The Climb

The first whispers of the sunrise were creeping through the branches as Elliot left the backyard on his morning adventure. The first shadows of the day were dancing in the warm breeze to the chorus of songbirds. This morning’s symphony was comforting and familiar to Elliot. Birds tend to do that. Sing the same tunes each morning. At least it sounds that way to the untrained ear. Elliot’s 12-year-old brain couldn’t yet pick up on the subtle differences in the bird song each morning. He was blissfully unaware. He was happy and content.

Humans are creatures of habit, and Elliot was discovering his first. A quick hike each morning to a lookout behind his family home. Rain or shine. This was Elliot’s favorite part of the day. He loved these moments. Cherished the time alone and away from his family. He loved his parents, and his little sister, but he was starting to look for a little independence and a moment to himself to start each day.

This little path, and lookout that it led to, had been a part of his family’s land for at least three generations. Much like his lack of awareness of the differences in bird songs, like most pre-teens Elliot wasn’t entirely up on his family history. But he knew for sure his mother had grown up there, much like his grandfather before her. As his need for independence was just starting to blossom, so was his interest in the world around him. He would soon know much more about his family, and the ever-changing world around him.

The path lay at the back of the yard and snaked its way through the forest for about a mile before climbing to the top of Berry Hill. Named for the raspberry fields that clung in tiny patches along its steep sides and lit it afire each summer, the hill had been an essential part of Elliot’s childhood. The walk was a regular part of his life, even as a baby when he was carried by his father or mother. He preferred his grandfathers name for the hill, The Homach. He had told Elliot that the first time his father – who had a fear of heights - had climbed the hill in search of berries, reached the lookout, turned green, and when asked by his wife what was wrong said, “oh my homach…,” as he expelled the contents of his stomach. Twelve year-olds retain very important parts of their family histories.

Last year his parents had decided to let Elliott go on his own for the first time. It wasn’t a long hike; it usually took him about 20 minutes from the time he left the house till he popped out at the lookout. Thirty minutes maybe, if something really caught his attention or if he had been up too late the night before. His mother had taken him alone before his first solo adventure and showed him all of the important landmarks, secret passageways, and hidden mysteries she had been taught as a child. Things even Elliot’s father was unaware of. They had spent hours canvassing the trail together.

Elliot missed his mother this morning. She had been away on a work trip this past week. This was normal and part of the family routine. Her job with the government often took her away for work. Elliot didn’t usually miss her until the last few days and hours. She was flying home later today, and when he was finished with his morning hike, he would be joining his father and his sister on a drive to the airport.

Not wanting to break routine his father had told him there was lots of time for him to go on his morning hike. Strategically, there were certain sections of the trail that were bare of any tree cover and within a perfect sight line of any parent or grandparent who might be watching from the kitchen in the house or the backyard. On this morning, Elliot’s dad sat on the back deck, sipping coffee, reading his book, and occasionally waiting for his son to pass through one of the cleared sections of the trail. Elliot had passed two of the five cleared sections almost on schedule. Slightly slower than normal, but there was lots of time before they had to leave for the airport. He assumed something had caught the attention of the increasingly curious eldest child. He smiled, knowing his son would have some incredible story to tell him on the drive to the airport.

Elliot often walked the first section of the trail without his sneakers or sandles. This trick taught to him by his mother. The path, worn by the steps of their ancestors, was well covered in moss and grass until the start of the ascent up The Homach. And again at the top. The cold wet grip of the ground underfoot was comforting to Elliot. He had taken off his shoes when he knew he was out of his father’s sight, who he knew would disapprove. Another trick he had learned from mom.

Elliot’s ears picked up at the gentle melancholy song of an unknown creature. Much moodier than he was used to, this new song came from a bird that he had never seen before, but looked strangely familiar. Much like the pigeons he would see when he was in the city, but less jumpy and more serene. The gentle colour of the feathers and deep soul of the black eyes drew Elliot closer. With each step he thought he would get close enough to pick it up, until it always flew further up the trail.

He followed this new bird slowly all the way to the lookout, his father catching glimpses of him each time he passed an open section on the trail. When he arrived to the peak, and when he thought he would finally catch the bird, it looked at him for a second quickly and dropped over the edge. Elliot followed the bird as it swooped back up to the horizon. In an instant he lost the sight of the bird and caught sight of a plane and its flight path.

Elliot had learned from his mother that you could tell where planes were coming from based on their flight path. The airport in the nearby city was small, and if you flew a lot you could learn the paths pretty easy. Elliot smiled. This flight was the only one coming from directly west today, the direction that he faced atop the lookout. It was his moms flight. It seemed earlier than normal, and coming faster than usual. It would be packed today as hundreds of people were returning home for the weekend from the capital.

The bird was gone from his mind, and his attention was now on the plane. As it grew closer, he knew it was lower than it should be. A lot lower. It was close enough he could hear the roar of the engine, something he had never heard before. It came closer and was pitching to the left at an odd angle. He could see smoke trialing the plane. Not white smoke that criss-crossed the sky trailing planes every day, but grey like the smoke from the woodstove in their house. More smoke grew from the left side of the plane with a sudden burst of red and yellow as the plane turned violently left and seemed to hit an invisible wall before landing in a field about a five miles from Elliot.

Elliot sat on the ground. The cold moss under him reminding him of his mother and giving him some comfort as he tried to process what he just saw. He knew what he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to believe what he just saw.

In the distance he heard his father behind him. Running up the hill, frantically screaming Elliot’s name. He stared across the open space toward the crash site. As he vacantly studied the flames, and waited for his father, he saw the bird he had chased earlier land on the edge of the cliff. The bird – which he would years later learn to be a type of dove - studied him for awhile and began to sing its mourning tune once again.