Christmas with the littles has come and gone, and the new year now lies latent and watchful with all the things that are meant to be.
We actually had two Christmases this year, as the adult children planned their own plans while the grands relied on their parents’ calendar to observe our dear Savior’s birth.
Finding a day or two when the whole family could be together was tricky, but once we did, it meant that the littlest ones would have to wait days past the 25th to see their uncles (and their uncles’ presents).
In the meantime, I joined them for the bulk of the gifting on Christmas proper and tried to find a day or two to sneak in my final hikes for December.
Waiting continues to challenge me.
December was a rough month for gridding, as weather and schedule conspired at every turn to prevent even the smallest of windows to get out there. I managed to sneak in a Wednesday Washington/Monroe in the waning weeks, though a terrifying slide down the icy slope of Monroe had me spooked.
I can’t explain how I finally came to a stop, yards away from some nasty rocks, but I did. A miracle.
Was I getting careless? I didn’t think so, but where the ever unpredictability of these mountains confronts my desire to finish, there will always be strain.
It seems that the closer I get to the end (only 15/576 left!), the more that anxiety breaks my crust of calm with its insistent nettling. What are the winds? Is the Hillary Step clear of ice? How high is the water? Will my feet survive the cold?
All of these worries came to a head the day after Christmas when I head out for the longest hike of the month, the Bonds, a 22.6 mile round trip. Even toe warmers can’t keep my feet warm, so I shove extra hand warmers down my boots to keep the frostbite away.
I’m zipping along the first three miles of the well-trodden Lincoln death march, optimistic for the day, when I cross the bridge into the Pemigewasset Wilderness and all tracks end: virgin powder as far ahead as I can see. It’s another 8.5 miles to the turnaround on West Bond, and every step will have to be broken out, alone, by me. Sigh.
Hours pass as I blow through podcasts, water crossings, and hidden holes beneath the snow. I lose another water bottle – when will I learn to secure them?! – and gamble that I’ll have enough left in my dwindling supply, or find the dropped one on the way back.
On top of Bondcliff, the drifts hit thigh height in places, each step a quagmire. I seriously consider quitting, waiting another year, saying the heck with it ALL and turning around. I’m too angry to pray, too stubborn to stop. Eight hours after leaving the parking lot, I finally summit West Bond, 1:30 in the afternoon, and snap the only picture of the day, a false smile belying the exhaustion I feel at having to follow my footsteps back to the car.
Back in the woods, more miracles: a woman approaching, tromping down the trail with her snowshoes. We stop to chat and I ask if she’s seen my bottle. No, but she offers me enough of her own water, and I can’t believe her kindness. Later, after crossing one of the streams, I look down and see the top of my errant Nalgene sticking out of the snow. Hurray! I guzzle most of what’s left.
Darkness drops, hours pass. I’m soaked and shivering when I finally reach the car, and not even a hot bath at home can chase away the lingering chill.
I’d love to celebrate, but all day long, I’ve had to force myself to not think of the next day, what looks like the only safe opening left in December, when I’ll need to do Jefferson to Grid out the month.
Jefferson: exposed, wind-whipped, 5, 712′ spiteful spire.
Nothing I can do but give myself a fighting chance. I drape wet gear over radiators, turn up the heat. Open my computer to submit a trip report. I consider writing: Broke out the Bonds. That’s all I have to say about that.
But I feel a duty to this community. I drink in these reports like my first waking hit of joe, and details are critical to someone trying to make an informed decision. It’s after 11 when I collapse into bed.
This wasn’t how I pictured things going when I started Gridding, years ago. I honestly need something to change my perspective, to look ahead with hope and not dread.
I think of the littles as they waited for their presents. Early opening was not allowed, and they returned again and again to the pile beneath the tree to look and long. When the morning finally comes, there are tears as each one jostles to be the next. Some gifts exceed expectations, others most decidedly do not (in their defense, socks).
Are the mountains like that? This crazy Grid? I look and look at the list left, imagine what each peak will be, and am crushed when it turns into torture instead of glee.
One of my favorite Psalms is 126. Perhaps it’s because its subtitle reads ” A Song of Ascent” – what better name for a girl who climbs?
I love Psalm 126 because it attempts to explain that tension between elation and despair:
Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy. Those who go out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with them (Psalm 126:5-6).
A podcast I listen to about this Psalm posits that it’s actually the tears that water the seeds. No sorrow, no sheaves. And this is exactly what happens, that next day, when I wake up and head out with the soreness and suffering of the Bonds behind me.
Jefferson is brilliant. There are people everywhere, a well trod trail, sunshine. It is the best gift of the season, to have conditions as perfect and energy left to spare, to summit with a smile sincere.
Another miracle.
It’s one to keep going, despite those I have left.
Does He not see all my ways, count all my steps? (Job 31:4)
You never know what miracle might lay behind the next turn. A heap of presents, maybe socks. Either way, it’s much too early to quit.
What does 2025 hold? I’m not sure, but it’s likely I haven’t seen the last of tears.
But I’m grateful, confident, that the One who knows will, if I let Him, turn all of them to grain.
walkwithme413 