Day #3 of our salute to Fathers and the upcoming Father's Day weekend. This is something emailed to me from Chicken Soup for the Soul:

The Promise
By Mel Lees

I looked up from our base camp on Mt. Shasta and saw that the heavens were almost white, so filled with stars. Our party was alone except for a single tent perched on the snow nearby. Its occupant was a young man about twenty-two years old.

Occasionally, I glanced over and saw him packing his daypack for the next morning's climb. First he put in a small box, then two bottles and a lunch. He saw me staring and waved. I returned the greeting and got busy with my own preparations.

The next morning, the sun greeted the crisp dawn. After breakfast, my companions and I eagerly started our ascent. I went into my slow, steady trudge, trailing the others.

After a little while, the young man from base camp drew beside me and asked if it was okay to hike along. I hesitated. I really didn't want any company. Besides, I noticed that he limped; and I wasn't certain whether he could reach the top. I didn't want to abort my attempt at the summit to aid him.

"I'm glad for the company," I replied, in spite of my misgivings.

His name was Walt, and he told me that it was his third attempt to reach the top.

"When I was about twelve," he explained, "my father brought me here and we started up, but the weather got bad, and we were forced to turn back."

Pausing, he smiled proudly. "Dad was a great outdoorsman and a wonderful climber."

We traversed for a short way in silence before Walt continued.

"I was born with a problem with my left leg, so I've always had trouble walking and running. But Dad refused to let that keep me back. When I was just a tiny kid, he used to take me into the Sierra to teach me to fish. I remember the first time I baited my own hook and hauled in a trout. He insisted that I clean it myself. It was the best fish I ever tasted."

We stopped by the side of the trail to put on our crampons. As we moved higher, he carried on with his story.

"When I got to be about nine, Dad started taking me into the mountains. Gradually, my leg became stronger, and eventually I could keep up with him. Last summer he called and asked if I would like to try for the summit again. We hadn't seen much of each other since my parents' divorce, and I jumped at the chance to be with him."

Walt looked down toward our base camp.

"We camped where you saw my tent. Neither of us was really in a hurry to climb. We just wanted to be together and catch up on the years we had missed. He told me that all he ever wanted was to live with his family and grow old among his children and grandchildren. Dad had long silent spells, and there was a sad aura about him."

I spoke little. I was trying to save my breath for the steeper incline. As we climbed higher, Walt kicked the steps, making my work easier. We came to a steep chute, narrow and icy, and it seemed to me that his limp was hardly noticeable.

"Why don't you lead?" he asked. "I remember that rocks tend to break away here, and I'd hate to knock one loose and have it hit you."

Ten minutes later, we stopped for a rest. By then I knew he was all of twenty-one, married and had a three-month-old son.

"My father and I got this far last time when I became ill from the altitude and my leg buckled under me. The pain got so bad, I couldn't go on. Dad hoisted me onto his back and, somehow, he brought us both into camp before getting help. The search and rescue team carried me to the hospital. Dad and I promised each other that we would try again."

Then Walt looked down and squeezed back a tear. "But we never got to do it. He died last month."

After a solemn moment, we trekked onward, and just below the summit, we rested again on a small rock outcropping. The sky blazed blue, and I could see at least 180 degrees to eternity. The sun was high, and its rays warmed me as I ate some trail food.

A few feet away, Walt sat on a boulder holding in both hands the box he had packed the night before. He whispered, "We're going to make it this time. You carried me last time, and now it's my turn to carry you."

At that point, Walt rose abruptly, and with no further word he headed to the peak. I stared into his face as he strode past me. He seemed to be in a trance with an almost beatific smile lighting his face. I followed.

Finally, he reached the top. I was only a few steps behind.

Carefully, Walt knelt on the snow, reached into his pack and reverently removed the box. Then, after digging a hole about fifteen inches deep and attentively pouring some of his father's ashes into it, he covered the hole and built a small stone cairn over it.

When he stood up, he faced north, then east, south and west. Turning his body toward each direction once again, he reached into the box and gently sprinkled some ashes to each compass point.