The Summit

The dads moved at a glacial pace, clumping along in their Bermuda shorts with walking sticks. My 8 yo friends and I looked back once more in frustration. Even at that age, we recognized their middle-aged sluggishness, their fatigue, their vague embarrassment at being unable to keep up.

On the path to the summit, we could run circles around them.

We came to a callous unspoken consensus: heck with ‘em. We sprinted ahead, eager to see what lay around the next turn as their fading voices called for us to wait.

It was spring and our Y-Guide tribe was climbing Overlook Mountain in the Catskill Mountains of upstate New York. The day of our hike was beautiful as only that corner of the world can be.

The green blush of new leaves heralded the coming of another summer; and here and there in shady spots, patches of snow lingered. Lady slippers had emerged between the moss- and lichen-covered boulders.

My friends and I carried canvas backpacks filled useless stuff: comic books, GI Joes, flashlights. We also had sandwiches in wax paper, fruit, cookies, and thick aluminum canteens of water around our waists.

We stopped at a switchback and far below, we could see our dads slowly making progress. We decided to wait. Someone started throwing Oreos and within a minute, there was a full-blown food fight going on as egg salad and bologna sandwiches, apples and bananas were hurled. The canteens were opened and we shouted with laughter as our heads and shoulders became soaked.

We weren’t concerned about being hungry and thirsty. We’d heard there was a hotel at the summit; we’d just refill our canteens and get something to eat at the cafeteria.

We sat on rocks, waiting. Finally, we heard voices and the dads appeared around a turn. They kicked up dust as they plodded along, leaning on their sticks and talking about grownup stuff.

They finally reached us and when they saw the mess, the angry shouts echoed in the woods. We explained our plan to re-provision up at the hotel. They exchanged looks and smirks. What? we thought.

We continued climbing, this time as a group. The dads were breathing hard and took turns calling for breaks. People descending on the trail encouraged us: you’re almost there.

A final turn, and we reached the summit and the hotel. It was not what we expected. No cafeteria. No pool. No guests, parking lot or even a roof.

The hotel was originally built in 1871 and burned down four years later. It was rebuilt the same year and again burned down suspiciously in 1923 during Prohibition. It was never rebuilt.

The historical significance was lost on us as we watched the dads leisurely eat their lunches and drink from their canteens. They ate and drank with exaggerated relish, smacking their lips and wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands as we kicked ourselves.

We poked around the ruins for a while, and then climbed the nearby fire tower. Our rumbling stomachs and parched mouths were forgotten as we gazed around in wonder. Far above the treetops, we could see for miles in the breeze. The Ashokan Reservoir was to the south and to the east, the Hudson River. Beyond the river, almost lost in the haze, lay New England; Massachusetts and Connecticut. We lingered in wonder until the dads finally called us down.

Hungry and thirsty, the descent was tiring. We began to see the advantage in the dad method of pacing ourselves. During one of the breaks, Pop cut me a walking stick from an ash tree. After all these years, it still holds a place of honor in my garage. All three of my kids used it; if I’m blessed with grandkids, I’ll pass it along.

Fifty years later, I found myself again beginning the ascent of Overlook Mountain.

This time, no dads, no buddies… no backpacks or GI Joes. Just me and my oldest daughter Kristen. She was getting married in a few months and we were on a road trip together. We had no set plan; we just headed north to see where the wind blew us. We took ten days and covered 2,500 miles. One of the stops was Overlook Mountain; she’d heard the story and wanted to see it for herself.

On the trail, the memories came flooding back from that spring day a half-century ago; the moss-covered boulders, the little springs, the rich loamy smell of the woods. A career started and ended, a marriage, three kids. Twenty seven years in Florida, twenty three in North Carolina. As we scuffed our dusty way along, faces came to mind; I wondered where they were now, how their lives had turned out.

About halfway up, I was gassed. I was at least 15 years older than Pop when he made this trek; and it was a hot July afternoon, not a cold April morning. I sat on a rock wondering if I still had it in me.

We heard a strange sound coming up behind us, kind of a ringing, scraping noise. We looked back and coming around the corner was a guy with two prosthetic legs. They were steel bars bent in a semicircles that functioned like two leaf springs. He nodded and smiled; and as we watched, he continued, arms swinging, legs pumping. As he disappeared around a corner, I had a sudden burst of energy.

Forty five minutes later, we finally climbed to the top of the fire tower. I gazed around in amazement; it was just as I remembered. Nothing had changed; no development, no urban sprawl, no highrises perched on the mountainsides. In a world where nothing stays the same, it was astonishing.

We lingered far longer than I had the first time. In our lofty perch, we felt unshackled from earth. We talked about her upcoming marriage, her childhood days, and our times together. With the wind as our only companion that afternoon, we talked about her hopes and plans…about life and the brevity of our years, and the philosophy of carpe diem that I had had tried to impress upon all three of my kids.

It was an hour I’ll recall until I leave this world for the next.

Heading back down the trail was anticlimactic, like a great movie coming to an end.

But I reflected on the bigger picture: How many uncounted years had Overlook Mountain existed? And how was it that during the narrowest slice of time in those years had I twice visited the summit from such divergent perspectives?

I don’t know. I just hope that some day, Kristen will be able to climb it with one of her children.

And that it will still be the same.

© My little corner of the world 2024

All photos by the author unless otherwise indicated.