Regular Life

The real question is, “What did we not do during Easter weekend?”

As I mentioned already, the boys hit it off early at my parents’ house. This allowed us to shed a layer of worry and enjoy unfettered access to our extended family.

And Sugarloaf Mountain.

As if the name “Sugarloaf” weren’t derivative enough, the area boasts two mountains bearing that name. One is on land; one is an island in the nearby lake. Almost invariably, the latter is referred to as, “Lake Sugarloaf,” or “Sugarloaf on the Lake.” Although more like the original in proximity to water, it pales in outward appearance.

Our first plan was to rent a party barge and boat out to the island version. I was excited because the last time I went there, I was too young to remember it. I had visions of the whole family riding the gentle waves to the mountain’s wooded shore, and then enjoying the peak’s unique views of the large lake nestled in the Ozark foothills.

Mother Nature had other ideas. Heavy rains in southern Missouri and northern Arkansas made for high lake levels and excess floating debris, and nobody renting boats wanted to risk adding flotsam.

There’s nothing like a great backup plan.

(click any pic to enlarge)

Friday morning, I awoke at 7:30 to the sound of Benjamin’s voice floating across the family room. I managed to roll over without dumping myself off the couch.

It had been a rough Thursday night. Despite my scheduled 7-4 work hours, I hadn’t escaped work until about 5:30 that afternoon. Ben and Shannon were waiting in the parking lot. Many miles and a few inordinately long stops later, we arrived at my parents’ house well after midnight and needing sleep. Two beds and two couches later, Benjamin and I landed on the family room’s loveseat and sofa, respectively.

Let’s just say that Ben had no part of sleeping next to his mother, or on the floor of what once was my room, and that after a fleeting few moments sharing the bed in one of the guest rooms, he and I were awakened by my folks’ half-beagle/half something else dog. If you’ve never heard a hound dog baying, then just take it from me that it’s hard for a four-year-old to, “Just be quiet and ignore it.”

He and I moved to the living room, then the family room, and finally got to sleep at about 3:30 a.m. and slept like babies. The rest of the weekend went sharply uphill.

In more ways than one. (have I teased you enough with these vague, one-line references to what we actually did on Friday?)

The lake trip scratched off the agenda, we loaded up the two boys, Shannon, Ben’s Aunt A, and my dad in our minivan. Mom stayed behind with a good book and her horses, and my brother hadn’t made it up there yet due to work.

Mixed emotions filled my mind as the trees dropped away from the roadside to reveal the field running up to Sugarloaf’s base. There, just outside the mountain’s tree line, stood two gleaming new buildings, their shiny metal rooftops glinting in the sunlight. Although stone made up the spaces between the windows, the structures stood in stark contrast to the natural contours I had grown to love through childhood.

Apparently Arkansas State University-Beebe, previously holding classes at the local high school, owned the land including the mountain and had plunked a campus right in front of it. Depending how one approached it, either the mountain’s scenery had been ruined by the college or the college’s view had been improved by the mountain. We were there to climb the latter, so we set ourselves to that pleasant task.

“Now, step over that water right there, or you’ll get your new shoes wet,” Aunt A said to her son, LC. She pointed to a small stream running across the trail’s starting point. Even a four-year-old could have stepped over it.

Perfectly still, LC stood looking at the water. Seconds later, he stepped right in it and sunk his shoe up to the heel. Ah, the joys of bringing up boys determined to do things themselves.

“Daddy, my legs are tired,” Benjamin said and stopped less than two minutes into the hike.

“I’m sure your whole body’s tired after last night. I think you’ll make it just fine, though. Let’s keep going,” I said.

He did, as did everybody else, with only a couple rest stops before we reached the rock “loaf” that gave the mountain its name.

Besides the graffiti, the first thing that always strikes me about Sugarloaf is the complete lack of guardrails or safety fences. There are no stairs and no concrete poured to simplify the rocky ascent. So unbridled, each visitor is welcome to enjoy the scenery and, if acting like an idiot, plunge to a very hard landing.

Perhaps that’s a little harsh. A simple slip by even the most careful crawler could cause big problems.

A nice family with three kids — one only 15 months old and the others no older than 5 years, started up ahead of us. At one point they dropped the baby’s pacifier and wailing commenced. Lucky for them, a group coming up behind us found it.

Somehow I always remember that climb as easier than it turns out to be. Or less harrowing, anyway. The first part is not all that tough — basically a random arrangement of boulders requiring a few long leg stretches — along with all the shinnying between unforgiving rock walls, of course. The shorter-legged enjoyed the benefit of being lifted over the tough spots.

Then came that fateful turn to the right. I knew it was coming, and I had told everybody it was the hardest part. I just hadn’t imagined exactly how hard with our current lineup. As a little boy I was the one being hoisted by strong, confident adults, and then as a teenager I was not in the habit of toting pre-schoolers on my hikes.

So, I went first. I grabbed Benjamin and hauled him up the narrow rock hill bordered on the left by more rock and on the right by emptiness. There was just enough room for us to go up single file. “Now, you sit right there and don’t move, son,” I said. He did. It’s amazing how well kids mind when their perception of a situation nearly exactly matches ours.

I joined Ben at the crest of that incline and then found a foothold on the facing bluff. The gap between it and where I stood was only a few feet, and the drop at that point no more than about 10 feet, but the prospect of my son’s pinballing his way down kept me on edge. I carefully lifted Ben and reached my left leg across the chasm.

The wind shook me.

My foot firmly planted, I set Benjamin on my knee and then pushed him the two remaining feet to the top. He had about 15 feet of flat surface in any direction, except where I stood, but a hard gust could have swept him away. “Now, you get low, on your bottom, and stay put,” I said. Again, he made me proud.

“I’m going to need to go up there with him,” I said.

The wind blasted me so hard I squatted to keep my balance.

Then we set up a relay. I reached out and helped pull up the kids from the other family’s group, then helped my group finish the climb. The whole process must have taken about 20 or 30 minutes. “We’re not going down until you do,” said the other kids’ father.

That was wise; the prospect of “down” seemed a little scary, and we all probably could use the extra help.

Thanks to a tip from some folks finishing their climb, we headed over to the mountain’s north edge, where the air was almost still. We pulled out our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which apparently don’t fare well under the weight of full water bottles.

While we ate, I overheard the couple with the three boys. “That was my last picture. I don’t have any more film.”

“I’ll be glad to take a picture and e-mail it to you,” I said.

They opted instead to have me mail it to them. Going in, that wasn’t really part of the deal, but what could I say? Um, no, I’m sorry, but you don’t get prints. It’s e-mail or nothing, Luddites. Obviously they weren’t tech-savvy, and they were very nice.

Lacking a pen among us, I pulled out my video camera. “Here, just dictate your name and address into this.” The wife did, and now I’m preparing prints to mail to Ohio. Her husband had spent a little over a year attending nearby Harding University (always makes US News & World Report’s “Best Colleges in the US” list), and wanted to bring his family to the mountain while in town for the school’s Spring Sing.

The boys never went near an edge and never made me nervous, but Benjamin messed up their perfect record. While we worked to bring everybody across the chasm, he repeatedly picked up tiny rocks and flung them over the edge. This not only risked hitting people below, but also stirred up dust. Finally, I saw him pick up the rocks and then remember that he wasn’t supposed to do that. Ah, I understand impulsive behavior only too well, because I often fight back my own.

Getting everybody down from that first gap took nearly twice as long as getting up. I stood second-to-last in line, perched perilously on the rocks, where I slowly passed the kids between me and the rock wall and down to Dad.

Our only scare came on the easy part.

Aunt A had just set LC down at the bottom of the narrow pass, ahead of everyone else, when we heard, “Lookout!” and heard something bouncing loudly toward us from the left. With nowhere to go, we all ducked and covered our heads, hoping that whatever came down would miss us.

Two full water bottles crashed down about two feet in front of LC. All was quiet again. Only later did I realize that I didn’t instinctively use my body to shield Benjamin. I guess it takes practice to think and act like a hero.

Benjamin complained only once of his legs being tired, and we quickly rebuffed his request for being carried. Taking only a few rest stops, we made it to the bottom just fine, buckled everybody back into the minivan, and went home.

I asked Benjamin later, “What was your favorite part of climbing Sugarloaf?”

“Eating on the rocks.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And climbing.”

That’s my boy.

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