It was determined that our climb be expeditious—the shortest distance between two points. From one thousand feet to forty-two hundred in the shortest amount of time. I admit, I am somewhat responsible for the results, but I wanted the kids' company. Robert, Cece's beau, was awed by the wilderness and gung-ho for some exploration, but when I suggested that there was an easier, albeit longer way to the top, Cecelia and Dante balked. Oh well. I was up for the exercise, so I took the lead before anyone could outright rebel. I also failed to properly assess anyone else's preparedness.
When it comes to climbing a mountain, I am more of a wanderer. I prefer to zig-zag my way to a destination, rather than crawl on hands and knees. And if I must crawl, my jeans must not be belted about my thighs. Initially ahead of the kids and encountering the briars, branches, wet leaves, fallen trees, and loose rocks first, they laughed at me when I quickly dropped to all fours. I suspect I would have been amused too, if I had been behind me. In fact, I would have been hysterical and much too distracted to make the climb had I been presented with such a silly sight.
With my rump shamelessly up in the air and my hands and feet kicking out in all directions—trying to get a grip—I made my way up. Dante—who had agreed to come along only after I bribed him with promises of S'mores upon our return to sub-cloud elevation— kept up with me. In fact, he did so well at picking his way around all the various obstacles that at times he was in the lead. But behind me, I could hear Cece cackling—that laughter of hers that is very hard to resist. And so I cackled too, although I was unaware at the time that my posture was the source of her amusement.
Only Dante and I made it up to the blueberry bushes. Robert appropriately gave up, and Cece decided to turn back with him. He was unfortunately wearing smooth bottom sneakers and jeans hanging way too low. But I don't think these were the only things that took the wind out of his sails. He was also hindered by exhaustion—from his bonsai drive from NY to Asheville the day before, as well as from laughing at me.
To make the climb even more ill-fated, I had not planned well at all. We went for lunch at Twelve Bones prior—a most divine Bar-B-Q place—and all of us had at least a pound of pork in our bellies, not to mention a lack of water on the way up, too much clothing on, and all of the wrong kind. Alas, I hope nobody was too discouraged to want to try again!
When Dante and I reached the blueberry patch and the stretch of bald rock, we stood there for a minute, silent. Looking past the first layer of mountains to those that loomed beyond, I asked him if he felt a certain satisfaction standing up there on the edge of the national forest, and he grudgingly admitted he did.
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