The AMC's hut system is the only one of its kind in the United States, which is exactly why we came here. I don't want to tote a full pack on a gimpy leg. Furthermore, Martha is a backcountry neophyte who believes the Drug Enforcement Agency should declare dirt a controlled substance. I figured a three-day, hut-to-hut ramble would be a perfect way to introduce her to the simple pleasures of hiking.

I may have figured wrong.

Right about now Martha has a sneaky suspicion that I took out a million-dollar life insurance policy on her and, once she collapses in a dead-as-a-doornail hypothermic heap, I'll jet off to the Bahamas and open a funky beach bar called "The Sole Beneficiary." Today we spent ten hours on trail, scrambling up two 5,700-foot summits (Mount Adams and Mount Jefferson) and then pick our way through several hours of soupy fog before finally bumping into Lakes of the Clouds.

Yesterday we parked my car outside the town of Randolph and hiked in from the trailhead to our first overnight stop: Madison Springs Hut. Martha lagged a bit behind, dawdling over the babbling brook and wildflowers. At least that's what she said she was doing. Only later, after we had stowed our gear in the communal bunkroom, did she reveal she'd been pausing to quietly shed a few tears over the fine mess I've gotten her into: long uphill climbs and no escalators in sight, sore back, sweat-stained shirts. And then there's the dirt!