Restless Mountain

Photo by Emre Can on Pexels.com

The stream narrowed, carrying our boat down its meandering course. Lush green vegetation surrounded us, the steep mountainside hovering above. I felt small atop the water’s racing current, but I held the wooden oars tight. Joseph sat behind me, nestled in his life jacket.

“Are you okay back there?” I asked every once in a while.

“Yeah,” his small voice barely audible over the sound of the water. “I’m okay, mommy.”

“We’re almost there,” I comforted.

My father’s remote log cabin, built by his own two hands, was about five miles downstream, hidden by hundred-year-old evergreen he protected like they were his children. Against the advice of friends, the ones I shared my plan with, I embarked on the journey through Restless Mountain, well-known for its travelers, who not unlike me, set out in search of peace, motivated by an unquenchable yearning for all that had been lost.

As my father directed, I docked the boat where the stream widened and the current nudged us north. Joseph stayed in the boat, even after I had backed into the slip and tied off the lines.

“Are you ready?” I asked, my voice sweet. “We have just a little more to go,” I pointed to the path we’d follow through the trees to grandpa’s cabin. “Put your backpack on.”

“I don’t want to,” he whined, gripping the side of the boat. “It’s scary.”

“It’s okay,” I extended my hand.

“I don’t want to,” he buried his face in his arms.

“We have to go before it gets dark,” I warned.

No,” his voice muffled, faint.

I steadied myself, my bag on my back and reached for him, each time my arms missing his skinny frame. The more I reached the more he flailed, but I kept reaching, slipping further and further into the water.

“Helen,” I heard my father call through the trees. “Helen,” he repeated.

“Get out of the boat,” I yelled, water now splashing around me as I moved along the boat, reaching. Reaching.

“No,” Joseph screamed.

“Helen,” my father’s voice got closer.

“Get out now! Now!” I screamed, shaking the boat.

“Helen,” my father called again, his voice calm as he wrapped his arm around me. “It’s okay.’

“He won’t get out of the boat,” I yelled.

“I’ll get Joseph,” his voice still calm. “Don’t worry. I’ll get him.”

“I don’t know why he won’t get out of the boat.”

“He’s getting out of the boat…I got him,” he said comforted. “See?”

“Thank you,” I felt my body relax.

I followed him up the path, watching Joseph’s Spiderman backpack bob up and down.