Live Free and Hike: Finding Grace on 48 Summits - A Journey of Healing and Self-Discovery Atop New Hampshire's White Mountains

By Linda Kulig Magoon

Find hope and healing in this powerful memoir of a woman who rebuilt her life in the White Mountains.

Newly liberated after ending her toxic 25-year marriage to a controlling husband, Linda Magoon gradually regained her independence and rediscovered her love of hiking in the White Mountains. She set a goal to climb all 48 of New Hampshire's 4,000-foot and higher peaks. With every upward stride, Magoon cautiously rebuilt her life.

But less than a year later, after shocking allegations and a surprise arrest of her ex-husband on charges of child molestation, Magoon found herself in a downward spiral as she processed the guilt, shame, and sadness of being married to someone so infamous.

By climbing each challenging summit, Magoon found the internal strength needed to overcome the paralyzing uncertainty surrounding the worst period of her life. Neither age, lack of experience, nor unforeseen life events would stop her from attempting her goal.

Follow Linda's inspirational journey and discover:

• A story of courage and self-discovery as Linda reconnects with her passion as a way to cope with the trauma of her ex-husband's behavior.
• Tips and advice on hiking the White Mountains of New Hampshire and valuable insight into the Hiker's Code of Responsibility for a safe trip.
• The healing power of walking in nature to reduce feelings of depression and anxiety.
• Goal setting as a tool for survivors of emotional abuse to rebuild mental health, self-confidence, and self-love.
• That regardless of age or life circumstances, it's never too late to leave an unhealthy relationship and create a new life.

Live Free and Hike is a candid and humorous story of a woman's transition from a place of pain and anger to one of healing, resilience, and grace—one mountain summit at a time. Grab your copy of Linda Magoon's transformative memoir today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kearsarge Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jun 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987817414

Book preview

Introduction

Mount Washington: World’s Worst Weather

"Caution. Mt. Washington has a well-earned reputation as the most dangerous small mountain in the world," according to my hiking bible, the Appalachian Mountain Club’s White Mountain Guide.¹ It has the highest wind speed recorded by a human at 231 mph, and the weather is known to change rapidly, brutally, and fatally.

I could think of no better way to usher in the new millennium than to stand, victorious, at its craggy summit—not by riding the Mount Washington Cog Railway or, heaven forbid, by driving up the auto road—but by hiking it. The mountain was practically in my backyard and was within a few hours driving distance from home. It had been my dream to hike Mount Washington since moving to New Hampshire 15 years earlier. Though there were tales of unprepared hikers dying on the four-mile trail to the summit (even during the summer months) due to the dangerous weather conditions, it didn’t intimidate me. The mountain wasn’t what I feared.

It was telling my husband.

After more than 10 years of marriage, I knew the consequences of expressing an aspiration such as this one. In my marriage, a unilateral dream meant I was selfish. I picked and chose my desires carefully, as if I were tiptoeing through a minefield. Even though putting my needs before my husband had consequences, summitting Mount Washington was on my bucket list, and I was willing to pay the price.

I summoned the courage and informed Bob about my plans to hike with my brother, who had summited several times before. My husband wasn’t happy that I would be gone all day, but because I was going with family, he wasn’t too upset.

A week prior to our hike, my brother invited his former college roommate to join us without consulting me. Worse, horrors upon horrors, they invited themselves to spend the night at my house so we could get an early start the next morning. To a jealous, insecure husband, this sudden overnight arrangement had the makings of a torrid affair. My brother had no idea of the fuse he’d lit. I couldn’t blame him—I had never told a soul of my husband’s angry, controlling behavior. During our marriage, Bob isolated me from the few friends I had. I didn’t discuss my marriage with co-workers or tell my family about my situation. Who would believe me? To everyone else he was a nice guy.

I dreaded telling Bob about the overnight plans. When would be the right time to tell him? Before work? No, he left for work at 5:00 a.m., so that was too early. After work? No, he’d be too tired, cranky, and stressed. After sex? That could work, but I was tired of feeling like a sex worker. I procrastinated, the churning in my stomach growing with each passing day until I ran out of time.

The night before their arrival, Bob backed the minivan out of the driveway. We were on our way to Jordan’s for a late-summer ice cream. Here’s my chance. He’s in a good mood, I thought. He won’t blow up now.

I took a deep breath and let it out.

The veins bulged in his neck. This was followed by a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel and a rush of crimson to his cheeks.

He didn’t talk to me for the rest of the night.

I should have known what to expect. For two days before my hike, I sobbed in bed, alone, unable to sleep. I took my wedding ring off and, in the darkness, imagined life without him. I felt lighter, free, as if I had escaped from prison. However, I had taken a vow: till death do us part. I put my ring back on and felt the dungeon doors clank shut.

It was too late to cancel. I refused to. Despite the lack of sleep and despair, I wanted this.

I tried to put Bob out of my mind as we pulled into the parking lot of Pinkham Notch and, instead, focused my attention on the day ahead. Something I had wanted to do for so long was about to happen, and I was determined not to let weeks of dread and two sleepless nights ruin it.

I was somewhat encouraged by the sign at the Tuckerman Ravine trail-head, 4.2 miles to the summit, which I didn’t think was too bad. What the sign didn’t state was that the elevation gain was 4,250 feet, which is about 1,000 feet per mile. At the outset, I found the trail manageable and climbed steadily. But by the time we had reached the summit, I knew why Mount Washington was nicknamed the Rockpile. Although I was mesmerized by the vast expanse of the bowl that defines Tuckerman’s, once I scaled the headwall, the thrill wore off. The remainder of the hike was a relentlessly steep ascent over endless rocks and boulders. After four hours of hiking, we finally reached the summit, engulfed in clouds.

As a remembrance of my victory, I ducked into the summit gift shop (on the tallest mountain in New England that also has a cafeteria and ice cream stand) to purchase a thin, metallic hiking badge to mount on my hiking stick. It was tangible evidence, a souvenir of a dream accomplished, consequences be damned. I didn’t want to forget the hike or the price I paid. I was thrilled that I had accomplished my dream but a little sad too. Sad that I had to strategize and plot to express a need to my husband. Sad that the person I was married to would not be happy for me when I returned. Sad that I knew this wasn’t how normal relationships worked. The hike was bittersweet. It was a dream accomplished but served as a reminder that a goal had consequences.

For the next 15 years, that hiking stick would remain dormant in the attic, and the only hiking I did was on eggshells.

1. The Tipping Point

So, what brings you in today?

It was September, and the late afternoon sun pierced through an open window covered with mesh wiring meant to prevent escape. High ceilings, exposed pipes, and outdated chairs only added to the creepy, institutional vibe of the room. Located within the former state mental hospital, this space is now my employer’s crisis center.

No leaving now. I’m committed, like the patients formerly housed here. I sit across from Cindy, the on-call crisis counselor. A peeling wood-laminate coffee table separates us, a box of tissues at the ready. I’ve never seen a counselor before, and I’m not sure what to expect. Maybe an office similar to Bob Newhart’s, but not this.

So, what brings you in today? she repeats. Ah, there it is. I wonder if that’s the first thing taught in therapy school, perhaps in a course titled, Therapy 101: What Brings You in Today?

I return Cindy’s smile, inching closer to breathing life into anecdotes about my marital relationship that I’ve kept secret for decades.

Well, it has nothing to do with work, I begin. There. That wasn’t so hard. Not great, but a start. I’ll back into it.

It has to do with my husband. He yells a lot. I’m unable to look Cindy in the eye, opting to fix my gaze on the tile floor, hands clenched to my chair as if I’m preparing for a root canal.

We have a 13-year-old cocker spaniel who’s frail and has to be let out at least two times a night. I take her outside because it’s easier than asking Bob to do it. But last Friday night, I was too exhausted. I heard Mitzi stirring and felt Bob get out of bed. I bite my lower lip to keep it from quivering. My voice, initially deep, booming, and confident, grows soft.

I was just so tired, and in a moment of weakness, I asked Bob if he could take her outside. I release my death grip on the chair to grab some tissues out of the box, blow my nose, and work up the courage to keep going.

He screamed, ‘What the fuck do you want now?’ He was so mad.

There. The genie was out of the bottle. For the first time in my 25-year marriage, I told a soul, a complete stranger, about my husband’s behavior.

I look at Cindy. She doesn’t react. How long has he been doing this? she asked.

I don’t know. For years.

Is he physical with you?

I think for a moment, my gaze still fixated on the floor.

Once, he punched me in the arm because I told him where to park. No one tells him what to do. He’s raised his fist at me as if he were going to punch me, but he doesn’t hit me. He knows better. He’s a retired police officer. We both know anything physical would cross a line.

Cindy continues with her questioning to assess whether I’m currently safe in my own home. I’m familiar with it. As a silent screw you to Bob’s rants, I donate annually to my state’s domestic violence coalition and recently became a volunteer on the board of directors. Of course, I’d never told Bob. It’s one of so many secrets I’ve kept from him over the years out of fear of how he would react.

Not sharing my day or how I felt was as natural to me as hiking in the woods. If only I could take the time to hike. Unfortunately, I gave that up years ago along with socializing with friends and attending social events, such as weddings and baby showers. Bob disliked family gatherings. Even birthdays and holidays, which were a time for celebration, became sources of dread.

I reach for another tissue. The once-empty wastebasket is now full. I’m spent. I glance at the wall clock. Where did the hour go?

Time’s up, I said in my best therapist voice. I look Cindy in the eye and smile. I always wanted to say that.

Cindy smiles back. She gives me her business card with the name and telephone number of a therapist and suggests I read two books by Patricia Evans titled Controlling People and Victory Over Verbal Abuse. Cindy asks if she can call me tomorrow to see how I’m doing.

I tell her she can, as long as she calls me while I’m at work.

I dial the telephone number of the therapist. Rebecca’s next opening isn’t for another three weeks. Can I wait that long? Sure. I’ve waited almost 25 years to talk to someone. Another three weeks won’t matter. After finally disclosing my secrets to Cindy, I’ve overcome inertia and have no desire to stop now. In the meantime, I order the books Cindy recommended and have them sent to my work address.

The next three weeks drag by. I read Victory Over Verbal Abuse, but it’s a book about postdivorce recovery, and I can’t relate. I read Controlling People and, in what I think is a bold and courageous move, bring it home and purposely leave it on my bedroom nightstand. Though Bob and I are sleeping in separate bedrooms, I’m hoping he’ll see it. If he does, he never mentions it. We’re polite to one another, like roommates. But my mind is made up. I want a divorce. All I need is the courage to tell him.

Three weeks later, I drive to the address of the counseling center, an old sprawling New Englander. I enter the waiting room and am surprised to see almost every chair occupied with a woman or a child. Looking for a receptionist, I walk through the room, out the opposite entrance, and end up straight into October sunshine. Confused, I re-enter the building.

Where’s the receptionist? I ask no one in particular.

There isn’t one, the chorus replies simultaneously. This is odd. Even Bob Newhart had a receptionist.

Then how do I know when to go in?

They come to get you.

This is sounding less and less like a good idea. Maybe it’s easier to stay married to the devil you know. Unsure of what to do, I take the remaining seat and reach for the timeless magazine staple found in every medical office, Highlights Magazine. I am engrossed in a story about whales when a woman enters. I look up. She appears kind and compassionate.

Linda? She looks around the room.

I rise, self-conscious that every pair of eyes have left their cell phones and are squarely focused on the only two people standing.

She smiles warmly. How are you?

I hesitate. I thought that was your job to figure out.

The room erupts in laughter. I’m feeling better already.

Hi, I’m Rebecca. It’s nice to meet you.

I follow her up three flights of winding stairs until she leads me to her office. It’s an enclosed porch, rectangular, facing south. Late October sunlight pours through the bank of windows. The proverbial couch is along the far wall. Two matching white wingback chairs with gold polka dots face the couch and are separated by a coffee table. The walls are robin’s-egg blue, each adorned with a working clock. Unlike the former state mental institution, this office has a welcoming, comforting vibe—except for the clocks. I look down at the coffee table. Another clock. Time is precious here.

Where is your seat? I ask.

I don’t have one. Sit where you’d like.

Momentarily paralyzed, I choose one of the wingback chairs, and Rebecca sits directly opposite me on the couch. She asks background questions about where I grew up, my parents, and my siblings. They are easy, softball questions—nothing about feelings. While I answer, I try not to become distracted by her furious note-taking. She does her best to hide it, keeping her yellow pad propped on a pillow over a large day planner. I answer her questions dutifully, telling her my family history of growing up in a middle-class suburban neighborhood, of maternal and paternal parents and grandparents from hardy Polish stock who believed in pulling themselves up by their bootstraps, and of marriage being a sacred lifetime commitment, till death do us part.

We discuss my marriage—my first, his second. We met when we were both police officers in the mid-’80s and married a few years later. He retired from the police department in 1988, and I resigned shortly thereafter to avoid shift work and to spend more time together. Our lives morphed from togetherness into him isolating me from spending time with my friends and family. I was young and barely out of college when we met. Until I met Bob, I’d never had a serious boyfriend. If he was jealous and insecure, I didn’t recognize it until after we were married—and by then, it was too late.

I tell Rebecca how Bob’s anger has intensified. He’s spent the last two years cleaning and selling his mother’s house and moving her into a nursing home. I realize that he’s been under stress, but things have gotten worse. It reminds me of another outburst, and I feel I need to provide Rebecca with an example to feel validated.

A few years ago, on a humid Sunday night in June, my mother-in-law’s neighbor called. She told me his mom was walking down the street, carrying a suitcase. She asked if Bob could come over and talk to her. I roll my eyes, not sure if Rebecca or anyone else in the universe appreciates the enormity of what, for most married couples, should be a simple request.

I drove over to her house with Bob. I was scared of him and scared of how he’d react once he got there. Once we got to her house, I tried to intervene, but he yelled at me to shut up. When Mom finally spoke, do you know what she said? ‘Bob’s mean. All he does is yell. I don’t have to stay here and put up with it.’ 

My gaze leaves the floor, and I look at Rebecca, my voice barely above a whisper. Ironic, isn’t it? A frail, 88-year-old woman with dementia, wandering around with no car, has the courage to do what I’ve never had the guts to do—pack her bags and leave.

With Rebecca’s help, we work out a safety plan on how to approach Bob to tell him I’m through with our marriage. After weeks of therapy, I summon the strength. In the coldest, darkest month of the year a week before Christmas, I tell Bob I want a divorce. He doesn’t become angry or react at all. In a way, I wish he would just apologize or resist or fight for us— for our marriage—but he does not. He becomes complacent and meek, like bullies are when confronted. He’s polite and cooperative throughout the divorce process. I’m not sure if this is his way of apologizing, but for me, it’s too little, too late. I’m still unable to talk to him about anything. Nothing will change.

Six months after I confront him, on a sunny, warm day in early June, Bob and I meet at my attorney’s office to sign the settlement paperwork to finalize our divorce. I’ll move out and he will remain in our house, which we agree to sell within the next two years. I set myself up in a rental unit—a modern duplex close to where I work. In rooting around the attic for possessions to take with me, I discover my hiking stick and my stiff, tattered gray mildewed Eastman daypack that I took with me up Mount Washington in 1999.

Finally, it’s done. After 27 years of marriage, I’m free.

2. Finding Hope on Mount Moosilauke

During my marriage, on occasion I would leave work a few hours early for a brief afternoon jaunt on a local trail. I never lingered though, knowing I was expected to be home at the same time. Although I wanted to hike more, I didn’t because it wasn’t worth the anger or the silent treatment. My job investigating wetlands and surface water violations, particularly those involving logging operations at my state’s environmental agency, gave me the opportunity to walk in the woods. For many years, that was good enough.

It’s a late August day, and I’m returning to the office from inspecting a timber harvest. Driving along Route 25, a flat valley road in western New Hampshire, I notice a mountain standing off by itself—almost as if it’s intentionally trying to distance itself from its White Mountain cousins to the east. The distinct mountain profile of Mount Moosilauke dominates the view.

I’d always wanted to hike Mount Moose, but with the passage of time and the gradual erosion of self-interests, I’d forgotten about it. But now things have changed. I’m no longer married and have no curfew. There’s no prehike dread of asking Bob if I can go and no post-trip aftermath. Things are different now. Sure, I’m 54 years old, but it’s not too late. My goal is not only to hike eight miles to conquer a summit but to embark on a journey of self-discovery—to rediscover interests I’d been deprived of the opportunity to pursue. What better time was there than now?

The following Sunday, I shoulder the outdated, fraying daypack that I took with me on Mount Washington, shake a strand of cobweb off my hiking stick (with the Mount Washington hiking badge affixed to it), and set off on the Glencliff Trail. Although I’m undaunted by the thought of hiking alone, I am self-conscious of my solo status when I see couples and groups of hikers gathering at the trailhead. Still, for the first time, I’m full of hope and optimism that I recognize as a rarity in my life thus far. It feels good to be exercising again and to finally be able to do something I’ve wanted to do for so long.

Birch and maple shade the trail. Thick, emerald-green sphagnum moss blankets the ground like a 1970s shag carpet. Soon the forest hardwoods disappear and are replaced by higher-elevation evergreens, like red spruce and balsam fir. Small streams cascade across the trail, and I can’t help but notice the variety of mushrooms and other fungi sprouting from downed logs.

Growing up, I loved going for walks in the woods with my father. We would forage for edible mushrooms following rainy, sweltering days in August. We walked as softly and silently as possible, careful not to step on dead branches or leaves while observing. He taught me how to read a topographic map and use a compass. My love for the outdoors was the reason I earned my degree in forestry and worked in environmental science at the New Hampshire Department of Environmental Services. Although my ex-husband liked the outdoors, he preferred fishing and thought of hiking as a forced march. During a brief delusional stint when I imagined that we would actually hike together, I purchased a backpack, daypack, cookstove, and all the other hiking accoutrements essential for outdoor survival, like a compass, pocketknife, waterproof matches, space blanket, and first aid kit.

I push thoughts of my ex-husband out of my mind as I press onward and substitute them with memories of my most recent counseling session. I told Rebecca I’d been reading Controlling People and wasn’t sure if I was abused. Bob never called me names, berated me, or threw things at me. Compared to other survivors’ experiences I was reading about, mine wasn’t so bad. Maybe I wasn’t mistreated at all. It was a topic I wanted to discuss with Rebecca, so I flexed my new superpowers and asked. Was I abused?

Well, we can explore it, but what difference would it make? Would you want your best friend to have the same type of relationship you had with Bob?

We never spoke about it again. I donated Controlling People to my local battered women’s shelter and re-read Victory Over Verbal Abuse: A Healing Guide to Renewing Your Spirit and Reclaiming Your Life.

Back on the trail, spruce and fir become shorter and scrubbier—a high-altitude survival mechanism against the relentless forces of the wind. My pace quickens with the horse-sees-the barn urgency. After three hours of hiking, I sense I’m about to break out above treeline and reap the rewards of unparalleled views.

It doesn’t disappoint. I’m able to see in every direction. At over 4,000 feet, trees are replaced with grasses growing only at this elevation. The ridgeline trail extends for another mile before reaching the summit. I feel like Julie Andrews from The Sound of Music frolicking in the Swiss Alps and practically float the last mile to the summit.

Thanks to a number of trails leading to the peak, I now have plenty of company. It’s noon, and the craggy top is crowded with hikers staking their claim among the rocks, enjoying lunch, and sunning themselves like