the nutrients to fuel my body. I’ve always been an advocate for listening to your body with anything in life and after my first terrifying experience getting started with this journey, I learned just how vital understanding and honoring your body is when putting it up against adversity. The memories that I have from the numerous treks within the high peaks are invaluable experiences, both the terrifying and well-earned adventures. They have helped mold the woman I am today. The day of concluding my winter 46 high peaks: the first peak was a test of my resolve and I could feel the familiar numbness creeping in. Each peak I climbed was a battle, not only against the cold but my physical and mental toughness. There were times when I thought about turning around and giving up and waiting for next year to finish. But with each peak I conquered, I grew stronger and more determined. I learned to listen to my body to understand its signals. I learned to manage my stress levels better, to stay calm even when faced with daunting challenges. The mountains, with their harsh conditions and breathtaking beauty, became my teacher, my sanctuary. My hiking partners were incredibly supportive, helping me whenever I needed, providing warm reassurances, and, most importantly, understanding my condition. Their encouragement and camaraderie were invaluable to me during this journey. On March 12, 2023, I hiked my remaining three high peaks: Saddleback, Basin, and Mount Haystack. I felt a mixture of excitement and fear. When I reached the summit of the final peak, I felt a sense of achievement like never before. The view from the top was spectacular, Allison on Her Last Ascent on Mount Haystack My Mom and Mountains Dr. MB (Marybeth) Mitcham, #9282 Yesterday, I told my mom that I had found an old photo from the time, during my teen years, she’d dragged me up Mt. Washington. I described the photo to her, reminding her that her choice of permed mullet for a hairstyle at the time was most unfortunate, pointing out that she was the only person in that photo who looked happy. My middle sister, standing next to my mom while posing by the Mt. Washington summit sign, and my friend, standing between me and the summit sign, had expressions of exasperation on their faces. I looked absolutely miserable (mainly because I was). I chuckled when I told my mom that I could admit it now, many years later, that she was right. The summer that I was fifteen years old, my family spent two weeks in New Hampshire’s Presidential White Mountain region. Money was extremely scarce during my childhood, but my dad’s parents had always ensured that, every few years, my parents, sisters, and I were able to stay for a while at the rustic campgrounds that my dad and his siblings had visited along with their parents when they were children. This campground had cabins, built in 34 | ADIRONDACK PEEKS the 1940s, that were heated with small wood stoves. Most did not have electricity, but a few of the larger ones had been updated with that luxury. All had running water— spring-fed and icy-cold. Our meals were cooked either on the wood stove or the large outdoor fireplace, and all perishable food was kept in a root cellar on the property. To describe these cabins as rustic would be an understatement. When the wind blew, we could feel the air moving through the outdoor walls into the cabins. We also wondered if the cabins would collapse. Almost every morning, there would be evidence of the rodents who shared our spaces. Almost every night, if we were brave (or desperate) enough to seek out the outhouses (like the electricity, some of the cabins had flushing toilets, but most did not), there would be evidence of the other animal residents of that property—bears, deer, and raccoons lumbering about, and owls hooting from their perches on the old apple trees. It may have been rustic, but to my young mind, it was perfect. During those summer visits, my mom would mention that she loved looking at the mountains and would love to see the view from the top someday. I half ignored her, foolishly thinking that since she knew I hated hiking, her “someday” would never affect me. Little did I realize that in the summer of my fifteenth year, she would make but what was even more breathtaking was the journey I had undertaken to get there. Overcoming Raynaud's syndrome while hiking the Adirondack high peaks in the winter was a transformative experience for the ages.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTk3MQ==