I look forward to this post every year. Thank you for sharing the loving relationship that you have with your son. I've read this for years before I ever had a child. I now have three and love your dedication and respect you so much for your dedication to this tradition.
Absolute Poetry. Until I went up Lookout it did not mean what it does now. And yes I needed a few picture and water breaks to make it up that last section. I envy your relationship with your son and this celebration that takes place every year. No One describes it better than you. Can't wait until next year.
Each year, if I’m fortunate, there are two things I gladly allow to sneak up on me: your trip to the mountains, and the tears that well up in me as I read your column about your trip to the mountains.
Oh, now I know why I'm not working out...or even walking, like I used to. I am losing my vanity! That scares me a lot. That's about all I had going for me. Trying to remain vain. Now, l looking in the mirror and thinking "Oh God..."...not..."It's okay, girl...you've still got it. Keep your chin up. Be proud." I think I need to have that etched on my bathroom mirror as a reminder and keep on keepin' on. I love those crystal moments. They linger still in low gear....
When I was a kid and as a teenager, at least once a year, a group of us would get up at 5am on the day we were to head home to Northern Kentucky after a week in Montreat. We'd hike that pesky trail in the dark, sometimes with flashlights, sometimes without. We hiked the trail so often, we didn't necessarily need the light (there were no wooden steps back then, either.) We hiked it so often, I claim a decent share of the responsibility for the trail's erosion (and part of the reason why they did eventually build stairs in sections). Our group would chat about the week we had, the mountaintop high, music, and everything else during the hike, but once we reached the top, we'd settle into silence and wait for the show. If you've not yet watched the sun rise from atop Lookout, I highly recommend it. But, yeah. Take a flashlight.
This is so precious and sentimental. It makes me feel somewhat guilty that I haven’t done something similar with my son or daughters, especially the one we lost. I said that to my wife one time as we sat in the gazebo talking about Allison. She said you can’t go back in time, just continue to do the best you can.
Doc, do you and Kelly make a formal pact each year to re-up for next year or is it just a given at this point that “We’ll be here next year unless the creator of these mountains has other plans for us?”
A week removed from after-midnight, glow-in-the-dark-football tossing on the beach with the nephews, this speaks even louder to me than it did the first time.
Great stuff. You touched on all the most important reasons, both said and unsaid, why the invaluable gift of life has been given to small, ephemeral beings like us.
Beautiful story. Appreciate every moment....nothing is promised.
Love this walk in the woods with you and Kelly...
I look forward to this post every year. Thank you for sharing the loving relationship that you have with your son. I've read this for years before I ever had a child. I now have three and love your dedication and respect you so much for your dedication to this tradition.
Absolute Poetry. Until I went up Lookout it did not mean what it does now. And yes I needed a few picture and water breaks to make it up that last section. I envy your relationship with your son and this celebration that takes place every year. No One describes it better than you. Can't wait until next year.
Each year, if I’m fortunate, there are two things I gladly allow to sneak up on me: your trip to the mountains, and the tears that well up in me as I read your column about your trip to the mountains.
As always, well done. And thank you.
❣️🫂
Oh, now I know why I'm not working out...or even walking, like I used to. I am losing my vanity! That scares me a lot. That's about all I had going for me. Trying to remain vain. Now, l looking in the mirror and thinking "Oh God..."...not..."It's okay, girl...you've still got it. Keep your chin up. Be proud." I think I need to have that etched on my bathroom mirror as a reminder and keep on keepin' on. I love those crystal moments. They linger still in low gear....
When I was a kid and as a teenager, at least once a year, a group of us would get up at 5am on the day we were to head home to Northern Kentucky after a week in Montreat. We'd hike that pesky trail in the dark, sometimes with flashlights, sometimes without. We hiked the trail so often, we didn't necessarily need the light (there were no wooden steps back then, either.) We hiked it so often, I claim a decent share of the responsibility for the trail's erosion (and part of the reason why they did eventually build stairs in sections). Our group would chat about the week we had, the mountaintop high, music, and everything else during the hike, but once we reached the top, we'd settle into silence and wait for the show. If you've not yet watched the sun rise from atop Lookout, I highly recommend it. But, yeah. Take a flashlight.
Calming just to read it again.
This is so precious and sentimental. It makes me feel somewhat guilty that I haven’t done something similar with my son or daughters, especially the one we lost. I said that to my wife one time as we sat in the gazebo talking about Allison. She said you can’t go back in time, just continue to do the best you can.
Doc, do you and Kelly make a formal pact each year to re-up for next year or is it just a given at this point that “We’ll be here next year unless the creator of these mountains has other plans for us?”
A week removed from after-midnight, glow-in-the-dark-football tossing on the beach with the nephews, this speaks even louder to me than it did the first time.
This is why I read every day...
Great stuff. You touched on all the most important reasons, both said and unsaid, why the invaluable gift of life has been given to small, ephemeral beings like us.
Thanks, Paul...and a little jealous.
Perfect