When my sons were small, I used to take my family hiking often. My youngest son enjoyed it but was drawn to other activities. He was outnumbered three to one and I am sure he endured a few trips when he would have much rather been doing something else like playing Morrowind on the computer. As time went on, he became more vocal in stating his opposition to these excursions. And as he became more vocal, he became more inventive.
In due time, I figured he lads were ready to climb a mountain. I took both sons up the Stawamus Chief. This is a giant basalt cliff near Squamish, British Columbia. We went up the back way along a creek and all day long, son number two kvetched and complained. I was taken to task for bringing such horrible food items as Landjaeger smoked sausage and worst of all, eeeew, dried currants!
Miggy, was a very well read boy and waxed eloquent in his condemnation of our tucker bag. In this case, he used an Italian accent for extra dramatic effect. He had recently started drama classes at school.
“I mean, come on Pop, raisins? The raisins I could understand. Everyone eats raisins. I like 'em, you like 'em, Dan likes 'em. But no! You go and bring frikkin currants. Eeeew! OK lookit, the chocolate chips were a good idea but the damn sausage is tough as shoe-leather. Still, I could put up with it. But GAWD, frikkin currants?! What are you, a little Welshman? Why didn't you bring some buttered bloody crumpets and quince jam? You shoulda let Ma pack our food. I'm dying over here.”
Daniel, my eldest, usually wandered several meters ahead during those energy wasting moments on the trail. I could only bide my time.
When we reached the summit, it was time to gobble our food. I cracked open all the bags and began chewing a sausage and throwing back mouthfuls of cashews and chocolate chips. I placed the offending bag of currents on the sun-warmed rock. Daniel opened it up carefully as if to show solidarity. He tried a few and made a face. I gobbled a few handfuls, had a drink of water and rolled a smoke.
I walked around a bit and decided to unpack our camera to preserve the moment. I took an image of Miggy clutching the bag of currants and devouring said dried fruits several yards away from all competition. He nearly polished off the bag. His animal spirit guide is the raccoon. He wouldn't hurt a soul but is not to be trifled with, especially when he’s eating.
We learned on that trip that honest work is the best appetizer, good company is the best spice and an empty stomach may not always agree with imagined prejudices when presented with a menu.
On another occasion, I took Miggy alone to climb a proper mountain peak because the Squamish Chief was more like a mesa on top. I had chosen Coliseum Mountain in the Lynn Canyon Watershed. Miggy was not thrilled at the prospect of the climb but he knowing that it was important to me, he came along. I even let him choose his own foodstuffs before we left.
The day dawned fair at the start but I knew it could change in a matter of moments. There was a lesson I wished to impart to the boy. He was about eight years old. I had discovered that a mind once stretched, never reverted to its former size and that for this reason, it behooves one to try to push beyond old perceived limitations.
I knew my son well enough to be prepared for aborting the climb at any time. Lessons cannot be forced on people. I prayed we would succeed. Within thirty minutes, Miggy parked himself down on the trail and threw off his pack. I halted.
“Do you need a rest, son?”
“You are killing me, Pop.”
“Take a rest. Have a sip of water.”
“I cannot do this thing.”
“Son, can you see that tree there? Just walk to it. You can do that, eh? Then pick another one. I'll do the route-finding, you needn't worry. Take it in little bites that you know you can do. That's the secret.”
“Screw the secret. I don't want to do it, plus I cannot do it. This is a big frikkin mountain. Pop, you're killing me. I'm dying over here.”
“Miggy, you are upset. Look, I'm going to have a smoke and then when I'm done let's walk to that tree. Just try. At anytime you really cannot take another step, we will turn around and go home.”
“OK.”
When I finished my smoke and asked my son to get up and try, he balked. He became adamant. The main point of his argument was that in addition to not wanting to climb the mountain, he physically could not possibly do it. That statement became a burr under my own saddle which gave me an idea. It was a shot in the dark, a last-ditch attempt to resurrect the day.
“Mig, you win. We will go home. Before we do, I have to ask you something and I want an honest answer.”
“Sure, Pop.”
“Son, do you sincerely believe that you cannot climb this mountain?”
“Yes!”
“Could you do it if I gave you twenty dollars?”
“No!” he answered, shouldering his pack.
“Could you do it if I gave you thirty dollars?”
“No, Pop.”
I was genuinely ready and willing to head home, but I am as curious as I am stubborn.
“Miguelito Antonio Hawes, could you climb Coliseum Mountain for forty dollars?”
(That sum was the current price of a new video game at the time.)
“Forty bucks!?”
“Yep.”
“Can we stop at the Fraser Street bank machine on our way home?”
“We sure could.”
“What are you waiting for Pop? We got us a mountain to climb.”
We made the summit in very good time and I was trailing the young buck all the way, barely able to keep up. Two Aussies at the top snapped our photo. The weather had turned and we were wreathed in thick swirling fog. We ran down that mountain and went straight to the bank. I learned as much as my son did that day. He learned about ability and I learned about motivation.
fin
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