Up a national guard unit and asked them to send a

up a National Guard Unit and asked them to send a helicopter to airlift him off Mount
Katahdin because he was tired. On Mount Washington, meanwhile, "two very demanding
women," according to an official there, called the mountain patrol HQ and said they
couldn't manage the last mile and a half to the summit even though there were still four
hours of daylight left. They asked for a rescue team to come and carry them back to their
car. The request was refused. A few minutes later, they called again and demanded in
that case that a rescue team bring them some flashlights. That request was refused also.
A few days later, another hiker called and requested a helicopter because he was a day
behind schedule and was afraid he would miss an important business meeting. The article
also described several people who had got lost with satellite navigation devices. They
were able to report their positions as 36.2 degrees north by 17.48 degrees west or
whatever but unfortunately didn't have the faintest idea what that meant, as they hadn't
brought maps or compasses or, evidently, brains. My new friend on Stratton, I believe,

could have joined their club. I asked him whether he felt it was safe for me to make a
descent with solar radiation showing 18.574.
"Oh, yeah," he said quite earnestly. "Solar radiationwise, today is very low risk."
"Thank goodness," I said, quite earnestly, too, and took my leave of him and the
mountain.
And so I proceeded across Vermont in a series of pleasant day hikes, without anything
electronic but with some very nice packed lunches that my wife made for me each night
before retiring and left on the top shelf in the fridge. Despite my earlier vow not to hike
with the car, I found it rather suited me here--indeed, completely suited me. I could hike
all day and be home for dinner. I could sleep in my own bed and each day set off in
clean, dry clothes and with a fresh packed lunch. It was nearly perfect.
And so for a happy three weeks I commuted to the mountains. Each morning I would
rise at dawn, put my lunch in my pack, and drive over the Connecticut River to Vermont. I
would park the car and walk up a big mountain or across a series of rolling green hills. At
some point in the day when it pleased me, usually about 11:00 A.M., I would sit on a rock
or a log, take out my packed lunch, and examine the contents. I would go, as
appropriate, "Peanut butter cookies! My favorite!" or "Oh, hum, luncheon meat again,"
and eat in a zestful chewy silence, thinking of all the mountaintops I had sat on with Katz
where we would have killed for this. Then I would pack up everything very neatly, drop it
in my pack, and hike again till it was time to clock off and go home. And so passed late
June and the first part of July.
I did Stratton Mountain and Bromley Mountain, Prospect Rock and Spruce Peak, Baker
Peak and Griffith Lake, White Rocks Mountain, Button Hill, Killington Peak, Gifford Woods
State Park, Quimby Mountain, Thistle Hill, and finally concluded with a gentle eleven-mile