The Pride of Paris Mountain

It’s a what?  You try explaining- or encouraging the correct enunciation of a monadnock to my brood of children.  After a few rounds of back and forth explanations gone awry….I gave up.

“It’s like a little mountain in between a whole lot of flat…where it really shouldn’t be.”

I may be hated by geologists the world round but that definition settled the masses for a while.

Paris Mountain was where it shouldn’t be but for the prehistoric whim of a random glacier.  Since those days, Paris Mountain had served as a water reservoir, CCC camp and place of exploration, recreation and abandon.  We had been exploring some of the lower lying sand hill parks lately so we were quite anxious to stretch out into a more challenging hike- or rather pull.  It had been a while since we had dealt with any elevation and Little Leg’s little legs needed help getting used to the idea.  If there was any justice to the law of calorie burn, I should get double credit for managing the terrain of Brisby Ridge with actively assisting a fifty pound seven year old over the muddy, narrow trail which meandered up, down, around, over roots and rocks, over creeks and beside ledges.  Still, I couldn’t complain.  Anchor was hiking with Ben.  Ben hikes with the end goal always in mind.  Here is the trail.  I must follow it to its end and then I will receive a snack.  Silly issues of individual and/or group safety never cause him worry.  Onward and upward and possibly downward if he isn’t paying attention.  Anchor hikes with Ben to try to assure that our firstborn is kept safe.

 

Poor Anchor holds Ben back on steep slopes and watches our son’s feet on tricky assents.  If my calorie count is doubled by Little Leg’s care, then Anchor’s is quadrupled as he cares for Ben.

Brisby Ridge was a worthy challenge.  There was chatter but it came between steep ascents where extra breath was required.  We were mostly quiet saving shouts of “Rhonda”, “Garfunkel”, “Share the Trail,” “Watch out for Steve” and “Dudley.”  We recalled our trail vocabulary and flummoxed fellow hikers as we cheered for Salley when we saw the creek flow at the foot of our next climb.  We named the rain as it came to join us.  We called her Sophie and we were glad for her arrival.  She graciously ministered to us making sure to clean and cool us as best she could.

Paris Mountain christened us with Sophie’s rain.  She cemented our commitment to finishing this Ultimate Outsider journey.  We had known in theory the enormity of our undertaking even at Rose Hill and Kings Mountain.  We had vaguely known the challenge of taking four children throughout every nook and lair of South Carolina to hike and explore.  We knew and we thought we could do it.  The children were willing to try.  They had to really.  They were broke and didn’t have a car.  What choice did they have but to follow their crazy parents’ latest adventure?

Still, this hike at Brisby Ridge set us to our task.  Paris Mountain steeled us.  We did it.  We conquered the monadnock’s rugged climb.  We did it in the rain and in the mud.  We did it- each of us individually; Little Legs, Thoreau, Wet Foot, Big Ben, Anchor and me.  We did it together as a family.  We were sweaty again by the end of the trail.  We were sweaty and stinky and dirty and tired.  Legs, feet and arms ached.  We longed for the comfort of a bathroom.

Yet, we were proud.  Thoreau declared Paris Mountain a favorite and wanted to challenge the other trails.  We weren’t arguing.  We were laughing and planning our next adventures.  We still had other stamps to search out and secure.  We had many other parks to navigate but it was here at Paris Mountain that we transformed into Ultimate Outsiders.  It was unspoken but our commitment was real and our new identity was cemented.  We crossed Brisby Ridge and vowed love and dedication to each other and to our shared journey.  After Paris Mountain, the children told friends “We hike on Saturdays with our family.”  We had begun this journey to define those elemental pieces of ourselves and now we had found them:  God, love, nature.  I had subjected my children to lectures about the value of each of these for years but here on Brisby Ridge the content of my orations became real because they did not have to be heard.  Our children changed that day.  They transformed and began to see the beauty around them in the woods and in each other.  They understood why this time and these adventures were so important.  The journey that had begun as their parent’s crazy idea had become one of their own pride