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The water crossing by the trailhead is just a trickle of water today, nothing like the ankle-deep stream we encountered a couple of months ago. We step over it easily, not even wetting the soles of our boots. Up the small hill and alongside the brook we amble, admiring the sounds of the splashing water and commenting on the merits of dry, dirt trail. Our hike is so much simpler without all the snow. There's no slipping or sliding, no sinking, no snow-filled boots.

We cross another brook, this one wider and deeper than the one at the beginning of the trail. Alex hops from rock to rock with a giant grin on her face. Sage slowly steps across, looking nervous but determined.

There's another hill to tackle, this one longer and steeper. It must have been here a couple of months ago, but everything looks completely different without all the snow, and I don't remember this part of the trail. Luckily, many of the trees along the trail are “blazed,” marked with a yellow rectangle at adult eye level, so at no time do we feel unsure of which way to go.

Alex climbs up with her head held high and her eyes taking in every bit of the wooded landscape. Sage putters along in a shuffling fashion, so I take her hand and sing silly songs to lighten her mood. She responds by smiling, but her brow is wrinkled and she doesn't look happy. We're only a half mile into the hike, but I've no doubt my three-year-old will not make it to the top unassisted. This doesn't bother me, for I never expected her to climb something of this magnitude; she is, after all, only three years old. I give silent thanks for Hugh's willingness to join us today; his assistance will most likely be needed.

The trail flattens out, and Sage's mood slightly improves. Alex continues to act as though we're just taking a casual stroll down our Somerville street.

A few minutes later, we reach our previous point
of return. The trail now turns steeply downward and crosses fast-moving Tecumseh Brook. Luckily, there are large boulders on which to step, and the brook at this point is narrow. We cross without difficulty, then stop to rest by the loud, splashing water. I hand each girl a bottle of juice and some trail mix. Alex looks good. She doesn't seem tired, and she hasn't yet uttered one word of complaint. Sage, however, shows signs of extreme fatigue, and her countenance is less than cheerful. According to our guidebook, we have hiked 1.1 miles. There's still more than a mile to go before we reach the summit. Then, of course, we'll have to hike all the way back down.

Ten minutes of drinking and eating later, we resume our hike and begin climbing steeply away from the brook. Halfway up this bit of trail, Sage throws in the towel and asks to be carried. Hugh promptly complies. Alex continues to hike strongly, asking only for a drink every now and then.

Fifteen minutes and much huffing and puffing later, we reach a viewpoint where a very short side path diverges and leads to a ski slope. Hugh needs to sit down for a while; he's in pain and isn't sure he can carry Sage much longer. Hugh is a rock climber, a runner, and a hiker, but his legs are artificial. Every once in a while, and in no predictable fashion, his stumps chafe painfully against his prosthetic sockets, and walking becomes an agonizing chore. Though he had started
the hike in good form, his stumps are now causing him much grief. I offer to give him the backpack so I can take Sage, but he explains that the trade won't make much of a difference. I ask if he wants to turn back, but he tells me no, not yet.

We sit, eat trail mix, and discuss our options. Sage declares that she's no longer having any fun, even though she hasn't walked at all since the last water crossing. I ask Alex how she's doing. She says that she's tired, but that she feels good and wants to keep going. Her can-do attitude is temporarily infectious, for Sage immediately declares that she wants to keep trying too. Again, I note the difference between my two girls. Alex means what she says; she is genuinely interested in ascending. Sage, however, is just mimicking her sister, wanting to copy whatever her personal heroine says and does. My husband and I look at each other uneasily but agree that we'll keep at it. After ten minutes, we pick ourselves up and continue the ascent.

The trail immediately becomes incredibly steep and a million times rockier. Our feet must constantly step up and over large chunks of stone. We creep along, our pace slowing to that of a dying snail. Alex slows down, but remains determined and happy. Sage, in spite of the fact that she is being carried, starts to grumble. I hand her some trail mix, and she is temporarily placated.

We reach the top of one steep stretch, turn a slight
corner, and are immediately confronted with another long and steep stretch. I ask Hugh how he's doing. He says he's fine, but I suspect he's not telling the truth. Sage takes one look up at the trail ahead of us and announces she does not want to continue. Alex gives her a surprised and angry look. “You're not even hiking!” she exclaims.

“Hugh, what do you want to do?” I ask. He grits his teeth and grunts, “I can still go on for a bit.” He continues upward, Sage held tightly in his arms. The mother in me wants to tell him to turn around right now and take care of his stumps. The wife in me knows it's best to let him make his own decisions; Hugh does not like being told what to do, by anyone. I try to make Sage smile by singing another silly song. She glowers me into silence.

At the end of the second steep stretch, we turn the corner to find … yet another steep stretch. I had read that this second mile would be one long never-ending steep section, but reading the words did not adequately prepare me for the reality. I had thought there might be at least
some
flat bits between the vertical parts. Unfortunately, the grade never eases, and every time we turn a corner, we're greeted with the same onerous sight: a long, rocky, incredibly steep path leading up, up, up.

My legs hurt, and I'm getting annoyed with this trail. To make matters worse, the June blackflies
awake and emerge from the woods around us. These nuisances take no notice of our slathered-on bug repellent and head straight for our eyes and mouths. We're forced to wave our arms in a futile measure of self-defense as we drag ourselves onward, the sweat dripping off our faces as the sun climbs higher in the late morning sky.

Sage sucks a bug into her mouth by accident, and that does it. The poor kid has now had quite enough. “It's a howwible, howwible day,” she wails after she inadvertently swallows the little critter. We stop, my husband puts Sage down, and the four of us discuss the situation.

Sage wants to go back. Hugh's stumps are probably bleeding by now. Alex asks if we can keep going, even as she flicks a bug off her arm. “No!” Sage shouts in despair. The time has obviously come to put our plan into action. Actually, we probably should have put it into action half a mile ago. Hugh asks Sage if she would like to sit with him for a while and then turn back while Alex and I continue. She nods her head so vigorously that I fear she'll slip a cervical disc. I give Hugh one of the water bottles and some extra food; then I kneel and hug Sage. I tell her I am very, very proud of her. She glares at me. Alex and I bid Hugh and Sage adieu, then we continue our ascent.

Once alone, I ask Alex how she's doing. “Fine,” she answers. She
is
doing fine, very fine indeed. Now that
it's just the two of us, we hike markedly faster than before; though my five-year-old daughter is no doubt tired, her natural pace is twice that what it was with her little sister in tow.

There are a few more steep sections left, then the trail finally levels out for good. I suggest that we sit and chug some water. Alex heartily agrees.

“How are you doing?” I ask. “Still fine,” Alex answers. Her hand swats away one of the many flies that have followed us up the trail. “Want to turn back?” I ask, knowing full well Alex will not want to do such a thing, especially not after conquering all those nasty steep bits. “No,” she answers with a smile. “We're almost at the top—I'm not stopping now!”

We sit for a few minutes and savor the moment. We're about to summit our first 4K, and we both realize that this will mark the beginning of something wonderful. Alex will forever know that she can climb mountains of this magnitude, and fairly easily at that. I will forever know that I gave my kids a shot at something huge. I took them both seriously and allowed them to do their best. I'm proud of them both, especially Sage. Sage did what she could; she truly gave it her all. For that, she has my utmost respect.

Of course, on this particular day, just before reaching this particular summit, I've no idea just how monumental this occasion will actually be. I don't know that June 7, 2008, will mark the beginning of Alex's fifteen-month peakbagging spree. I don't realize how
dedicated Alex will soon become to this quest, or that she'll end up summiting all forty-eight Four Thousand Footers before losing her first baby tooth. All I know in that moment is that we're almost at the top of Mount Tecumseh, that we're both hot and sweaty, and that we're both grinning like maniacs.

“Are you ready?” I ask. Alex nods. We get up, walk a few minutes over some blessedly flat land, climb another steep, but blessedly short, section—and we're there!

A small pile of rocks, serving as a cairn, sits on a flat boulder and marks the official high point. Alex runs to it, whooping with pride and joy. Smacking her five-year-old hand on the topmost stone, she hollers, “I did it!” Happiness pours out of her skin, and her face beams with pride. She stands, victorious. I walk up to her, touch the cairn, kneel, and give her a giant hug.

“I knew you could do it, Alex,” I tell her.

“How did you know?” she asks, the corners of her smile almost reaching her ears.

“I knew because
you
knew.
You
knew you could, so
I
knew you could.” I congratulate her on her first 4K, then take out my disposable camera to mark the occasion.

There isn't much of a view from this summit, as the cairn is almost completely surrounded by trees. If we stand and peer through a gap in some branches, we are able to see a partial view of the valley below. This little
bit of vista is enough to sufficiently impress Alex, and she declares the scene “so beautiful!” After a few minutes of standing and peering, we sit and share a chocolate bar.

“What about Sage?” Alex asks, after her part of the chocolate has been keenly devoured.

“What
about
Sage?”

“You said you knew I could do it. What about Sage? Did you know she couldn't?”

I smile at my daughter, so incredibly astute.

“Sage is very young, Alex, and her legs are shorter than yours. Also, she didn't really want to do this today.”

“She said she did.”

“Only because she knew you and I wanted to.”

Alex is silent for a moment, then takes out various writing utensils and paper from her backpack. She sketches a picture of the mountain. It looks like a giant, upside-down V. As she draws a narrow, green-topped tree at the very top of the sharp peak, she asks, “It's okay that Sage didn't want to, isn't it?”

“Of course!” I answer. “In the future, she'll probably stay home with Papa … and that's fine. I don't want her to feel like she has to hike in order to please you and me.”

Alex finishes the first tree and goes to work on a second, wider one, situated at a precarious angle, just below the summit. I watch as she shades in the
houselike trunk, then creates a mass of similar-looking figures up and down both sides of her impossibly sloped mountain. She asks how to spell “Tecumseh.” I tell her, and she writes in big, print letters across the page.

Peaks #2 and #3: Mount Eisenhower and Mount Pierce, June 21, 2008

M
oose!” I sputter as my foot hits the brakes on my little Honda Civic, bringing it to a screeching halt along Route 302. The huge, imposing creature—obviously a male—stands halfway out of the woods, its two front hooves on the asphalt of the road's shoulder, its two back hooves in the grass under the trees. This is the first time I've ever seen a moose, and I'm awestruck. The bull reacts to my sudden stop by bounding back into the forest. It doesn't go so far as to disappear from view, however. Instead, it stands just beyond a close row of trees and keeps its massive head turned in our direction. Slowly, I drive my car onto the shoulder and come to a stop inches from where those majestic hooves so recently stood. Knowing these animals are unpredictable, I leave the car running in case we need to make a quick getaway.