Robust yellow trout lilies greeted my mother and me as we hiked in Nebraska Notch in northern Vermont on a recent Mother's Day. We'd never seen so many lilies bursting completely into perfect bloom all at once. They towered like protectors over the ground-hugging yellow violets that nestled snugly into many of the trout-lily patches.
Delicate spring beauties carpeted the ground at the foot of tall beeches. Look! Dutchman's Breeches. Even more of them with lacy dark green leaves over here. White pantaloons dangled daintily from a thin stalk. What a treat to see this unusual wildflower we don't see very often.
Rich maroon trilliums reached for the sun - big and beautiful, open and happy. Whether they were in patches of 20 or in groups of two, we admired them all. Little hanging bells of the wild oats drooped gracefully. Canada mayflowers proliferated, and clusters of tiny white flowers rose above their shiny, dark-green leaves.
These fresh, perfect blooms were not nibbled, crushed, or blown over. They shouted out for attention and strutted their striking stuff. In this often-windy notch that was barely free of snow, these transient residents bravely dared to open fully and proclaim their glorious awakening after the long winter.
What a delightful and unexpected Mother's Day feast. Never before had we seen hundreds and hundreds of our spring favorites in one place, so thick and lush, so perfect in their freshness and simplicity.
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Mild, sunny weather enabled Mom and me to take our time and stop often to study the intricate details of our surroundings. What a sharp contrast to other memorable hiking moments I have shared with my mother, Doris Dearborn, over the years.
It was her idea to ascend South Twin Mountain in the White Mountains after we arrived at Galehead Hut on a drizzly day. She was eager for more activity, so Dad and I obliged and joined her to the foggy, blustery summit, where we lingered just long enough to take a photo and kept moving to stay warm.
She braved 30 hours of rain on our third day of tramping the Milford Track in New Zealand and smiled in immediate agreement when I shared a quote by Mark Twain: “I'm glad I did it, partly because it was well worth it, but chiefly because I shall never ever have to do it again.”
I still have the note Mom left for me and my Labrador, Gerda, on a branch when she and Dad were forced to turn back just before the summit of Jay Peak as an unseasonable snowstorm blew in: “Donna and Gerda, We turned back and we are on our way down. Love ya, Mom & Dad.” I found the note and rendezvoused with them soon after, impressed that they had climbed that far in the cold, inhospitable conditions, unprepared as we all were for a blizzard in early October.
The last time she hiked Mount Abraham, one of her all-time favorite peaks, she felt certain the trail had become steeper but deftly scaled the rugged rock faces to the summit - with a smile on her face. She had already hiked the entire length of Vermont's Long Trail and become an End-to-Ender.
Less than a year after her heart attack at age 68 and devoting herself diligently to rehab, Mom appreciated the miracle of being able to hike 10 miles down into the Grand Canyon and was glad she wasn't on the back of a mule.
Two days later, she marveled at the progression of the sunlight as it filtered through the canyon, cliffs blazing orange, while strongly hiking the steep path back to the rim.
At age 75, she declared: “I'd like to climb Mount Washington ... to see if I can still do it.” And with just the two of us hiking, she did reach the summit of the highest peak in the Northeast, on a brilliant September day.
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I doubt there are many other mothers who would be willing and able to snowshoe up a mountain to participate in a daughter's wedding on a cold February day. And years later, did she really snowshoe into a remote cabin to celebrate her oldest daughter's 50th birthday - when it was –22 degrees?
Yes, she has done all this - and much more.
Mom certainly deserved this perfect Mother's Day hike free of blustery winds, unrelenting rains, whiteouts, and frigid temperatures. The smile on her face and the glow of contentment spoke volumes.
Sadly, my mother lost her own mother when she died unexpectedly during routine surgery. My grandmother was 44 years old, and my mother was only 19.
I do not take it for granted for one moment that I have my mom - a curious, spirited, and delightful woman who is also my cherished friend. I'm grateful we get together often and I am appreciative for a mother who still has so much gusto and grit at age 85.
These days as we plot our next Mother's Day excursion, our mother-daughter hikes are shorter and not quite as steep and rocky. As always, we take our time and breathe deeply in appreciation of our woodland surroundings and each other.
True blessings for both of us on Mother's Day and every day.