There is a small mountain about a 15-minute drive from the house I grew up in called Middle Sugarloaf. It is nestled between Zealand Road, Mt. Hale and the small town of Twin Mountain (be sure to visit The Pizza Pub if you're ever in town, and tell Mark I sent you) in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It is by no means the highest peak around, nor the toughest to climb, nor particularly out of the way. But it has contributed greatly to some of the most important and memorable experiences of my life.
There is still one of those 1970s picture cubes at my mom's house, one side of which shows my dad and me resting on a boulder en route to the rocky, open summit, a smile on both my 4-year-old face and his 30-year-old one. I do not remember much about these early hikes but I am told my parents took me up in a backpack, before I was old enough to walk myself, to experience the joy and serenity (and blueberries) that this hidden gem had to offer.
This was the beginning of what has proved to be a lifelong connection to this little mountain. I have since hiked it dozens of times, including one summer when my friend Kurt and I jogged the mile and a half up for the sunset at least three times a week.
I have often sought out its tranquil vistas and solid granite foundation when I needed to reestablish the foundations of my own life. I have spent many hours on the brink of its precipices, thinking, reflecting, attempting to plumb the mysteries of the universe, questioning what I know and wondering what I might be able to know. I am fairly confident that the spirituality and sublimity of this place was a large contributor to my becoming a philosophy major in college, a pursuit which I still find deeply rewarding.
In both high school and college, any young woman I was dating was required to make the sunset sojourn with me at least once if the relationship had any chance of continuing.
The most memorable of these female-accompanied hikes would have to be when my then-future wife consented to hike up with me at two in the morning with no flashlights, under cloudy, moonless skies. The only thing she could see as she bravely followed me up the trail I knew by heart was the whites of my running sneakers a few feet ahead of her. She did not even balk when I casually called back from the blackness, "If we happen to see or hear a bear, just don't run. It can trigger the animal's chase response. Stay behind me and we should be able to scare it off."
We were just friends at that point, but I think the trust she displayed in me that night gave both of us a hint that we belonged together. Seven years later we returned for the sunset with 30 of our closest family and friends, in celebration of our wedding earlier that afternoon.
We have a photograph, taken by a friend, of me standing on a boulder overlooking the valley on the familiar summit, my arms spread in supplication to the early October sunset. I can still feel the cool breeze on my face and smell the granite and stunted pines that surrounded me. The photo is enlarged to about 30 inches by 18 inches and sits above our bed in silent testament to that mountain's sacred place in my (and now our) life.
I truly believe that this little mountain helped me to become the man I am today. This is why we need to preserve wild places, why parents need to encourage their children to explore the natural world around them. You just never know when a little hike might turn into a life-altering and life-affirming event. May you all find a little Sugarloaf in your own lives.
