MOST ASPIRING 46ERS know that they are nearing the end of their journey when they summit one of the mountains only a masochist could love. Peaks like Allen or the Santanonis — remote mountains that, full of mire and muck, are more a rite of passage than a source of inspiration. My own experience was a little different. Rather than the promise of a peak, it was the flash of lights from a police car that made me realize that I was about to complete my challenge. And yet, in my ensuing exchange with the officer —for many, a moment that should have been fraught with tension — I realized how close I was to finishing my journey and, more importantly, what this journey is all about. Here, in part, is what I realized. The journey was not about me. Or, I should say, it was not just about me. That concession may sound peculiar to those who insist that bagging peaks is about getting to know yourself. For what it’s worth, I don’t disagree. There is a lot of self-discovery going on in those hills. You learn about your virtues and your limits; your ability to manage miles and mud; your determination to attain hard-to-reach summits that don’t offer views. You learn that the journey is just as important as the peak — even more so, especially on days when drizzle and fog conspire to spoil a vista, or when you’re driven back by torrential rain, blinding snow, or swollen creeks. In my case, however, the journey could never have been about me alone. It had to be a joint endeavor, seeing how it arose out of the unrelenting pleas of my son Logan to hike a peak or two before summer’s end a few years back — a plea that I, seasoned procrastinator that I am, had sought to deflect with every excuse I could muster. “What was wrong with the smaller peaks that we had been doing in the Southern Adirondacks?” I reasoned. “Weren’t they good enough?” TWO FOR 46: A FATHER AND SON JOURNEY In hindsight, I am bewildered by my reticence. Our first peaks — Cascade and Porter — were amazing. Thankfully, they were also deceptively easy to climb; so easy, in fact, that you could hike them in jeans — something I did, committing a cardinal sin of the High Peaks. But the ease of the climb was not what made Cascade special. It was the views. Cascade offered the kind of broad, expansive panoramas that our smaller mountains lacked, its prominence exposing a breathtaking perspective on the pink and purple summits of surrounding mountains as they rose like Disneyland castles over the swell of lesser peaks. How could I not want to do this every day, for the rest of my life? Something else struck me while standing atop Cascade: the sheer number of climbers sharing the summit that day. There were dozens of them. And they were all happy — chatting excitedly, laughing heartily, taking selfies and group photos. The reason was clear enough. The joy of these hikers came from their shared sense of accomplishment, each sensing a camaraderie with the other that, whether they made their ascent singly or in groups, was borne of a common travail along the same rough miles that led each of us to The author and his sons Logan and Liam, the next generation in a cycle of love for the mountains that repeats. By Eric Galarneau, #16126 SUMMER 2026 | 49
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