It happened in a nano-second. On the side of a mountain we went from carrying a torch to passing a torch.
In July of 2022 a group of 8 of us set out to summit Mt. Adams, the quiet, looming giant that keeps watch over our valley. My geologist and I had summited it once before in 2017, and now were off to do it again, leading the way for the generation behind us made up of a daughter, a son-in-law, and nieces and nephews. The torch was ours to carry, or so we thought.
The first trip up had been easy for us. This time, not so much as it turned out. At the end of a long, long, long slog under glaring sun and in deep soft snow we pitched our base camp at an area known as Lunch Counter. That’s when our torch began to sputter as my geologist couldn’t quite figure out how to set up the tent we’ve slept in many, many times, and my speech—I’m told—got very slow. The altitude, and probably some dehydration kicked in and we weren’t up to our usual, spry, snuff. Everyone else took over getting camp set up, melting and filtering snow for water, and making Backpacker’s Pantry dinners. As the sun set, we all crawled into our sleeping bags, not knowing what the morrow would bring.
Over early morning coffee as the sun came up, 4 were ready to summit, and 4 of us needed to stay in base camp and cheer them on. Later that same afternoon we all sat around our little base camp perched on a rocky outcrop of an old lava flow, and reflected on an adventure that didn’t go as we’d imagined. At one point our niece said. “It feels like this is a passing of the torch.”. And there it was. The nano second that changed everything and nothing all at once. Because what is life if not a series of torches that are ours to pick up, carry, and pass on? Over and over and over again, until the final torch is handed off and we move from being elders to ancestors.
My geologist and I talk a lot about what it means for us to be elders. About how we want to inhabit this role that is ours now in a way that reflects who we want to be and what and who we care about. About the torches that are still ours to carry, and the ones that are ready to be handed off. Knowing when to do which is the lifelong practice of becoming wise.
Just the other morning, five years after that hike, as we sat having coffee while looking out at Mt. Adams and another niece from that last hike asked, “Do you think you could still make it to Lunch Counter? I love the idea of climbing to the summit again, knowing that you are waiting for us back at base camp.” And there it was. The nano second that changed everything and nothing all at once. Because what is life if not a changing of our places in the order of things? Knowing the place that is ours, and the one that no longer is, is the lifelong practice of becoming wise.
Our place as elders is no longer summiting the mountain. It is waiting at base camp, holding steady the torch that will welcome back those who’ve made it to the top.
