Sorry, Steve, and Happy Father’s Day!
Experiencing trail, waterfall, and life.
Most parents know a point will come when they must celebrate special days far from their kids. This past Father’s Day was the first that my husband, Barry, and I found ourselves far, far away from our children. Because I had insisted to Barry that he plan his holiday, that Sunday morning I found myself on a mountainous trail in Vermont, descending a steep and slippery path towards a loud waterfall.
Though the trail was not too challenging, it was still quite unnerving to descend. Step after step, you had to set your foot on slimy, moss-covered rocks, then lean in with your whole body weight — and then you had to wait: Would your grip suffice to keep you from falling?
Because I was so preoccupied with not catapulting down the mountainside, I could at least for a while forget about the black bears that we knew to watch out for.
After numerous turns and narrowly avoided tumbles, we reached the base of the mountain. There, a waterfall cascaded down the slope, cut through dark rocks, and poured into a deep swimming hole below. A dense canopy of pines and oaks lined the sides of the canyon. Fallen trunks rested, intertwined, in the landscape. Eroded hillsides exposed the roots of ancient trees; amid them, ferns competed aggressively for space.
Barry and I sat on a rock on the side of the ravine, so close to the waterfall that the mist sprayed our faces. We removed our shoes and dangled our bare feet off the edge. I started capturing images of the landscape. I photographed people who had placed themselves on the rocks around the stream. I took the one mandatory selfie for my children.
A group of girls picnicked on one of the boulders that protruded from below. Their gestures suggested they were calculating where would be the best spot to jump into the water.
Some distance away, on a larger rock, two middle-aged men engaged in the same debate and had their eyes set on the same objective: the plunge.
My attention was soon drawn towards a boy of about thirteen who was climbing ferociously along the steep mountainside. He was headed to the top of the gorge.
Halfway up, close to a section of the climb where the mountain turned nearly perpendicular to the ground, the boy stopped. He looked down towards the pool; he looked up to the cliff. Then, his gaze returned slowly to the pool, this time landing on a man who stood on a rock just in front of the waterfall.
The man, whom I soon understood to be the boy’s dad, wore a bathing suit that rested perfectly on his hip bones and displayed his chiseled abs and natural tan. When his son looked at him, the man nodded his head. The boy continued his ascent.
Dad whipped out his cell phone and started filming the endeavor. So did I.
Once the boy reached the top, he began searching for a good jumping-off point. He would need to leap from a spot that would land him in the deeper part of the pool, far from the rockier shore. Once he found a position that suited him, he stood at the edge, looked at his dad once more, and, with another slight head-nod, jumped.
As he fell, his legs fluttered in the air. His whole body wanted to propel him far from the menacing rocks below. Seconds later, he plunged perfectly into the pool. He disappeared underwater for a brief moment, then surfaced and swam elegantly towards his dad. He climbed effortlessly up the boulder, where his smiling dad waited with footage of the plunge.
The boy made it all seem so easy. He was swift, nimble, strong. I cannot attest, with the same degree of confidence to the athleticism of the two larger, middle-aged gentlemen who stood on a nearby boulder, and who were now gearing up for their own jump. Both were ghostly pale, almost pink; both had colossal paunches that drooped over their waistbands; both seemed scared shitless.
They pointed back and forth at each other for some time — not unlike children issuing dares — and then began walking along the edge of the boulder. From several different spots, they peered down at the water below. After some moments of this, the gentleman with the bigger belly stepped forward. So he would go first.
As he got into position, I started filming.
His runway was inconvenient: the boulder was slippery and brief. To gain some impulse, all the man could do was bend his knees. He lingered some seconds, then lurched forward. In a moment, he was airborne. He flailed his legs back and forth as quickly as his muscles allowed, but this seemed to do little to carry him forward.
When he realized that his forward impulse had ceased and that he was nearing the water, he pressed his knees into his paunch and tried to wrap his arms around them. Gravity, though, surprised him, and he plunged into the water half cannonball, half belly-flop.
The water splashed some bystanders who watched the scene from across the pool. Seconds later, the man’s head emerged. He inhaled deeply, eager to replenish his depleted lungs. Once his breathing steadied, he looked up at his friend, who was still standing on the boulder. The man in the water saluted his friend, army style, and his friend saluted back.
After the man struggled back up the boulder, it was his buddy’s turn to plunge.
We didn’t stay to watch. Instead, we initiated our climb out of the gorge. This time, since we were ascending, we were less likely to fall. Our knees had done us well on the descent, and now, it was up to our tickers to withstand the climb.
As we followed the trail out, I wondered why people engage in such daring activities. The more dangerous the feat, it appears, the more enjoyment we derive.
And how about spectators? Why do we watch? Why are we so glued to our seats when daredevils tempt fate? Does part of us expect something could go wrong?
I can’t say.
All I know is that when I noticed my thighs could finally take a break, I stopped thinking about the waterfall and its daredevils altogether. The terrain had become flat. We had reached the foot of the trail.
I saw a sign warning about bears, which meant I was free to return to my habitual preoccupations.
Just past the trailhead, we rounded a corner and saw two middle-aged women surrounded by four teenage girls. They stood in a semicircle under a tree and seemed enthralled in a slightly agitated conversation. All of them gestured with their arms and pointed in different directions.
They wore fashionable khaki shorts and cotton tops that appeared disheveled, sweaty, and wrinkled. Their faces were flushed, and their hairdos clammy. They looked like they had been walking around in the woods for too long on this warm, humid day.
When we neared them, they saw us and fell silent.
“How far is it to the waterfall?” one of the teenage girls hollered.
I looked at her and remarked that she appeared a bit perturbed.
“Is it a difficult trail?” another of the girls asked.
Before either Barry or I had time to answer, one of the women inquired with a hopeful look: “Did you see someone down there wearing a bright blue jersey?” Immediately she blushed, apparently deciding it had been a silly thing to ask.
“It’s not too far,” Barry replied. “Just a bit slippery.”
“I can’t recall what anyone was wearing,” I added with an apologetic face. “I’m sorry.”
We said goodbye and got on our way.
We had not walked a few steps when I turned and dashed back towards the dispirited group. Already they had reverted to their bickering.
“Wait,” I exclaimed loudly, and they all turned towards me. “I took some pictures at the swimming hole.” I saw the women’s faces grew anticipatory. “You can take a look at them, if you’d like,” I said, then extended my arm so they could see the pictures on my phone screen.
All the while that I swiped through pictures, Barry looked at me quizzically.
“Who does she think she is?” his stare conveyed, “CSI Vermont?”
I ran out of pictures to share, then turned to the women.
“He’s not there,” one of them said, her voice sounding dejected. “But thank you.”
Once again, I started to walk away. I thought about how scary it is to lose someone. Then I remembered the videos. Again, I sprinted towards them, told them what I had to offer, and started swiping through videos.
This time only a few members of their group gathered around me. Some of the girls didn’t bother to look anymore. They seemed disheartened, and unsure what to do next.
I opened first the video of the courageous lad leaping from the top of the waterfall, and his father awaiting him below. The women shook their heads and said it wasn’t them they sought. Then I opened the video of the corpulent gentleman who had taken the plunge. The video began to roll from the moments before the man jumped.
“That’s dad!”, one of the teenage girls yelled.
The rest of the group, including those who had stood, downcast, to the sides, immediately turned their attention towards me and my phone.
“Steve!” shrieked one of the ladies. I saw her face turn to stone.
“That is so rude of them!” her friend exclaimed. “They are so inconsiderate!” one of the teens added. “And to think we’d been worried sick this whole time. I almost wish they’d been eaten by bears!” another one exclaimed.
“Uh-oh,” I thought out loud. “I think I just got Steve into big trouble.”
“Please don’t be so harsh on them,” I heard myself say to the two ladies. They were so furious, fumes were virtually spewing from their nostrils.
“He” — I said, and pointed to Barry — “always does the same thing!” I turned to my husband, who at that moment was realizing he was surrounded by a furious group of women who were not at all happy with the members of his gender.
Seconds later, though, the group was marching off with renewed vigor — or was it rage? — in the direction we had come from. The last woman to go turned to me and muttered a quick thanks. Barry and I watched them until, moments later, they were out of sight.
“Sorry, Steve,” I exclaimed to the woods. “I hope you have a happy Father’s Day!”
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