"The earth laughs in flowers." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

(Will enjoys flowers from Kathryn Payne, a woman
in Colorado Springs, Colorado he's never met.)

I believe in happy endings.  I just never expected one for Will after meeting him for the first time when he was transferred to us in a Connecticut parking lot by a good-hearted trio from the New Jersey Schnauzer Rescue thirteen months ago.

After the five hour drive back to Jackson I was utterly depressed and wondered how long I should keep him alive for.  That’s how hopeless he was, how much pain he was in, how angry this little dog was.  I remember thinking, “What have I gotten us into?”

When we stopped along the Kancamagus Highway and I went to get him out of the car to stretch his legs he whipped his head around and sunk his teeth into my thumb, punctured a tendon, and held on for all he was worth.  At that moment something funny happened to me.  Instead of jerking back or getting angry with him I suddenly put myself in his place as my blood trickled down his throat. 

Here was a fifteen year old dog with cataracts and very limited sight.  He was deaf, in pain, and just a week or so before he’d been deposited in a kill shelter by the only family he’d ever known.  I imagined how I would feel.  Abandoned in a strange setting, cold, alone, without those he’d known for all those years.  It had to be a shock to him.  I imagined he felt betrayed, frightened, angry – and utterly alone.  Then when a good-hearted soul from the shelter knew how desperate his plight was they called NJSR and Will at least got out of the shelter but in his head he didn’t know his life had been saved. I imagine all he knew is that he was being shuttled from person to person on his way to ending up here in Jackson and that had to feel demoralizing.  He had, after all, lost his home, even if it wasn’t much of one.  Imagine how discarded and defeated he had to feel – how utterly empty and alone.

In those first few days I talked to our vet and wondered how long I should keep him alive for because yes, he was alive, but not a life I’d want or any animal should have to endure.  But I also continued to put myself in his place, even when he bit me as often as he did. 

The first morning in Jackson he thrashed as I carried him outside to go to the bathroom, shivered in the cool May morning air, and tried to bite me again as I held up his weakened hips as he went to the bathroom.  When we made it back inside I put him down and he came after me.  Atticus wisely jumped up on the couch as Will snarled and flashed his teeth. 

I ended up sitting on the floor in front of the couch and let Will approach me.  I let him set the pace.  Eventually I was petting him and he lay down in front of me and fell asleep with his paw on my leg.  I remember thinking, “I get it, Will.  You want to be in charge.  You want things on your terms.”

One week turned into two and I still believed we were only giving him a place to die with dignity.  But for some reason I spent the money to get his rotten teeth cleaned and had one painful one removed.  And each day, as much as he was everything Atticus wasn’t (and I don’t mean that in a positive way) I did my best to imagine what it was like to be Will. 

One morning Atticus and I came home from a walk and I noticed that this little deaf dog was sleeping with his ear pressed up against the leg of the coffee table and I knew then was feeling the vibrations coming from the speakers on top of the table as music played.  From that moment on Will always had music to listen to – or to feel. 

Soon after that I noticed him lingering in the backyard, even though he couldn’t stand in one place for very long, sniffing the wild flowers.  He’d do this whenever I took him outside.  So one day I bought him flowers and left them by his bed when he was sleeping and he woke up to them and buried his face in them and went back to sleep.  When he eventually got up to get a drink he returned to his flowers and lay down next to them with his cloudy eyes and rested his head in them.

From that moment on Will not only had music, he also had flowers nearby. 

Will’s come a long way since those first weeks.  The death row dog with little reason to live has embraced life.  He’s become loving and seeks out love.  He’s even become a fine teacher. He has overcome several serious obstacles many I know fail to clear as he shows us it’s never too live, never too late to love, never too late to be loved, and never too late to trust. 

Each morning, after he eats his breakfast, he comes over to the couch where I’m sitting with Atticus and he nudges my foot with his nose and I reach my fingers out to him and the mouth that used to bite now gently licks my fingertips and I know what he wants.  I pick him up and cradle his body against my chest and turn sideways so he can look outside.  He likes that even though all he seems to see are shapes and shadows and movement.  He puts his head side by side with mine and leans against me as he gazes silently for several minutes.  Eventually his head sags, his breathing gets deeper, and I’ll hear a snore.  Soon his head is resting on my chest over my heart and he’s in a little ball in my arms sleeping soundly and, more importantly, safely. 

And the little dog who didn’t ever seem to know when Atticus and I were coming going – or care, now comes out of the bedroom within a minute of us returning home on those occasions we go out without him. I tell myself he feels the vibration of the door closing.  And when he sees me he tries to jump up to say hello but his hips are too weak from all that time he had been kept in a crate to keep him out of the way.  So he does a succession of happy little bunny hops and he whimpers an equally happy song as he excitedly comes to me to play.  And those eyes that can’t see much, they are still clouded with cataracts, but they now shine with love and belonging. 

Last week I told a story on Facebook about how I get flowers for Will every week and how when we go to Carrie Scribner’s wonderful flower shop here in Jackson, Dutch Bloemen Winkel, the ladies started asking if the flowers are for Will.  If they are they go with even more fragrant flowers.  (I love that they ask!)

That’s how far Will has come in his new life.  People care about him.   Carrie and her staff care what he likes. He’s often mentioned by Roy Prescott on WMWV’s morning radio show here in the Mount Washington Valley, and was even a guest on it.  And whenever we stop at For Your Paws Only to buy food, if he is not with us, Kendra or one of the others will ask, “How’s Will doing?”  And if he is with us they fawn over him as he walks around the store.  And people around town now greet him as they’ve always greeted Atticus when we walk the loop with Will in his wagon.  “Good afternoon, Atticus.  Good afternoon, Will.  Hey, Tom.” 

It is a life reclaimed and one worth living and with it come’s a lot of happiness and laughter in our little home.  But last week there were tears too – however, they were happy ones.

You see, when I wrote about Will’s love of flowers and my ritual of picking them up for him each week, some were left on my car with an unsigned note – “For Will.”  The next day another bunch appeared with another note.  This time they were left on our stairs and the note said, “For Will, we know he loves his flowers.”  Then there was a knock on the door and there was Carrie with a beautiful arrangement sent all the way for Will from a woman in Colorado Springs.  Kathryn Payne and her boyfriend, Bryan Dresser, a member of the Air Force, follow us on Facebook and have become big fans of Will and Bryan saw to it that Will received flowers from Kathryn with a note that read, “We love you Will!” 

When Bryan read of Carrie’s Dutch Bloemen Winkel he quickly called and placed the order for Will. When I read that card and sat down on the floor with Will as he sniffed those beautiful flowers, my eyes filled with tears that came straight from my heart.    

Even more flowers came in over the next few days, all for Will, all from people who read about his love of them.  I put them in a vase (or a mason jar, since I’ve run out of vases), and Will sits in front of them as best he can (he can’t sit for long with those long-neglected hips) and he smells them and something tells me he thinks he's found heaven!

To this day I continue to put myself in Will’s place (just as I’ve always done with Atticus) as I did that first day he bit me.  The difference is that I no longer think of him being angry, frightened, abandoned, betrayed, and utterly alone in this world.  What I think of is how joyful he is and how he celebrates the little things in life, and how a once unwanted dog has turned into a much loved soul and not just here in our little home, but from people all around the country and even the world.  Somehow I believe he feels it. 

I do believe in happy endings and Will is proof that they do exist.  For once there was a little dog who was left to die – instead he chose to live!   

(If anyone in this world was made to work with flowers it's Carrie Scribner.  She has a gift that's as natural as it is unexplainable and we highly recommend Dutch Bloemen Winkel. Her website is www.dutchbw.com and the number is (603) 383-9696. Check her out if you need flowers in the Mount Washington Valley.  We're thrilled to have her just down the street in our little village!)

Dreaming of Evans Notch

My broken foot - getting better by the week - still aches occasionally so I'm giving it a little longer rest before hitting the hiking trails.  Over the past six weeks Atticus has been more than a little patient with me and whenever I get frustrated about missing so much great hiking weather I remind myself (as I swat black flies on the back of my neck in the backyard) that in another two weeks we will be back on a mountaintop, my foot will be healed (or well enough to hike), and the thick of black fly season will be gone.

So today I'm sitting at my writing desk looking at a map, and daydreaming about some quiet time up high away from the constant roar of Bike Week just outside of my window.  The worn map traced by my fingers and smoothed by my hands has been folded and unfolded more times than I can remember.  And when I’m like this – away from the trails and looking forward to getting back out there – as I'm studying it, looking at the aging lines on the paper, I fantasize I that I am Long John Silver captivated by a map of Treasure Island, or Bilbo Baggins with a crinkled copy of the map to the Lonely Mountain and all the treasure hidden inside of it.

Maps have always had that effect on me.  They take me away from where I am and, at times, who I am.  They fertilize my imagination and open up entirely new worlds.  Anyone who hikes can tell you that a map in the hands of one without imagination is as flat as the world before Christopher Columbus came around.  But for those of us with adventure in our hearts, paper maps are three dimensional.  We look at where we will start from and where we are going to and then we remember every hike we've ever taken and how it's never quite that simple.  You don't simply go from Point A to Point B.  It's not about stopping and ending, it's about the journey that lies between the trailhead and the summit.  Hiking, I learned, is a lot like life.  We have our goals, start out with high hopes, but along the way the world meets us and challenges confront us.  Keep the goal in mind and understand the tests we'll undoubtedly face and we do fine, but step away from that reality and it's all so difficult.

So when I study a map, as I've been doing all morning with this crinkled copy of the Chatham Trails Association, Inc. Map of the Cold River Valley and Evans Notch, I keep space in my mind for the unimaginable.  After all, one never knows what's waiting for us out there.  There are the outward tests, and then those that sit within us.  Respecting those two allows us to understand that it's not just about starting, summiting, returning to the car, and getting something to eat afterward.  What awaits is the mystery of the forest, the sparkling and enchanting streams and rivers that can either charm us or sweep us away if we are not careful; rock slides; wind and rain; heat and snow; and the seeds of fear and thrill of the unknown.  It all adds up to the possibility of adventure whenever we leave home, leave the car, and enter the forest on a shady trail with only a backpack to carry everything we'll need.  What happens between leaving the known behind and returning to it is what makes hiking nearly mythical for us.

As I've elevated, iced, and wrapped my aching foot over the past month and a half my mind has drifted off to the trails and the golden, diffused light that pierces the wooded darkness in early morning, the magnificent blue ocean of sky filled with great billowing ships in the form of cumulous clouds, and that sense of working hard to get to such a heavenly place. 

In these tempting daydreams I’m drawn repeatedly to Evans Notch.  It is the forgotten notch or, for some, the unknown notch.  It exists on the border between New Hampshire and Maine and it's not easy to get to, especially for readers of the Northcountry News since it's far to the east and there is no direct route.  Being "forgotten" or "unknown" also means that nearly every time we've been there it's also been quiet and uncrowded.  On a stormy day it can feel desolate, but on a pitch-perfect June day it is heavenly, thanks to the peace that envelops you on any one of its peaks. 

Since none of the summits come close to four thousand foot high the peakbaggers often leave it alone and that only lends to its allure.  Add in views from the tops of mountains with names like Caribou, Blueberry, Speckled, the Baldfaces, and Eagle Crag and it even sounds like something from a different world.  And if you ever have stood on high on these peaks, walked along the open ledges, and taken in the view with nary another person around you come to understand that this is hiking at its purest.  No crowds.  Serene trails.  A good chance to see a moose or a bear.  And views – glorious, expansive, and stunning views.  Mount Washington and her neighbors in the Presidential Range can be seen in all their glory, but from this different vantage point they feel like a world away. 

To hike in Evans Notch feels like playing hooky.  It’s better than just going on a hike, it’s going on a hike far from the conga line of Franconia Ridge or the Crawford Path.  It’s a step back in time and into your unbridled imagination.  It’s the kind of hiking you first fell in love with when you daydreamed about getting away from it all.

So today, as I send this off to my dear editor, I think I may very well be crazy for sharing this special spot with others.  Then again, I know it will never be overly crowded and that’s part of what makes it so dear to me.  Perhaps we’ll see you there; most likely though, we won’t.   

 

His name is Will and he is an individual

A year ago this month we brought Will here to die.  Instead, he chose
to live. Here he is on top of Cathedral Ledge yesterday morning.

Last summer a book came in the mail.  "The Love That Dog Training Program" by Dawn Sylvia-Stasiewicz and Larry Kay. 

I didn't order it.  The editor sent it to me looking for a blurb for the back cover of the paperback version.  The reason the editor was looking for my words was because Ms. Sylvia-Stasiewicz died far too young.  You may remember her as the dog trainer who worked with Bo Obama, the First Family's Portuguese Water Dog. 

I was thrilled.  No one had ever asked for me to write a book blurb before.  I smiled when I sat down on the couch with Atticus by my side as I looked the book over and imagined my name on the back offering up witty and wonderful praise.  However, before I even opened it a frown appeared on my face.  "I can't do this," I said to Atticus, who just looked at me.  Meanwhile Will was asleep on a dog bed a few feet away.  I put the book down on the coffee table and sat looking at Atticus.  A little while later I wrote an email to the editor telling her I was honored by her request but that I would have to decline. 

"You see," I wrote, "I never trained Atticus.  (Or Max before him.)  I simply just hang out with him."  I wrote plenty more about how great it was to be asked but said it would be wrong of me to endorse a book on training.  It's not that I don't like dog training, it's that I've never had a routine and I don't like the idea of "training" someone I love.  Instead we live together and we grow together.  I'm firm enough in the beginning to set the ground rules: don't endanger yourself, be courteous to me, and behave well enough that you can go wherever you want to go and, most importantly, feel self-assured.

Last week someone asked me how I "trained" Atticus to be the way he is. 

"I didn't.  I let him be the way he is."  I think that's important.  I do the same thing with everyone I love and respect.  It's their life to live, after all, so why shouldn't I?

I suppose if there's a name for it I'd have to say it is the Golden Rule - treat others as you with to be treated.  Kindness in the form of requests instead of commands.  Respect for an individual.  Dignity in the way another is treated. 

And it works so well that after they know the ground rules of our relationship, none of the dogs I've shared my life with have ever needed a leash.  Then again, none of my human friends have either.

This is the world and the philosophy Will came into last May 6th when he was angry, broken, in pain, and lacking trust.  He had a chip on his shoulder and on that first day when he sunk a tooth into my thumb puncturing a tendon, and held onto it, I looked him in the eye as blood trickled into the palm of my hand and I said, "I know.  I know.  I don't blame you.  I'd be angry, too."

I mean here was a fifteen year old dog who had only known one family.  Reports were that perhaps they had grown too old to take care of themselves and therefore too old to take care of Will as well, and that's why they dropped him off at the shelter.  But one doesn't end up like Will just by that one act of what had to seem like betrayal to him.  He was mostly blind, his teeth were rotting from lack of care, he was underfed and malnourished, and he walked in stumbling circles - a sign that he had been imprisoned in a crate for far too many years.  I don't see much difference between neglect and abuse. Both are sins committed against others.

Will wasn't much to look at a year ago.  Truth be told he was in far worse condition than I expected him to be when I picked him up in Connecticut.  I wondered why he was even still alive.  Why hadn't someone put him out of his misery?  And that's exactly what he was - miserable.  On top of that he was angry and he took it out on me.  I was bitten so many times the scars on my hands will be with me years after Will is gone.  But that was then.  He's different now.  He's alive. Not just on the outside, but more importantly life shines from within.

Years ago I worked in a nursing home.  It wasn't a very nice place and soon after I left the State closed it down.  If I had to describe the facility and the people who lived and worked there in a word "hopeless" would be appropriate.  My job would was rehab, but also helping in basic personal care and I don't think any of my co-workers really got me.  I'd look at Mrs. Smith, who had been widowed a dozen years before, sitting alone in her room looking at the floor and I'd say, "Hello, Mrs. Smith."  In the beginning she didn't look up very much.  But then one day I said to her, "Hello, Helen," as I knelt in front of her and gently took her hands with their paper-thin skin in mine.  "Can you tell me about your first kiss."  And just like that Helen Smith was no longer forgotten by life in a hopeless nursing home without anyone visiting her.  She was instead on a hayride as a young teenager with a life ripe with promise. 

Oh, there were plenty of other questions like that as well.  It depended who I was talking with.  I knew our job was to take care of their bodies but I was more concerned with their souls, which is saying something since I'm not a religious man. 

Strange as it may seem to some, that's exactly how I looked at Will when he first arrived.  We were his hospice and it was our job to get him ready to die and  I wanted to know about his life so I let him tell me his story in his own way. 

People wonder why I cringe when some refer to Atticus and Will as my babies, children, kids, or fur babies.  I bristle when they refer to me as owner or, worse, master.  Well, it's because I don't see them as a possession. I don't think they are mine.  They belong to themselves and while I may have a responsibility for them, our relationship is a partnership. They are individuals.  It's one of the reasons I don't refer to them as schnauzers, just as I don't refer to my other friends as Black or Jewish or poor or rich or Republican or blue collar.  I don't like the whole breed thing.  It's the limitation of it all.  Atticus is not like another schnauzer or any other dog.  Neither is Will.  Just like you aren't just like any other person.  I like and respect my friends too much to be treat them as anyone else other than who they are and I treat them as I wish to be treated.  There's that Golden Rule again.

I do understand that Atticus and Will are dogs and I'm a human being and we are different from each other in that way, but I prefer to think about what we have in common.  They think and feel and worry and celebrate just as I do.  They are alive and I respect that it's their life to live and not mine and they are not just some ornament to me.  They are as much a partner to me as the woman I love.  I'm not saying this works for anyone else, but it works for me.  Always has and always will.

So when we came back from the vets the other day with Will missing large sections of hair, shaved off to treat swaths of scabby lesions - a sign of something worse working its way out from within - and I thought of the worse case scenario, I was sad for me but happy for him.  No, I'm not happy that he's sixteen and probably won't be around much longer and that he's being tested by something pretty nasty right now.  But after he received his now-daily medicated bath and I dried him off and lay him on his back and rubbed lotion on all the now-bare areas, including sensitive spots under his armpits (I don't think legpits is a word) I had to smile at him. 

He doesn't look much like he did a few days ago because of the weird haircut.  Then again, his body has been changing for the past month in another way.  When he first came here he gained eight pounds and I wanted him to since when he first stood wobbly-legged in the early morning May sunshine he shivered and I wanted him to be more comfortable in case he made it to winter.  I'm not even sure why I thought of that way back then because I didn't think he'd last very long.  But after working hard to put on all that insulating weight, he's lost three pounds in the last four weeks.  That's more than ten percent of his body weight and a sign something is off.

But as I was looking down at him letting me touch him in those sensitive areas while he lay on his back, I thought of how he didn't like being touched much in the beginning and how he tried to bite me whenever I went to pick him up to carry him up or down the stairs to go to the bathroom.  Now it's different.  He's a joy as I bath him and care for him.  He seems almost to help me.  And when he's first out of the tub and wrapped in a towel, then later a blanket, and I lay on one of his beds with him, snaking my arms around him and pulling him close to chase away his shivers, he buries his head under my chin and within minutes he's snoring.

This is what is special about what's happening right now.  Will came here and learned what he had to learn.  He already knew how to eat and sleep and shit and walk (even if it was and is difficult for him).  What he needed to remember was who he is.

I am happy to report that he's Will, an individual. 

Treating him with love and respect and acknowledgment of his journey seems to have worked.  He's now as self-assured as Atticus always has been and that's something else that brings a smile to my face.

Just before Will first arrived here I had a vision of getting him to the top of a mountain for the views.  I didn't care that he was deaf, mostly blind, and arthritic. I would carry him if I had to.  I simply wanted him to experience the joy of a mountaintop, the breeze on his face, taste the fresh air, and feel something so very different than that crate he had been confined in.  But he was in such a bad way that was the last thing on my mind when I met him.  The first thing was wondering how long I should take before I had him put to sleep to end all his pain.  But as you now know from following his story, last October, because of MRW's wonderful suggestion we get a Will Wagon for him to ride in (a backpack was to painful), Atticus led the four of us up Pine Mountain and Will got to be on a summit. 

Yesterday I looked at Will and wondered how much time he has left in his life and I thought about what he loves.  So instead of just sitting around the house writing or paying bills, Atti, Will, and I packed up the car and we took him to the top of Cathedral Ledge by way of the Will Wagon up the auto road.  It didn't matter that I had fallen down the stairs on Monday with Will in my arms. I did my best to protect him during the fall and it worked but I broke my big toe, a finger, bruised a hip, knee, thigh, and gashed my shin, but Will was unscathed.  I still can't get my hiking shoe on because my foot is swollen beyond imagination, or even a sock.  But my Keens work well enough.  And so after popping a few Advil I pushed the Will Wagon up that steep mile-long road while following Atticus.  It wasn't easy and it was painful and by the time we got back home my foot was throbbing.

My foot will heal and I'll never remember the pain.  What I will remember is the way it felt to have Will, once a death row dog, standing straight-legged on a ledge and gazing off into the distance at the mountains.  What I will remember him stumbling over to me and Atticus and how I held him and he sat happily wrapped in my arms under the warm sun and  how he sighed the way I've always heard Atticus sigh when we are together up high checking out a view. 

So yes, there are sad tears, but they are for me, not Will.  He's ready for whatever comes next. He learned to love again and to be loved again. He learned to trust when he had every reason not to.  He learned to be Will again. 

The other afternoon, after I had bathed and rubbed lotion on him, I was on the floor and he walked over to me and nudged me with his nose.  I pet him and he pushed in closer and then dropped with those weak hips in a heap onto the floor and pressed closer to me.  He then lay his head on his paw and rested both of them on my arm and he looked up at me with those cloudy eyes.  So sweet and so far from where he was last May.

Back then we took Will in to give him a place to die with dignity.  Instead he chose to live.  We are fortunate he did.

My friend Will has touched my life and many others and what a gift that is.  What more could I ask of him or for him? 

After years of neglect and abuse I'd like to think he's finally come home. 

Being Boston Strong, My History With The Boston Marathon

This weekend I turn 52-years old.  As a gift to myself I'm
returning to running for the first time in 22 years.

I'm at the tail end of a bad cold and the last thing I wanted to do was climb a mountain.  The first thing, and what I've mostly been doing, is rolling over and going back to sleep. 

Then Monday came.  Not just any Monday but Boston Marathon Monday.

It used to be my favorite day of the year.  As a kid we had it off from school and were charged with excitement because of the early morning reenactment in Lexington and Concord, the morning start of the Red Sox game, and, of course, the marathon itself.  Growing up in the suburbs of Boston only a couple of towns away from Hopkinton and having an older brother who was a great runner who ran in the race when only a teenager and being nurtured on the legends of Johnny Kelly, Tarzan Brown, Clarence DeMar, Johnny Kelly the Younger, Jock Semple, and Katherine Switzer, I couldn't help but be seduced by the drama of the day.  To me these people weren't mere mortals - they were gods capable of superhuman abilities. 

On one of those Patriots Days when I was young I was one of four friends relaxing in the shade on a neighbor's front porch listening to the race and we all made a pledge to run the marathon by the time we were twenty-five.  But those were the days before my legs went bad.  In junior high and high school I spent the better part of two and a half years on crutches.  Four full legs casts immobilized my left knee, one did the same to my right.  There were also two surgeries on the left knee to combat the problems in my legs and when the surgeries were completed the doctor was pleased. 

"You'll be fine.  You'll be able to walk without trouble but don't plan on being any kind of an athlete," he said.

I believed him.  For a while.  But as my teens turned to my early twenties I remembered that front porch pledge we four friends made and I tried running.  It wasn't easy.  As a matter of fact, back then it was always painful.  But I knew pain from those earlier years and I knew I could deal with it so I ran on.  Not far, just enough to say I was running.  Maybe four miles.  I never entered any races but always thought about one.  The one. 

Patriot's Day is the third Monday of every April.  The date floats.  As fate would have it my twenty-fifth birthday fell on the day of the marathon.  With a few months to go I upped my mileage.  Still not very far but I was still running.  Ten days before the race I ran the farthest I'd ever run - 11 miles.  Somehow after that I knew I could do it.  When the day came I lined up with the rest of the "bandits" (unofficial runners) in mass behind the numbered runners who had qualified.  Before even reaching Heartbreak Hill I wanted to stop.  I'd run fifteen miles and I'd had enough.  My head dropped, I put my hands on my hips, and admitted defeat.  Around then I felt a tug on my arm and a fellow said, "Come on, if I can do it, so can you."  I wanted to reach out and slap the man with the voice and tell him about my legs and their troubled past.  When I looked up he was standing next to me looking quite lean and fit and . . . with only one leg.  The other was a prosthetic.  His name was Pat Griskus and on that day he pulled me along with him and we ran several miles together.  Eventually I finished in just under four hours while Pat set a record that day for a runner with a prosthetic. 

I would run Boston for the next four years and graduate to Ironman Triathlons...three of them.  The first was on the Cape, the next two in Sunapee.  All the while I looked as out of place as I have on the mountains.  I was never chiseled and lean.  I had strong legs, a strong heart and lungs, but a double chin.  Those experiences in my late twenties would later fuel my belief in my endurance in these great mountains we hike in.  And once you run Boston it is always in you.  It's part of who you are and will always be.  It made me believe in myself. 

So on Wednesday, with the unthinkable actions of the previous Monday in my head and sunken heart, with the thought of three dead - one an eight year old boy, and legs amputated and other limbs lost, not to mention hopes and innocence lost, I decided that my cold would have to take a back seat while we sought our reality.  We didn't hike too high or too far.  Instead we worked slowly up a steep section that wears me out at my best and I stopped often, coughing and sneezing.  I ached a bit, wore my fatigue like a heavy coat, and took a seat more than I'd like to admit on the way up.  But there on that slow climb I sat sweating, catching my breath, watching spring fight through the last remnants of snow and ice, and heard the birds sing - and I could feel the mountain come to life and me with it.  

 

We climbed to some of our favorite ledges, I lay on my back looking up at the sky and when I was rested I sat up and took a seat next to Atticus who was looking out at distant mountains and down at a nearby lake.  I thought of the life we led back in Newburyport, a forty-minute ride from Boston...a life filled with chaos and the corruption I covered in my newspaper and what now in comparison looks to be a dizzying pace of life and I was thankful for these mountains of my childhood we rediscovered together.  Sitting up there surrounded by nature I said my prayers and everywhere I looked I saw God.

John Muir has a great quote that goes like this: “The gross heathenism of civilization has generally destroyed nature, and poetry, and all that is spiritual.”  I thought about those words and how crazy the world can be and how it seems as though it's getting crazier all the time.  I thought about those who would terrorize us, those who would destroy not just nature, but the nature within us and a totally different thought came to my mind.  When I remember that horrible day I will not remember one person's horrific deed, but the reactions of so many more.  I'll remember that some runners, having run twenty-six miles, decided there was something more important than rest and ran an additional two miles to Mass General Hospital to donate blood.  I'll remember the doctor who ran the marathon and then went to work and operated on some of the victims.  I'll remember the incredible humanity of the first responders who ran toward where the bombs were exploding to help others.  When I think of these things I understood that terrorists will never win - if we don't let them.  Humanity is too strong for that. 

And this is why I climb mountains.  It's for the perspective.  It's for the way it sets my mind straight and helps me see what's most important.  Most importantly nature and the mountains resets my soul.

Life is not about what some would take away; it's about what we put back into it.  it's about possibilities.  Whenever I get tired climbing a mountain I think about my first Boston Marathon and how an amputee stopped to help a full-bodied young man who was ready to give up.  That spirit has stayed with me and always tells me that anything is possible.  It's what makes me and so many others Boston Strong.

Another Great Adventure for Will

Will has decided to stick around for a while...and become a television star.

As of late we’ve been enjoying the bridge between winter and spring by taking several adventurous hikes.  There were trips up Cabot, Moosilauke, three of the southern Presidential peaks, the Moat Range, and even the simple but scenic Boulder Loop Trail.  However, as I as sit here writing this I’m thinking instead of a hike that’s yet to come.

A year ago, in a state without any mountains, an elderly dog – deaf, mostly blind, and arthritic – was dropped off at a kill shelter by the only family he’d ever known.  (They had reportedly grown too old to take care of themselves, never mind the old dog.)  Imagine what that had to feel like for him: to be fifteen with hindered senses and left in a strange, cold, and unfamiliar place far away from home.  Imagine the shock to his system, the fear, the sense of betrayal.  Even worse, imagine the utter hopelessness.  Understandably the little dog was angry and flashed out with his teeth whenever he could.  Sometimes he did it, I’m sure, not out of anger, but because he was in so much physical pain.    

To add insult to injury he was hungry, had been crated for so long he paced in circles and didn’t understand freedom, thought little of stepping in his own feces and often his hips were so weak he’d fall in his urine and didn’t have the strength to get up.  He just lay there suffering in his own waste.

Who would want such a dog?

His prospects for another chance were grim.  When all was darkest, all hope had to seem lost, someone at the shelter with a big heart reached out to the New Jersey Schnauzer Rescue and let them know of this old dog and impending death sentence.  The good people at NJSR swooped in and saved “William”.  But saved him for what, you might ask.  Sure, he would no longer be put to sleep, but what kind of life would he have and who would want to adopt him? 

That’s about the time we were asked to help find him a home.  And we did – ours.  We understood it was only a temporary arrangement.  We were simply giving him a place for the last month or two of his life (if he made it that long), and were affording him the opportunity to die with dignity. 

Before we met him and I realized how bad off he was, I had hopes of getting him up a smaller mountain in hopes that he would get something out of it.  Then I met the poor little wretch and knew that wasn’t going to happen.  He couldn’t walk very far and he was in such pain and had so little trust that whenever I picked him up he tried to bite me.  That very first day I wondered why anyone had bothered to keep him alive. I felt the humane thing would have been to put him out of his misery and I wondered how long it would be before I did that.   

Well, May became June and June turned to July and by this time Will was a bit stronger.  He ate well, slept plenty, and learned to trust my touch.  There were still flashes of rage and I had to be careful how I handled him so he wouldn’t turn on me.  When September rolled around Will surprised us by making it to the autumn and he even appeared to be getting younger. 

When October arrived we reached my original goal, which had seemed absurd that first day.  Will made it to the top of Pine Mountain with the help of a wheeled cart, not unlike a child’s stroller.  We pushed him up the dirt road, up part of the rocky and root-crossed trail, and even carried it in places.  It was a grueling day and you could ask why we did it if this little dog was so far gone, even with the advances he’d made?

The answer is an easy one for me.  I believe in the magic we find here in the White Mountains.  I believe this is a special place and that the mountains are here for anyone…even a little deaf, arthritic, and mostly blind dog with trust issues. 

After I had announced our plans to get him to the top of the mountain there were “dog experts” who questioned my sanity and felt what we were doing was cruel but we did our best to ignore them.  And because we followed our hearts instead of their advice a funny thing happened that day.  When I held Will in my arms as Atticus sat by my side on that flat summit, that once-angry little dog who couldn’t see much of the view reached out and did something he’d never done to me.  He licked my cheek.  A simple kiss.  He then lowered his head against mine and looked out with his cloudy eyes.  And there we stood sharing the view together, just as Atticus and I have stood thousands of times before.

I won’t pretend to know how much he could see and I don’t imagine he could hear any of the bird song or the way the wind sighed in the autumn leaves.  But it was clear that something changed that day.  Will, who had been mending a bit, became even younger.  He grew closer to us and more appreciative.  For the first time he started following us around our apartment and wanted to be included in what we were doing. 

Now I’m sure there could be many reasons for this but my romantic heart likes to think it had something to do with the same magic Atticus and I have felt in the mountains since the first day we climbed Mount Garfield in 2004.  And why not?  You don’t have to see or hear to feel love or magic or the presence of God, no matter which god you worship.  The Abenaki Indians knew this was a special place.  So did the White Mountain Artists who flocked here in the 1800s along with writers like Hawthorne, Thoreau, and Emerson. 

If Will’s story had ended that day it would have been a fitting conclusion to his life and while we would have missed him, we’d have been quite happy for him and for ourselves to have witnessed his redemption.  But it didn't end there.  The unexpected happened.  He lasted through the winter months and now while the snow melts he’s bouncing around, not like the sixteen year old who has several special needs, but like one who understands he’s been given a new lease on life. 

Will can walk, but not very far, and his ears still don’t work, and his eyes can still only see shapes and shadows, but he now loves being held, and I’d like to think he loves this life we’ve given him.  He greets each day with a dance the first thing in the morning – an enthusiastic, twisted, drunken, half-pirouette which often ends with him tumbling over and sprawled out on the floor like baby Bambi on ice.  And yet he gets up, dances again, falls again, and does it all with joy. 

His body may be broken but his heart has grown strong at the broken places.  The little guy is straight out of a Frank Capra movie and is as joyous as George Bailey was at the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” 

Will's become every happy ending we could hope to see.  Except there's one catch.  There doesn’t appear to be an ending in sight. Instead Will is busy writing the next chapter of his life.

Last September, Atticus and I were invited to hike with Willem Lange and the “Windows to the Wild” film crew.  We took them for a five mile hike up Hedgehog and told them a bit about Will and his redemption, which back then was nothing compared to what it is now.  The show aired last week on New Hampshire Public Television and ratings went through the roof while on-line hits were astronomical.  The show’s producer emailed us and asked if we’d like to do it again.  And we are.  But this time we’ll be joined by one more.  This time we’ll be taking Will to another mountaintop by pushing him up in his Will Wagon and they will capture this trek on camera for all time! 

You cannot imagine how much this truly thrills me.  Not only does it prove that no matter how bleak our prospects may seem, no matter how dire and dark and hopeless, there’s always a reason to go on – just as Will has.  It’s a perfect lesson in faith.  To believe in what we can’t see. 

It also pleases me in another way.  Too often there are some who think these great mountains we live in belong only to those with great physical abilities: to the endurance athletes, the fitness fanatics, and the peakbaggers.  But I prefer to see the White Mountains as more universal, just as the Abenaki did, as did the White Mountain Artists and Thoreau, Hawthorne, and Emerson did.  To me they are beyond words and comprehension because of how they make us feel. 

Here in the White Mountains anyone can be inspired and renewed.  It is our own Eden where each woodland trail, sparkling stream, and mountaintop offers us a glimpse into vast but simple mystery of what it means to feel the miraculous and to feel alive again.  And we’re all invited to experience the magic of it all.  Even a sixteen year old mostly blind, completely deaf, once hopeless dog.  If you doubt me, just tune in next autumn when the show airs and see for yourself.    

The Choices Made On One October Hike Continue To Shape My Life

Life is about choices and Will has chosen to live.

We lost a good friend recently.  The cause of death was the past.

When Atticus and I moved north from Newburyport I began my life anew.  Some would say that it wasn’t dire that I make such a drastic change because I had a pretty darn good life as it was, but after seeing what the mountains had to offer and who I was when I was in them I surrendered to our new adventure to see what would come of it.  I sold my newspaper, The Undertoad, said goodbye to many friends I wouldn’t be seeing as much of anymore, and stepped boldly (if not a bit nervously) into my new life. 

I brought only what was necessary, leaving behind many possessions, and I shocked friends by even leaving behind all the copies of The ‘Toad.  More importantly I gave myself permission to leave behind much of the stress, anger, drama, and chaos that used to fill my days. 

On one of the first afternoons Atticus and I lived in our little place just south of Franconia Notch, we set out on an afternoon hike up Cannon Mountain.  It was midweek and we had it all to ourselves.  We reached the summit, sat high atop the tower, and looked down at autumn as she spread herself beneath us everywhere we looked.  Until that day I had mostly hurried up and down every peak we climbed but something changed on that hike.

While we were on top of that viewing tower a smile slowly spread across my face, my eyes crinkled, and with only Atticus and the mountains as my witness I laughed long and hard as if I had just been told a great joke.  My little friend nudged my leg with his nose like he wanted to hear the joke as well.  I lifted him up in my arms and there we stood, slowly looking out in every direction.  His body relaxed into mine and I heard him sigh and then I did, too.  All the while that smile stayed on my face. 

The afternoon sun washed over us and we lay down on the platform, my head resting on my backpack, his on my chest, and took a nap.  I have no idea how long we slept for but when we awakened I was refreshed.  

We took our time walking down the grassy ski slopes and after a while the pine trees gave way to October’s colorful foliage and the sun dropped lower in the sky and eventually behind the mountain.  We were draped in a pleasant late afternoon shade and every now and again I found myself laughing.  How mad I must have sounded to the mountain gods that day – a man breaking out in laughter for no apparent reason. 

Throughout the afternoon we hadn’t seen another person and as we rounded a bend four souls turned their heads to look at us when they heard the laughter. We stopped where we were, Atticus sat by my side, I smiled, and gave the onlookers a wave.  They simply watched us bemusedly, I imagined, but didn’t say a word.  Then again bears don’t talk.      

We had stumbled upon a mother with her three cubs playing in the grass and when it was clear we weren’t a threat they went back to what they were doing.  When it was clear they weren’t a threat I sat down next to Atticus and we watched them frolic and tumble over one another.  Occasionally the mother bear would give us a look but seemed to give us very little thought otherwise.  We must have sat watching them for half an hour on that perfect afternoon. 

It was on that day that I finally understood I had escaped a life that wasn’t bad, but wasn’t the life I was meant to lead.  When that family of bears disappeared into the woods we made our way down the lower stretches of the mountain and I made a promise to myself. 

In spite of what some of the critics of my newspaper would say – or those I exposed, I’m no fool.  I understood then, as I do now, that life throws a lot at us and we can’t escape the ups and downs that challenge us.  We can, however, decide which ones to deal with.  I decided then and there that the only drama I would allow in my life was the kind that was unavoidable.  The real life and death kind.  People get sick or hurt or lose their jobs or their homes.  Life happens and it's not always pretty.  You can't avoid that kind of thing.

 Not long ago the woman I love asked me, “Don’t you worry about anything?” 

“Yes,” I said.  “I worry about you and Atti and Will but that’s about it.” 

On that October day five years ago I swore off negative people and those who didn’t add much to my life so that I could better appreciate those who did.  I let go of much of whatever it was I was angry about from my past and came to the realization I was responsible for carrying it with me all those years.

Bobby Kennedy loved quoting Aeschylus, “And no one was angry enough to speak out.”  The Undertoad was many things and it helped shape a city but part of that came from my being “angry enough to speak out.”  However, its impact came with a cost. 

Each day brought something new to be angry about, people who loved chaos and lies, and I found myself choosing to live in the darker shades of life.  A lot of good came out of it all in the community I loved.  Lies and scoundrels were exposed; heroes celebrated.  But trying to right many wrongs for eleven years in a seething little city took its toll on me.  Nietzsche wrote, “Be careful when you fight monsters, lest you become one.”  At my best I did wonderful things; at my worst I looked into the mirror and saw too much that I didn’t like.

And that’s why I was laughing on Cannon Mountain.  I finally gave myself permission to leave that old life behind.  Like a snake I shed my old skin and I could feel the past dropping away. 

A renewed man was born on that hike and I was free to choose what I wanted to be and do for the rest of my life.  I’d fought my battles and demons outside and in, but the mountains gave me a new chance.  By following Atticus over thousands of miles and hundreds of mountains I discovered my bliss and learned to enjoy life's simpler pleasures.

Since that day I’ve done my best to ignore the unnecessary stresses. The old newspaperman in me can see a toxic person from a mile away and I steer clear of them whenever I get the chance.  In my Undertoad days I was quite outspoken.  If you’ve ever seen me at a book signing you’ll know that part of me still exists, but it comes with a smile these days.  Deep within, however, I reserve my old edginess for those who aren’t so nice and I guard my happiness and those I care about with all I’m worth. 

So recently when a friend who meant a great deal to us repeatedly exhibited that they couldn’t let go of their drama-filled past and actually continued to welcome it into their life in a way that impacted our friendship I made a difficult decision.  I knew I had no right to ask that person to change, so I made the choice to say goodbye.

It’s not easy to lose a friend because lord knows true ones are hard to come by and I didn’t take my decision lightly.  It only came after we had many discussions. 

Not an hour goes by where I am not saddened by the loss of our friend.  But here’s the thing, I don’t question my decision. 
 
Life is too short for the things that don’t and shouldn’t matter.  More importantly we define our lives by the choices we make and the boundaries we keep.

Whenever I’m weary over the loss of our friend something I do several times a day reminds me what’s important and how I should live.  As many of you know, Will cannot make it up and down the stairs on his own and we live on the second floor.  Whenever he has to go to the bathroom I gently hoist him up and we hug each other, his head next to mine, and I carry him outside.  This was something that was impossible and dangerous to do in those first days we were together.  Will had been abandoned and was in great pain. He was angry and came with his own wagonload of drama and I knew to avoid his teeth whenever I tried to pick him up.  Back in May, when he first arrived, he didn’t like being touched all that much or carried and my hands still carry the scars of that first couple of months. 

Today you wouldn’t know he’s the same dog.  Gone is the anger and the pain.  Gone is the resentment and his own share of drama.  He let it go and let love and trust and a new life in. 

So you see, whenever Will is cradled in my arms I’m reminded of the me I saw on Cannon Mountain that October day.  We both arrived here in the White Mountains a bit worse for wear and had to figure out how to get to where we needed to be.  

Life is made up of choices.  I made a choice that day and continue to choose a better life than the one I used to lead.  Since he came to live with us Will has made the same choices and that has made all the difference - in both of our lives.  

A Song of Renewal

 

When I let friends know we were adopting Will, a fifteen year-old with special needs, I heard a lot about the heartache that was sure to follow.  I heard about the vet bills and the way we’d never have the benefit of truly knowing him and we’d only witness his demise without any of the joy that comes from living with an animal.  I heard of the way his last weeks or months (if he lived that long) would be utterly depressing and would drain our home of happiness. 

When Will first arrived I was indeed heartbroken.  For before me stood (barely with shaking legs) an angry, betrayed, neglected, and perhaps even abused dog.  There were many temper tantrums.  There were flashing teeth and threatening growls.  There were the challenges of getting him up and down the stairs without an all-out war breaking out between us because he didn’t always want to be touched and hated being picked up.  And yes, the vet bills came fast and furious right from the beginning, especially when we decided to do something about his rotten teeth.

He was in such a miserable state back in May I wondered why anyone had bothered to keep the poor wretch alive.  I even talked with our vet about how long I should give him and I cursed myself for taking in a dog only to have to put him to sleep. 

I told myself we were simply giving him a place to die in dignity and on his terms.  But it’s now February and March is coming and soon after spring will be here and looking at Will…well, he doesn’t look like he has plans to be going anywhere sometime soon.  He likes his new life, enjoys the luxury of many beds to choose from, and his contented snores fill our little home as happily as healthy food fills his once tiny belly and pumpkin stains his whiskers.  This in itself would be enough to make me happy about the journey we’ve taken with Will.

But there’s more.

What thrills me is that he’s not waning, as I would expect of a sixteen year old who came with rotten teeth, had been crated far too long to be humane, and was clearly neglected through the years.  It’s just the opposite.  He’s entered into a second puppyhood.  He’s become a geriatric puppy where wonders abound on a daily basis for him.

Sure he cannot always see them and he never hears them but he certainly is aware of them, even if at times he slips and falls on his way to getting to them . . . or us. 

And to be honest, that’s the part the delights me most of all – the “or us” part. 

Numerous treats and several beds to choose from in a warm home where he’s free to walk around is one thing, but what makes Will live is what makes us all live.  It’s his heart.  It’s love. 

He’s not just surviving, he’s thriving.  And it’s because of love. Our love for him, his ability to accept it, and now his ability to return it to us. 

In Will’s case the Beatles were right, “All you need is love.” 

After we returned from our hike on Saturday we walked in and there was Will stretched out on his bed.  In the first couple of months we’d return to find him that way and he wouldn’t even know we were back. He’d sleep for another hour or two.  On Saturday though, he lifted his head up immediately, ignored the age in his old bones and the creaky joints, and did his best to run to us and chase after us.  It was a beautiful scene – little happy and excited grunts rising from somewhere in his throat, his front legs kicking up like a horse bucking, his back hips not able to keep up so his leaps turned into half leaps, but with an abandon to them that was nothing less than joyous. 

Remember when you were a kid and you had that nightmare where a monster was chasing after you and no matter how hard you tried or fast you ran they were always right behind you?  You slipped, tripped, and stumbled and all the time they got closer and closer and the anxiety and panic rose in your dream.  With Will, it’s the same thing, only reversed.  All of it.  He’s doing the chasing but there’s no way he can keep up.  He stumbles, he slips, and his back hips just can’t propel him when he chases us.  And best yet, there is no anxiety or panic.  It’s a jubilant dance.

He rumbles after us, his back arching through the slow-motion gallop like an old Slinky and the determination on his face is priceless and through it all he cannot catch us. . . . until we let him and then the old dog who used to growl and show his teeth and nip and bite no longer does any of that.  Instead he pushes his head into us and wants to be pet, wrestled with, hugged, picked up, and carried around.

This has been the greatest gift of all.  For both Will and me.  I’ve not witnessed his demise.  I’ve witnessed his resurrection.  He has risen to new heights with his limited body and limitless capacity for love and renewal.

When I contemplate Will’s last chapter, which he continues to write, I often think of Tennyson’s poem “Ulysses” that ends like this….

“Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

That last line has always been a favorite of mine.  But it’s those last three words in the next to the last line which gives you a clue to why we no longer call him “William”. . . “strong in will. . . “