A Terrifying Lesson in Childhood Independence
Journal Entry #3:
Ready for our Summer Vacation: The Great Smoky Mountains
Growing up in the 1970’s and 1980’s, summer meant two things: The smell of the car vinyl heating up, and vacation! Every sumer, my Dad took two weeks of vacation from the General Motors plant where he worked as an electrician. we packed our suitcases—mine stuffed full of summer clothes and toys—and prepared for a grand aventura. In this era, flying was out of the question, a luxury few would have considered. The open road? That was for us. We would drive the length and breadth of the country depending on what area we planned to visit, windows down, eating snacks that mom packed. In those days, children’s car seats were unheard of, and seat belts (lap belts) were more of a suggestion than a rule, so I reigned supreme in the back seat, occupying myself with my dolls and story books, making the whole car my playroom. This trip was one of the earliest I can remember. I must have been four or five—a self-declared grown-up, naturally—and my brother, Alex was just a tiny baby, barely a year old.
Our destination was the majesty of the Great Smoky Mountains. When we finally arrived, the mountains truly earned their name. The morning mist clinging to the peaks, a kaleidoscope of deep, misty blues and endless greens. The air smelled of pine and damp earth—a kind of clean smell that sticks with you forever. The trails were shaded by tall trees . It was beautiful, truly, but my Mom couldn't fully enjoy the beauty of the experience as she worried about me.
"Hold my hand, mija," she’d call, her voice filled with worry.
But what did she know? I was on an adventure. Holding your parent’s hand was for little kids, and I had a mission to explore the trail, see the wildlife and collect rocks, pinecones, and leaves. My parents’ worry just felt like a challenge. I wanted to see what was around the next bend, curious about the hidden secrets the mountain held, so I went sprinting ahead on the gravel-strewn path that had no guardrails.
That’s when the mountains taught me a swift, scary and painful lesson.
The gravel, loose and fine, turned traitor beneath my little sneakers. One second I was running, independent, and the next, I was skidding and sliding. I went tumbling down the side of the embankment. The world became a blur of brown and green. My small hands clawed desperately, scraping the dirt, searching for anything—a root, a sapling, anything to break my fall as I screamed.
I don’t know how far I slid, but it felt like forever, a small eternity of terror. Finally, my momentum broke as I managed to hold onto a small tree. I was holding on for dear life. I was stopped, shaking, and clinging to the side of the mountain, unable to move without risking another terrifying slide.
Above me, I could hear the sheer, paralyzing panic in my parents’ voices. My baby brother was crying, but it was nothing compared to the sound of my mother’s Ay, Dios mío. This was before cell phones; there was no quick call to 911. There was just the mountain and us.
My Dad, without a moment of hesitation, started his descent. Thankfully, just at that moment, another hiker—a true Good Samaritan—appeared on the trail. This stranger was prepared, carrying rope with him from his own hiking. There was no time for introductions, only action. While my Mom gripped my baby brother, the stranger secured the rope, and my Dad began his slow, deliberate descent. My Dad had no experience whatsoever with rappeling down a mountain. His instincts just kicked in.
As he finally reached my, he grabbed me tight, my body still shaking with silent sobs, and began the slow, painful ascent, relying on the rope and the strength of a stranger. When we finally reached the trail—dirty, scratched, and my face streaked with tears—my poor Mom crushed me into her arms. Her hug was fierce, a feeling of pure relief, but I could feel the tension in her grip—the terrible desire to hold me close mixing fiercely with the urge to shake me and scream, "¡Por qué! Why didn't you listen?" She held back, letting the relief win for the moment. The stranger, after ensuring we were safe, quietly continued on his way.
That day, I learned the crucial difference between independence and recklessness. That terrifying slide was the first time I truly felt the concept of vulnerability, realizing my own tiny hands were no match for the gravity of the Smokies. It was a deeply humbling moment. Before, their worry was just an annoying obstacle; after, it became a profound and visible act of their unconditional amor.
Now, as a grown up, I can finally look back and fully grasp the awful, paralyzing sense of fear my parents must have felt, watching their child disappear down a cliff with no way to call for help. That scare permanently etched itself into their memory, too, forging an unspoken understanding between us about the value of life and bond of family. My independent spirit still remains, but I’ve learned to recognize the metaphorical "outcrops of rock"— my friends, family and the trusted people—that stop my slide. That memory, more than any other, taught me that sometimes, the hand of a parent, a partner, or a friend is not a leash, but a lifeline. And in that Great Smoky Mountain moment, my Dad was, and remains, my hero.
Takeaways and Reflections
That early childhood experience in the Great Smoky Mountains left me with a few enduring lessons that still influence how I navigate the world:
Independence vs. Recklessness: True freedom isn't defying guidance, it's knowing your limits. That moment taught me that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is accept a helping hand.
The Power of Presence: In a moment of true crisis, my Dad didn't panic; he simply acted. His immediate instinct and his calm descent, aided by the kindness of a prepared stranger, showed me that being there is the ultimate form of protection.
Vulnerability is Humbling: Nothing brings you back to reality faster than realizing you are a mere mortal, physically outmatched by nature. This incident instilled a lifelong respect for the wild outdoors and my own human fragility.