To heights sublime

That tiny phrase from a bit of verse called "The Fringed Gentian" inspires me. Had I not read four lines of that piece in my favorite author's autobiography, I might never had considered this three-word combination.

As I climbed the Kathio State Park fire tower earlier this week with my family, I remembered the inspiration that Lucy Maud Montgomery drew from this part:

The Alpine Path, so hard, so steep,
That leads to heights sublime.

Her determination led to worldwide fame as the author of the "Anne of Green Gables" books. My dreams aren't that lofty. Yet I embrace the idea of climbing the alpine path.

When we decide to take steps – all 137 of them in the case of this Kathio fire tower – to reach a goal, we set in motion a chain of events. How those events occur depends on our choices.

Our three sons raced to the tower's top to gain the first view. Our middle son descended almost immediately afterwards feeling sickened by the drop. My husband started down next to discourage our youngest son from his dream of sliding down the stairwell for fun. Our oldest son hung back with me to take in as much as possible.

Thousands of forested acres. The Rum River and distant lakes draining out of the "sea" of Mille Lacs Lake. An island point off the peninsula. Humid summer haze hanging on the 360º horizon. A bumble bee buzzing us from the tower window. A whipping wind that Isaac channeled through his T-shirt arms to inflate his entire shirt. The tower's shadow cast on the canopy of trees below.

How that three-word combination suffices: To heights sublime.

On the Ledge

Sometimes we run out into the middle of a situation without realizing just where we're headed.

That's how I found myself on the ledge damming the Rum River Tuesday evening during our family camping trip.

My husband and two older sons had gone fishing following supper. Our six-year-old son helped me tidy up the site before we joined the others. Along the mile hike, Noah carried his rod over his shoulder and recounted his morning fishing trip – taken exclusively with his dad – while Isaac, Aaron and I had rented kayaks.

About midday, we'd spotted Noah seated on the ledge nearest the shore swinging his legs, waving and hollering, "Hey! I caught a bullhead!" Avid-fisherman Aaron was envious of little brother's morning luck. And so, this evening excursion would be perfect to even the score.

When Noah and I arrived at the dam, he was determined to keep the lead. He scanned the scene, spotted Dad and the boys on the opposite side and proceeded to join them before I could utter: STOP!

I followed – believing I could save Noah if he stumbled. The 10-inch ledge looked wide enough. Halfway across, I lost my nerve. The water rushing through the lock... The three-foot drop to the river below... The DANGER sign with an image of a person spinning in the under current... all gripped me.

Without his knowing, Noah saved me. To combat my fear, I focused on his shoes. Silently, I prayed for his safety and for my own courage to keep step with his.

We made it. Dad lifted Noah up over the lock. I stayed on the ledge deciding: Should I hoist myself up and wonder how to get down or... go back alone? The older boys wanted to fish on the ledge. To them I confessed, "I've never felt this kind of fear. I can't go back alone. I need to follow someone."

To let my sons pass, I hoisted myself up over the lock. On this other bank, I explored the stony shore, took in the beautiful view, watched Isaac and Aaron chase elusive bass, saw Noah catch a sunfish and caught my husband emptying the bait box to announce, "That's it. There's nothing left. Time to go back and cool off."

"Right..." I thought. "Just let it NOT be in the river!"

Dad helped Noah across. Aaron grabbed his shoes and tackle box. And Isaac waited as I lowered myself onto the ledge. To let us all pass, a couple fisherwomen stepped off the ledge's high side into ankle-deep water. I thought, "Wow... that side isn't so dangerous."

Still fearful of the lower side, I kept my eyes on Isaac's shoes... step by step. Approaching the women, I said, "I'm not too keen on this balance beam stuff."

"You're doing great!" one said. As I stepped onto the rocky shore, I replied "Thanks! Now I'm doing even better."

Next time I find myself in the middle of a such situation, I'll know how to keep my head. And maybe... I'll even take off my shoes.