Climbing

It's a meditative month for me.  This short memoir piece first appeared in 559 Quarterly, which was edited by  my late friend Alan Seeger.  

Climbing

Carla Sarett

I was ten years old when I spent my first summer at "sleep-away" camp.  It was located in the heart of Maine's lake district, far from the rocky Atlantic coast and islands; although like most children, I lacked the curiosity to wonder what the rest of Maine looked like.  I was a collector of rocks and minerals; and mountains, islands, and the world's oceans had not yet become special.  In hindsight, I shudder at how much it cost my parents to send me there—we were not rich, and my mother and father must have swapped their vacation for mine.  I suppose that they were trying to bring me "out of my shell," as though there were another me, locked inside the shy one. 

The summer's highlight was an overnight camping trip.  The younger campers were assigned to climb one of the small mountains which, like dozens of mountains across the Eastern Seaboard, was named Mount Blue.  Next year, we were promised that we, too, could climb Mount Katahdin, Maine's highest peak—only if we mastered the basics, and only if we wanted to.   

The camp bus deposited us at the trailhead, and the counselors helped us load our gear – canteens, sleeping bags, heavy woolen socks, and so on.  The counselors (college kids, mostly) did the navigating —and we (girls, all of us) followed a single line up, down and around the switchbacks whose steepness surprised me.  I was a suburban kid, unfamiliar with trails, and I lacked real hiking shoes—an oversight of my mother's (who saw camping as a form of torture.)         

I'd never thought of myself as a much of a whiner, but from the get-go, I found the load of my backpack intolerable, and the steep ascent an ordeal.  I slogged along, behind the very last camp counselor, trying to bite back my tears.  My neck hurt, my skinny legs ached, and the other girls seemed to be scampering ahead, whistling, singing camp songs and joking with one another—and before I knew it, they were out of sight.  Finally, I gave up and sat down on a rock, defeated. 

“I can’t,” I told the strapping male counselor, “I just can’t go anymore.”

He laughed and removed my backpack, and lifted me up as if I were weightless.  Worse, he carried me on his shoulders for most of the hike.  Now everyone knew that I was weak—it was not news to me, but I'd been trying so hard to pretend all summer long.  I had failed to be, even for one day, someone else: a girl who was strong, who fit in, a girl who took life easily.

I wanted (but lacked the audacity to say it) to admire the dense green moss, plush as velvet, that covered the boulders; and the spidery lichen that dangled from the old trees, in fantastical fashion; the pine-covered surfaces, the tall lacy ferns that made miniature forests of their own. And the blue green of the trees, yes, it was a dark blue mountain with a dark blue lake. And there we were, rushing through it, faster than my legs could manage – and all so that we could end up at an ordinary ugly campfire, eat half-burnt hot dogs, toast marshmallows on sticks and fight off the invading armies of mosquitoes.  My arms and legs were covered with bites, everyone smelled of Deet, and after the fire died, the ground underneath felt cold and damp.   

I knew why we had hurried up the mountain.  We had to set up camp before sundown, and counselors were only being responsible and grown-up. I didn't blame them, but I felt vaguely cheated of unknown pleasures, of the sense of the unknown.

After we crawled into our tents, I was restless, wide-awake.  While it was still pitch black, I got up and wandered outside.  The night air smelled of pines, the sky was bright with a million twinkling stars—and I could make out the Big Dipper, Orion, and all the constellations I loved. There were sounds of wind and birds, and none of people.

I stood there, thrilled at the vastness, and then a huge brown moose approached.  He stood only inches from me, with his majestic antlers.  A real moose. The moose is the official state animal of Maine, but (so I had read) sightings were rare, and usually they occur from a great distance.  I was hardly a brave kid –terrified of loud noises, school bullies, even flying baseballs scared me – but I felt safe with the moose.  We eyed one another, like old friends who shared a secret. Both of us strangers at the campsite in different ways. 

And after a few seconds – it could not have been much more—the moose left me, and I felt unreasonably happy.  I knew that other girls were stronger, climbed faster, but I would never trade places with them:  only I had faced the moose. I saw him because I was alone. It could not have happened otherwise.

Strange how we get to know ourselves – in lightning quick flashes, shards of life.  I did not tell anyone about the moose, or the shining stars, or how very beautiful the night can be. I wanted to keep my joy to myself. Not out of shyness or loneliness, as my parents feared, or not exactly.  I knew then that I was miserly about my inner life – I had a stubborn, solitary streak, and it was not a shell, and I would never shed it.

I returned to my itchy sleeping bag and smiled all night long.  Next year, I thought, I'll climb Katahdin.