Once upon a time, Frederick and I took my oldest sister’s three kids and one of their friends (three girls and one boy, ages 9 to 14) mountain climbing. We took them straight up the tallest mountain in Maine.
Before we had our own daughter, children were just short companions to us. “What’s the big deal about raising kids? Just pile them in your car and make an adventure,” we thought.
My niece, now with two boys of her own, likes to tell the story about me letting her shift the gears of my Toyota Tercel as we tootled around Portland. She claims that the hill at the top of Deering Avenue and Congress Street is where, at the age of 9, she learned to drive a stick shift.
On another adventure, we took three small relatives to the Fryeburg Fair. The two older kids, probably 10 and 8 at the time, begged to go on the big Ferris wheel. With height requirements approved, we said yes.
When the giant wheel ascended to the 180-degree mark above us, we turned our heads skyward to witness two tiny towheads looking straight down at us and screaming, “Let us off!”
They’d changed their minds.
As we pleaded with the carny to lower the wheel, the youngest child with us that day, then 5, disembarked the kiddy train alone.
Then there was the day we loaded my sister’s van with lunches, water and chocolate bars and drove to Millinocket.
Before cellphones, the parents of the four children assumed that we’d climb Mount Katahdin and return safely with no need or way to check in mid-climb.
I don’t remember any weather warnings, but I do remember that we were not well prepared: Instead of hiking boots, the kids wore slick-soled sneakers. Instead of extra water, we packed extra chocolate.
There were two other hikers with us that day: my youngest sister, 21-year-old Jean, who had climbed Katahdin when she was 11, as well as the grand-niece of Donn Fendler. Having all read “Lost on a Mountain in Maine,” we joked about not wanting to create a sequel.
We started at Roaring Brook Trailhead and hiked the Helon Taylor Trail toward Pamola Peak. Helon Taylor, as described in the Katahdin day hike guide, is “an exposed trail with giant boulders.”
Keeping four kids focused and moving forward over massive boulders was challenging. When their whining became unbearable, we let them swear.
Between fits of laughter from hearing each other say words they were not allowed to say and regular chocolate feedings, we made it to Pamola Peak – the highest point on Katahdin before the summit – about noon.
At this juncture, Frederick and I realized we had a problem. The weather had changed to light rain, wind and fog. Going back down the giant boulders seemed foolish, but going forward to Knife Edge with four kids in the rain and fog seemed like a voluntary plank walk.
Jean, judged the expert because she had crossed Knife Edge when she was 11, insisted we would be fine.
Knife Edge, if you haven’t hiked it, is a 2-foot-wide granite sidewalk in the sky with 2,500-foot drops on either side. If you don’t trust me (why would you?), the Katahdin day hike guide describes it this way:
“This route is completely exposed and several people have died or have been seriously injured while attempting a traverse in inclement weather and/or high winds. Do not attempt to leave the ridge once you have started. … It takes approximately 1 to 1½ hours one way.”
I don’t remember reading this.
I do remember crawling when we couldn’t risk walking. I remember looking over the sides and realizing that our lives could change in a split second. I remember the order of our lineup: adult, kid, adult, kid, adult, kid and then, way out in front in the fog, my nephew, the 14-year-old, who wanted nothing to do with our slow train.
I remember praying.
Two hours later, wet, tired and hungry, we reached the summit. With seven hours of hiking ahead of us, we took the photo, ate the lunches and started down.
I remember thinking that down was harder.
We arrived at Chimney Pond around 8 p.m. and still had over three miles to hike to reach the parking lot. Frederick split the last Hershey bar seven ways and we kept moving.
Around 9:30 p.m., we had loaded the van and were on our way to McDonald’s, where we fed everyone and called home.
Last weekend, my nephew (the one in the Fryeburg Fair kiddy train) was married. His cousins, most of whom had been on that mountain way back when, were in attendance.
The day after the wedding, they decided to jump off a 30-foot bridge for kicks. The youngest of the jumpers was Jean’s 11-year-old son.
After encouragement from his much older cousins, he stepped off the bridge and yelled, “Sometimes, you just have to say, ‘What the heeeeeeeck!’ ”
Jolene McGowan lives and works in Portland with her husband, daughter and dog and has no plans to leave, ever. She can be contacted at:
respondtoportcitypost@gmail.com
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