Back to the Heights
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Moms & Sons

On the day my son Alex was born, if you let him hold onto your little fingers he would stand up. I didn’t realize how unusual that was until years later, when my scrawny little teenager wanted to pack his harness, his shoes, his chalk and ropes, and go climb an Alp.

Every time Alex went to the climbing gym, I thought he’d get tired of it. I secretly hoped something would deter him, but I couldn’t say no because it was the only thing he loved to do. I couldn’t say no to the look in his eyes, and I couldn’t refuse when he pleaded with me to let him accept his buddy Pierre’s invitation to visit the Swiss Alps. Not even when I knew it meant he would be invited to climb with Pierre’s father, Philippe. How could I tell Alex that the sole, driving passion of his life happened to terrify his mother?


If I had seen the “rock�?they were going to climb that sunny day, I never would have agreed. Philippe had assured me it was within my son’s ability.

The Monolith (how could I not have wondered why it was called that?) rose straight up from the floor of the National Park of Haute Savoie, cleaving the sky like a skyscraper—a three-hundred-foot vertical sword of pale granite.

I gasped. “That?�?I pointed as all my rock-climbing fears coalesced into one giant, monolithic terror. They couldn’t be up there—Alex would never do anything so foolhardy. There was no way that this—this giant—was within my son’s ability.

“Regardez!�?Shouts of, “Look!�?People milling about at the foot of the mountain had noticed two climbers clinging to its side, moving very slowly, barely visible. A crowd began to form as I walked farther around the base of the rock, my neck already sore from looking up.

“People way up there!�?someone commented in French, pointing skyward. Expecting the worst, I felt a stab of guilt. I should have known where they were going. I should have stood my ground and said “No.�?Now my folly could cost my son and his friend’s father their lives.

In the still Alpine air, we could hear the smallest sounds clearly. Alex’s voice sounded so small, so unsure, as he responded to Philippe’s directions. Although Alex’s French was fine, Philippe was speaking English to him just to be on the safe side. The safe side! This irony wasn’t lost on me as I clenched and unclenched my fists and tried to breathe slowly.

A murmur surged through the now sizable crowd. “Ce n’est pas des Français, ça. “They aren’t French,�?someone said. “They’re speaking English.�?More mumbling, then a group of heads nodded in mutual judgment: “Those English are crazy!�?BR>
English or not, the crazy pair continued slowly, haltingly, up the sheer side of the rock. Why would anyone want to hang onto the side of a slippery wall of stone like that?

But Alex wasn’t looking down; he was looking up at Philippe who was shouting directions down to him as my son followed him skyward.

Voices were building again—someone had made another discovery.

“There’s a little boy up there.�?That revelation seemed to touch a chord among all the adults, and heads were shaking vigorously as voices grew more adamant.

“Where is that boy’s mother?�?said one observer. “How could she let him do such a thing?�?BR>
How, indeed, I thought, hoping the nausea would pass.

The silence that followed made me aware that the onlookers had shifted their focus away from the thousand-foot-high rock. Someone had noticed I was lingering nearby, not joining in. Others had come and gone, but I had stayed, alone and silent, staring at the tiny figures. They were looking at me, the lone suspect, the bad mother. A few dared to smile in sympathy or amusement. I smiled back.

“C’est mon fils,�?I finally admitted. “That’s my son.�?When I explained in French why the climbers were speaking English, heads bobbed silently. “Ah, Americans.�?That, apparently, explained everything.

There was something else in their eyes, in their stance, in the way they glanced upward as we spoke. Their accusations, uttered before they had known I was present, spoke of good sense and caution and caring, but now their smiles, their wistful peering up the side of the monolith, whispered something louder than our fears.

I squinted upward and felt my smile return, my heart begin to calm. That was my son up there, the one everyone was watching, the one doing what we earthbound beings feared, or perhaps never dared to dream—following his passion to the heavens.

At last, when he and Philippe, in rope-bound slow motion, landed safely back on earth at the foot of that granite monster, the crowd erupted with applause for the little boy who had conquered it. The tears I brushed away before greeting the triumphant climbers were not from fear. I was proud of him—of his courage and what he’d done.

Alex’s smile was unlike any I’d ever seen. It radiated a quiet pride that came from his supreme accomplishment. Not an accomplishment I wished for him, but one he had chosen for himself. He had set his own hurdle and overcome it. Wasn’t that the true measure of success?

At home, Alex still couldn’t seem to pick up his socks, remember to put his dirty clothes in the hamper or clean up his kitchen clutter. But here, on his own sacred ground, fighting the battle he’d chosen for himself, he had mastered the mountain and found the measure of himself.

I can’t promise I will never again worry about his safety. What mother could? But from that day on, those feelings lessened as I conquered my own fears at the base of le Monolithe.