Our mountaineer

I spent the weekend in New Hampshire and Vermont with the Concordians. On Sunday afternoon, we took a walk on Mt. Kearsarge—up Winslow (1.1 mi.) and down Barlow (1.8 mi.).

Sweet B  made the ascent and descent entirely under her own power.

She loved the open slabs that form the mountain’s peak, and she and daddy
had a go at the fire tower, only to find that the little house on top was
locked. (Don’t know why I have no photos of this exploration, and the top and bottom photos aren’t mine, either. Thanks, A and H.)

Like all kids, B’s idea of mountain walking boils down to surmounting
interesting obstacles. Up and over rather than around. Steep and
leaping instead of gentle and avoiding. 

At one point, H carefully explained
the best route down through some rocks and trees. B blithely ignored it
all, and headed off over some interesting granite. “I kinda like going
my own way,” she remarked over her shoulder. Mmm, yes, we’d already noticed that…and not on a mountain.

All natural and good, I think, though it does call for parental and grandparental self-control and reasonable anticipation of the inevitable literal or figurative misstep. Though B seems to have that covered, too. Early on she danced out ahead of us and tripped. As she got up, she noticed that we were continuing to walk along and chat, so she stood and announced, “When I fall down, everybody must pause.”

So. A four-year-old iconoclast with delusions of grandeur. But charming, charming.


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