I’ve loved “Journey to Ithaca” ever since I first came across it. I’ve quoted only part of it, but it’s the part that’s always struck a chord with me. It refers to the mythical creatures that Odysseus encounters on his wandering voyage from the Trojan War to his ancestral home on the island of Ithaca. The Lestrygonians are giants who cook and eat travelers passing through their land; the Cyclopes one-eyed ogres who do the same; and Poseidon the god of the seas, who can make a sailor’s life impossible, if he chooses. In Homer’s day the monsters probably were already considered mythical; today they’re metaphorical, but no less able to cripple or destroy.

My friends and I were camped one summer night some twenty years ago near the outlet of a large Arctic lake. The next morning we would start down the 150 miles or so of the river. I lay awake in my tent that night, not so much because there was no darkness as because the deep bass roar of the outlet rapid filled the air like the foreboding notes of Die Götterdämmerung. I knew that, one way or another, we were going down that rapid in a few hours, and in my imagination, fueled by that distant constant rumble, it became a monster. Reciting “Journey to Ithaca” didn’t help much. What did help, the next morning, was finally running the rapid. It was a sparkling beauty under the sun, relatively rock-free and fast, with an incredible char pool at its foot.

I’ve often felt that anticipation can be ninety per cent of an experience. The planning, poring over maps, making lists, gathering equipment – they’re all not only important, but delightful, as well. Unfortunately, dread also can be a large part of an actual experience. Some common examples might be visiting the dentist, getting ready for an IRS audit, or facing major surgery. The stress of fear can be debilitating. While some folks manage to direct such a challenge into positive preparation – prize fighters, for example, getting ready to go up against the champ – many others can’t manage to do that and, as the saying goes, lose sleep over it. The Lestrygonians win.

Today’s hike was one of those situations. I blame a writer who used vaguely charged words to describe it in the guide book. A couple of weeks ago my friends and I hiked the ridge of the Presidential Range in the White Mountains. The guide book describes that trip in quite matter-of-fact terms, almost as if it were rather a walk in the park, without trees and with spectacular views. I had found it nearly exhausting, and hoped there’d be no more like it this year.

Then I noticed that Wildcat Ridge and the Appalachian Mountain Club’s Carter Notch Hut were on the schedule. I remembered hiking into Carter Notch a couple of years ago, remarking the almost Yosemite-like cliffs of Wildcat Mountain on the west side of the notch, and thinking, “Pity the poor souls who’ve got to go up or down that!” Now we were going to be those poor souls.

I took the guide book into the bedroom to read myself to sleep. Big mistake. Try sleeping after reading these tidbits: “The trail next climbs steeply to the summit of D Peak....descends into Wildcat Col, the deepest col on the main ridge....several ‘steps’ – fairly steep climbs interspersed with level sections.” And finally, after reaching the fourth and highest summit on the ridge, the pièce de résistance: “The trail now descends rather steeply with many rock steps, crossing a large recent landslide track....” What did the writer mean by “rock steps”? Were they ten feet high, or maybe fifty? I could hear Lady Macbeth in my mind, berating me for “of sorriest fancies your companions making,” and adding, “Things without remedy should be without regard.” We were going, and there was no way around it. Score another for the Lestrygonians.

We cheated by riding the Wildcat gondola lift to the crest of the ridge, and set out up a steep rock ledge right away. Vacationers with children hiked nimbly up and down, while my load of age and dread weighted me even more than my minimally loaded rucksack. But gradually I found that, steeply up and down though the trail might be, it was easier than the Presidentials. There were a few scrambles here and there, but the occasional long view through the trees made the hike quite pleasant. Only when we reached the overlook near the summit of the last peak, and gazed what seemed like straight down over 1100 feet to the hut and the Carter Lakes, did the monsters of the mind return. The trail turned northeast toward the notch and began descending. “Do you suppose,” I asked, “this is the start of the steep downhill?” It was.

But not only had a genius designed that trail; a race of benevolent giants had built it. Dropping with many switchbacks across the top of the cliffs, it then turned east and slabbed across the bottom. And the rock steps? That’s exactly what they were. The giants had during the past century worried and pried hundreds of large rocks into a long staircase down the side of the mountain. Before long we could see the opposite slope of the notch approaching, and abruptly we were down. Little more than a quarter-mile to go to the hut, and lots of afternoon left. Poseidon had smiled upon us; the Cyclops had retreated into his cave; the Lestrygonians had turned out to be about as scary as the big bad wolf. And who’s afraid of him?