For any serious climber, New Hampshire’s Mt. Monadnock isn’t that big of a deal. It’s a day hike, four hours up and three hours down at most. But for me, those hours offered a quiet space to take in what had happened, as well as time to leave it behind—on the steeper, rockier parts of a trail, all you can do is breathe hard and put one foot in front of the other. Looking back, I think I viewed Mt. Monadnock as a symbol: If I got to the top, as I knew I could, that would be a sign I’d be OK. I did, and I am. Every fall since that year, I’ve climbed Mt. Monadnock—sometimes with a friend, sometimes alone. For a few years, I made the ascent with my second husband, Jim. When he died five years ago, I marked my loss once again with a long, hard climb. A walk on the beach is easier on the knees, of course. But here’s the thing about mountains: They present you with a clear and absolute destination—the top. And then another one—the bottom. For me, a mountain is where a person can bring sorrow or celebrate joy. Every time I reach the top again, I remind myself: I am a survivor. Joyce Maynard is the author of the memoir At Home in the World and the novel Labor Day. Her new novel, Count the Ways, is out this month.
