Wow, it's hard to get back-to-it, whatever "it" happens to be, after a break/pause/vacation. Is this how the kids feel heading back-to-school, where Darling Daughter is heading tomorrow, after summer break?? I can barely recall, though there must be some level of similarity, however microcosmic. Anyway, she (Darling Daughter) and I had a most delightful time Up North, where we engaged in a "NH bonding experience" — that's how DD entered it on my calendar, so I wouldn't forget. The highlight-among-highlights was trekking along a tiny portion of the Appalachian Trail and spending the night in a hut in Franconia Notch, opposite the much-missed Old Man of the Mountain and Cannon, a ski area whose tram and trails (where we've spent many happy past-tense times) were visible across the way. Our chosen path upward — 3 miles and it took us 3 hours, i.e., we were traveling at 1 m.p.h., meaning we're super speedy — was the Falling Waters Trail. Did we tackle it in the counterintuitive direction?? Somehow it seemed easier to climb up all those tumbling granite boulders beside waterfalls than down them. But, once up, following the rocky ridge (Franconia Ridge) for another 3 miles or so as it rolled narrowly-but-clearly along from peak-to-peak and cairn-to-cairn was, well, amazing. Trying to sleep that night on the bottom level of a triple-bunk with strangers snoring (or just breathing loudly) all around and mice scurrying & squeaking & scratching through Darling Daughter's backpack in search of gorp a.k.a. trail mix (who doesn't love trail mix??) was less amazing. Or less pleasurable at that particular moment — though, in hindsight, it was no big deal. In hindsight, it even added to the memorability, as challenges often do, mice being a definite part of the scene. Just as lichens were part of the scene; I've always liked lichens. And butter — yes, butter — carved with a leaf insignia by the croo (not crew, croo) who served us the best best dinner and breakfast at the AMC's Greenleaf Hut was part of the scene. And little white flowers struggling to grow above tree-line — mountain sandwort, I later learned (mention of "sand" reminding me of another familiar habitat); they were part of the scene. And the sunset. Well, the sunset. And the morning glimpse of foggy currents winding among smaller mountains (hills? foothills?) surrounding the one where we were standing, not so unlike the tides flowing in & out along the rocky sea-level coast back home, where we'd be headed, down the trail (being the Old Bridle Path), soon enough ...
