Last Climb

Grandpa Gene was not the typical grumpy old man that most kids talk about when they are going over to visit their grandparents. In fact, not once did I ever hear him utter gruffly, “You kids get off my lawn.” Grandpa had a smile that always made you feel welcome. When you first arrived at his house his lanky frame would grab you up in a tight hug.

It didn’t matter if you were two or twelve. A kid or an adult. Happy that it was summer break from school or mad because the entire ride there you were stuck between the elbows of two irritated older brothers. All was right with the world at Grandma Faye and Grandpa Gene’s house.

Grandpa was as an easy going person you could ever meet, except he had this thing about climbing. He hated, hated, hated climbing. He never allowed anyone to climb anything in his presence. No climbing trees. No climbing up to the top of the barn. No climbing the rocks on the bluffs across the pasture. Dad said he felt like a little of his boyhood had been robbed from him.

I could climb around at home but here on his farm the temptation was too great to resist. There were so many obstacles that a young teenage boy envisioned himself climbing and conquering. So, being fourteen and thinking I knew better, not to mention out of sight, I decided to scale the backside of the old barn. There were lots of gaps in the boards that led up to the open loft that I could use as hand and foot holds.

I had made it about six feet off the ground when I felt the tapping on the back of my left leg. I looked down and there was grandpa nudging me with a shovel handle and telling me to climb on down. He had his trademark smile but I could see the disappointment in his eyes. I dropped down and landed on my feet off balanced and sprawled out hitting the ground with a thump.

“Sorry Grandpa,” I told him solemnly as I climbed to my feet.

He gave my head a little tussle to the side, “It’s alright, Marshall, I know your grandpa is a little strict about this one thing…” His voice drifted off, “...the cost can be too high.”

I never asked what he meant by his comment, and I never climbed anything at the farm again. Our relationship seemed to strengthen that day over that unfinished comment he made. Grandpa and I had plenty of fun together over the next few years- hours on the river fishing, watching football on TV, and taking care of his small herd of cows on the farm.

All of these times and talks together led us to the realization that we shared a common item on our bucket list, hiking the Appalachian Trail. So in celebration of my graduation from high school and it being the summer of his seventy-fifth birthday, we decided to take a trek.

We spent the months leading up to our adventure planning everything out. Our research indicated that it takes a typical hiker five to seven months to hike the entire Appalachian Trail. With that knowledge we laughingly decided that maybe we would just undertake a portion of the trail and settled on a day hike near Bland, Virginia. The hike was listed as moderate and Grandpa Gene said that was acceptable, he especially loved the trail I selected- Dismal Creek Falls.

Dad said he could help Grandma cover the farm chores in early June if we went then. Now, five hundred miles and one month later Grandpa and I find ourselves setting out on the trailhead and beginning our climb up Brushy Mountain.

“Well, Marshall,” Grandpa begins sounding serious, “If this creek or waterfall is anything but dismal I am going to be severely disappointed.” He chuckles as I shake my head at him.

“Gramps,” I reply with a laugh, “I would imagine they had a pretty good reason to call it Dismal Creek Falls.”

Another chuckle from this man that I have grown to admire so much over the last few years. As we travel the trail we talk about my leaving for college in Tennessee in the fall and he admits he will sure miss having me around to out-fish.

“According to my calculations we are about halfway there Grandpa,” I say after half an hour into our hike.

Before he can answer we hear screams come from the woods off to the left side of the trail. Grandpa gives me a look and motions for us to head that way. As we pick our way through the trees the screaming has let up and we hear a ladies panicked voice yelling at someone not to move.

We make our way out of the treeline and find the source of the calamity. A woman is yelling from the base of a cliff up at a child who is laying across a small ledge about 40 feet in the air.

She turns when she notices our arrival and pleads, “Please help! My son Ethan and my husband went off the trail around to the back slope. They climbed up to try and get a view from the crest of that hill and he slipped off the rock face and fell.”

It isn’t until now that I notice the man peering over the edge down at his son who lies fifteen feet below him. The dad is talking in hushed tones trying to keep the boy calm but every second that passes you can feel the tension building. The boy who looks about eight is starting to move around on the small space. The Dad raises his voice telling Ethan to quit moving. This has the opposite effect and the boy starts kicking out sending bits of rock and dirt raining down on us.

Before I can even comprehend what to do, Grandpa has shucked his backpack and made his way to the bottom of the rock face. He studies the cliff intently and then with a spring he is picking his way up the handholds and cracks in the rock. I am stunned at this image of the man who hates climbing so much, picking his way effortlessly up the forty feet to where the boy rests.

No one is speaking now, it feels like all sound has disappeared as we hear grandpa talking in a soothing voice to the young boy. Seconds later, Grandpa Gene has convinced this nervous boy to climb onto his back and hold tight. Then Grandpa is off again and finishes the last of the vertical climb to pop out on the top of the cliff. The father pulls the boy into an embrace as he profusely thanks Grandpa. The mom has wrapped her arms around me and sobs thank you over and over.

The trio pick their way down the easier slope on the back of the cliff and ten minutes later we are all reunited. It takes another ten minutes for us to accept all the thanks from the family. Grandpa has to tell them a dozen times no need to mention this to the news as they insist on doing. He finally convinces them they should take Ethan to a doctor to have him looked over.

Grandpa, not looking as spry as he did when we first started the hike, suggested we forgo the rest of the hike and head on to the campground where we have reserved a spot for the night. I agree, a little worried that he overexerted himself in his amazing display of heroics. Not much is said as we make our way back to my truck and drive to the campground. It takes us about half an hour to get the tent up and a fire going to cook our hotdogs.

I decided to break the silence, “Grandpa, what you did was amazing.” He beggars me off with a little wave so I continue, “How did you do that? You climbed that rock wall like a mountain goat. I thought you hated climbing.”

He looks up at me. “Hating something doesn’t mean you can’t do something.” I stay quiet to draw more out of him and he takes back up. “When I was a kid I climbed anything and everything that dared rise out of the ground. After my dad released me from chores I would skitter up and down the bluffs behind the farm for hours every day. If it could be climbed I would make my way to the top of it”

I can’t hold back and interrupt him, “Then why do you hate seeing someone climbing and what did you mean when you caught me all those years ago and said that cost was too high?”

A look of heartbreak twitches across his face. “It was June the Fourth in Nineteen Forty Four, that was the last climb I could ever bring myself to make.”

I sat there as he regaled me with a story of brotherhood and sacrifice on a bloody day at a place history remembers as Omaha Beach. By the end of the story the tears in both of our eyes have brimmed over and flowing freely. After that Grandpa regained his composure and we spent the rest of the evening swapping funny fishing stories over the fire.

Before we turn in for the night, Grandpa tells me that he has never shared his story with another single person who wasn’t there that June day. Not even his wife or his son. He asks me to keep the story to myself and out of a sense of obligation to this man, this hero of mine, I agree.

Five years have passed since that day, and now I sit in a pew looking over that flag draped casket that rests in front of our family. The preacher asks if anyone has any words to share about Grandpa. Without hesitation, I stand and smooth out my uniform, and walk to the pulpit.

“Five years ago on a trip with one of the best men who ever walked this earth, I heard a story that caused me to decide to trade the pursuit of a college degree for service to my country.”

All eyes are riveted on me. “I kept this story to myself, but now, too late for him to get the accolades he deserves from it, I want to tell you about a man and his unit and a climb up a cliff. Private First Class Gene Canton and his fellow Rangers scaled the 100 foot cliffs of Pointe du Hoc to protect their brothers landing on Omaha Beach. They brought the fight to the Germans and the evil they had unleashed on the world.”