I wanted to stop.
To say, “I get it, don't worry.” Or worry, but not about my reaction to your son’s screams. I’ve been there, trying to restrain, to comfort, a boy too big to be publicly melting down.
The way the mother put her arms around him, I could tell she’d done it before, her response automatic, her words familiar. “Its ok. Don't run away. Its ok.”
I wanted to tell the older daughter not to be embarrassed, as she put space between herself and her family, walking ahead up the switchbacks of Tonsina Trail. I could see a future Olive in the mortification on the teenager’s face, just wanting to take a hike but knowing all too well that our wants and our realities often conflict.
It was my dog Lola that scared the boy, so I couldn't stop to talk, to say I have a child on the spectrum too, I had to keep running, to put even greater distance between the family and my puppy, as much as I wanted to close the gap, to look into their tired eyes and say, “I live a version of this life too.”
So many versions. So many trails.
There is always the possibility of danger ahead, no matter if we cross a city block or a mountain stream. The unexpected awaits.
A former hockey teammate lost her son in a mountain race this weekend, his final text said he was being chased by a black bear.
She was one of the searchers, along with other racers and spectators, as soon as the text was relayed, as soon as the unthinkable got pressed into words. Off she climbed, into the thick brush-lined cliffs of Bird Ridge, only to emerge with her world clawed wide open.
I just want to hold her and tell her to feel it all, that no emotion is off limits, that there are no bounds to sorrow, no protocols for grief.
Folks outside of Alaska, (and even some in Anchorage) wonder why we hold races in bear country, and yet all of Alaska is a bear’s domain that we choose to inhabit. We invaded their space with our homes, our events, our desires.
The story doesn't end well for the bear either--its a race that no-one won.
Risks abound. A car runs a red light. A hungry brazen bear shows up despite the race day crowd. Despite the common perception that we are safe in high numbers, that the noise of our human doings will scare the bears, especially the more shy black bears away. But for all our charts and graphs we can’t predict nature.
Wild is still wild even as we impose straight lines over curves and spirals.
On the Fourth of July, I’ll participate in Mount Marathon again, a mountain race that draws tens of thousands of spectators to Seward. Its a grueling up hill climb and down hill stumble of about 3,000 feet before finishing on the streets of Seward amidst the throngs of folks dressed in red, white and blue.
(View of Seward from part way up Mt. Marathon)
Every time I climb to or descend from Race Peak, I know I could fall, and the inherent risk is part of the lure.
Like leaving the comfort of our Airport Heights community, with its flat streets and sidewalks and neighbors prepared to lend a hand, or an egg, or a safe space for our children to play, only to move to the side of a mountain, closer to the bears that den, the wolves that travel in packs looking for a lame mountain goat or a harem of voles.
(Mountain goat carcass found uphill from home)
The mountains don't call to the part of us that seeks comfort but to the part that wants to clamber over rocks, across scree, that wants to see what lies inside of our protected factory-made layers of convenience and ease.
Its why we climb, even in the rain. The wind. In the dark. And when all we want to do is fall to our knees, we crawl.
For risk, with all its dangers, is also what keeps us alive, in all its variety, all its different sizes, from crossing a street, to falling in love, to racing up a mountain, to moving across the continent, to changing careers, to bringing a baby into this uncertain world.
Or to taking a family walk, along Tonsina Trail, with a boy who does not always follow the expected social norms of humanity, an unpredictable boy, more wild than tame— and yet there they were, making their way up the switchbacks, slow and steady, meltdowns and all.
“Its ok. Don't run away. Its ok.”
Sometimes all we can do is rise.
(Flowers for Trina, for Jack)
Sounds like the great expedition.
Posted by: Kacy | 06/29/2017 at 12:00 AM