Mom, we are inside the tops of the trees, says the younger son. Right now. For real life.

So says my stomach as well. All that stands between us and the snowy ground is a slightly tilted lift chair attached to a moving wire. When alone yesterday in this very spot I marveled at the view, the sky, the clouds, and the quiet. Last night I woke up with visions of the boys falling off this precarious chair in all possible configurations.

The fear has traveled from brain to intestines and back. It’s threatening to take over so in a moment of clarity I decide to transform it. It has to be something I can see and can sit outside of my corporeal self. A frog, I decide. A fear frog. This whimsy works and it ribbits at me in only the way a figment can. I whisper to it - you can be here, but you can’t take me all the way over. Nevermind that fear froggy would need, at least, a scarf in this weather. Fear is adept at ignoring wind chills.

Despite needing a comfort amphibian, there’s magic in being atop an aspen grove. The smooth bark is uncarved at this height with no hearts or initials or any of the signs that humans leave as their legacy. They have eyes, these trees, dozens of them. They are spots on the trunks where branches once were, perfect circles with an eyebrow of darkness above.

It’s a watchful forest of leg-thick trunks and each one has a distinct expression. Surprised, knowledgeable, a bit of a wink. I know better than to think of it as a benevolent gaze but it does quiet me just a touch. These beings have existed up here for the length of time it takes to grow branches and let them fall. They’ve seen countless chipmunks dart across the powder below. And numerous terrified mothers clutch their children as they ascend this lift too.

This is a sight I would otherwise hike miles and ascend hundreds of feet to glimpse but today the scenery is secondary to transportation. We are moving upwards so we can slide back down – he with an emphasis on speed and me with as much control as I can muster. When I do, fear frog jumps into my pocket to stay with me as the edge of my ski catches or my weight shifts too far back. The ribbits mark anytime I’ve crossed the invisible barrier of control.

When we finally at the bottom of the hill, my son turns back to me and beckons. Come on, mom. Let’s go again. He’s moving to get back on the chair that will take him closer to the sky and then he will once again point his feet down while strapped to devices designed to make him descend faster.

I’ll go with him. I’ll look at the clouds, the mountaintops, the valleys in the distance. I’ll listen to how excited his voice sounds when describing the last run. I’ll imagine that there’s a smile underneath the helmet, goggles, and mask, the most protection we can affix to him. I will be glad we came and be grateful for the cold air and the moments of quiet above the mountaintop.

The fear frog won’t hop away amidst this gratitude. He’ll sit on the other side of the lift chair and take up as much room as I let him. My son doesn’t have to do the mental calculus on how much space that is. I take that on for him. It’s okay. And when it is not okay, it will also continue to be that way until either of us takes leave of this earth. Maybe that will be something similar to this ride among the treetops.

So we go up, then down, then ascend again. The branches sway towards us and away. Here we can observe without imprinting.

The aspen eyes see us on our way.

This story based on an experience in Keystone, Colorado.