Issues → September/October 2008 → Features → Mount Monadnock Classic Stories from Yankee →

The Monadnock Roar

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I suppose in the back of my mind I knew it was going to be difficult. I had accepted and prepared myself for the inevitable: a lot of wheezing and stumbling, even more complaining, probably a few scrapes, and maybe even a bee sting or two. I was praying that no one would sprain an ankle, get lost, or worst of all, tumble off the mountain's side. But with the help of an old friend who had recently hiked the Appalachian Trail, I felt that most, if not all, catastrophes could be avoided.

What I hadn't counted on was the full extent of catastrophic possibilities that Eliot brought along with him. It was the darndest thing: If Eliot stumbled forward, his brain reacted as if he had stumbled backward, and vice versa; that old brain of his would just push him even farther in the wrong direction.

My friend and I finally solved the problem by walking directly in front of and in back of him. I was in back and would shout if he started stumbling forward, whereby my friend would stop and brace himself, letting Eliot land on him. If Eliot started stumbling backwards, I was right there to catch him. I don't have to tell you which way Eliot and his brain chose to stumble the most. By the time we reached the halfway point, my arms were aching, my lip was swollen, and I had a mouse under my left eye.

But it was worth it. Everyone was bubbling with exhilaration as they gazed below to the trees and farms highlighted by a patchwork of shining waters. We sat on the rocks, staring at our accomplishment and sharing the bread, cheese, and cider we had carried up with us. We stayed past noon. The conversations and laughter were unlike any we had previously experienced. Being on Mt. Monadnock had changed a handful of lives.

It was time to descend. At least that was what half of us were feeling. The other half of us, because they were rested, wanted more. You couldn't blame them. Nor could you dissuade them. But I sure tried.

It wasn't the shouting that did it. It was the tears. Eliot's tears. They began just as he was reaching the crescendo of his speech.

He said he'd never dreamed he'd have the chance to stand atop a mountain, that there would be no way possible that I could ever deny him. Of course, he was right. How could anyone stop a man who had been waiting 48 years to finally reach the summit from which he could spread his wings and begin to fly?

My friend agreed to take half of the group back down to the car and wait. The other half, including my nine-year-old son and myself, continued to ascend. Eliot led the way.

I've seen men who were possessed before. I've seen them in sport, or work, or argument drive themselves beyond their usual capabilities. But I've never seen anyone take it to the extreme that Eliot did. Even my son, energetic and already showing signs of the athlete he would later become, found it difficult keeping up with him. Eliot hardly stumbled, rarely even staggered, and if he did, he somehow found a way to compensate for it and turn it into part of his upward force.

He grunted. He gasped. He sweated profusely. But he kept on climbing. At times he scared the others. More often he scared me. I can remember thinking that I was witnessing some sort of bizarre attempt at suicide, that Eliot was truly trying to kill himself.

When we finally cleared the last round boulder and stood at the top, it was shock. Not for us. We were exhausted and quietly elated. The shock came to the other 50 or so human beings who had ventured up Mt. Monadnock that day. I know I would have been awestruck, probably even frightened, if I had been one of them. It's not every day that you're suddenly faced with a 200-pound, hairy man with an enlarged head who is jumping and dancing while shouting Jewish blessings into the air at the top of his lungs, especially on the top of a mountain. But they survived it, and soon they were laughing and smiling right along with him.