failed Tecumseh attempt, I find a thick book displayed on the counter of a local sporting goods store:
AMC White Mountain Guide
, compiled and edited by Gene Daniell and Steven D. Smith. I pick it up and leaf through it—wow. It contains info on every trail in the region, and it comes with a bunch of maps. When I take it to the counter, the sales representative suggests I buy an additional book, also authored by Smith and a fellow named Mike Dickerman:
The 4000-Footers of the White Mountains
. I hand over my money, take both books home, and begin to read.

Now our hiking adventures truly begin. Not by getting out there just yet, but by studying the books
and the various trail maps. One of the books refers to a couple of northeastern hiking websites: Views from the Top (
www.viewsfromthetop.com
) and Rocks on Top (
www.rocksontop.com
). I access both daily, reading questions and comments from experienced White Mountain hikers.

Using the information I've gathered, I start to buy appropriate gear for all three of us. I find water-resistant hiking boots for myself and both girls. I buy backpacks—tiny, school-type ones for the girls and a large, proper daypack for me. A salesperson at that aforementioned sporting goods store walks me through the types of clothing a hiker needs to have with her. Layers are key. Something quick drying right next to the skin that wicks water and sweat away from the body. Fleece to go over that wicking base layer, to keep the body warm when the mountain air chills. A windproof, waterproof outer layer to protect the body from the harsher elements.

Along with these basics, the following items are also deemed necessary for purchase: a water treatment system; a bivy shelter (a thin, lightweight waterproof and windproof bag that resembles a tiny one-person tent, useful for accidental overnights out in the wilderness); a lightweight sleeping bag; a foam sleeping pad (to keep your body off the cold ground); a first aid kit; duct tape; a compass; sunblock; bug spray; headlamps; emergency whistles; a pocketknife; waterproof matches, and a rain cover for my pack.

The girls and I wait out the last of the spring thaw by hiking flat, snow-free trails at lower elevations to try out our boots and gear. We walk for hours at a time, Alex consistently happy and strong, and Sage content as long as we don't go more than four miles. At the end of our hikes, Sage is worn out while Alex only seems energized. There is no doubt in my mind that if we attempt a snow-free Tecumseh, Alex will summit. I read and reread the two guidebooks while the three of us wait for the springtime sun to dry out the trails.

Peak #1: Mount Tecumseh, June 7, 2008

T
he first day of June arrives, and the Internet forums are flooded with descriptions of snow-free mountains. Alex and I are eager to reattempt Mount Tecumseh. Sage says she also wants to try again, but I strongly suspect her enthusiasm is counterfeit. While Alex is genuinely interested, Sage is eager to please. The difference between the two types of motivation is huge and easy to mark. In spite of my doubts about Sage, I allow her to participate in picking the date of what we jokingly refer to as “Tecumseh, Take Two.” Both girls want to go as soon as possible, so we choose the upcoming Saturday, June 7. Later that evening, after the girls are tucked into bed and safely out of earshot, I ask my husband, Hugh, to accompany us on this hike so that Sage won't feel any pressure to continue should she tire. If she decides at any point that she's had enough, then Hugh can take her back down the
mountain while Alex and I ascend. He agrees, and I go to bed relieved. I don't want Sage put in a position where she feels pressured to keep going when her body is too tired to continue. I also don't want to have to turn back if all is going well for Alex. Each child should be given the opportunity to hike as much or as little as she can.

The four of us arrive at the ski parking lot bright and early on June 7, just half an hour after finishing breakfast. This time around, I carry a much larger pack filled with wicking layers, fleece, rain gear, plenty of food, water, a water filtering system, a first aid kit, a map, a compass, headlamps, sunblock, bug spray, the bivy shelter and foam sleeping mat, and a Swiss Army knife. We are clad in shorts and short-sleeve shirts made from synthetic fibers, and our feet are protected with waterproof hiking boots. The morning air is warm, but not muggy, and the bugs are not yet out. Our spirits high, we step off the road and into the woods.