I saw Dad sitting next to the piano in the nursing home dining room. At first glance, he looked like my dear, old dad, with a fresh shave, recent haircut, and wearing his favorite blue plaid shirt.
I stooped down and gave him a hearty bear hug. As he kissed my cheek, he squeezed me with his strong right arm, his paralyzed left arm and wrist contorted in permanent flexion. With his muscles long ago atrophied in his motionless left leg, he was unable to walk, even stand.
Was this truly Frank Dearborn, the vigorous man who skied with me through snowy Vermont woods, hit scorching forehands on the tennis court, and threw long bombs for touchdowns on the football field?
Was this my adventurous father who hiked the highest mountain in the Northeast and braved whiteout conditions with Mom and me?
* * *
I thought back to that day when Dad, Mom, and I hauled ourselves up yet another steep section of the Lion Head Trail in the White Mountains, using sturdy roots for handholds. Cooler air and breezes refreshed us.
“It's the middle of July!” Mom said to me. “I can't believe there's that much snow and ice here.”
“Well, this is Mount Washington, Mom - it's another world up here.”
At least we were within sight of the impressive ravine. My ruddy-complexioned dad sat there in awe of our surroundings, a model of pure contentedness. In his royal blue shirt, navy blue Milford Track baseball cap with matching navy socks, he was a strikingly handsome man of the mountains.
Dad and Mom had first hiked Mount Washington 44 years earlier, a few months after I was born. At ages 69 and 68, they stayed strong and lean, even fitter than they were in their earliest hiking days.
“Mom, over here, hang on to this knob,” I suggested to my mother.
“I need longer legs for this!” she lamented.
She always wished she had longer legs, and here is where being taller than 5 feet, 2 inches would have helped. Yet my feisty mother didn't let her short stature keep her from scaling the rock slabs and scampering up steep, slippery gullies. Rugged calf muscles set off her well-toned legs, which propelled her steadily up any incline.
I looked down the slope to see her bobbing head of gray, perfectly permed hair, red bandana in one hand, and two-water-bottle fanny pack around her waist. She thrived in the mountains, and she was free of worries and easy to be with.
We had more than 4,000 feet of elevation to gain from Pinkham Notch, where we had spent the previous night at the Joe Dodge Lodge and enjoyed a sumptuous family-style dinner feast. Dad happily swapped stories with six enthusiastic hikers from Georgia and North Carolina.
At 6:30, we had loaded up at the Pinkham Notch breakfast buffet and started up the mountain to reach the 6,288-foot-high summit of Mount Washington. We had reservations at Lakes of the Clouds Hut, a 90-bunk Appalachian Mountain Club facility situated on a 5,000-foot shelf near the foot of Mount Monroe.
“I wouldn't be doing this if you weren't with us, Donna,” Mom added, revealing confidence in me, her Outward Bound instructor daughter. Besides, Mom and I had had an understanding for a long time - I would carry her sleeping bag and extra clothes if she would continue to go on overnight outings.
“I'm glad we can do this!” I added. I had the perfect window of opportunity between Outward Bound courses, the chance to have an adventure with my most faithful hiking partners.
“This is a good spot to put on another layer,” I suggested, as we reached the Alpine Garden, winds whipping and temperature dropping. We donned our windbreakers.
Respecting the unforgiving nature of this mountain, we had filled our packs with extra clothes, food, and emergency gear: whistles, headlamps, matches, a lighter, Swiss army knife, an Ensolite pad, space blanket, and a first-aid kit easily accessible.
“Did you notice what they were wearing, Dad?” I whispered, after we passed a couple in cotton T-shirts and sandals.
“Yes, can you believe it?”
We passed many hikers who were not prepared with proper clothing and footwear, as many people flock to the White Mountains with the solitary goal of climbing the prestigious highest peak, vastly underestimating the strenuous nature of the climb.
Later, a father hunched over his shivering daughter, whose hiking boot had broken apart. With my roll of tape, he cinched her boot together so she could resume the climb and get warm.
Straight ahead loomed the ominous sign, a reminder that many hikers have died on Mount Washington, perhaps victims of the unpredictable changes in temperature, wind, or precipitation that are commonplace on this mountain.
“Stop,” the sign warns. “The area ahead has the worst weather in America. Many have died there from exposure. Even in the summer. Turn back now if the weather is bad.”
We didn't have to turn back, for we could see for miles on this unusually clear day, enabling us to identify some of the other peaks of the Presidential Range: Madison, Adams, Jefferson and (one of our favorites) Eisenhower.
“We're almost there!” I shouted.
We carefully made our way over false summits and loose rocks until we reached the summit.
“Five hours - that's not too bad,” Dad said.
Even though we had been to the summit numerous times, it remained a thrill to climb the tallest peak in the Northeast, where the highest wind speed in the world, 231 miles per hour, was recorded in 1934.
* * *
We stepped from the rugged rocky trail and peered out from under our windbreaker hoods to see a sharp contrast to our world of the previous five hours.
The summit held buildings, cars, kids in strollers, women in high heels, and license plates from all over the country.
“It's crazy, isn't it?” Dad said. “We sweated and climbed for five hours, and these people just drove up.”
Leaving the summit pandemonium behind, we followed giant rock cairns 1.4 miles south on the renowned Crawford Path, passing hikers going in all directions on the extensive network of trails on the flank of Mount Washington.
Thick, gray clouds suddenly filled the sky, just as we reached the hut. We gladly set down our packs as we gained protection from the imminent storm.
“I'll go check us in,” I said.
After I confirmed our reservation, I hurried into one of the bunkrooms to claim the coveted, easy-access bottom bunks for both Mom and Dad. Triple bunks reached to the ceiling.
Heavy rain and high winds soon battered the hut. Hikers continued to burst through the doorway until the hut's capacity of 90 was reached.
Consistent with the unpredictability of Mount Washington weather, the storm dissipated. We were able to go back outside and explore the alpine environment of lakes, fragile plants, and rock outcrops.
Dad enjoyed conversing with many fascinating people, especially a friendly, older man from Rhode Island who had taken 13 teenage kids for a weeklong trip. A shy mother, there with her young daughter and a friend, had never looked out upon such a spectacular scene. Experienced and well-equipped hikers shared the bunkrooms with novices on their very first hut trip.
The skies cleared, enabling us to see 100 miles west into Vermont and New York. Dad, Mom, and I lingered outside the hut, captivated by the views and brilliant setting sun.
* * *
In the morning, we awoke to yet another weather change: winds of more than 50 miles per hour pummeling the hut. Completely socked in with clouds, visibility was 5 feet at best, the exact opposite of the clear skies we observed when we went to bed.
We decided to wait for the 8 a.m. weather report from the summit observatory and carefully consider our options. Unfortunately, the report only confirmed what we already knew, plus the dismal forecast that no immediate improvement in the weather was predicted.
We talked over our options, my parents a stark contrast in personality and style.
Dad was ready to sit at the table, sip hot chocolate, observe the weather a bit longer, and go through our options one more time. Mom paced nervously, anxious about the harsh conditions awaiting us.
I felt immense responsibility.
“Are you comfortable heading down?” I asked them.
“We're ready - whatever you think is best,” Dad confirmed their complete faith in me.
“Let's go,” said Mom, halfway to the door already and glad to finally be under way.
Even though it was the middle of the summer, we dressed for winter in our warm hats and gloves with a rugged windproof shell covering two layers beneath it. Inching east from cairn to cairn into the pea-soup fog and clouds, within seconds we could no longer see the hut. The visibility was 2 to 3 feet at best.
The severity of the situation hit me. We were three little bundled-up, huddled souls in a sea of uniform gray, surrounded by clouds, fog, and gray orthoclase granite.
I relied solely on compass and map to navigate us. We walked hunched over, closer to the ground so we could brace ourselves against the wind gusts and hang on to a cairn or rock outcrop for balance.
I turned around and couldn't see my mother, who was last in line behind my father. I felt a chill race down my spine.
She liked to be last in line, so she could feel comfortable walking her own pace. This day, I wanted us in a compact column, close enough to be able to reach out and touch one another at any time.
“Mom!” I shouted. It was difficult to hear words amidst the deafening wind blasts.
“I'm here,” came the faint reply.
“Mom, I'm putting this whistle around your neck. Blow it immediately, loudly if you can't see Dad.”
I took frequent bearings using the map and compass to ensure that we were heading the right direction. They could see that even I was challenged to the utmost. Another gust of wind nearly blew us flat. Mom was silent. My usually talkative dad was subdued.
I knew my mother was still there when I heard her say, “This feels like an Outward Bound course!”
I took Mom's words as a signal that she felt out of her comfort zone, that place we encourage Outward Bound students to venture into, just beyond the familiar and comfortable in order to be challenged and grow. Mom's idea of fun was to avoid survival mode.
Dad tended to get cold easily, so I kept a close eye on him and made sure he wasn't shivering. It was imperative that we stay together, look after one another, and quickly navigate to lower elevations.
This experience was beyond an Outward Bound challenge, for there was much more at stake. These were my parents, my treasured parents who put their complete trust in me.
Three fuzzy forms appeared in the distance, like apparitions moving toward us. Three young kids garbed in skimpy, cotton street clothes made their way to the summit, without packs, extra clothes, or food.
Disappearing before we could even say a word, they seemed determined, foolhardy, and oblivious to the dangerous and potentially life-threatening conditions ahead.
We immediately focused back on our own task, plodding steadily down Mount Washington, which was certainly living up to its reputation.
“Here's the Davis Path! We're doing well!” I said. “Are you warm enough Mom, Dad? Are you okay?”
Our threesome rejoiced at each junction with a trail sign, relieved we were on our way to lower elevations. Eventually, the Davis Path led us to the prominent rock outcrop, Boott Spur. Careful to avoid the edge of Hanging Cliff, we steadily dropped to the Boott Spur Link.
Not until we had descended to an elevation of nearly 4,300 feet at Split Rock did we finally dip below the ferocious cloud cap and extricate ourselves from the scary windblown environment.
“Can you believe it's this clear and sunny down here?” I asked, ecstatic in relief.
What a sharp contrast as we crossed over the dividing line between the stormy summit above and the green valleys of Shangri-La below. Smiles replaced solemn, serious looks.
“That was really something. It's good to finally sit down and take a break,” Dad said, in his typical understated way. He was starting to relax, yet was still shaken by the intensity of our ordeal.
“Well, you always wanted to stay at Lakes of the Clouds Hut. We did it,” I said. “That's not quite how you envisioned it. You never know what will happen in the White Mountains.”
For the previous two hours we had not been able to stop or relax, so we sat on the Split Rock promontory and let the tension flow out of our muscles.
The three of us drank water, snacked, and savored distant views for the first time that day, relieved and grateful.
* * *
I looked back at the man across from me who couldn't possibly be my father. But his plastic wrist bracelet - “Frank Dearborn 107-1 Shafer” - confirmed that he was. Like a statistic, a prisoner.
It seemed as if he'd been sitting in a wheelchair forever, two years feeling like an eternity. Could this be the same man who had counseled and mentored me, the charismatic leader and expert communicator who had a special touch with people?
My weekly Sunday visits brought to mind our letter-writing tradition that we'd started when I went away to college and continued for more than 30 years - every Sunday - no matter where we were or what we were doing.
I always looked forward to Dad's Sunday epistles. I write your letter, he penned, as a matter of priority instead of waiting until I have time, for I don't usually have much time and you - yes, you - are prime priority, like the State of the Union message. Or: Just a few thoughts this morning for our talented, creative, energetic daughter. We love you and are proud of you. If you weren't our daughter, we'd adopt you.
I took his right hand, the one that wasn't paralyzed, and squeezed it.
“Dad,” I said again. “I brought you two clippings from one of your old letters to me.”
He turned his eyes to meet mine and squeezed my hand back. After a few long minutes, he said my name, which he seemed to retrieve from somewhere deep inside. Even though he didn't talk much these days, he never failed to know who I was.
As a recreation director and in retirement, he'd been always on the go: walking, hiking, exploring, playing, traveling, loving life and all it had to offer.
Was this what life had to offer?