Souvenirs from the Whites
How a return to Mount Washington evoked memories of times gone by
Growing up in New England, the White Mountains were a regular feature of my childhood—sometimes an idyllic escape, sometimes an endurance test bordering on cruel and unusual punishment. My parents were mountain enthusiasts, though with very different interpretations of what a holiday should be. My mother preferred the more civilized approach: campgrounds, scenic drives, perhaps a gentle stroll to admire the foliage. My father, on the other hand, operated under the assumption that an actual vacation should involve some degree of suffering, preferably with a backpack, several thousand feet of elevation gain, and the occasional near-hypothermic experience.
Both approaches had their merits, though my brother and I quickly learned that a trip with Dad meant fewer ice cream stops and more uncomfortable nights. Still, they both instilled in me a love of the outdoors and an appreciation for adventures of all kinds—both the leisurely and the downright masochistic.
The Drive to ‘Graceland’
A family trip to the Whites was recently proposed, this time with my father, me, and my son in tow. A multi-generational pilgrimage to the land of granite peaks, alpine conifers, and winding backroads? I was in.
The drive to the Whites from our Massachusetts home was always about three hours—half of which my brother and I spent either sprawled in the folded-down backseat of my mother’s Datsun or in my father’s car. At some point, we’d be jolted awake just in time to see the Old Man of the Mountain. This legendary rock formation greeted visitors to New Hampshire for centuries—until it tragically collapsed in 2003, taking with it both a state symbol and my childhood nostalgia.
But what truly made those drives memorable wasn’t the scenery; it was the soundtrack. One summer in 1986, fresh off a work trip to South Korea, my father returned home with a Hyundai Excel—an exotic addition to the driveway back then. It had that new-car smell that had been thoroughly replaced by a potent cocktail of coffee, fast food, and damp hiking gear by the end of the week.
Most importantly, it had a tape deck. And in that tape deck, one album played on repeat: Paul Simon’s Graceland. As we wound our way through the backroads, my father drummed along on the steering wheel, soaking in every note. At the time, my brother and I would have rather listened to the California Raisins covering oldies.
Fast-forward to this trip, and I found myself recreating that moment with my son—though instead of a tape deck, it was Spotify streaming the same soundtrack through, coincidentally, my own Hyundai. As we listened, I tried to explain the album’s significance, to which he thoughtfully replied that some of the songs were “cool.” A ringing endorsement, really.
Drinks at the Wildcat Inn
The goal of this trip? Summit Mount Washington. But first, tradition dictated a stop at the Wildcat Inn in Jackson, NH—a place that, for my father, brothers, and me, has long served as the post-hike recovery zone, where sore legs and bruised egos were soothed with food, drink, and selective memory loss.
The last time I had been there, the exterior was white; now, it was painted black. A dramatic shift, but one that was immediately forgiven upon stepping inside, where that familiar mountain lodge scent—some combination of aged wood, fireplace smoke, and the ghost of a thousand ski trips—brought everything rushing back.
Built in the 1930s, the Wildcat Inn has aged gracefully, still holding onto its old-school ski lodge charm. The rooms are small and straightforward, the kind where you can either appreciate the rustic coziness or suspect you’re in an elaborate Wes Anderson set piece. Our group took over a section of the third floor with a seating area and an air conditioning unit doing its best against the summer humidity.
That night, the eight of us—my father, his significant other, two of my brothers, their significant others, my son, and me—gathered in the bar for drinks and dinner, the standard pre-hike ritual. My father, as always, marked the occasion with a gin and tonic, a drink that has served both as a celebratory toast and a means of coping with whatever hiking catastrophe had just unfolded.
Summiting, Storytelling, and Role Reversals
The next morning, we set off on our climb. The day was filled with the usual highs and lows—literal and metaphorical. The ascent was tough, the views were stunning, and everyone had at least one moment where they questioned their life choices. The White Mountains have a way of doing that to you.
Afterward, back at the Wildcat, we gathered for a victory dinner (or, more accurately, a we-survived-it dinner). The conversation was animated, the stories grew grander with each retelling, and we were already talking about doing it all again before the night was over.
But one particular moment stood out to me—one that had nothing to do with summiting mountains or post-hike drinks. Sitting there with my son, I realized how the roles had shifted. Once, I was the child on these trips, looking up to my father as he charted the course. Now, I was the parent, watching my son take it all in, just as I had decades ago.
It’s a strange thing to see yourself from a different angle in the story. A reminder that, for all the miles we cover, some journeys take place in a way we hardly notice—until we’re already there.
New Memories, Old Trails
The White Mountains have always been a cornerstone of my best (and occasionally worst) childhood memories. And while I’ve spent years making my own outdoor traditions with my kids, this trip felt different—like a reunion with an old friend you hadn’t realized you missed so much.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve ensured my children have had their fair share of time in the woods, passing down the same tradition of adventure, mishap, and occasional existential reckoning on a steep incline. True to family history, some of those experiences have been fantastic. Others? Less so.
But this one? This was a good one. And if I have my way, it won’t be the last.
