A long time ago, I climbed a
mountain with my mother. It was back in the early ’80s, when
she was only slightly older than I am now — hard for me to
believe, even though I’ve done the math and know it’s
true.
The mountain was Pikes Peak in Colorado. We climbed
it from its most affable angle, on the side you never see, and we
used a shortcut that would take us there and back in just one day.
My mother had never climbed a real mountain before. But she’d
recently quit smoking and started hiking, and she was proud of her
new lungs.
I had — and still have, two years after
her death — a protective, insecure, tender and resentful
relationship with my mother. She was charming, intelligent,
manipulative, moody, stubborn and beautiful. I was in my early 20s,
with no idea how young and stupid I was. Mom heard about the hike,
and wanted to come. I had no idea how to say no.
It was a
bright midsummer day, and we walked up over endless land that
rolled in a rocky wave to the top of the peak. There were hardly
any trees; just open meadows and lumpy boulders splotched witH
electric-bright lichen. My mother, who could never do anything
without talking, kept up a stream of chatter as she chugged uphill.
I had no idea how temporary that day was. There was nothing to show
me the future — warn me that my marriage was doomed,
I’d never have children, I’d end up walking crooked and
with one crutch. I had no way of knowing what lay ahead for my
mother, either.
That day, Mom refused to admit she was
getting tired; she quickly figured out the “Oh, look at the
view!” trick experienced hikers employ when desperate for
breath. “Beautiful view,” she’d gasp, and
I’d agree, and if sometimes I thought small, snarly thoughts,
I kept them to myself. But dark, deep clouds were surging above us,
and my mother began to lean on me. The view got more and more
beautiful.
“I don’t think I can make
it,” Mom finally said. “We’re almost
there,” I said, and this time it was true. “Look at the
view.”
Pikes Peak is one of the few 14,000-foot
mountains that comes with its own parking lot, gift shop and
restaurant. Though I’d climbed it many times, I was always
surprised to find tourists at the top. (“You mean you walked
all the way up here? Don’t you know there’s a
highway?”) Mom was goofy with exhaustion, and in need of a
restroom. She slumped onto my arm; I bullied our way to the front
of the line.
Mom was gone for a long time. I fretted and
wondered how we would ever get back down the mountain. At last she
emerged and leaned weakly against the wall, closing her eyes. But
five minutes later, when I came out, my mother was laughing,
standing in the center of a ring of admirers, straight and proud
and glowing. “Oh yes,” she was saying, “I do
things like this all the time. It’s not that hard, really.
Everybody should climb Pikes Peak.”
“Mom?” I hissed in her ear. “What happened? I
thought you were done for!”
“Well,” she
replied, “I thought I was, too, but while you were in the
bathroom, this lady came up and asked me if I’d really
climbed this mountain. And I looked at her and realized, by golly,
I really did do it. And suddenly I wasn’t tired at
all.”
We celebrated with coffee and hot donuts,
then we had some more adventures dodging thunderbolts on the hike
down. By the end, mom really was done for, and she spent the next
few days in bed. But for years afterward, every time she told the
story, she made a point of saying how easy it was. I always made
sure to agree.
At the nursing home, not that long ago, I
wheeled mom’s chair outside so we could look at the
mountains. They were different mountains, of course. Everything was
different. And all the changes had come so fast; sometimes I felt
out of breath in a whole new way. But I remembered my old
hiker’s tricks. “Look at the beautiful view,” I
said.
“Help,” she said. “No. Help.
Ma.”
I chattered away, sounding a lot like she used
to. “Mom,” I said, “do you remember when we
climbed Pikes Peak?” “HelpNoNoNOHelpNo,” she
said, her voice starting to rise and shiver and shriek in the
heartbreaking wail of dementia.
Sometimes there’s
no way to help a person climb a mountain. Sometimes there’s
not much you can do about things at all. She didn’t remember
mountains. She didn’t, at the end, remember me, or even
herself. So I remember for us both. I guess that has to be enough
for now. A long time ago, we climbed a mountain together. One of
these days, perhaps, I’ll meet her on the other side.
Diane Sylvain is a contributor to Writers on
the Range, a service of High Country News (hcn.org). She is a staff
illustrator and copy editor for the paper in Paonia,
Colorado.
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