The Appalachian Trail winds through a stretch of the White Mountains as it meanders from Georgia to Maine. The route passes over some of the same ground we're covering. At dinner that first night one of our fellow hut guests asked Martha if she has aspirations of someday tackling the mother of all trails."Sure," she chirped, firing a wise-girl look my way, "if I ever get off this *@%$# mountain."

I plead guilty. I made the classic mistake of not checking the lay of the land beforehand. Years ago I backpacked a southern stretch of the White Mountains and remembered it as being quite hiker-friendly. It still is. But we're doing the northern end this trip; passing through the rough-and-tumble neighborhood of Mount Washington, highest point in all New England (at just a hair under 6,300 feet) and host to the most wicked weather this side of the Yukon territory.

To my surprise, and to Martha's dismay, the prevailing terrain turned out to be almost Mars-like. For hours on end we step, leap, and tippy-toe from jumbo rock to jumbo rock, rarely touching the ground. This kind of hiking taxes one's balance and concentration. Not exactly beginner's-level stuff. We move at a slow-poke pace, like soldiers crossing a very scenic minefield.

"Boy, this isn't what I expected at all," I keep repeating.

Martha's good-sport attitude eventually gets me off the hook. Once the initial shock wears off, she has little difficulty scrambling up steep rock face. Coming down is another matter. "I used to ask my mother if she dropped me on my head when I was a baby," Martha says at one point, noting that she wobbles like a tipsy New Year's Eve celebrant when navigating any surface more challenging than a city sidewalk. Hoping to avoid carrying her home, I quickly surrender my walking stick.