The Bluff, the Peak, and the Proof

My son Brendan has started his own health and fitness journey. As part of that, we decided we would embark on some hiking adventures this summer. I already had a goal to hike twice a month from May through October, so when he agreed to join me on my first hike of the year, I was excited.

I wanted to hike Artist’s Bluff in Franconia Notch.

It is a short hike, about a mile and a half, with an amazing view at the top. I had hiked it before and remembered it as easy, maybe a little challenging in one particular spot, but nothing unmanageable.

I later discovered it is categorized as moderate difficulty. That would have been helpful information to have before we started, but honestly, it probably would not have changed my mind.

Artist’s Bluff has one section that feels less like a hiking trail and more like a steep staircase designed by rocks with an attitude problem. It is a steady climb, uneven and demanding, the kind of incline that makes your legs question your life choices.

Naturally, we decided to start there.

For me, it was partly about getting the hard part out of the way first. But also, I think going up is easier than going down. Going up may burn your thighs, lungs, and will to live, but going down requires balance, coordination, and a level of trust in gravity that I simply do not possess.

We started from the upper parking lot and took a trail I had never been on before, one that led us through the woods toward the steep climb.

It was hard. Not impossible, but hard enough to remind me that hiking is not just walking with better scenery. Hiking asks questions. It asks how much your legs have left. It asks how steady your footing is. It asks whether you packed enough water and whether your pride is going to behave itself.

But the view from Artist’s Bluff is always worth it.

When we reached the bluff, we rested for a bit, took in the view, drank some water, and had one of those easy conversations that only seems to happen when there are no screens, no distractions, and no rush to be anywhere else.

Then we kept going. There was more upward climbing, and I found myself repeating, “This is good cardio. Good cardio.”

I said it like a mantra. Or maybe a spell. Or maybe a desperate little negotiation with my lungs.

Eventually, we reached the next trail, and at that point, we decided to add Bald Peak to the adventure. Brendan had been on that trail several times, but I had never done it before. He warned me there would be rocks to scale. I felt ready.

The trail to Bald Peak was short, but then we reached the rock face. This was not just stepping over a few rocks. This was an actual climb, the kind where you have to use your hands and feet and commit to the decision you made when you were standing safely on flat ground five minutes earlier.

I was skeptical about my ability to get up there. But my new gear was passing every test. My new hiking boots have great tread, and I did not slip on the rocks. There were plenty of places to secure my hands and feet. Before I knew it, I was climbing that wall and feeling, quite frankly, like Spider-Man.

Brendan stayed just ahead of me, ready to pull me up if I needed help. But going up? I did it on my own.

And when we reached the top, the view took my breath away all over again.

Bald Peak offered a full 360-degree view, even more breathtaking than Artist’s Bluff.

We sat at the top, drank more water, and watched as a snow flurry passed over us.

A snow flurry. In May. So typical of Franconia Notch. Because apparently the mountain wanted a little drama in the third act.

We sat there together and talked about how proud we were that we had made it. For two people who are still building strength, still working on stamina, still figuring out what our bodies can do, it was a big deal.

Neither one of us had expected to make that last climb.

But we did. And it was awesome.

Eventually, we had to make our way back down. This is where I was more than happy to accept Brendan’s help. Going up the rock wall had made me feel like Spider-Man. Going down made me feel like a baby giraffe in hiking boots.

He gave me his arm when I needed it, helped me steady myself, and made sure I did not fall on my face, which I consider a key marker of a successful hike.

By the time we made it back to the car, we were completely invigorated. Not just because we had finished the hike, but because we had exceeded our own expectations.

That is the part I keep coming back to.

We both started that hike with a quiet question tucked somewhere inside us: Can I actually do this? By the end, we had our answer.

Yes.

Maybe slowly. Maybe with water breaks. Maybe with a few muttered “good cardio” chants along the way. Maybe with an arm to hold onto during the descent.

But yes.

After a month away from the gym, I expected that hike to remind me how much progress I had lost. Instead, it reminded me what I am building.

Strength does not always announce itself in big dramatic ways. Sometimes it shows up on a steep trail, in a pair of boots that grip the rock, in the choice to keep climbing, in the moment your son waits just ahead of you because he believes you can do it but is ready to catch you if you cannot.

And sometimes, strength looks like standing on top of a mountain beside your kid, watching snow swirl through the air, realizing both of you are capable of more than you thought.

That is the kind of victory that follows you back down the trail. And that is the kind of victory that makes you want to keep going.