Five

On a winding trail through the San Gabriels, we scaled the frosted mountainside together. You clung with embryonic persistence as my toes found purchase in snowbanks peeling back from crumbling stone. It was February then, or maybe March, and you were still just a hope I dared not count as one among us. Still, we wound our thread together through those unmarked canyons, managing to find our way both in and back out despite our shared inability to identify a true north. When gravity pushed back against my smug confidence, she kicked my heel out from under me and tumbled me down a frozen waterfall, my backside raking over the jagged teeth of the unyielding creek below. My skin gasped through torn trousers at the slap of iced air and my coccyx howled in protest. But not you. You just rolled on over and commanded me, "Up, Mommy! Do it again!"

We walked through the spring months over eroding summits, through ponderosa and coulter pine forests. We disentangled ourselves from the manzanita's ruby clutches and breathed deep the clouds of sandstone dust. Rattlesnakes coiled at the trail's edge. Coyotes lurked in packs down below, lapping at whatever ribbon of creek remained as the bottomless thirst of June and then July pressed in. You grew hot and restless, as keen to hear the insane yelps of those wild dogs as any among us. You were not yet a name, but you were a definite you.

Every one of those sweltering August days, California's high desert sky was an uninterrupted expanse of blue. Where shade was insufficient, we took shelter in water. The camp pool was our sanctuary during the noon lunch hour. In the dining hall nearby, squeals of damp, red-faced children eating corn dogs and tater tots tumbled down over us as we cut through the rectangle of blue. Immersion, extension, buoyancy, breath.

We climbed and swam together until the doctor demanded we stop. We stretched ourselves out through September, cutting a trench in the camp perimeter with our shared weight, with our endless steps. Two weeks before your ETA, the doc announced you were on your way. You had sent me no signal; you had never even knocked. You just began shouldering open the stable door, compelled, perhaps, by the bright promise on this side of the threshold.

In that hospital in Apple Valley, though, you stalled right at the starting gate. One never knows what kind of kid is going to come slipping out to life. Maybe you were to be a hesitant type after all. Would you be one who lingers in doorways? One who keeps his feet planted firm on flat ground while the others bound up and over the uncertain horizon?

The doctor told me to walk. I walked. The tiny hospital courtyard became a stadium track, a mountain pass, the whole of the Pacific Rim trail. For nine months, we had marched. Now we walked another 90 years, another 900 miles, a marathon to coax you to life.

When the doc finally forced you free and you landed in your daddy's waiting hands, we knew it was not reluctance that had held you back. Arm up, fist raised, you had been trying to punch your way right through to the light of day. My boy has been a warrior from the start. You defy rules. You blaze your own trail. This, even when your stubbornness hamstrings your own determination to be the first across the finish line. You came over to our side fully formed, a tiny hot-wired motor already primed for speed.

"Alive 'til five," the grandmothers say. This alone is a lofty goal for the mama of a boy like you. It stuns me you have survived, let alone thrived. Yet here you are, launching yourself around the next lap. Your pace is not faltering, and your stride only grows more sure.

Happy birthday, baby. The terrain ahead may be rough, but I look forward to crossing every inch of it with you.

Ain't No River Wide Enough

If Wellies worked for hiking, perhaps tackling Little Devils Stairs two days after torrential rains wouldn't be an idiotic idea. The quiet parking lot on the east side of Shenandoah National Park only had two cars in it at 9am on a spring-ish morning. Could that have been a clue, Watson? Perhaps hikers with half a brain (or a healthy sense of self-preservation) were covering less treacherous trails.

As for me, I had to go for it. It isn't often this mama has no kid, clear skies, and enough energy to dive into the Appalachians. But even my determination was tested by repeated crossings over a swollen river. So much for my leisurely, rejuvenating day hike. Little Devils Stairs? Aptly named. Except for the "little" part.

Just 25 yards from the trailhead, I found myself on the bank of Keyser Run without a way across. Every stone and tree used by previous hikers to manage this daunting task had either been washed away or was submerged under a foot of rushing water.  After several adjustments to my position and a stern conversation with my spine, I made to the other side. Little did I know my victory was just a warmup. Little Devil Stairs is nothing more than a snaking hike up a steep creek gorge. Every time the trail crossed the river -- and it did so more than a dozen times -- I had to stop, assess, and concoct a way across. This meant tramping up and downstream at every juncture to compare downed trees, slick boulders, and water volume.

On several occasions, the only option was a narrow limb jutting out from a root-ball on one crumbling bank and balanced on the teetering rocks near the other. I am not usually prone to vertigo, but even I had to sit down on my rear and scootch most of the way across. This ridiculous sight of this tactic is one reason I prefer hiking alone.

At one of the more upright sections of the staircase, I found myself stranded in the middle of the river. The stone I had just slid from was clattering away downstream, and the bank was still five feet away. I squatted on a slick rock with white water roaring on both sides of me. A water-heavy log bobbed nearby. It seemed my best chance. I gritted my teeth and grappled with the monstrous thing until I got a grip. I hauled the log up against the current and pushed it into a more useful position. For some strange reason, gravity chose not to punish me for that moronic feat.

It was on about the ninth crossing when she finally decided to have her giggle at my expense. My foot punched right through a rotted log. Down I tumbled into the mud and frigid wet. Fortunately, my right shin bore the brunt of the fall. I was drenched to the calves but upright, and I gotta tell you, there's nothing that kicks a person past the momentary paralysis of a fall quite like coming to rest in ice water. It also turns out that having a quart of it stored in each boot makes navigating the rest of the crossings a bit easier. Only a bit. It's still incredibly difficult to make oneself step right into white, rushing water, no matter how wet the feet already are. This gal had some words for that river. Not ones I'd want any of my loved ones to overhear.

Having not hiked in any meaningful way since abandoning the Adirondacks, I had a small learning curve to navigate. Double-blazes mean a turn ahead. It took me a few baffled meanders into tangled underbrush to remember this. As each trail turn plunged me back down the river for yet another crossing, I quickly developed an unfortunate pavlovian response to the markers.  Poor river. She's probably still blushing from the fervor of my profanity.

With my legs a-shaking and my gumption well-tested only a couple miles into the hike, I came upon yet another double blaze. After a stream of invectives, I barreled on, only to discover the turn heading up and away from the river. I have never been so happy to see a switchback in my life.

For most of the rest of the hike, I slogged happily along muddy trails in my drenched leather, smartwool, and fleece. Synthetics preserved me from both chill and blisters until the sun came out to lend a hand. It turns out that with the right socks, wet boots are rather spongy and bouyant.

At a juncture with the fire road, I decided to give those low hills the old what-for. I took the extra loop and added another 2.3 miles onto the hike. It turns out I also added three more opportunities to re-experience my earlier delight. Taking the Piney Branch loop forced me to criss-cross an even wider tributary of Keyser Run. Despite my most damning vitriol, neither ferryman nor magic carpet appeared at my feet. I just had to tramp and shimmy and wobble my way to dry ground.

Which I somehow managed to do.

Four hours, 7.8 miles,  16-odd river crossings, only 3 other humans witnessed (one was a park ranger: "What, didja swim across?").

Wild? Check.
Solitude? Check.
The bruises to prove it? Check.