A Hike to Remember
This past weekend, Lily and I did something that I’ll remember for a long time — we hiked up to the AMC Hut at Lonesome Lake and spent the night.
It was special for a lot of reasons. It was Lily’s first overnight backpacking trip, and my first with either of my kids. It was also the hut’s last night of the staffed season; a unique moment when fall is burning down to its embers, the hut and staff are a little raw and wanting from a long and busy season, and you can feel the world around you exhaling. The air was crisp but not entirely unkind, the sky a perfect late-October blue with some cirrus clouds wisping around way up high (there was a cloud chart in the main hut). We somehow lucked out and snuck in between a deep frost the night before and a stormy low the following day. And, as if to mark the occasion in her own way, Lily lost a tooth at dinner.
The hike itself was exactly what you’d hope for: two miles of “moderate” New Hampshire hiking and a thousand foot elevation gain. Enough effort to make us earn it, but not so much that it broke the spell. We began our journey late-morning, with puffy jackets and a little bit of nervous energy, but spirits high. By the time we reached the lake a couple hours later, the sun was way up in the clear sky, the lake was calm and quiet, and we were glad to settle into our new temporary home.
Without cell service and with nothing to do but explore and read, the world shrank back down to a manageable size. I hadn’t realized just how large and noisy my own head had gotten — how much constant motion I’d been maintaining through screens and work and side projects — until that noise fell away. I pride myself on being relatively outdoorsy and disconnected, so was surprised and honestly embarrassed at how challenging the disconnect was to internally reconcile. I spend most days actively working on one thing or another: fixing the house, running the business, pursuing side projects (like this one), solving problems, cooking, playing with the kids, etc. etc. But when evening comes, instead of resting, I just swap one kind of work for another — tinkering with new ideas, scrolling, reading the news, studying, producing, consuming — all the way up until the literal moment I fall asleep.
Up there, with no signal and no distractions, it hit me how deeply that rhythm has eroded my ability to process. I make progress every day, and am more or less on top of the scope I need to be, but I think I’m keeping myself from processing it all emotionally, if you know what I mean, The thoughts I’ve been too busy to face finally caught up. The quiet made space for them. It was uncomfortable — the kind of stillness that feels like you forgot to do something important — but it was necessary. It took a loooooong time to fall asleep.
I want to stick with it. I want to block out a couple of hours before bed every single day to just sit with my thoughts and come to terms with whatever it is that needs my emotional attention. I also know myself well enough to know that change will be easier said than done. I’ll fall back into old habits, guaranteed. But I came down from that mountain with a clearer sense of how I want to live. I don’t want my mind to be a browser with twenty tabs open at all times. I want to make room for silence again. Back when I was a kid, I sent myself to Maine Maritime Academy not because I dreamed of a life at sea (though I did like boats), but because the school had a random drug testing policy, and I knew I needed that kind of structure to quit hanging out on Oahu’s beaches getting stoned and surfing waves every day. So I did. And it worked. I am capable of forcing change on myself and do it regularly, but per usual I’ll have to build some parameters to make sure I follow my own rules.
As for the hut — it was magic. The AMC crew were absolute pros: four women in their twenties and a retired volunteer, running the show with a mix of grace, humor, and a healthy dose of true grit. They cooked up a full Thanksgiving-style turkey dinner for thirty-one hikers, complete with homemade dessert. They served it in costume, performed skits between courses, and somehow managed to keep the dishes clean while doing it all.
At sunrise, they woke us up at 6:30 by singing a ridiculous wakeup call outside our bunkhouse, voices carrying through the cold air, calling us to breakfast. It was one of those rare environments where everyone — from the crew to the hikers to the kids — seemed to drop their guard a little. Maybe it was the altitude, or the communal tables, or just the knowledge that this was their last night together before heading back down to the rest of the world. Whatever it was, the feeling lingered.
When Lily and I hiked down the next morning, the forest was quiet except for the wind in the birches. She talked the whole way down — about the songs, the food, the tooth, the bunk beds, the crew. By the time we were close to the trailhead, it was clear that she and I had both found something important up there.
