Over twenty years ago, I found an old photo in a junk store of a mountain in northern New Hampshire that haunted me instantly. Its name was Mount Chocorua (Chock-O-rua) and it was located near a small village called Tamworth in the southern White Mountains. One of the reasons I was drawn to it so ardently was its shape and the way its stone peak abruptly rose up from its lower slopes. The picture struck me so, that in the very same week, I painted a small oil sketch envisioning how it might look in color. I don't know who owns that sketch today, but I still have a slide dated '78. It's kind of spooky because I made up the lake and everything around it. I also remember promising myself that I would climb the mountain one day. I've been to that part of the state about five times since my discovery and I've always kept an eye peeled in the hope of catching a glimpse of Chocorua. Because of weather or darkness, it never happened. The photo has always been a fixture in my studio and a source of mystery and visual inspiration.

My wife Linda and I have had a demanding year and we were very eager to get away. We had to cancel a fall trip to Santa Fe because of a family illness and it looked impossible to find time when both of us were uncommitted. My birthday was coming up and our simultaneous revelation that it had been four years since our last vacation came when we remembered celebrating my birth in Florence at a five star restaurant in 1995.

In early October, I was matting a print in the studio when my eye focused on that old photo of Chocorua and it suddenly dawned on me that I had never searched the web for information on the place. The results of my search were scant. I did find out that the mountain was named after a local Native-American chief who had been chased up to the summit and mortally wounded by settlers. Before leaping to his final reward, Chief Chocorua placed a curse on the white men. I was intrigued, so I tried another search engine and found http://www.hike-nh.com/trips/chocorua/chocorua.html - a hiker's account of his climb up the mountain in early spring. In it I found: "The White Mountain Guide says this about Chocorua: "Although Chocorua is relatively low compared to other major White Mountain peaks, its trail heads are also located at low elevations, resulting in a substantial amount of elevation gain that makes Chocorua as strenuous a trip as many much higher peaks."

Next, I started looking for Bed & Breakfast/Inns in that area to see how near we might get to an actual trail head. There was only one place that fit the criteria which I found in an out-of-print travel book that Linda had picked up at a tag sale. Things seem to get eerily coincidental and effortless at this point. The B&B was called Stafford's In The Field and I found myself impetuously phoning to see if they were still in business. A somewhat reticent speaker answered, and the voice, I found out latter belonged to Ramona, the owner and gourmet cook featured in the brief description of the inn. She had a vacancy because it was past peak foliage, so I made the reservations with the eagerness of a prison escapee. I then called Linda at work and informed her of my birthday wish and to find out if she could blow out five days from her work load. Of course I raved about the B&B and said nothing about the strenuous climb up the mountain. (After many years of marriage, it is essential to learn what NOT to say.) She rearranged her obligations and the trip was on.

We arrived in Tamworth in late afternoon on a road that circled the mountain. We came upon a lovely old farm house with a meadow that offered us our first view of Chocorua. We stopped to take a picture and were both dumbfounded by its magnificence - all we could do was look at each other and grin - words were useless. (Before we left, I dug up an early postcard with a view of the mountain from "The Pines." I had planned to bring it with us, but forgot it in the rush to leave.) To my amazement, I now see that the postcard matched my own photo, almost exactly.) We continued on to a dirt road with a sign that read Stafford's and the same look of astonishment swept over us when we saw how picturesque and pristine was the inn's setting. Ramona, who looked like a benevolent queen to a band of pixies, showed us to our room and declared that dinner was at seven.

After a totally delightful fête, we took a walk under more stars than I've ever seen. The next morning we had the best breakfast since Brennan's in New Orleans and we got all of the essential info about the mountain from Fred, Ramona's husband and co-owner. He also doubles as an elegant head waiter - a real character with an offbeat sense of humor and one of the best deadpan deliveries around. We drove to Chocorua Lake and then on to North Conway, which has become a kind of a countrified strip mall for those people who don't like to hike or climb - that is to say, most of the people there - lots of factory outlets with the occasional bargain. We then traveled north to Mt. Washington, "the highest peak in the east." There is an auto road up to the top and we hoped to see Mt. Chocorua from it. We were told, however, that the top was closed to traffic because of ice that made the road unsafe. This surprised us because it was a lovely, warm and partly sunny day down below.

We'd passed a sign earlier that read "See Mt. Washington From Wildcat," which is a ski resort nearby that offered two-person gondola rides to the summit. It seemed like the next best option so we forked over our eighteen bucks and climbed into what turned out to be abused fiberglass death pods from Hell-Disneyland. Two thirds up the mountain we were being pelted with sleet and freezing rain. We weren't encouraged when we were unloaded at the top by a guy who looked like he was left there by Admiral Byrd. Visibility was zero and all we could do was laugh - we were conflicted by wanting to go back down as soon as possible, but we were both afraid to get back into another dangling plastic egg that had graffiti and cigarette burns all over the plastic windscreens. Smoking adolescent skiers? - made us glad that we don't ski! On the way down we were distracted and amused by a bus load of elderly tourists waving anxiously from their ascending day-glow gourds.

The following morning at a breakfast that miraculously transcended the previous day's, Fred gave us a trail map and a packed lunch that Ramona had prepared for us. We drove to the trail head and Linda helped with my backpack. (It seemed only fitting - I've always been considered the designated jackass in the family.) I still hadn't clued her in on the demands of this little sojourn, but after reading the Forest Service bulletin board (I'm also the appointed reader of instructions/maps for our household - it's a guy thing!) giving suggestions on what to do if you meet any black bears, I decided it best to talk about our impending liberation of the spirit through nature... and to keep her in the dark just a bit longer.

Fred suggested that we take the Brook Trail and Liberty Trail Loop. We soon understood why the trail up was so named and it was a very lovely brook with plenty of wonderful spots for people (and bears) to gather. At first the rise is gradual and pleasant because the trail remained close to this gentle flow of water. I remembered an Alan Watts' story about "Taoism: The Watercourse Way" in which a seeker of guidance asked a youth where The Master might be found. The youngster replied: "Up there, on the mountain - cloud hidden - whereabouts unknown!"

Two hours later the climb began to demand more of us. Crossing the stream became more frequent and challenging. Then we passed through a section where countless trees were sheared and mangled from what must have been a high velocity storm. I should add though, in spite of all this destruction, that the yellow dots, which guided us, were always visible. In fact, the trails were very thoughtfully cared for and in some places rebuilt with stones and timbers to provide safer and easier trekking.

It was after this devastated area that the incline increased, along with our discomfort. At the end of a particularly difficult section of bare rock with some intermittent ice, Linda looked up at me with one of those exasperated "What-have-you-gotten-me-into? looks." In my best feigned visage of confidence and reassurance, I said, "According to the trail map, we're really close to the summit. (A white lie). And I'm really proud of you - let's take a rest!" (The truth!) I should add: The ability to distract and encourage is another asset that is crucial on an arduous journey ...or in a lasting marriage!

The rest proved vital for what was to follow and it was a welcomed relief to come upon the trail crossroads which gave us clear indication that we were truly close. The views were also starting to excite us and providing added incentive to continue. A bit beyond this point a descending group of people told us we were about twenty or thirty minutes from the top - we were indeed grateful to hear it. When we reached the tree line, however, the next view made the mountain seem more daunting than we expected. The desolation of the place with the cold wind and a lowering autumn sun gave us that old familiar ego chill one gets when contemplating the stark immensity of it all.

Linda's vexation remained evident and I responded, "Don't worry - I know you can make the climb; it's just that YOU don't know it yet!" We hunkered down for the last bit and little by little we found ourselves at the top, enjoying a harvest of views. Our first sighting was of Chocorua Lake. Then both of us just grinned at each other - reward enough, I thought. We decided that this would be our late lunch reserved table and it proved to be one of the most memorable meals we've ever shared - thanks again, in part, to Ramona of course. (Wonderfully flavored chicken breast sandwiches; hard boiled eggs, the best carrot cake I've ever eaten, plums, napkins and even Wet-Wipes!)

It was 3 P.M. by the time we finished eating. The views became dramatic as the sun dropped a bit more - along with the temperature. I climbed back up to the summit for a final perusal and Linda snapped a "Rocky Balboa pic" of me. Every vista was superb in the kind, soft light of late day. I remembered looking from the shore of the lake at the summit and wondering what the view down would be like. And now here I was, reflecting upon what a difference a day's journey can make in how one perceives the world. (Sorry, I'm prone to ponder - incessantly, Linda would add!)

According to the hiking guide, we were looking at a three hour descent down the Liberty Trail. This meant that the last part of the trek would be in fading light and darkness - a prospect, I didn't relish. So our tempo picked up on our return, but I regretted not having the time to contemplate and relish the beauty of what looked like a promising sky and sunset. Knowing that haste is as dangerous as any other aspect of mountain hiking, we didn't overdo our pace. Fortunately the Liberty Trail, which was once a partial wagon road to the mountain, has a slope that is considerably less demanding than the Brook. We were back at our car in the pink light of dusk after two and a quarter hours of a steady pace. Needless to add, we were looking forward to another stellar meal at Stafford's. Ramona and Fred again made it so.

The following day was cloudy and we went back to the lake for a "Mission-Accomplished!" gaze. Immediately after, we headed south to another New Hampshire mountain that haunts me, Mt. Monadnock. But that's another story...