I remember going to the beach– the squawk of the gulls, the smell of the air, seeing the expanse of nothing but water all the way to the horizon and being impressed with that every time. It was somewhere in Rhode Island, occasionally in New Hampshire. We’d load up the station wagon and camp at a state park that was close enough to the ocean to warrant a visit.
I most likely got sunburned. That happened a lot. So, out would come the Noxema when we got home.
I have to say that the mountains get my pick, though. I spent a fair amount of time in New Hampshire every fall during my teen years and beyond, climbing in the White Mountains. I had the opportunity to get to Philmont Scout Ranch, in Cimarron, NM, where we hiked for over a week in the Sangre de Cristo range of the southern Rockies.
After I was out of Boy Scouts, sometime in the Fall, we’d still make it a point to go with my Dad and some guys from the troop and drive to New Hampshire and climb another four thousand footer or higher– Moosilauke, the Franconia Ridge, Osceola, Garfield, Washington. We made three attempts on Washington and got to the summit twice– the weather can be iffy in the Presidental Range, especially on Washington.
There was something about the ascent. It was work, no doubt, some serious exercise. But it was also the comradery, the scenery, the quietness, the often other-worldly views from the summits, where we’d sit and ponder and sometimes eat our lunch. There was a sense of accomplishment, of modest conquest, and an always-deepening appreciation for the size and magnificence of the planet.
At the end of the hikes, sometimes we’d return to a campsite, but in the later years, we’d make the 4-plus hour drive from central Massachusetts, do the hike, and turn around and drive home the same day– always a full day, well spent.
*Daily Writing Prompt
3 Cents' 