When I was two years old, I fell into a pool during a party at my grandparents’ home in California. I have a vivid memory of looking down at the drain undulating in the watery waves at the bottom, and wondering how long it would take me to get there. Suddenly a hand grasped mine and I was lifted up out of the water into the sunlight. My father had seen my fall, and pulled me out before I had a chance to be afraid.

Since turning 60, each year on or around my birthday I’ve completed what for me is a significant hike – something that stretches me out of my comfort zone and causes my lungs to heave. It joins one of my greatest pleasures – being out in the woods – with an effort to keep aging at bay: knowing that I have to be strong enough for the hike helps me train for it. This year, the plan was to hike Old Rag with my son Stuart.

A mild knee injury and my husband’s ankle replacement surgery kept me home in December. Old Rag kept getting put off till sometime “next spring.” Which gave me time to complete a course of physical therapy that returned my knee to almost good as new.

Then a few weeks ago the notice came out that due to increased pandemic foot traffic, hiking Old Rag would require advanced tickets starting March 1. I’m ornery enough that even though I heartily approve of that traffic limiting approach, I didn’t want to comply with it.

Over Valentine’s Day weekend, Stuart suggested we try for a week-day hike before the March 1 deadline to avoid crowds and the ticketing deadline. He had Monday, February 21 off. A week away. There was a 2500-foot climb, plus talk of a scramble. Though I walk frequently, I hadn’t been to the gym since the pandemic started. I figured I could probably do it, but still. . . I was nervous.

I awoke at 4:45 am, was in the car by 5:45 and met up with my son and his girl at 6:30 for coffee and homemade strawberry lemon scones at their place in Goochland. Then like a kid, I got to ride in the back of their car all the way up to the mountain, a two-hour drive. The day could not have been more spectacular: sunny with a high in the 60’s predicted.

When we arrived, at Stuart’s recommendation we ditched our jackets so as not to overheat from the exertion of the climb. I encouraged Morgan and Stu not to wait for me: much slower with my walking sticks and huffing and puffing, I had to make multiple stops along the way to catch my breath. When I caught up with them at the beginning of the scramble, they were grinning. They’d done this hike close to a dozen times between the two of them, and knew what was coming next.

The first scramble was not out in the open as I’d imagined it, but between two walls of rock. I took a deep breath and flowed my way into it. My dance and yoga background stood me in good stead as I contorted my way through tight spaces. The southern winter sun was in my eyes: I could barely see six feet in front of me. Each moment required a precise decision – which rock ledge to reach for, what crevice to place my foot in. Stu taught me how to place my foot sideways in a fissure and bow my ankle in the opposite direction to wedge it in, then repeat with the next foot, to make my way up crevices. I felt like I did when I took flying lessons at the age of sixteen: all my attention focused right in front of me. It was absolutely exhilarating.

We reached a bottleneck where we had to wait for the people in front of us to get through a hard place. When it was my turn, I stalled too. I tried half a dozen ways to heave my body upward, but it was a no-go. I just didn’t have the upper body strength to haul my long skinny limbs up over the steep foothold.

“I’m gonna need an assist,” I said. And Stuart, who’d been coaching me from below, bolted past me up the crevice. His hand reached down to take mine, and suddenly I moved past the rock and the hard place so fast it took my breath away. How could something so challenging turn so easy with just a little helping hand? My son, who I spent years lifting up, was lifting me.

Sometimes a little lift is all it takes. The feeling of mutual satisfaction of achieving something together, the pleasure of receiving aid – especially from one whom you’ve lifted in the past – well, I do not have words for such joy. It is both transmission and transcendence. The hand coming down out of the sky a legacy from my ancestors, who lifted me, and who through my son will lift continue to lift others into the future. In that moment, I got to be the middle link in a beautifully formed chain.

I only needed an actual assist that one time during the hike. But the effect was magical. I stopped being concerned about what was next, and relaxed into the knowledge that I had all I needed to move forward. Help would be there if I called on it. The presence of support did not change my effort, but it eased my mind profoundly.

The hand reaches out of the sky only a few times during a lifetime. I have been lifted up by my father. I have lifted my son. Now it was his turn to lift me. Transmission and transcendence. In that moment, I felt the ancestors smiling.