Parents prepare as best they can for everything. Mothers, I believe, can feel the beat of the world, and build, scheme, burrow accordingly. Nevertheless, the mantra I live by remains only too true: expect the unexpected. Here is an unexpected ditty that played out, approximately 100 miles into the hike. It was one of those terror-blink-of-an-eye moments, that can haunt, cripple and bury a parent, if you are not careful. These dangers aren't specific to the mountains, but really do live everywhere; subways, streets, schools, hospitals..they are hidden underfoot and in the air. The defense lies in the intangible fortitude; growing and strengthening my foundation so that I, hopefully, can protect both my boys. Parent your kids, love them until they light up, hold your breath, and then..unleash them to the world. It's a rough job, and when the world attacks, every sound stops and hovers. The heart-pound of fear can erupt, and then even revisit and tear things up all over again, (especially when life seems still and unassuming). In fact, I was emailed photos from this far-away day, once back in Cambridge and safely at work. I was instantly pulled back into an emotional pool; my heart, once again, was in my throat, the day felt palpable and real, even though I was worlds away, staring at a computer screen.
Here is our world attack, (I kept this one quiet until we were safely grounded, for the benefit of all our loved ones at home, who would lose weeks of sleep until our safe return). Please read the following, knowing that we are all ok. This was never light, nor joked about among us, but it did happen, and was our moment. Heads in the jaws of an angry mother nature, roaring over our wincing eyes and blown hair, with her hurricane wind. Warning us that we are small. Reminding us to respect.
Striped slabs of granite pop up in the middle of decaying forests. Large trees lay across them, lounging in the streaming water. One morning, Max and I went over to the level, flat rock to cool and clean our feet in the running water. We waved to Nate, who was taking pictures from the bank, put our feet in the water and Max ran across the rock. He slipped, and fell, and the water took him away. It happened, just. like. that..
I looked at him, calmly. I expected him to get up, I think. But he didn't get up, and in a half second, he was pulled over the rock and down the fall. Nate screamed from the woods, and I sprinted on the dry rock, alongside him, so he could see me. I went back and forth between screaming, "Ok baby ok baby ok baby..." to "Help him help him help him, please help me help him!"
He went so fast. Faster than thought. And I never felt so helpless.
There was another hiker in the area, who we saw taking pictures earlier, and I hoped (HOPED) that maybe he was near, and could hear me. I ran down to the last of the four drops, where Max had submerged, and then kicked above the water, washed into a small dugout in the rocks. The water ran across the rock and then fell down into pools of rushing water, over and over, on down the mountain. Max now sat about five feet across from me, knees to his chest, and shaking. I could leap over and grab him, but we were separated by fast, scary water. I grabbed a long log to stretch out to him, but I could feel that the water was too strong, and the branch would easily be torn from my hands. My head was suddenly slow, now that Max was sitting across from me, and I felt like time was sticking and my thinking was thick. So when the hiker/ photographer reappeared(!), I stared at him in shock, and totally without words. He brought us rope. We threw the rope to Max, he caught it after convincing, and we pulled him out of the cave, and into my arms. All tolled, Max was dragged at least 500ft, under and over water, with significant falls. Somehow, my little boy escaped this ordeal, with a single bruise on his butt.
What happened next was, I died. I die a little, often, as a mother, and this trip down the river just took a big chunk of my life. Max is fine. Poor Natey was terrified, but so happy to see Max. Max was cold, but suffered no injury that impacted his ability to walk. He was saved by an angel named Chris, who actually caught Max's slip on camera. These were the pictures I opened at work, on my computer, far away from the water and mountains. Max is very proud of the photos, but I cannot look at them. And in response to the man who saved my boy, I was speechless and humbled and grateful and embarrassed and scared all at once. I hope, despite my awkwardness, Chris knows how appreciative I am that he was there. That he had rope. That he helped and cared.
Unfortunately, this changed me, and my ability to look past heights, storms and rivers. This made the blink of an eye a reality, and I wasn't sure if I could continue. We were a bit more than a day away from our resupply, and once off the trail, we took time, ate food and really thought about if we would finish.
As you now know, we returned to the trail. Strong and happy. We did finish our hike. We are legend on the trail,
"I hear there's a family of hikers out here from Cambridge."
"We ARE the family!" (Seriously, we say that almost daily).
And now we have the additional, "Hey, who went down the river?"
Max has been given the trail name "Float" by an old hiking couple who heard the story, along the trail, from the man who saved us. The network of hikers commands that we all watch over each other, and so it seemed that nearly everyone who passed us, had heard about Max. Wonderfully, each hiker spun their own experiences with waterfalls and scares, as if Max was now initiated into the mountaineer club. This was my hardest day. This might have been our greatest lesson.