On the first day, we scaled a 3-foot pile of rocks that marks the rooftop of Rhode Island. At the end, we walked wind-blown for hours along a knife-edge ridge on a 5,267-foot mountain in the Maine wilderness.
Call our quest "Into Thick Air."
Highpointing -- hiking or driving or both -- to the top of each state is a hobby of collectibles. This time our goal was reaching the highest spot in each of the six New England states in six days.
They weren't Mount McKinley, at 20,320 feet the nation's highest mountain, but they weren't the lowest points either (Florida, Delaware, Mississippi and Louisiana have that distinction).
One might argue, however, that with the New England Six Pack, we made mountains out of molehills.
Many folks who do this sort of thing belong to a national group, the Highpointers Club, which has 1,610 paying members. Sixty-three of them have stood on the highest spot in each of the 50 states; 110 have done so in the lower 48.
The Highpointers figure they're no weirder than people who collect stuffed frogs, handcuffs or doorknobs, or go to conventions of German prisoner-of-war re-enactors.
They have a Web site with a list of summits and testimonials (www.highpointers.com), and a how-to manual in Don W. Holmes' "Highpoints of the United States."
Holmes, a retired engineer for Rockwell International, began his own quest in 1970 with Mount McKinley, Mount Whitney and Mount Rainier: Nos. 1, 2 and 4 in altitude.
"After I got those, it was all downhill," he cracks.
Many highpoints can be reached by car; any way you reach the summit is OK, says Holmes.
One thing most of the summiteers have in common is Holmes' blue-and-gold paperback with the shot of Rainier on the cover.
"You see one that's all dogeared and dirty, and that's the biggest compliment you can get. It means it wasn't just put on a shelf," says Holmes.
Highpointers get together every year near one of the nation's high points, this year from Sept. 7 to Sept. 11 they'll be swapping stories in Missouri, at the foot of 1,772-foot Taum Sauk Mountain.
Highpointing is anything but a solitary pursuit. For safety's sake, some of the technical peaks need partners or guides for roping up to cross-glaciated areas.
"I dragged my family with me the first couple of times," says David Pomeroy, a Department of Defense economist from Alexandria, Va., who conquered all 50 in less than two years. "But I met some of my best friends literally at the top of each state."
A self-described regular guy, Pomeroy trained by wearing an 80-pound pack as he climbed the 15 flights of stairs at work four times each lunchtime.
"I've always loved to travel," says Pomeroy, 46, of his hobby. "It was a personal challenge with a well-defined goal."
Highpointing isn't the only form of peak bagging. One of us has climbed all 65 mountains in New England over 4,000 feet. The other has bagged everything with altitude in Maine's Acadia National Park. In July, we hiked Pike's Peak in Colorado, the first 14,000-footer believed ascended by a non-Native American in the United States, and the inspiration for "America the Beautiful."
Starting out small
The New England Six Pack appealed to our roots. We were lured north to do a George Mallory, the Englishman who kept trying to be the first to stand atop Mount Everest "because it is there."
Altogether, we motored 800 miles, pitched tents at the foot of each summit, gained and lost a total of 28,800 feet in altitude (14,400 up, the same down), hiked 40 miles, slapped our share of mosquitoes, lost a few pounds and captured some breathtaking vistas. The climbs took from mere minutes for the Everest of Rhode Island to 10 hours on what at times seemed Maine's escarpment to Hades.
Our first bag job -- Jerimoth Hill -- is little more than a bump in the road off Route 101 in Rhode Island near the Connecticut line, yet highpointers and even one Everest mountaineer consider it "America's most inaccessible" summit.
Brown University owns the summit, but a retired music teacher owns the 100-yard "trail" to the top and refuses to allow hikers to cross his property.
"The last time somebody got on, I threatened to break their camera equipment," Henry Richardson proudly told the Wall Street Journal.
We walked down a driveway and into the woods and hopped atop the 3-foot pile of rocks. At 7:35 a.m., we sheepishly posed for summit photos and slunk passed Richardson's house.
(Fortunately, not everyone puts out an unwelcome mat. The Sterlers are tickled to have Iowa's 1,670-foot unnamed summit on their farm. They keep a log for visitors to sign.)
For us, it was back in the pickup truck for a 110-mile dash to our next trailhead.
If a mountain can be a downer, Mount Frissell is it. Connecticut's high point is not a mountaintop, but a pitiful weed patch with no views on the slope leading to the 2,380-foot peak in Massachusetts. It's like eating a salad without dressing, then leaving the steak.
A hot, buggy, muggy day, we began hiking at 11:45 a.m. and gained 1,000 feet in 1.2 miles. Overshooting our mark, we thrashed around in the underbrush until we found a metal pole and disk marking the roof of Connecticut's world.
We posed for pictures with the Hartford Courant, a daily ritual with a local newspaper to prove we had been where we said we were. A front-page headline noted "An Honest Politician." We were still looking for an honest mountain.
We found one that night. We slept beneath Mount Greylock, 50 miles away in Massachusetts. It was the start of the higher, respectable peaks of northern New England.
Greylock, 3,492 feet high in the Berkshires, was where Henry David Thoreau and friendly summit mice slept beneath a pile of boards. It was the playground of the first American Alpine Club founded in 1863 and composed almost totally of women. Thomas Cole, creator of the Hudson River School of artists, painted it when it was known as the Grand Hoosuck. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Herman Melville and Nathaniel Hawthorne all knew its slopes.
The next morning we hiked in perfect weather up the 4.9-mile Hopper Trail in a brisk two hours. We picnicked on the grassy top that holds selective views into Vermont and New York, a 90-foot tower honoring World War I veterans, a paved road to the bottom and the Appalachian Trail to Maine or Georgia.
"You a through-hiker?" we asked several lean backpackers who had bunked at Bascom Lodge at the summit.
"Yup," replied one. "Another month or two we'll be on Katahdin."
To the top of Maine
We walked down, drove 160 miles north and camped below 4,393-foot Mount Mansfield that evening. We ate a mountainous pile of pasta and the massive mosquitoes ate us.
Mansfield, in Vermont's Green Mountains, is inviting because, from a distance, its several summit peaks resemble a person's face: Adam's apple, chin, nose, forehead. We ascended the Long Trail, which runs from Canada to Massachusetts, in dense fog. The U.S. Geological Survey marker told us we were at the top of Vermont, but we could have been back at Jerimoth Hill.
We drank a lot of water from our canteens that day. That night in New Hampshire, 130 miles away, we downed a lot of beer for its carbohydrate value.
The next day, it took us only three hours and 15 minutes to reach the summit of Mount Washington via the most popular trail up Tuckerman's Ravine, where they were still skiing in July. On a clear day, you can see Boston from the New Hamsphire mountain's 6,288-foot top. On a foggy day, like ours, you're lucky to see your feet.
At 5,267 feet, Katahdin in Maine was the toughest nut to crack. A 250-mile drive, a short night's sleep and a hot, clear July day quickly drained our energy. We labored up the Helon Taylor Trail and reached Pamola Peak in three hours. A welcoming committee of large bees and equally annoying young, tan and fit hikers were perched atop the faux-summit.
With nearly empty water bottles and melted Milky Ways in our packs, the hard part was yet to come.
We worked our way along the spectacular Knife Edge Trail (a 1,000-foot drop off on either side) to Baxter Peak, the end of the Appalachian Trail and the end of the Six Pack, with five hours to spare.
The tiny sips of warm water and gooey candy bars never tasted so good.
There are always more mountains ahead.
Way down south
We've already knocked off the Mason-Dixon Sprint (all good expeditions deserve a name), the highest points in Pennsylvania, Maryland and West Virginia. All clustered together, all doable in a single weekend.
Working north to south, we drove to the top of Mount Davis in the morning and spent the better part of the afternoon bushwacking our way to within 50 yards of the summit of Maryland's Backbone Mountain, an undistinguished briar patch owned by a Texas company and reachable only through West Virginia. A second, guided hike was needed to actually find the summit marker. The next morning, we drove to the top of West Virginia's Spruce Knob and were home in time for dinner.
Later this year, it's on to the Dixie Six: Virginia, Kentucky, North Carolina, Tennessee, South Carolina and Georgia.
And we still need to go to Delaware, find the junction of Ramblewood Drive and Ebright Road just outside Wilmington and get out of the car. Looming 442 feet above sea level is -- well, it doesn't have a name.
But it is there.
WHEN YOU GO ...
Getting there: Major interstates get you to the general vicinity of each mountain. State and county roads get you closer still. Your feet get you the rest of the way. Most state road maps show the high point in each state with a small triangle.
Tips: Wear hiking boots and good socks. Nothing will ruin the trip faster than blisters or a twisted ankle. Bug spray and sun block are musts, too. Borrow or buy a good day pack and stuff it with a wool or fleece sweater, a poncho or rain jacket, a hat, a piece of moleskin to cover tender spots on your foot, and two water bottles. Some people swear by Power Bars or other high-tech munchies. We tend to stick with chocolate, either Snickers or Milky Way. An apple or orange can be a pick-me-up as well. To save weight, we each packed a self-contained Olympus point-and-shoot camera.
Lodging: We camped on the first three nights. For the first night, we stayed at Chamberlain Lake Campground in Woodstock, Conn. (860-974-0567). The second night was spent at the Pittsfield State Forest campground outside Pittsfield, Mass. (Get a site next to Berry Pond if you can). The third night was next to Lake Champlain at Malletts Bay Campground in Colchester, Vt. (802-863-6980). Looking for a little civilization, we stayed at the Royalty Inn at routes 2 and 16 in Gorham, N.H., the night before we hiked Mount Washington (603-466-3312). We finished the New England Six Pack by staying at a terrific campground, Katahdin Shadows in Medway, Maine, where rabbits of all sizes and colors hop around the grounds, and the showers are hot and free (207-746-9349).
Dining: Pancakes and eggs in the morning. Sandwiches and fruit for lunch. Big pots of spaghetti and grilled chicken and burgers for dinner. We kept a large Coleman cooler filled with ice and eats, restocking our supplies as we went along. By packing a small grill and a Coleman stove, we ate like royalty. Food tastes better outdoors.
High Point: For height, Mount Washington. For emotion, Mount Katahdin.
Low point: Mount Frizzell, no bones about it; Jerimoth Hill, if you get caught by Henry Richardson, owner of Rhode Island's high point.
Information: Start with a copy of Don W. Holmes' "Highpoints of the United States." Then visit The Highpointers Club Web site (www.highpointers.com).
AN IDEAL DAY
6 a.m.: You are awakened by sunlight filtering through the woodsy canopy at Pittsfield State Forest in Massachusetts and ducks preening in nearby Berry Pond. Ignore nature and go back to sleep.
7 a.m.: Get up, you lazy slug. Start boiling water for coffee. Fire up the griddle for blue-berry pancakes and sausages. (Save yourself some time with Brown N' Serve sausages and Bisquick's Shake N' Pour pancake mix -- love those N' foods.) Lazy campers go to McDonald's in Pittsfield.
8 a.m.: Break camp. Make sure you pack away everything. Police the camp site.
9 a.m.: Drive to the foot of Mount Greylock and hike the Hopper Trail to the summit.
Noon: Lunch on the grassy summit of Mount Greylock. Visit Bascom Lodge, where friendly and informative Appalachian Mountain Club staff will tell you about the geology and lore of western Massachusetts.
1:30 p.m.: Retrace your steps down Hopper Trail.
3 p.m.: Reach the bottom, swap your hiking boots for something a little more comfortable and drive to Colchester, Vt.
5 p.m.: Arrive at Malletts Bay Campground. Set up camp. Take a hot shower in the bathhouse. Refreshed, walk across the road and watch the sun glinting on Lake Champlain.
6:30 p.m.: Boil up a big pot of spaghetti. Open a bottle of red wine. Tear apart a big crusty loaf of bread. Cover yourself in bug spray (hey, life's not perfect). Enjoy supper while listening to the Red Sox.
9 p.m.: Recount the day. Lie about your exploits. Turn in for a well-deserved rest. Fall asleep to the sounds of crickets and owls.