Echo Pond, Lake Placid, NY
Imagine the most perfect possible summer day. Then soften the breeze even more. Cool the sun just a bit. And remove the bugs. That’s what this day felt like. The day my kid and I almost fell off a mountain.
It would be our first mountain hike together with an actual summit. We’d woken up early, packed our snacks, donned our gear, and bounced happily to the trailhead. We had two choices: Ascend gradually via a moderate route, or get to the top quickly via a more difficult route.
This cautious mother chose the former. At least, that was the intent.
The arrow on the trail marker seemed to be pointing to the left. Or…was it? I made an executive decision. I immediately regretted my decision.
The terrain was quite manageable, but then suddenly seemed to quickly bend, like a blanket as it’s flipped and spread across fresh sheets. And then, I saw the ropes—the only way to make it up such an incline.
“What do we do, Mom?”
Every inch of me wanted to turn around, so I did — for a split second. Because in that moment, the descent backward may as well have been a vertical drop. I knew full well going back wasn’t an option.
”Well, if we want to get to the top, we’d have to use these ropes to pull ourselves up. Or, we can try to get back down from here and…”
”Well, let’s go!” my son said flatly, cutting off my hesitation and bounding ahead of me. He grabbed the rope and began to climb. This decision was being made for me.
”OK,” I said. “I’m right behind you.”
Not that I wanted to be. But I was. Of course I was: Me, my wildly pounding heart, and a solid stone of self-doubt in my stomach that I desperately needed to toss. Because no way I’d let my son climb alone.
He climbed with purpose. If he harbored any fear, it was either easy to hide, or expertly channeled into the reach of his skinny pipe iron arms and the magnetic pull of his feet. I followed, in awe, and so inspired by this being that I had made as he came into his own just a few steps ahead.
He reached the end of the rope, assured his footing, and broke into a trot.
“I can see the top!” he exclaimed. I pulled myself across the finish line of the rope’s end, and followed him to the summit of Cobble Hill.
We cheered. We jumped up and down. We’d just climbed a mountain!
Cobble Hill is hardly a mountain by the standards of the Great Range that stretches just beyond.
But in that moment in time, it was my mountain. Our mountain. And my son taught me how to turn it into a hill. He didn’t judge, or act superior — he saw the challenge in front of us, very plainly said, “let’s go!” — and then, lead the way.
We enjoyed the leisurely trail I’d originally hoped to take on the way down. And when we came upon Echo Pond on the way out, he insisted on taking a picture of me.
And I think that’s when he showed me the kind of person I aspire to be: a person who helps people figure out how to turn their mountains into hills, then celebrates them on the other side of the climb.