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That being said, I'm out here hiking with my blonde-haired, blue-eyed, five-year-old daughter. Though the odds are astronomically against our running into someone we wouldn't want to meet, Alex must be made to understand that she can't stand right next to someone she doesn't know unless I'm standing there with her. I don't ever want to see her that close to an ax-wielding stranger again, even if said stranger is an innocent trail worker. The sight is just too damn unnerving.

A few more huffs and puffs, and we're back on the summit of Mount Osceola. A breeze rises up and over the exposed ledges, sweeping itself through our hair and drying the sweat from our foreheads. Alex lifts her face upward and gratefully smiles into the cool and
refreshing air. She looks beautiful, standing there like that, angel-blonde remnants of last year's bangs fluttering on her forehead. For a moment, I can see the woman she will become—I can see what she'll look like in ten or fifteen years. Of course, as her mother, I could justifiably be accused of bias, but I think she's going to be one gorgeous female.

We throw our packs against a large cement block, a remnant of an old dismantled fire tower. The trail mix comes out, and we share handfuls, munching up the M&M's and sucking the salt from the almonds.

“Hey, Alex,” I begin through a mouthful of raisins.

“What?” she asks, spraying me with chewed-up peanuts.

“You know that guy back there?”

“What guy?”

“What guy?” I think to myself in amazement.

“Um, the guy with the huge ax who stood right next to you while I climbed over the chimney.”

“Oh, him. He was nice.” Her hand goes back into the bag of trail mix. “Yuck,” she exclaims as her hand reemerges. “Mostly raisins.”

As I pick out the raisins, I cautiously ask, “How do you know he was nice?”

“I just know,” Alex answers.

I chew my trail mix and wonder how to go about this. I don't want to sully my daughter's basic trust in human nature; I want her to see the good in people and not automatically suspect the bad. I also want her to learn to trust her instincts. If she feels strange about speaking to someone, then she shouldn't. If she feels comfortable with the person, then she should feel free to converse. As long as I'm right there beside her, of course.

The day is cloudy, but not overly so. Small wisps of gray float above the valley to our southeast. Alex gets up and walks over toward the edge of the summit's ledge; I instinctively rise and follow. The two of us stand, side by side, gazing out onto Waterville Valley. A large green hump is situated to our immediate northeast. It is East Osceola, the summit from whence we just came, looking like a giant green gumdrop thrown to Earth by some careless, sweet-toothed goddess. I stare at it and try to imagine the happy, half-naked ax-man blissfully roaming through its trees.

“Mama, it's like magic!” Alex joyfully exclaims,
and I return my attention to the valley. A wind has picked up, and several clumps of cloud are speedily moving in our direction, delicate poofs of vapor riding a current toward Osceola's ledge. They are level with our eyesight, and they rush toward us wildly. Alex and I goggle at them, enchanted. They're friendly gray ghosts coming to pay us a visit, zooming closer and closer until they reach the granite and whoosh up and over our heads. The last one doesn't whoosh like the others, but instead plows right into us, and we are momentarily immersed in a glorious fog. Then they are past, and the skies to the southeast are clear once again. Alex lets out a “whoo-hoo!” and I laugh with delight. Not wanting to interrupt this moment, I decide to shelve the ax-man discussion until later. We can talk about it during our descent.

The couple who passed us returns from their jaunt to East Osceola just as a group of five arrives from the parking area. Everyone sprawls out and snacks on their various goodies, enjoying the day and the plentiful views. Alex plays summit hostess, approaching everyone and initiating conversation. There are smiles all around as she cheerfully chatters away. I watch and admire my daughter's affability. How can I strike the correct balance when I speak to her? I don't want her to be afraid to do this, to walk around, greeting people happily and lovingly. This is part of the fun: sharing this wonderful experience with others is something she
enjoys, and I don't want to take that away from her. So how do I tell her to be wary of people without stifling her natural positive attitude?

There's a golden Labrador up here; it offers a paw to Alex, who kneels and takes it immediately. For the next few minutes, the two immerse themselves in gestures of affection. Alex pets the dog, the dog licks Alex's face, the dog rolls on its back, Alex scratches its tummy. The owners smile and say a few soft words to Alex. She answers between fits of giggles. Eventually she returns to me, cheeks wet from the dog's kisses. One of the owners follows her and sits next to me, introducing himself as Jim.

“Your daughter tells me this isn't her first 4K,” he begins in a pleasant tone.

“No, the Osceolas are numbers six and seven,” I answer, my voice naturally full of maternal pride.

“That's amazing. She's quite the hiker.”

“Yeah, she is,” I agree.

Jim smiles and looks at Alex, who is busy digging a sandwich out from her pack. He is silent for a few moments, but the expression on his face indicates there's a question or comment imminent. Finally, he takes a breath and asks, “Your husband doesn't mind? You taking her up here alone, I mean?”

Fortunately, I bite my tongue and swallow my first response. This man is not trying to be offensive. I get the sense he is genuinely curious and truly does not
realize how condescending that kind of a question really is.

I take a deep breath, then calmly reply, “Do you ask the same kind of question of fathers who hike with their sons?” My tone is not rude, for my intent is not to attack. If possible, I hope to open his mind a wee bit.

Jim looks startled, then turns red with embarrassment. “No, uh, good point,” he sputters. He starts to rise, but I reach out my hand and touch his leg.

“Please stay. I didn't mean to make you feel awkward.”

He pauses, then sits. As his face returns to a healthy shade of pink, he offers an apologetic explanation. “It's just that things can happen to a woman that don't usually happen to a man.”

Alex is engrossed in her sandwich and, I hope, unaware of our conversation. I've enough to discuss with her on the way down; I don't want to have to add this layer of context.

Lowering my voice, I reply, “True. However, what are we supposed to do? Stay home? Only go when a man can come with us? That's an awfully limited way to live, and we're not all that fond of limits.”

He smiles at me. It's an honest smile; there's nothing condescending in his expression. I smile back, then bid him adieu as he returns to his partner.

“What was that about?” Alex asks.

Rats. She was listening. Of course she was.

“That guy wondered why we didn't hike with Papa, or with another man. He thought it might be dangerous for us to hike by ourselves.”

“Why?”

“In case a bad man saw us and wanted to hurt us.”

“Can't a bad man hurt another man? Do bad men only hurt women?”

“Well, women are usually smaller than men, so we're picked on more often.”

Alex looks me up and down, then states, “You're not smaller than a man.”

She's right. I'm not exactly petite.

“Don't worry about it, Alex. All we need to do is be aware of who's around us. Also, we shouldn't tell anyone we're alone.”

A wrinkle crosses my daughter's forehead. “People can
see
we're alone.”

“Yes, but maybe they think we're with people who are just down the trail. We don't need to tell them there's no one behind us.”

Time to begin the descent. Alex is ready; she's up and reaching for her backpack. I push myself to my feet.

“Just use your pepper spray if a bad guy comes along,” Alex matter-of-factly instructs as she pulls her pack's straps over her shoulders. “I don't want to stay home. Just spray the guy in the face and we'll be fine.” With that, she snaps her buckles and walks off.

That's my girl.

One mile later, I bring us back to our discussion about the ax-man. Feminist bravado aside, my daughter still needs to learn when to keep her distance from strangers.

I ask her again about the man with the ax, if she had any strange sense when she spoke with him, if she felt funny standing right next to him when she didn't know who he was. She insists he was a nice guy.

Though I'm a big believer in following your instincts, I explain that the few bad people in this world will sometimes pretend to be nice just to trick you into getting closer to them so that they can grab you.

Alex stops and looks up at me.

“That man was a bad person?”

“No,” I quickly say. Then, “Well, maybe. I don't know.”

Arg. I'm bungling this.

“Look,” I begin, “we don't know that man. He was standing right next to you, and I didn't hear or see him coming. He had a large ax in his hand—it bothered me that he was standing so close to you without me there to protect you. He was probably a good guy—most people are—but the point is that we don't know him, so we can't be completely sure. So next time, if someone walks up to you and I'm not standing right there, and especially if I can't get to you right away, then take a few steps back.”

Alex thinks on this for a while as we continue on
our way. I hope I haven't just made her paranoid of everyone she meets.

We hike the next mile or so with difficulty. Both of us are huffing and puffing; even usually peppy Alex seems to be wearing out. Though it felt like an easy climb on the way up, that side trip to East Osceola was probably more than we should have attempted. It felt much more difficult than our Eisenhower/Pierce trip. My feet begin to drag, and Alex asks for a water break. I happily sit and pull out my Nalgene bottles.

“Most people are good, right?” Alex asks after she drinks her fill.

“Yes, I believe so,” I answer.

We rise, then fall into a long silence as we make our way down the boulder-strewn, slab-filled trail. It's not easy going; our legs ache, and the rocks are huge. There's nary a flat surface, and our feet continually bend and twist as we hike over the jagged stones.

“What about all those people at the top?” Alex eventually asks, butt-sliding down a particularly steep granite protuberance and landing lightly on the dirt below. “They were okay, right?”

“Yes,” I respond, following Alex's lead and lowering myself until the seat of my pants touches rock. I don't slide as gracefully as my daughter, and my feet shakily hit the ground. I take a few hurried steps forward to keep my balance, then grab the trunk of a tree to bring myself to a halt.

“We were among many other people, and
you
approached each one of
them
. Also, I was close by and able to help if needed.”

“What if one of them had grabbed me?”

“I would have jumped up, run over, and made that person let you go. Others would have helped too.”

“What if that didn't work?”

“Then I would have sprayed the person in the face,” I reply, smiling.

Alex snorts. “What if everyone had grabbed me, all at once?” she asks, her face lit up with silliness.

“Then I would have sprayed everyone in the face.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone. All at once.”

Alex giggles.

We're very close to the car now, and I'm grateful to be near the end of our hike. I am exhausted and start to inwardly withdraw in an effort to conserve energy. Though my daughter must be at least equally tired, as she must take two or three steps to match every one of mine, she does not withdraw as I do. Instead, she sings, making up lyrics to spontaneous melodies. This is her way of reenergizing. I first noticed this delightful habit while descending Tecumseh, and I will continue to witness it throughout the remainder of our quest for the New Hampshire Forty-eight. Alex's method of pumping herself up is to talk, sing, hum, chant, or count out loud. During future hikes, I will often tell her to narrate an original story or sing on her own, anything to allow
me to carefully measure my own energy expenditure while simultaneously allowing her the expression she so obviously needs.

For now, she is content to softly sing an original and spontaneous song. Her lyrics describe a frightened woman who tries to attack everyone she meets with pepper spray. My daughter happily bounces down the last few tenths of a mile, her chipper soprano ringing through the air.

Hugh Tells a Cautionary Tale, August 2008