Mt. Pierce
I muse at what causes that tipping point of physical discomfort, past a human threshold of pain to a rather enlightened, removed way of experiencing the surroundings. Numb, yet freeing. My frozen toes simply exist for me to reach the top of Mt. Pierce in the New Hampshire White Mountains rather than distracting me from the blinding white serenity around me. And we’re prepared. Snowshoes, microspikes, warm layers, and snacks. Two young women trudging through the newly fallen snow, onwards and upwards amidst the glacial New England winter.
A few years ago, I read the widely-known story of Christopher McCandless, quirkily self-named Alexander Supertramp, and his fatal journey of personal discovery completely alone in the Alaskan wilderness. In parallel worlds 28 years later, I begin to understand his mindset, both his fond appreciation and combative excitement of being challenged by the earth. The home that presents both sanctuary and difficulty. A double-edged sword that we continuously intertwine with, as we explore our places in this unpredictable entropy of life and space.
Though the trail snow has been fairly packed down, we only see two other groups of hikers coming down as we make our journey up. No other forms of life reveal themselves, besides the occasional winter-defying birds. Though it is all a sea of white, I never get tired of looking at the endless cottoned birches and hemlocks. As we reach the alpine tundra, the trees suddenly disappear. Finally, we see for miles and miles. As the backbone of this land, layers of mountain ridges reach out toward the horizon. The peak feels like entirely undiscovered territory, like we’re polar explorers—Shackleton and Amundsen more than a century later in the heights of the American northeast. Even the air feels like it has never reached another’s lungs.
Sometimes, the most striking solitude is where you feel the most alive.
