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

The Monadnock Roar

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(page 3 of 4)

No one could blame Eliot for celebrating like that. He had overcome tremendous odds in getting himself to the top of that mountain. When I looked at the black clouds reaching toward us from the western horizon. I knew that those same odds were about to turn on us.

The celebration was over. One by one, we started down the trail, the rapidly approaching storm putting new energy into the legs and arms of everyone -- everyone but Eliot.

He could barely move. Whatever adrenaline, whatever spirit, whatever passion had brought him to the top of Mt. Monadnock was now spent. Trembling and clinging to a small crevice between two large boulders, he began to cry.

I told my son to follow the trail and lead the others down to safety. I told him to tell our friend what was happening and to get help. Then I hugged him. While watching my son disappear below, I heard Eliot slump to the ground and begin to sob.

I don't know how much time went by. I know it was enough to allow the thunder to boom, the lightning to flash, and the rain to begin to fall upon us. There was no mercy, in that storm. It lashed out at the mountain, at us, as if to punish. And it succeeded. Eliot whined and whimpered and drew himself into a helpless little egg whose only purpose was in allowing itself to be crushed.

I probably would have allowed that to happen if it hadn't been for the one sentence Eliot had spoken since the storm had begun. It sort of squeaked out between the arms he had folded over his head.

"I wish I had never come."

I rarely lose my temper. But Eliot's words undid something in me. I didn't hit him, but I'm sure he thought I had by the suddenness with which I pushed his arms away from his face.

I began yelling. I pulled Eliot to his feet and pushed him past the boulders and into the trees. I never once let go of him; I just continued to push him down and ahead. And all the while, I never stopped yelling.

"Come on, Eliot! Fight! Don't let anyone or anything take away the greatest moment and the greatest day you've ever known! Don't give it up, Eliot! Please don't!"

And he didn't. He fought. He found and strained some sort of energy into his legs and started down, on his own.

I followed him. I remained several yards behind him for fear of breaking the spell. Sluggishly, like a large snail, he lowered himself down the now muddied mountain. Several times he slid, but his large hand always found a root or a rock. More than once, I wanted to help him, to lift him to his feet and have him lean against me, but I didn't. The glazed staring of his eyes always told me not to. Instead, I'd sit for a moment and wait. And all the time, the rain continued.

We probably had made it about halfway down when we came to the place where the trail was being washed away. It was too late, though, by the time I saw it. I'm not sure if Eliot ever did. Before I could even get the words out, the ground crumbled and rushed downhill, Eliot's large and limp body going with it.

Eliot had become twisted around and was belly down, his face lifted toward me, his arms outstretched, his fingers separated and oozing streams of mud as he slid farther and farther away. I hurled myself after him. It had to have been at least a hundred yards before we stopped. Eliot was practically buried. I feared he was suffocating, so I clawed and scraped to free him. He began coughing and sneezing away the impacted dirt. Then he lay back in my arms and let the rain wash his face.