The One in Which I Explain Why You Should Respect the "White Hills" and my Father

Warning: This is a part rambling post about my memories in the White Mountains and (hopefully) a little somethin'-somethin' to take away and think about...

Hopefully, this map gives you an idea about what I'm talking about....

Many, many years ago, my father was introduced to The White Mountains of New England, and then he passed that tradition on to us. We all have places that we immediately associate with our own families. "The Whites" was one of ours. My father initially took the whole family up there, but my sister was at an age and disposition to say, "Thanks, but no thanks."  and many of you may not know this, but my mother also had a brain tumor a long time ago - an acoustic neuroma - benign/non-cancerous - but it left her deaf in one ear and her balance slightly impaired. I just remember her on one early hiking trip, frustrated by trying to walk along muddy trails with railroad ties to avoid the mud and her thinking, "This is not my bag, baby." Also, she prefers to shop at outlets than hike. There's that, too. <--- Warning: this is my perspective, so my sister and/or my mom may have 'nother idea about this. You'd have ask them.

But my brother, father, and I continued to visit The Whites throughout the years. And if I had his original, annotated White Mountain Guide, circa ...let's just say, "Very outdated and OLD"[...one of the mountains has changed names, for goodness sake!], we could look up every trip we took and every peak we "bagged". Or use my brother's state-of-the-art Excel spreadsheet...but I have neither of those, I have to go with my brain-cancery brain, so there's bound to be some inaccuracies. Whoops.

Once early on, when I was [I'm guessing, but I'm probably not far off the mark...] 8 or 9 years old? - which would have made my brother the ripe old age of 10, my father planned a trip for the three of us to traverse and stay at all the high huts in the Appalachian Mountain Club. There are eight of them, total. Some of them higher than others, but we planned to include many summits along the way. I believe I carried most of my own gear - which is not particularly heroic if you are staying in hut at night with hot meals for breakfast/dinner, potable water to refill bottles, and you had no intention of showering/bathing the entire time. I don't imagine my ~8 year old self was too worried about hygiene at that time. I did brush my teeth daily, Mom! Promise! (as far as I can remember...oh, shit. probably not.)

I didn't know (I was far too young) that this was probably a very unusual idea with such small children, and perhaps not the most sensible idea. for the average father, I think "sensible" or "average" wouldn't be the first few words that leaped to mind when people described my  father's parenting ideas. I would apologize to my dad, too, but I think he would probably take that as a compliment.

Some Context:
For nature/geography-familiar Californians, The Whites Mountains would be called Hills. The highest peak east of the Mississippi is Mt. Washington at 6, 288 ft. (1,917 m), but what they make up for in height, is very unpredictable - sometimes deadly weather. Until recently, Mt. Washington Observatory held the highest wind recorded in the 20th century at 231 mph. If you follow the trajectory on the basic map above, you can see that part our plans were to go over Mt. Washington and stay in Lakes of the Clouds Hut, which at 5,050 ft., is still well-above tree line. The ascent to Mt. Washington is notoriously rocky, with blazes on white rocks that are much too far apart to see if clouds move in - which is often. The weather on the rocks is incredibly erratic, and there are crosses left behind to mark places where hikers have lost their way in a freak snow storm. 150 people have died on Mt. Washington since 1849. (Google that shit. I'm not making it up!)
Lesson Here: Respect the "White Hills MOUNTAINS".

Brother John clambering up the last little bit of the ascent, 2014.  Brother & Sister use poles. I have to learn how to use them!

The White Mountains disappeared from my repertoire for a good long while. I went off to college, and about 26 years ago, Steven and I went on a trip with my father and brother, and we got engaged driving home from New Hampshire! Then we moved to CA, and I don't think Steven had been back there since. Several years ago, the "siblings" had the honor to start regularly hiking again with my father for Father's Day. Mostly because my father did everything it took to make it happen - paying for plane tickets and making the reservations and paying for stays in the huts for all of us. (by the way, the huts used to cost a pittance. Now, they're like a four star hotel. in a decent city.)

He WILLED that to happen because he loves it, and he wants it to happen, and he makes it happen. At first, I didn't join them, because I thought I couldn't leave my young family for that long. But as they got older, I joined in again. Guess what? We all had gotten older. And it wasn't as easy for my father to ascent to the highest huts. So, we adapted.

Two years ago, I summitted Mt. Washington like a billy goat, scrambling up the rocks with energy to spare. I was training for half marathons at the time, so it's not so surprising. My father took a shuttle up to the summit and descended to meet us at the Lakes of the Clouds Hut, which is still as rocky, by the way.

My seestor and me on the summit of Mt. Washington. 

We had some harrowing experiences as a result of underestimating the Whites and overestimating our collective capabilities. In addition to my triumphant ascent of Mt. Washington, my father arrived at the hut mostly unscathed. (I always say the downhill is actually harder than the uphill, especially on rocky terrain. And 50-year old knees.) The good news: We beat a storm in. We waited a day for the storm to pass, staying an extra day at Lakes (adapt!) and when it didn't, we attempted the next leg to the next hut. (Kiddies: Always have a Plan B in these sorts of situations.) After a couple of hours on a ridge trail, above treeline, being blown sideways by gale force winds and being pummeled by heavy rain, we went with Plan B : go down the next trail that lead off the ledge and get the hell below tree line. It's still a long way downill in slick conditions -  from 5,000+feet and the rain was creating unexpected, rushing water that created tricky crossings on the trail (adapt!). We emerged from the trail-head after dark, after something like 17 hours of hiking?!?! I'm sorry for repeating, but I have to remind you at this point that my father is 75 fuckin' years old. [So glad to say that in the present tense because that was some scary shit.] 

So, we continue to adapt. I've had this trip on my Goal Board for months. With memories of last year's trip still seared into my mind, I thought about a week in July with Steven and my family in The Whites. Could I do it? I have been walking 3 miles up The Hill everyday. But the Hill is paved, and I don't carry anything but an emergency card/meds/and a waterbottle. Thanks for radiation, I've a lost of my muscle tone. My legs look a little like chicken legs - ME. Miss Humungous-leg-muscles-my-whole-life. My arms? Let's not even talk about it.

The week we had planned was perfect - the week and 1/2 after chemo. I felt good. I learn each time I travel more and more how to adapt to living with my disease. Carrying plenty of water and fuel. We planned to stay in one "somewhat higher hut", Zealand Falls, and the rest of time at Highland Center, a "Low Lodge", that conveniently allowed my mother to join us.

As it turned out, the Weather Gods were kind to us, and we had a fabulous time. My Schmoopy AKA Cabana AKA Mule carried my extra water, my sleeping bag, and rain gear to enable me to participate with almost no glitches.  Okay, True confession:  There was this one time when we approaching the falls, and they have little side trails for you to "peek". I lead Steven down one of those and was so distracted, I slipped on a large, slippery branch. Schmoopy (being Schmoopy) reached out his hand instinctively to save me, and I reached out (instinctively) to grab him...unfortunately, our packs adjusted the weight in the wrong direction and down we went. I fell on my coxic bone directly on that branch  - Sorry for no fairy tale ending (<groan> bad pun), and Steven was a little scraped up, too.... . We have no actual footage of the incident, so we reenacted it for you:

June: Ohhhh, Noooo!  Steven: I'll save you! P.S. My ass still hurts from that.

A highlight of the trip was having my mother also join us for a little romp through nature. We found a lovely river to splash around in enjoy the beauty around us.

I love that we're getting my mom out from behind the camera and pictures of all of us together!

So, I knew this post was going to get out-of-hand, and a little too travel-loguey. Too many great pictures. So, sue me. Hint: this is FREE.

As I've said in most of my posts recently, I've been thinking about the legacy we all leave. I could say, my father has definitely passed along to me and my siblings the love of the outdoors, but that's not all that I want to capture here. My father loves hiking. And he's going to keep doing it as long as he can, even if it means adapting to new situations. He's a role model for me as I navigate to figure how to live as the New June. So, I can't carry all of my gear and traverse a 8 high hut hike. Is that what matters?

I can you hear saying it, nay, yelling it at your screens, "Hell, NO!" What matters is that I got to spend a week doing something that I love with my family. Whatever your equivalent is - whatever is standing in your way of doing what you "used to love". One word for you: Adaptation.

Right, Dad? <imaginary high five with my father!>

Lesson Here: Respect My Father

See ya' on the trails!