Mountains to the Sea

If ever there was a summer of sticking close to home, this was it. Luckily, we live in a beautiful place, and lots of the things we love to do are accessible right from the front door – or within a short drive. As long and, sometimes, strange as this summer has been, I’m sad to see it end. We’ve packed it as full as we could, with plenty of time in the mountains, numerous dips in the river, lots of backyard soccer, and a welcome – though short – trip to the sea.

July was a month of hiking for us. Between the second day of the month and the second to last, the kids and I stood atop eight of New Hampshire’s tallest mountains. These summits were not the most spectacular we’ve climbed to, nor were most of these hikes among the most scenic we’ve done. But they brought us eight peaks closer to our goal of reaching all of the state’s 48 4,000-footers – an effort that is, for us, a years-long slog.

What made these hikes special was the time on the trail – and on the peaks – spent with friends. Having a trail buddy to talk with during these long, steep days makes a world of difference – for both me and the kids. I count myself lucky to have two good friends who love to hike and whose kids are friends with my kids. We’ve covered a lot of miles together – some happy miles, and some whiny ones – and we have countless shared stories to tell.

Our last hike of July was to North and South Kinsman, with an overnight at Kinsman Pond, which sits along the Appalachian Trail. The Kinsmans are among our “home mountains,” those we can see from the yard or driving through town. They also offer up the best hiking views we’ve had this summer, comprising some of our other home mountains, including the one we ski on all winter.

Standing atop a mountain – whether in the wind and rain, a snowstorm, or on a sunny day – inspires wonder. To be on top of one little piece of the world and look out at a landscape that seems so wild, even though home is just down the valley road – well, it’s a feeling hard to explain. It’s a feeling I love, one that boosts me up, in part by reminding me how small I and my worries of any given day are in the grand scheme of things. I feel similarly about the sea, whose waves and tides seem mysterious, whose reach is unimaginably vast, and whose depths contain unknown wonders.

While our regular trip to Cape Cod was called off this year before we’d even begun to plan it, as August meandered toward September the idea of a summer without even one day at the beach seemed unbearable. So last week, the kids and I packed all the camping gear and the beach towels into the car and headed east toward the Maine coast. We spent a few days in a place we’d never been before – a far cry in many ways from our regular beach neighborhood, with its ice cream shops, familiar busy beaches, and our favorite hotdog stand and lobster roll place.

We jumped in the waves, searched for shells and sea glass, and marveled at entire logs of driftwood sitting faded and smooth along the beach. We soaked up sunshine and salty breezes and dodged exceptionally cheeky seagulls as they tried to snatch our lunch. One morning we walked within a coastal fog to explore mudflats at low tide and search for hermit crabs and sand dollars. It was, quite literally, a breath of fresh (and perfectly salty) air.

The evening the kids and I returned from Maine, our hair filled with sand and sea salt, my husband asked each of us which of two options we’d pick if we had to choose: 1) live in the mountains and visit the ocean, or 2) live near the ocean and visit the mountains. None of us hesitated; we are all, to our cores, mountain people.

Still, it felt good and right to visit the sea, to feel the sand between our toes and the pull of the waves. I’m hoping the summer memories of both – the mountains and the sea – will be enough to sustain us all through whatever this fall might bring. 

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's September 3, 2020 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Window to my world

In our living room there is a large picture window, spanning about a third of the long room. The three-sided window offers a spectacular view of the mountains, sweeping from the Presidentials in the east toward the Franconia and Kinsman ranges in the southeast, and it is this view which most often catches the attention of visitors. For me, though, the window provides a view more dear than the mountains of home.

Through the window, I see the seasons changing, the days turning from sherbet-hued sunrise to alpenglow dusk, my children playing and growing. This is the window to my world.

From the window, I can see the field where my husband and I stood with our friends and family one sunny, late-August day and promised to love, put up with, and celebrate each other the rest of our lives (not in those exact words, but that’s pretty much what marriage vows boil down to).

When my children were babies, I spent countless hours, fuzzy with sleeplessness, rocking and feeding them by the window. From my perch in the giant recliner, I would watch the sun come up as I figured out how to be the mother of newborn twins and, later, another babe. While they dozed, I would gaze out that big window, watching the chickadees flit from bare lilac bushes to bird feeder, busily surviving in late winter, all of us waiting for the brightness and warmth of spring sunshine.

Those babies are nearly 7 now and spend much time by the window and the bench seats below it. They sit at the table there to do their homework, create artwork, watch the snowcats moving up and down the slopes of Cannon Mountain, and look for animals and birds. The chickadees still come to the winter feeder, along with a pair of blue jays and an occasional passing flock of gold finches or cedar waxwings.

In the fall we look out to see bears climbing the apple trees, and peer into the creeping dusk looking for deer. We’ve come to know the deer who frequent our field: the large doe and her not-quite-grown youngster, the young buck with only one spiky horn, a handsome 6-point buck, and an even larger one who appeared only once (that we saw), the day after the long hunting season ended, walking regally through the field, unbothered by the barking dog.

From the window I gaze into the quiet of early morning, before anyone else is awake, looking for the silhouette of mountains to emerge from the darkness, trying to determine what type of day it will be. Red sky in morning? Sailor (or skier, hiker, bicyclist, gardener) take warning. From the window we watch the clouds pushing through Franconia Notch and the moon rise over Lafayette.

I can watch the seasons change through the window, from the intricately bare branches and snow of winter to the pale pink blossoms that fill the apple trees in spring, then the purple burst of summer lupine, the yellows and golds of late summer, fall’s final surge of patchwork color, and back to white again.

From the window I am watching my children grow, from toddlers peddling tricycles to kids building bike jumps out of logs and plywood. From not-quite-2-year-olds shuffling around the driveway on plastic, strap-on skis to daredevils plunging head-first down the snowy hill on sleds. From babies crawling through the grass to builders orchestrating major sandbox excavations.

Our house could be described as “lived in,” with dirt on the floors, toys often scattered through several rooms, and clutter on the tables. The bumped-out spot where the window is may be the most lived-in place of all, the table piled with kids’ homework assignments, my notes, magazines, crayons, laundry to be folded. Not surprisingly, all three wide panes of the window are perpetually smudged with small fingerprints.

The children push their hands against the glass as they look out at the deer and the chickadees, or watch for someone to come down the long driveway – my husband returning home, grandparents stopping in for a visit, friends coming to play. Someday I will watch from the window for them to return from first dates, college semesters, and new lives in other places.

From the outside, the window also provides a glimpse into home. When we return on dark December evenings, we see the twinkling glow of Christmas tree lights. There are often kid creations hanging in the window – cut out paper snowflakes and painted candy canes in winter, flowers and shamrocks as spring approaches, the favorite drawing of the week. When I return home from a solo outing, I see my family through the window, building puzzles, playing games, reading books.

Whichever way I peer through the glass, it is a window to the world my heart holds dear.

Original content by Meghan McCarthyMcPhaul, posted to her Blog: Writings from a Full Life. This column also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the December 27, 2013 edition of the Littleton-Record.