On Sand Dunes, Perseverance, and Dodging the Heart Attack Bullet

My son taught me a lesson the other day.

During Spring Break, we took the kids on a day trip to the Bruno Sand Dunes. About an hour and a half outside of Boise, the Bruno Sand Dunes State Park has a few picnic areas, a pond, an observatory, and (you guessed it) lots of sand dunes.

Within minutes of getting out of the van, one of the kids pointed to the highest dune in the park and said, “Let’s climb that one.”

I did, in fact, see people at the top of that dune. Teeny, tiny people. In spite of the obvious answer, I asked, “Can you climb that?”

My 14-year-old son, Jack, said he’d climbed it when he was there with the scouts.

Well, if he could do it. “Let’s try,” I said. “Why not?”

Why not, indeed.

It took a bit of walking along a trail to get to the dune in question.

We followed the winding trail through bare trees, most of which didn’t have their spring buds yet. We took small detours on tiny dunes, skirted the glassy pond, and scooped up handfuls of the softest, finest sand I’d ever touched.

Once we reached the base of that big ol’ dune, we started to climb. Did I mention these things are sand dunes? As in, you’re sinking with every step you take. Every. Freaking. Step.

And you know, that dune looked a lot bigger once I started trying to climb it.

Off go the children, bounding ahead. Dear hubby and I took it slow and steady. The farther along we went, the slower our pace became. I had been prepared for a workout, but about a quarter of the way up the dune my heart was beating so hard I started to wonder if this was such a good idea. I’ve heard of out-of-shape people giving themselves a heart attack because they get the idea to do some big thing, like climb 15 flights of stairs or walk across Spain or whatever.

I looked up to the top of the sand dune, felt my heart flailing painfully against my ribcage, and decided a rest would be a good idea right about now. I sat on the cool sand and prayed I wouldn’t have a heart attack.

After a few minutes my heart was back to its old, non-threatening self. I looked up and saw our kids, steadily making progress up the dune.

I got up, brushed the sand from my rear, and started to climb. It wasn’t terribly long before my heart protested and I had to sit again.

And so it went.

I’d wear myself out, sit and rest, get to feeling better, look to the top and my kids (almost there), and think, “Just a little farther.”

I’d figured out pretty quickly that it’s easier to step in the footprints of those who’d gone before. Less sinking. But even the trails of footprints were nebulous, disappearing suddenly and leaving me to plow my own way through the ever-shifting sand.

As my husband, Kevin, and I worked our way up the dune, I worried about his heart too. The kids reached the top, the older ones walking along the ridge, proving they’d made it to the top with energy to spare.

If I make it to the top, I thought, I’m just going to collapse.

About three-quarters of the way up that giant sand dune, hubby and I sat down and I thought, “That’s it. I’m not going any farther. This is good enough.”

Thoroughly spent, I decided to enjoy the view.

Half-hearted rain clouds spread across the sky, reflected in the pond below. I was higher than the top of all the other sand dunes and could see the rocky and scrub-brush bespotted landscape stretch far into the horizon. Even without getting to the top, the view was magnificent.

The kids played at the top. Jack had walked along the peak and been partially down and back up again a few times. Kevin lounged on the soft sand next to me, looking perfectly relaxed and content.

I was too. Until I wasn’t.

After a few minutes, I stood and started climbing. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to get as close to the top as I could.

Jack called down to me. “Mom, do you want to get to the top?”

Without looking up or stopping, I called, “Yes.”

And down he came. My son, who I once carried everywhere he needed to go, came to my side and held his arm out to me. And I took it.

With his strength and support, the climb grew easier. Step after step, I felt his arm lift me higher and higher.

I was reminded of the day, many months ago, when Jack and I stood in our living room back to back, and discovered he was finally, officially taller than me.

The declaration had brought a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. My emotion had surprised me. As much as I love my children, I’ve never been sappy about milestones. I didn’t cry when my kids went off to kindergarten; I was always excited for them and the new adventures they were about to have.

But my first-born son growing taller than me gave weight to the reality that he’s growing up, and will one day be a man.

This moment on the sand dune was like that. But instead of realizing that my son is growing up, I realized he is growing up well.

Soon he walked in front of me, giving me easier places to step by stomping his feet firmly on the sand. He even thought to take small steps.

Then, at last, I made it. I was there. Right at the top. There was no more climbing to do.

I sat at the peak, lightened by my sense of accomplishment–I did it!–and swelling with gratitude–I never would have done it without Jack’s help.

In all honesty, the view from the top didn’t look significantly different than it had 20 feet down. But it felt different. And I was able to see something I couldn’t before–the view to the other side.

See the sea of tumbleweeds in the depression below? I loved that just because it was an unexpected sight.

My husband, not willing to be the only one who didn’t make it to the top, pressed on and soon joined us. There we all were together, at the top of the highest sand dune in sight.

We felt a few threatening drops of rain and the wind grew chilly as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. Still we sat, Enjoying the view. Reveling in our accomplishments.

I thought about some of the other goals I’m working toward, not the least of which is getting my book in front of more readers.

I’ve often said having a career in writing is like constantly climbing mountains. And it is. Writing a book is the first mountain. Making that book great is the second. Getting it published: climbing a mountain. Building your author platform and marketing: climbing a mountain. Balancing all that while writing the next book: climbing a mountain.

Enjoying the journey while you’re trying not to die of a heart attack: climbing a mountain.

But here’s the lesson my son taught me: we don’t do it alone. More than that, we can’t do it alone. I really don’t think I would have reached the top of that sand dune without my son’s help.

I also don’t think he would have offered if I hadn’t been so persistent in the first place.

What mountains are you trying to climb? What is your vision of the “top” that keeps you going? Who are your helpers? Is there ever a time when three-quarters of the way really is enough?