Twenty-one miles in under twenty-four hours.

Night winds that threatened to unstake the tent and hurl it into the Pemigewasset River (at least that's what it sounded like).

The equal-parts-victorious-and-derisive chattering of a crafty cabal of chipmunks who apparently spent the better part of the early morning chewing through my dry bag (and the enclosed ziplock bags) to pluck out cashews and dark-chocolate-covered edamame -- despite its being suspended ten feet in the air. (They warned us it was a busy bear season, but it's the cursed chipmunks we should have been worried about.)

All this and the kind of conversations that wait for you on quiet leaf-ridden trails -- that's what MacHarg and I found in the White Mountains this weekend.

(Well, that and the Hungry Man Breakfast at Peg's in Woodstock, NH: 3 eggs, 3 strips of bacon, 4 pieces of wheat toast, home fries and 2 pancakes with real maple syrup. We had to say no to the planned chocolate malt -- that's how filling it was.)

Who's ready for the next hike? And I won't even forget my headlamp this time. (No guarantees on Mike remembering his rain jacket, though.)