MOUNTAIN VIGNETTES all 46 summits; and welcoming in that it encourages all those who want to join it and are willing to work for it. In a very real sense, 46ers root for one another. That spirit of inclusivity is evident in formal ways, like the correspondence and volunteer programs; the trail stewardship initiatives; and the annual dinners. But it is also present in the untold generosity of the many hikers you meet on the trail, like the Good Samaritan who found my GPS device on the way to Haystack and not only told me where it was, but then went out of his way to retrieve it and place it in a conspicuous spot where I was sure to find it. I’m not sure if the Haystack Samaritan was a 46er, but he sure embodied the spirit. I sure hope I do. I think about my own journey with my sons. I watched — or, rather, experienced — them grow up on these trails. I learned about their expectations and disappointments; what makes them tick and what ticks them off. In the end, they didn’t just become better hikers; they became better brothers. And I, hopefully, a better dad. IN THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, LOGAN and I knocked off our remaining peaks, finishing our journey on Whiteface Mountain on Columbus Day weekend. There we were greeted by my wife, along with my daughter and father-in-law. Liam joined us on the hike, as did Ben Mastaitis #9487, who presented us with our 46er patches. Logan was understandably excited, as was I. I was proud of my younger son. Like many boys entering their teens, Logan was not always sure of himself. But he was diligent, willing to work at a problem until he solved it. And here — climbing a mountain — was the perfect opportunity to embolden a young man willing to work. As we stood on top of Whiteface, I could see my son’s confidence manifest in a smile — shy, at first, then, broadening into the beam of a young man who has accomplished something he never thought possible — the look of self-assurance that is not given, but earned. That night, I registered Logan as 46er #16123 and the next week was back on the trails with my 11-year-old daughter, Hadley, who wanted to climb her namesake mountain in the southern Adirondacks with a view toward one day completing the 46 High Peaks like her brother. I gladly did the hike with her, sharing her joy as she reached the summit and rattled up the fire tower for more views. My pride knew no bounds. And so, the cycle begins anew. It is a cycle that began 100 years ago with the Marshalls and Herb Clark. But it is also a cycle that runs through families. I would never have been a 46er if my father had not introduced me to the Adirondacks when I was a boy or if his father had not done the same for him. Now my daughter wants to finish the peaks, as does Liam (he’s halfway there). I will help each to the extent I can, by imparting the lessons I learned, and, in the process, fulfilling my self-appointed role as exuberant ambassador for these mountains. It is a role that I embrace. Because, in the end, it’s not the mountains that call us. It is the communion of climbers, past and present, old and young, echoing down through the ages, who beckon us to these solitary places, where we can find one another, and, possibly, learn something about ourselves. They are all there — the Marshalls and the Mastaitises; the Colvins and the Hudowalskis; the Liams, Logans, and Hadleys: all bidding us entry into the mystery of these mountains. And, if luck holds, we will be joined by our children’s children and their children as well. THE POEM WRIGHT: RANDY FREDETTE #11491 WRIGHT PEAK Timothy Lacy A gilded meadow lines the unpaved road That will lead you to its feet Yet only brazen tatters of the amber grass grow Up beyond the Boreal green at the peak. There is a depression in its crown of stone Reborn as a lake, for many days after the rain Surrounded by infant evergreens A diminished scale of the hemlocks and cedars Casting shadows over the lake below
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