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“The Ridge and the Reward” is a short, reflective narrative chronicling a hike through New Hampshire’s White Mountains. The story begins with a hopeful morning forecast and descends—literally and metaphorically—into fog and disorientation. The narrator endures physical challenge and psychological doubt, only to emerge on the other side into clarity and warmth. There is no grand prize at the end—only a burrito, a small gesture of kindness, and a moment of human connection that affirms the journey's worth.

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The Ridge and the Reward

By Harry Arabian

The morning of May 14 had started with a promise. A patch of blue sky peeked through scattered clouds as I laced my boots at the trailhead near Indian Head. According to my Apple Watch, it was going to be a sunny day—perfect for a long trek through the White Mountains. But mountain forecasts are like mischievous spirits; they tell you one thing and hand you another. I’d learn that lesson again, the hard way.

The trail began gently enough, winding past mountain creeks and plunging waterfalls that sang with spring melt. The Pemigewasset Wilderness was alive and endless, its trails carving a slow ascent toward the ridgeline. By midmorning, the drizzle had begun—a fine, needling mist that clung to everything and chilled the skin beneath my jacket. And then came the fog.

As I approached the ridge trail toward Cannon Mountain, the world turned to ghostly gray. The east side of the ridge was completely engulfed in mist, muffling sound and stealing away the trail signs. I missed turns, backtracked endlessly, and added miles to an already grueling hike. The fog turned every decision into guesswork, every footstep into doubt.

But mountains are layered things. Somewhere near the top, as I was questioning my life choices for the fifth or sixth time, a golden wash of light appeared ahead. The western side of the ridge was still sunny—untouched by the ghostly veil that haunted the east. I climbed toward that light like it was salvation.

By 1 p.m., I’d broken through. The fog dropped away behind me, and the trail unfolded in warm, easy arcs down to Mirror Lake. It was all downhill from there—literally and emotionally. My legs were shaking with exhaustion, my lungs felt like I’d borrowed them from an old man, but I made it. And there, in the sunny clearing by the lake, stood Marie, right on time, with a bag from Pemmi House and her ever-steady smile, her red fleece jacket zipped up to the chin like always.

She didn’t ask how the hike was—perhaps she saw the mud on my pants, the dazed look in my eyes, the unmistakable trail of a hard day. Instead, she just said, “I have some interesting news.”

I grunted—too tired to respond—but she carried on.

“I met your coworker, his wife, and their two little girls at the Basin Waterfalls. What a nice family. After the hike, they invited me to a quick lunch at Pemmi House. We talked about you.”

She handed me a foil-wrapped package. “They bought you a bean and cheese burrito. Said it was your award for Hike Day.”

And I swear, that burrito tasted like soul food—warm, heavy, real. As though it had been slow-cooked in kindness, wrapped in laughter, and served with a side of mountains-can’t-break-you comfort.

No medals. No summit photos. Just fog, miles, missteps—and a burrito at the finish line. I’ll take it.