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Catriona Madill
When I was very young, my Grandad was both fascinating
and miraculous. I remember getting up with him before the sun rose,
putting on layers of wool clothing, and falling back to sleep in
his mossy Ford Valiant. I always woke as we began zipping up the
foothills of the Olympic Mountains in Washington State. I’d
press against the door, peering nervously down the edges of the
increasingly steep hills and gawking up at the mountains. Often
a few aunts, uncles, parents, or other older men would be crammed
into the car or following in other vehicles. We would breathlessly
arrive at a trailhead, usually the first car by a clear margin.
My favorite hikes, probably all before I was ten years old, didn’t
include any aunts, parents, or other relatives besides Grandad.
He had the coolest mental tins for carrying our peanut butter or
cheese sandwiches, and some collection of carrot sticks, celery,
and nuts. We packed water in one liter used saline bottles, and
I always selected a special sweet treat beforehand. A Butterfinger
was my usual – a completely unknown snack in my normal life.
Those special mornings, we quietly said goodbye to my younger brother
and Grandma, who had started baking chocolate chip cookies to soothe
Cameron for being left behind, and slipped out into the foggy dawn
light.
Sometimes a few men met us at the house, or we would go to Frank’s
home to car pool. Five or eight or ten of us would head for the
mountains. I think they were already a trail crew, designing and
maintaining various trails to the top of Mt. Elinor and Mt. Rose.
But on my favorite days, we weren’t working on the trails.
Grandad always drove, accelerating ahead of any slow pokes and making
the most fantastic racket as the trailbuilding tools slid around
in the trunk. It was only when I was in my teens that I realized
I should be terrified when he navigated his way up and down the
roads he knew too well. Cars were still safe, warm cocoons. I enjoyed
his admonition to “Sassen my feetbelt” and relished
the specialness of being the only child in the midst of men.
When we reached the trailhead, there was much fussing with boots
and clothing and bantering about having the “ten essentials.”
They all carried large faded backpacks that smelled oddly musty
and were full of tools and equipment that could easily keep us safe
and warm for a day or two. We were only going on a day hike and
probably wouldn’t need an emergency tent or ice pick, but
the important thing was that we were prepared. I didn’t care
– all of the extra equipment promised excitement and I had
my own, much smaller pack, with water and a sweater. Everyone, even
me, contributed to having a safe and well supplied hike. My family
still argues about what is included in the ten essentials, but thanks
to Grandad we all think about being prepared and many of us have
an unusual fondness for carrying a compass at all times.
There was rain, and trees, and surprising views across valleys and
down rocky slopes. When the adults got nervous, I was hooked into
ropes, but set free to hop down scree covered hillsides. To my delight,
there were sometimes mountain goats, which had yet to become pests
demanding their due on the top of every mountain in the form of
trail mix or a sweaty arm to lick. On the lower slopes, heavy lichen
draped the trees, and a moistness filled the air. As we climbed,
my cheeks reddened and I could feel my breath deep in my chest.
Whenever I wanted to stop, I was told our destination was “just
around the next switchback.” I had to be careful not to walk
to closely behind my grandfather, for he liked to flick sticks and
rocks off the trail to keep things tidy.
We looked for the most beautiful places with views of the Olympic
mountains and lurking Mt. Rainier in the distance to have lunch
or a snack. Although we could have enjoyed our food in the more
subtle beauty of meadows and forests, we sought the more dramatic
glimpses of the mountains. Sometimes we pushed on to a favorite
spot before eating, often a rocky outcrop we could all perch on
with views spreading out in all directions.
When we did find a resting point, everyone had some food to share,
passing it around or offering it directly to the others. We all
chose our seats carefully, looking for raised rocks or logs, or
at least a less lumpy patch of ground. We naturally fell into a
semicircle, inclusive of each other. Conversation might bounce around,
but everyone took time to gaze out at the world in silence. Food
breaks were a common time to pull out cameras and document the occasion,
and binoculars were sometimes used to admire the view or inspect
the trail far below us. None of these activities, however, were
allowed to interfere with the importance of exchanging food. They
all were taking care of each other and especially me. I knew I was
loved.
They talked about the most fascinating things, and gently ribbed
each other about past events I didn’t understand. When I was
older, I was surprised by their obvious delight in giving each other
a hard time about trail building techniques, politics, driving skills,
and whatever other subject was handy. As a young child, I mostly
remember gentle courtesy and teasing. I caught glimmers of various
familial conflicts, upcoming plans, and ideas about their trails.
I was asked serious questions about myself, and told interesting
things about wildflowers, plants, and forests. We had conversations
about climax forests and hemlocks, and sometimes I think they lapsed
into conservative political arguments that I disagreed with even
then.
I was not the first child Grandad had shepherded into the mountains.
Grandad taught all three of his daughters to love and care for the
mountains and woods, and eagerly began inducting a second generation
of Maranvilles into the beauty of the wilderness. As the oldest
of the grandchildren, I was also able to grow up in the mountains
under his watchful eye. There was less time for the grandchildren
following me, but because of him, we all try not to cut the corners
of the switchbacks, keep trails neat, and bring plenty of food to
share with our hiking companions of all ages.
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