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Sunday journal

Persevering through peaks and valleys

By JEFF KARON
Published January 23, 2005

I am tangled in the whiplike brush that curls round and up the hillside, summer growth that quickly shuts off the view of a North Carolina waterfall tumbling through a small valley. My older stepson never looks back or down, only side to side when he occasionally stops to take stock of the next rotted log or overhung ledge. He plunges upward, upward, and the twigs snap as I seem to dream-slog along without gaining on him.

I had scrambled up the hillside when he took off, thinking at least to keep him in sight so that he does not come to grief in the forest. I always take such matters seriously on these family vacations, but I am sure that in the last year or two both my stepsons see such hiker's caution as comical, and possibly buffoonish. But I slog on. Deep down, I hope that he will turn at any moment, waiting for me to join him.

When we first came to these mountains, years before, I would wait for him. On the second day of that trip, my stepsons and two of their young friends decided to hike with me up the mountain on which our cabin perches. Still little boys, they eagerly outfitted themselves with water bottles, ropes, knives and anything that might somehow help them survive in the ersatz wilderness. The mountain already was under development by Floridians eager to capture daily visits by hummingbirds and clouds that swirl close beneath wooden decks that every vacation home must sport.

Spring in the mountains means clear walking between trees - the way is not yet overgrown, or clogged with biting flies. But the winter and autumn leaves still covered the high hillsides, creating slippery carpets that required care to move over. I reached for the boles and roots of young trees. I needed to help the boys up the hillside. I felt strong.

My younger stepson sweated and panted, but bravely refused to give up. He made it to the top with me and his two friends. My older stepson, though, decided to stop and sit in the leaves. We tried to coax him farther, but I let go that time; I did not want to make him self-conscious. Let them come to you, the experts will tell me for a few years.

Our visits to the mountains change in subtle ways as my stepsons grow stronger. We arrive only in the height of summer: Dust kicks up on every drive, but the valleys are not yet bloomed out. When our van breaks down while returning to the cabin, my older stepson and I, after helping to carry groceries up to the cabin, run back down to meet the tow truck. He has consciously pursued diet and exercise; he is an athlete. My other stepson, initially in his brother's shadow physically, starts down a parallel path. In these middle years, I come to think that we at least share the philosophy of discipline. Though some of my pursuits must seem downright effete - poetry, philosophy, dance - surely my physical abilities count for something. On every trip, I carry a Japanese sword into the forest for practice. I still feel strong. I am, I hope, a character in their universe, maybe a Beau Brummell, but certainly not a buffoon.

The summers continue to be hot, the way up the mountain increasingly clogged by brush and fallen trees. On a trip to the Army surplus store, my older stepson discusses the possibility of taking machetes on our next trip. I am excited by this small display of interest from him. I envision us swinging our blades, fighting our way back up the mountain. Let them come to you, experts insist. Others advise me to go to them. But ultimately, nothing comes of the suggestion to acquire machetes.

One summer, my stepsons, now outfitted with vehicles and cell phones, decline to meet us in the mountains. I had pinned hope on that trip, since for the previous year or two it is clear that the geographical isolation throws them back to me. With no distractions, they seem to enjoy my company. The path up the mountain is now blocked by a new home just above our cabin. Perhaps some expert will tell me that the boys are in their own valley. Just stay in sight. Wait.

Our last vacation takes us back to familiar haunts, familiar waterfalls, as well as new ones. I am struggling with deep disappointments in my life, but will learn over the next months that owning up to such problems just distresses the boys. Open up, do not open up, let them come to you, go to them: The experts jabber away. I want to replace the betrayal of all my best efforts with the philosophy of the hike, with the clean pain that comes from scrambling up rocks and through tangled undergrowth. I really believe that any minute the boys' distance will drop away in a moment's display of concern, just like the concern when their stepfather reached down for the little boys scrambling up the leaf-slick mountainside.

Instead, I am the one scrambling. I do finally reach my stepson above the waterfall, but he never looks my way, instead seeming to search the brush for an opening. He is not waiting. Perhaps I inadvertently have trapped him in a place where we can hear the water tumbling down, but can neither see it, nor move closer. I think about the meaning of weakness. I remember when I could protect the boys, and I wonder if anything protects me, or any stepfather, or any parent, from tumbling down the wrong side of a mountain into a distant valley.

[Last modified January 20, 2005, 10:29:06]