My object is my hat from Greenleaf Hut. My dad bought this for me, along with many snicker bars, when we stopped at Greenleaf on our way up Mt. Lafayette. The hat, now a faded blue with a wrinkled embroidering, fits me about as well as a yamaka. The clasp to adjust the size is partially rusted, and any shape that it once had was lost years ago. Back in the day, however, it was a striking blue with a handsome outline of the White Mountains. The Greenleaf Hut logo and altitude were also proudly depicted, nestled below the hills. To be honest, I’m not sure if it ever looked that grand, or if I just remember it that way; I don’t keep it to be a fashion model.
The reason that I do hold onto the hat has more to do with its time of purchase than anything else. It was given to me on what would become the first of many expeditions that my father and I had in the Whites. My hat has accompanied me on almost all of the following journeys, and has been carried over the crest of Mt. Washington and dipped into the waterfalls of Little Haystack. This hat represents a simpler chapter of my life, a time in which my weekends were filled with adventures and not coursework, an era in which I could put away the outside world and submerge myself in thought as I traipsed through overgrown trails; where any problems were as absent as society itself. My hat was there on all of the camping trips, where the rehydrated chicken soup that I split with my father tasted better than any of the meals that I’ve had in a restaurant. When my dad and I arrived in camp at 1 A.M. with the rain pouring down, my hat was nestled in my bag. When we came out of the woods a few days later, packs heavy and boots wet, my hat stood witness to our struggles. Few souvenirs leave the forest with my father and I, yet the fades and grime occupying my hat remind me of my adventures. Although my hat is now too small to be worn, its travels will be too large to forget.
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