A review by shelvesofsamantha
Not Without Peril: 150 Years of Misadventure on the Presidential Range of New Hampshire by Nicholas Howe
4.0
Initially, I set out to read this book as research. At the time, I was planning to write a story of my own that was set in the White Mountains, the protagonist an experienced hiker of the Presidential Range. I ended up tabling that story idea, but I had already purchased the book and wanted to read it nonetheless.
Full disclosure: I am not a hiker. I’m a scaredy-cat who avoids activities that one might say are, well, not without peril. I can distinctly recall two hikes I’ve been on in my life. The first was a mild trek in California, the only difficulty of which was a steep hill that I decided against my better judgment to climb to impress my girlfriend, an avid hiker, in the very early days of our relationship. I over-exerted myself and promptly vomited atop the hill. (And thankfully, my girlfriend kept going out with me afterwards.)
The second hike, however, was much more dangerous. It was a trek through a Hawaiian bamboo forest, involving scrambling, climbing, uneven terrain, mud, loose rocks, and, at the end, swimming several hundred yards in a river. It was objectively too dangerous and too strenuous for someone as inexperienced as me and the majority of my party. The only reason we did not encounter serious danger was because two people with us had hiked it before and were in good enough physical condition to help us down some perilous descents. I finished the hike sore, a little dehydrated, and with tender ankles from the uneven rocks. We later found out that someone died on the trail that same day.
That story is child’s play compared to the tales Howe shares from the Presidential Range. The fatal misadventures in this book are handled with a requisite degree of reverence, cautionary tales rather than lurid exploitation of tragedy. The book is at its most riveting when it tells these stories, and I found myself tearing through these pages far more than the asides about the landscape or Howe’s personal connection to the White Mountains. Nevertheless, Howe’s explanation of the landscape is extremely detailed, and it’s hard not to appreciate the level of research put into this book. My last complaint is a petty one - so many comma splices, my number one grammatical pet peeve! - but I don’t want to harp on the writing too much, because it’s not meant to be a literary masterpiece. It’s fairly workmanlike and does the job, which is all it needs to do to be effective.
Even as someone who has never and may never hiked the Whites, this was a truly enjoyable read. My motivations for reading this books were admittedly a little odd, but I’m still glad I picked it up.
Full disclosure: I am not a hiker. I’m a scaredy-cat who avoids activities that one might say are, well, not without peril. I can distinctly recall two hikes I’ve been on in my life. The first was a mild trek in California, the only difficulty of which was a steep hill that I decided against my better judgment to climb to impress my girlfriend, an avid hiker, in the very early days of our relationship. I over-exerted myself and promptly vomited atop the hill. (And thankfully, my girlfriend kept going out with me afterwards.)
The second hike, however, was much more dangerous. It was a trek through a Hawaiian bamboo forest, involving scrambling, climbing, uneven terrain, mud, loose rocks, and, at the end, swimming several hundred yards in a river. It was objectively too dangerous and too strenuous for someone as inexperienced as me and the majority of my party. The only reason we did not encounter serious danger was because two people with us had hiked it before and were in good enough physical condition to help us down some perilous descents. I finished the hike sore, a little dehydrated, and with tender ankles from the uneven rocks. We later found out that someone died on the trail that same day.
That story is child’s play compared to the tales Howe shares from the Presidential Range. The fatal misadventures in this book are handled with a requisite degree of reverence, cautionary tales rather than lurid exploitation of tragedy. The book is at its most riveting when it tells these stories, and I found myself tearing through these pages far more than the asides about the landscape or Howe’s personal connection to the White Mountains. Nevertheless, Howe’s explanation of the landscape is extremely detailed, and it’s hard not to appreciate the level of research put into this book. My last complaint is a petty one - so many comma splices, my number one grammatical pet peeve! - but I don’t want to harp on the writing too much, because it’s not meant to be a literary masterpiece. It’s fairly workmanlike and does the job, which is all it needs to do to be effective.
Even as someone who has never and may never hiked the Whites, this was a truly enjoyable read. My motivations for reading this books were admittedly a little odd, but I’m still glad I picked it up.