There is a mountain across town from our house called Mount Worcester. It is small by global standards -- just over 3,400 feet -- but it is steep and wooded and interesting to climb. North of Worcester along the ridge is a knoll called Stowe Pinnacle. It is just that; a pinnacle of rock looking across the valley where sits our town. The Mansfield Range is to the west. It is a beautiful spot.
The Pinnacle trail meanders and climbs aggressively to the ridge of the Worcesters. When our son, Cal, was five, as we were lying about in the back late on a beautiful early fall day, the sky a blistering blue and the air dry, he said he wanted to climb a mountain. We'd not done anything but chores all that day and a hike was a great idea. I did not wait for discussion but jumped up, kissed Jackie and the baby and grabbed my boy, an apple and a small bottle of water. We were off.
As I said the day was fading but the sun was still bright. I was not worried about a late start. I figured we'd hike about a mile into the hardwood forest, through the meadow and up the gentle trail built on old logging roads and then we'd stop where the trail takes a steep turn upward and scrambles into some ledge cliffs where steep stone stairs have been rolled and pushed and ground into place over the years. I assumed we'd stop at this rise, drink some water, share the apple and head back toward home. I was wrong.
As we hiked to this steepest part of the trail my boy just kept going. He was walking in front, setting the pace, and had his hands thrust into his little pockets. We talked some but mostly just hiked. I watched the back of his head bob along steadily, happily, without a care in the world.
'Hey Cal. You sure you want to keep going?' I asked as we reached the staircase.
'Sure Dad,' he said, not even breaking stride.
'Want a drink?'
'Nope,' he said and off he went.
We hiked up this steepest part of the trail and reached the saddle between two peaks. The Pinnacle Trail crosses the saddle and drops to the eastern side of the Worcesters. The trail flows downhill along the backside a bit before it resumes its climb. We were in pine now, which I tried to point out but Cal was just a locomotive chugging up the trail. Soon we'd join the ridge trail, where we would I was certain turn back. Surely the boy would tire after this climb. It was now after five thirty in the afternoon; the sun was dropping and it was getting cool.
We reached the junction with the Ridge Trail. Cal stopped, looked at the sign, turned toward me, hands on hips. "Which way Dad?" A big smile on his little face.
Now, I am a pretty conservative father. I would not say I coddle but I protect. Here I was, over an hour walk from the nearest road. It was late. If we turned back now we could conceivably be in the car -- warmth, safety, route to home -- before dark. If we did not turn back, well, we would not be out before darkness fell.
'Well, son, the trail to the Pinnacle is that way,' and I pointed to where the trail dove into a tunnel of small, twisted mountain pines. The pine woods were already all but dark. I was about to raise the dilemma -- continue and climb out in the dark or turn back now -- but Cal was off, into the tunnel of trees, soldiering on.
There are times when what you know you should do -- be firm, take charge, turn back -- is just the wrong thing to do. I followed my brave young man.
Nearly six o'clock. The trail finally breaks open onto the scarred rock summit. We walk to the western edge of the cliff and look down on our little town. There is no wind and the sun is hovering just above dusk to the west. Mt. Mansfield -- the largest mountain in our state -- basks in the turning light. We see a swath of the Green Mountain Range from Lincoln to the South past our Mansfield and on to Sterling and White Face to the North.
There was of course no one else on the summit. Cal sat on the edge of the cliff, feet tucked under him, and asked me for the apple. He sat, legs crossed under him like a guru, eating the apple and taking in the vast view. We shared the water. We watched the sun drop behind a thin line of wind cloud over Mansfield and then watched the setting sun turn the colors of the sky from blue to purple to pinks and reds and orange. We watched the sky go to dark.
'Buddy, we've got to go.'
'Okay Dad.' Cal got up, handed me the apple core and water bottle, now empty, and he turned and headed out.
Now, the sun was down. We were two miles from the parking lot. We had a steep, dark and twisting walk ahead of us. Cal did okay for a while, but it was too dark and difficult to let the five-year-old walk so I hoisted him onto my shoulders. This made it easier for him but not for me.
As we walked I had only two goals. First, for neither of us to get hurt; a simple stumble or trip, a twisted ankle, a missed stone step would send us sprawling to the rocks. We had no supplies, not even a bandanna. There was a real risk of serious injury walking down a mountain trail in what was becoming not dusk, not twilight, but pitch dark deep woods. My second goal was for Jackie not to kill me when we got down. Staying unbroken was easier. I just had to watch my step and keep Cal balanced. Not being killed when we came out was going to be harder to achieve. Of course I had not brought a phone ('we'll only be an hour!'). Jackie had expected us to be home at about the time Cal sat eating an apple on the Pinnacle. I forced my certain death upon getting off the mountain from my mind and concentrated on the footfalls in front of me and the impenetrably dark woods. And the woods were dark but not silent.
I do not think it matters how old you are. Dark woods are scary. We could not see the trail in front of us, let alone what was to the left and the right (or behind). We heard rustling in the dead leaves all around us. A bear grunted somewhere, not far away. Well, I think it was a bear. It could have been a squirrel. As I was feeling edgy, the five-year-old on my shoulders was getting full on scared. I needed to take immediate action or -- even if we did not fall -- the trip would end badly.
I made up a story about the "two-butted monster" walking down a mountain trail in the dark. We roared down the mountain as only a two-butted monster can. I did what I could to distract and keep my son laughing. I watched my step, tried to stay on the trail, doubted my parenting skills but at the same time not my decision to let the boy dictate how far we went up the trail. We hooted into the thickness of the night. And then, as we walked, something hooted back. My son was talking to an owl.
The first time we heard the hoot come back to us we went silent. I walked and we listened. The woods were no longer crowding us in but were calling to us, inviting us. We walked and listened and the fear was gone. After some time of silence Cal hooted again and soon he and the unseen owl were talking like old friends.
They talked all the way out of the forest, where the owl wisely stayed back. The stars were out above us as we walked to the car. I called the house from the car and in a second of brilliance handed the phone to my son before anyone answered.
"Mom! We talked to an owl! I climbed all the way to the top of the mountain by myself!! We ate the apple and watched the sunset!! It was beautiful!! I will remember it forever! Forever! We were a two-butted monster!! And we talked to an owl!"
I will remember it forever.
David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio
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