We were supposed to be serious in the picture. As if we were a family who naturally leaned. But it’s hard to stop a 6-year-old boy from sticking out his tongue. Plus, the sun was too bright not to squint.

The way my dad remembers it, while he and Uncle Roger set up the trick shot, we cousins ran around on top of Stone Mountain like circus cats. My sister Karen and cousin Kim walked on their hands. I hopped rock to rock, barefoot, in ripped bell-bottom jeans and an oversize Schlitz Malt Liquor T-shirt. My cousin Rog recalls wondering how far he’d have to go before he went over the edge, which is entirely possible on Stone Mountain. Somehow, we coalesced on that bald summit and leaned over as instructed. Cousin Rog stuck out his tongue. Dad snapped the photo. It was 1975.

As a girl, Robyn Yiğit Smith (far left) posed for photos with her sister and cousins atop the 600-foot-tall dome of Stone Mountain. Photography courtesy of Robyn Yiğit Smith

There were more trips to Stone Mountain. That’s where we learned that wearing cut-off jeans was the only way to protect your butt when sliding down the lower falls. My dad loved the outdoors so our family was often outside. We walked railroad tracks, biked to Ocracoke, hiked portions of the Appalachian Trail. Being home was no less of an adventure. There was always someone in our tiny guest bedroom — didgeridoo players, writers, tennis players, musicians, scientists. Mom celebrated every holiday, no matter how insignificant. She even made up a few, like Reward Night, when she’d pass around a paper bag filled with candy. You couldn’t reach in until someone could recount something positive or kind you’d done that week. I didn’t get much candy when I was 14.

“Dad always said, ‘You lay a feast out on the table for your children,’” Karen said recently, as we mused about the kinds of mothers we’d become and how our childhood shaped us. “You know your kids aren’t going to choose everything. But they’re going to choose some things. So you lay the feast. Dad and Mom had so many things they loved; they laid quite a feast.”

• • •

The feast I laid for my own kids was a bit more restrained. Partly because I was divorced and had two energetic boys. Introducing them to things I loved had to be squeezed in between soccer practice, sleepovers, making supper, and baking cupcakes late at night for holiday parties at school. I couldn’t figure out how my parents had done it all when we were kids.

Hiking was a family tradition, so I decided to focus on that. I invited Dad to join me and the boys for our first family hike. We chose Hattaway Mountain, a three-mile, moderate trail in Morrow Mountain State Park, not far from the mill village where my dad grew up. I packed juice boxes and Goldfish crackers. The boys were excited. After we showed them how to follow trail markers, they sprinted off into the wilderness.

From left: Aslan “Oz,” Kenan, and the writer, Robyn Yig˘it Smith, pause along the Walk-Up Trail en route to the summit. photograph by Adam Mowery

The whining began after a quarter-mile. Dad and I passed them bickering on a switchback soon after that. By the time we reached the top, we were carrying one, nearly dragging the other. One needed to pee; the other lay on a log, chewing a dry mouthful of Goldfish, having finished off his juice shortly after we left the parking lot. “Are we there yet?” he asked, not lifting his head, trying not to sound too disappointed when he realized the summit of Hattaway Mountain bore no resemblance to photos he’d seen of the Alps.

The elation of finally getting back to the car was sufficient to erase the misery of the experience. The ride home was cheerful and upbeat. We didn’t mention how badly things had gone. A few weeks later, my oldest son, Kenan, was asked at school to share something he was proud of; he drew a picture of Hattaway Mountain. I called my dad immediately. We laughed and laughed.

Stone Mountain’s 600-foot-tall granite dome rises above the Alleghany County landscape. photograph by Adam Mowery

What a revelation that was for me. Our failed hike had become a keystone memory in our sweet boy’s life. Kenan didn’t remember — or care — that the hike had been a nightmare. He was excited he’d done something new. This redefined “the feast” for me. It was more attainable than I’d thought. It was simply sharing your excitement, teaching your kids to be curious people. It was an attitude fueled by my parents’ enthusiasm. All my favorite childhood memories had those two ingredients. Eating cereal for supper. Cleaning out our car after our dog threw up. Those experiences — and so many more — were part of our feast.

Climbing Stone Mountain was our family’s rite of passage. This time, I packed chocolate and lots of water, and I let go of any expectation that it would go well. It didn’t matter! The trail up was tough. My younger son, Aslan, whom we call “Oz,” hated it. If he’d been older and knew how, folks 17 miles away in downtown Elkin would have heard him cuss as he hiked. But the boys loved the bald summit. Nobody did a handstand at the top, but they ran around, stunned at the unexpected view.

• • •

A few years later, Kenan was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder — an unexpected turn that we embraced by learning everything we could about it. Medication and therapy helped — some. He even learned to meditate. One thing that also helped was hiking. So we started, one tentative step at a time, beginning with North Carolina state parks. Pilot Mountain. Stone Mountain. Crowders Mountain. Where will you take us today? I whispered more than once as we set off on a new trail.

That first year, I lost count of how many miles we covered. Kenan began studying maps and researching gear. He got strong. He made lists of mountains he wanted to climb and epic hikes he wanted to tackle, most of which I’d never heard of.

Oz and Mom hike slowly, taking in the sights as they go. photograph by Adam Mowery

Last fall, he left for Warren Wilson College in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The most important thing on his packing list wasn’t a mattress topper or a coffeepot — it was a satellite communicator. Less than half a pound, it fits in the palm of his hand. Sometimes it’s the only way his dad and I can find him. When he’s not in class, he’s on a trail, often too far off the grid for his mobile phone to work. If he does have service, he’ll FaceTime his grandfather from the top of a mountain.

Oz also loves hiking now, especially when their dad, Erdal, joins us. Sometimes life is messy; then it’s not. After our divorce, we became best friends again. Recently, the four of us hiked more than 60 miles during a family trip to Montana.

Erdal is a hoot. He grew up in a small village in Türkiye and pretends not to understand American trail etiquette. He wears his coat slung over his shoulders like a cape and hollers greetings and encouraging information to everyone we pass. “Good job! You’re almost there!” He is handsome and his accent is lovely, but it’s hard to place, so hikers are either too charmed or befuddled to notice if he mistakenly says something inappropriate: “Your dog is so cute! He is also fat!”

By contrast, Kenan prefers to sprint to the top — perhaps aided by the hundreds of trail maps that he has on his smartphone. photograph by Adam Mowery

When I visit Kenan at school, he takes me on hikes. He maps the trail and packs the snacks — protein bars, hydration powders. I hate Goldfish. He wants to become a wilderness first responder, so his daypack is stocked and organized. I can’t keep up with him anymore, so after he’s explained elevation gains or trees to look for, he takes off, and I take my time. We always meet at the summit.

Last summer, he took me to the Adirondacks. On one of the trails, I came across a tricky section, submerged in water. I wasn’t sure I could cross the planks without falling in, but I followed his muddy footprints. Farther on, things got really steep, and I had to stop and rest, a lot. I was surprised Kenan hadn’t backtracked to see if I was OK. Stone by stone, I made it. After a while, I came around a bend and there he was! Sitting on a rock, waiting for me, just like I used to do for him. “I wasn’t worried. I knew you could do it!” he said. “But I also know you don’t like heights, so I thought we’d hike the next part together.”

Stone Mountain State Park
3042 Frank Parkway
Roaring Gap, NC 28668
(336) 957-8185
ncparks.gov/state-parks/stone-mountain-state-park