A ghost-like mist floats low in the Androscoggin River Valley at Gorham, N.H., glowing in the rays of a sun just cresting the high ridge of the Carter Range east of us.

Though it’s not much after 7 a.m., there’s not the faintest hint of a cloud in the sky, and the air is already warm. On any hike, these are good things. Today, they are reasons for hope.

Two friends and I are standing just above the tree line on Daniel Webster (Scout) Trail. Above us, a steep slope of rocks rises beyond sight toward the summit of Mount Madison.

Although we began hiking at 5:45 this morning, it seems logical to begin this story as we break out of the trees. This is a story about spending a long time above the trees.

Doug Thompson, Mike Casino, and I are attempting a one-day traverse of New Hampshire’s Presidential Range, from Dolly Copp campground to Crawford Notch.

The trek will take us about 20 miles over nine summits in the highest and harshest mountains in the Northeast – including the tallest, Mount Washington.

Our route entails more than 8,000 feet of total elevation gain and – perhaps more daunting from the perspective of a knee – 7,400 feet of descending.

We figure to walk for the better part of 15 hours on a hike known in certain circles, appropriately, as the “Death March” – without passing a single tree.

We knew the push up Madison would be the first test of our resolve: four miles, 4,000 vertical feet. And the numbers do not communicate the sense of endlessness that can overwhelm someone plodding and sweating up that boulder field.

But our spirits are buoyed at reaching the 5,367-foot summit by about 9 a.m., feeling great. We have trained well for this, hiking as much as possible, and have chosen a mid-June day to ensure ourselves plenty of daylight.

The other peaks of the northern Presidentials spread out before us, all the way to Washington – sprawling piles of rock rising hundreds of feet above the connecting ridge.

Doug, Mike and I smile at each other. We’re all thinking the same thing: They look within reach.

We fill water bottles and buy a little food at Madison Hut. With two huts along our route and the vistor center atop Washington, we carry only one bottle each. We’re going as light as possible, just the necessary foul-weather clothing, one headlamp each, a single first-aid kit, some food.

Over 20 miles, every pound not carried makes a difference in muscles and joints, in the gradual accumulation of fatigue and pain.

The Star Lake Trail traverses the steep and rocky east face of Mount Adams, climbing nearly 900 feet to the top of the second-highest peak in the Northeast. The hand-and-foot scrambling is slow and hot. I can feel the sun on the back of my neck. My jersey swims in a layer of perspiration.

We’d hoped for a little breeze on top of Adams, but the air hangs stagnantly, infested with some kind of insect that finds our clothing hospitable. We continue over the summit and down the other side before stopping for a little food and water. It’s now past 10:30 a.m.

Heading southwest down Adams, across a field of broken, sharp-edged rocks, we choose each step cautiously. There’s not a bush or shrub spruce in sight on this stark landscape. Lichens provide the only color amid the monotonous gray rock.

The ridge drops gradually but steadily more than 800 vertical feet. All of our elevation gain on Adams is lost, a hard reality that makes this hike a death march. Some vegetation returns as we drop lower. Wildflowers bloom vibrantly in the thin soil.

Ascending the north slope of 5,712-foot Mount Jefferson, we cross a small snow field, a holdover from winter. As on the other steep ascents, Doug falls behind us; at 62, he is forgiven for this. He makes up for it on level ground.

Mike and I pause for a brief rest. He looks back along the ridge we’ve spent a good part of this morning hiking, and grins.

“I can’t believe how far we’ve come just from Adams,” he says.

We scramble up onto Jefferson’s conical summit, into the teeth of a sharp wind, then turn right back down to a protected spot amid rocks for a break. Mike and I both remark that we’ve never seen Jefferson’s summit without wind.

If Adams was slow and Jefferson arduous, 5,541-foot Mount Clay begins to hurt, a slight but deep burn in the leg muscles with each step. But worse yet, the clouds we’ve watched develop since mid-morning begin to thicken.

By the time we reach the summit, overlooking the fearsome headwall that drops hundreds of feet almost straight down into the Great Gulf Wilderness, the sun has abandoned us, the wind has turned cold.

Now we talk about whether finishing is possible. After a consultation, we agree to postpone our decision until we’re on Washington’s summit. But the clouds make the decision for us.

As we labor up toward the 6,288-foot roof of New England, a gray ceiling descends over the mountaintop, engulfing it in neat white-out.

So at mid-afternoon we find ourselves hiking down through a soupy fog, toward Pinkham Notch and a 12-hour, 15-mile day – back into the trees, thinking about when we’ll attempt this trek again.