When I was a little girl I loved to walk with my dad. We would walk around the block and talk to the neighbors, the Stevens', the Singelton's. I loved to hold his hand and try to match his strides. When he noticed he would take longer and longer strides until I was leaping with every step, until I was laughing too hard to keep up.
We would often spend the afternoon at my grandmother's house. One day we were getting ready to go home and I was certain that I should be the one to ride in the coveted center front seat between my parents but my sister had beat me to it. My child's mind believed it had well thought out reasoning but no-one was interested in hearing it. Looking back as an adult and a mother I can imagine that my little sisters were tired and my parents were anxious to get home. I made a fuss. The thing I really remember is feeling unheard. And I was a stubborn kid. Finally in a moment of desperation, or inspiration, my dad handed my mom the car keys, took me by the hand and started walking. It was almost 6 miles and late in the afternoon. We walked and we talked. We walked a different way than I had ever been before. Maybe to avoid the big down and up again hill that we called "the roller coaster". It was fun in the car, not so much on foot. The thing I really remember is feeling heard and feeling loved. I don't remember being tired although I'm sure I was. I remember it was dark before we got home. My father's decision to walk with me became one of my most cherished memories.
Soon after that my dad decided I was ready to climb a mountain. Early on a Saturday morning, my dad, my older sister, Oretta, and I filled our canteens and packed our bags. We drove up the canyon to the parking lot of the Snow Basin ski resort. We started walking up the dirt service road that follows the ski lifts. We walked for a long time. We passed pine trees and quaking aspens, streams and fields of wild flowers. I remember putting my handkerchief in the stream and wiping my face with the frigid water. It was a hot sunny day and I got tired quickly.
When I wanted to rest, dad would point to a shady spot up ahead and encourage me to get that far before we stopped. Somehow I found that I did have enough strength to go that far. After a rest and a drink of water I discovered that I wasn't so tired as I thought and I could cary on. Dad was endlessly patient with us, encouraging us to go "just a little further." About noon we reached the saddle, a low spot between two peaks where we could look over the ridge to the other side. I thought we were done, we made it, but dad pointed up to the peak just above us. We were close but the final stretch was steep and rocky and I didn't think I had any more strength left. Somehow dad convinced me to keep going and it turns out I did have enough strength to get to the very top of Mt. Ogden.
It is hard to describe the way I felt standing on the peak. Even the wind feels different. I felt like I could see forever. To the west was the city of Ogden where we lived. I could see the Ogden Temple and other land marks I recognized. I could see all the way to the far side of the Great Salt Lake. To the east was row upon row of mountain peaks finally fading into the sky. I felt an overwhelming awe as I surveyed the vastness of God's creations. I felt the contradiction of being so infinitesimally small and so strong simultaneously. I started to understand my own value and my own weakness at the same time. It was my first glimpse into eternity.
So many times since then I have felt that I was done, that I had nothing left to give. Every time I have found that I do have more. I can push forward to the next shady spot with a log or a rock to sit on. I can take a break and drink some water and find that I do have the strength to cary on after all.
We ate our lunch and took pictures with my Kodak Disk camera. We signed the registry and started back down. Down was much easier than up. When I went back to school that fall I pointed out Mt. Ogden to my friends and told them all how I had been to the very top.
Last summer I went for a walk with my dad. He had been diagnosed with brain cancer but the treatments were going well and dad was feeling pretty good. I had hoped to climb Mt. Ogden that summer but it was too early and the snow was still deep, so we went out to Antelope Island instead. Dad wanted to come along. Dad and I and a couple of the kids walked along the shoreline trail. It was flat and easy. We went slow. I kept checking if dad was ready to turn around. He kept saying, "No, I want to see what's over that rise." So we kept walking. He was a little bit wobbly and I was terrified he would fall. We walked so far that we ended up having to ask some strangers for a ride back to the car. It was weird and a little embarrassing, but they were kind and everything was fine in the end. That was the last time I walked with my dad.
When we visited at Christmas he could barely walk from the kitchen to the living room. In January he fell and broke his arm. He spent a few days in the hospital, a few weeks in the rehabilitation center, and then to a nursing home because he couldn't even get out of bed without help. In March the world shut down for the COVID-19 pandemic and in April he was gone. It was still dangerous to travel and a funeral was out of the question. The funeral home streamed the graveside service over Facebook. That was really weird.
This summer, more than 35 years later, I returned to the top of Mt. Ogden, this time with my own children in tow. I encouraged them to go just a little bit further, to take a break and then try again. I was afraid we wouldn't make it to the top. But we did, all of us. We sat on the peak and looked at the world just as I did when I was 10. It's a little different now. The ski resort got a facelift for the Utah Olympics a few years ago. There's a helicopter pad at the top now, more satellite dishes, too.
My feet hurt and we still had the long walk back down, but I could feel the wind as it blew and see the long lines of peaks fading into the distance. My children were there at the top of the mountain and I prayed that they felt eternity and their own strength the way I did when I stood on top of that mountain with my dad so long ago.
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