[COPY] The Annual Trip of a Lifetime

The precious gift of a walk in the woods

Many, many years ago, when my mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I suggested a gift that was at once simple and impossible to provide.

“Time,’’ I said.

Time for joy, time for life free and clear. Brief moments, made urgent and beautiful by their rarity. A snowflake’s life. That’s what I wanted.

My mother sent me my grandfather’s pocket watch. It rests on the corner of my desk 20 years later, sentry and reminder.

My mother is gone three years, my grandfather two decades. Time does everything but stop. The best we can do is try to slow it down.

Last Saturday night, Kelly and I sat on the porch of a house with a bleacher-seat view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, tugging on time. We do this every year; this was Year 23. We hike, we talk, we linger. There are no empty spaces on this trip. Not even in silence.

The full moon stands at attention as tendrils of clouds dance past. The moon’s light kept the mountains visible all night. Or at least the portion of the evening we managed to stay awake. In hoping to prolong our trip — to hold back time — we staunchly refused to call it a night.

Said: “So tomorrow we get up early, hike Graveyard and do Luella’s for dinner.’’

Not said: “What a privilege it is to be your dad.’’

Said: “It’s not supposed to rain. Only clouds.’’

Not said: “This yearly trip is the best thing I’ve ever done with my life.’’

I am 64. He is 36. The gap between us is closing. His maturity and my perspective have seen to that. We understand one another. In that respect, the passing of time is its own reward. But still, my feet hurt and my lungs are less forgiving. My balance isn’t what it was.

In some, tiny way, everything I do all year is with an eye toward these three days. I drink beer and bourbon in moderation, I don’t eat a lot of fat, sweet foods, I try to limit my cigar smoking to a couple a week. I go to the gym because I am vain, but also because halfway up Lookout, I need to know I can finish the job.

The ascent of Lookout Mountain in Montreat is 20 minutes at 45 degrees. The phone stats say it’s 79 stories. It’s a bitch of a little hike. Because I am silly and my mortality scares me, I refuse to stop walking until I’m at the top. OG still thinks he’s got it.

“Lemme stop and take this picture,’’ my son says. He aims his iPhone at a non-descript signpost just off the trail. Lookout, it says, an arrow pointing toward the top, for anyone not aware of where they’re going. Truth is, Kelly has never stopped to take a picture on this hike. Bigger truth is, he was seeking a subtle way to give his old man a 10-second break.

Closer to the summit, when my heart was playing bongos in my chest, Kelly developed an insatiable thirst, forcing us to pause as he fetched the water bottle from the backpack. He might have known I knew what he was doing. I don’t know. I didn’t ask. The sun broke through at exactly the moment we reached the summit for the 23rd straight year. It really did.

This is the blessing of the passing of time, when we choose to embrace it: There are no little moments. There are only brightly colored instants, compressed like diamonds the older we become.

Said: “Twenty-three years, pal.’’

Unsaid: “Why can’t this last forever?’’

The three days hurricane-d past. The weekend was three hikes, 16 miles, 60,000 steps and 178 floors. It was over in a minute. It’s a good thing our memories come with brakes.

I am back home as I write this. My grandfather’s watch is on the corner of the desk. My mother’s memory’s as bright as one of those diamonds I just typed about. Kelly is in an airport, on his way to Montreal for business. Life is a privilege, yes, but it is relentless. Best to live for whatever it gives.

Said: “Great trip. Safe travels. See you soon.’’

Unsaid: “Aren’t we lucky?’

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