It was a summer of missteps, two years after my divorce when things still had not righted themselves. My children were eleven and eight, and the sadness I was feeling intensified when I looked at the world through their lens. Because their parents now inhabited separate universes, so did they: two houses, two beds, two sets of toys. Twice the complexity. Less than half the happiness.

And so, when we were apart, I worried and thought about them. Often while they were with their father I would have this experience: I'd be in a restaurant, or at the beach, or just walking in the meadow near our house at dusk, and I'd think, "This is great. I wish Katie and Erik were here." Yet, if I tried to replicate the experience with them, it was different - the food less tasty, the waves smaller, the dark so sudden we had to hurry home.
In any case, the day we set off to hike Mount Cutler[for the rest of this story, see the January 2008 issue of Down East]more was at play. Katie and Erik had just returned from vacationing out West with their dad on the lake where he grew up. They'd come home to Massachusetts out of sorts, rightly so considering the dislocation they'd been through, although at the time I'm afraid I took it personally. After a week of too much TV and Nintendo, I suggested we drive to Maine to climb a rugged little mountain I'd discovered. When I'd hiked it alone, I'd thought it perfect for them: challenging but short, with several lovely views. It was also an out-of-the-way mountain, a place for some adventure.

They didn't want to go. The day was too hot, hikes were boring, they didn't want to drive two hours. And a hike on Mount Cutler wasn't northern Idaho, where they'd just been, with its clear lake and mountains that held wild rams and huckleberries. But Maine was where I'd grown up, and I wanted them to love it, too. I offered bribes - control of the car radio to Katie and a lunch that featured gummy worms, Erik's favorites, for dessert.

It was hot and sunny when we left home, but hot and rainy by the time we reached the mountain. I'd brought no rain gear, and the humidity made trash-bag ponchos out of the question - not that Katie, who was fast approaching Abercrombie & Fitchdom, would have worn one under any circumstances. We set off, the gummy worms congealing into a mass in my backpack.

"It's dark in here," Katie said as we began the initial ascent through the woods, which had seemed airy and sun-dappled a month earlier and now dripped from every branch.

"Slippery, too," said Erik. "I hope no one breaks their leg."

Indeed. And steep, although once we'd scrambled up the first ledges the terrain leveled out. I hoped too that I'd be able to follow the trail markers, which were none too ample. That had been one of the appealing aspects of Mount Cutler: It wasn't a hiker's thoroughfare - definitely not on the Top Ten Hikes With Kids, but worth the effort even so.

We rounded a turn in silence. More silence at an overlook where the first nice view presented itself.

"Are we almost done?" asked Erik as we paused to look out over toy-like Hiram village.

We kept on. After a while we stopped again, to drink from juice packs and share a soggy sandwich. The overlook this time featured a deep, verdant valley. But where was the summit? We'd hiked steadily for almost an hour, and the distance from base to top was less than a mile. But things looked different in the drizzle, and shoot-offs from the trail petered out without warning.

Finally Katie located a cairn, one that I remembered as designating the top. "This is it?" she said, disappointment in her voice. There wasn't much else to do. We turned to head down.
I
t was then that the rain stopped and the sun came out. Nothing much happened at first, but soon a rainbow filled the southern sky, and the rock beneath our feet flashed with a million bits of light.

"It's mica," I told Kate and Erik, as they knelt to gather pieces.

"We'll be rich," Erik said, and Katie was kind enough not to dissent.

We were wet but not soaked. I broke out more sandwiches, and we sat down to eat. Mount Cutler then was as I'd remembered: A small, majestic place with great views of the distant Whites to the west.

It seemed that the earth reached out to us that day. I don't recall much else that was said. No wise or healing thoughts regarding the divorce were uttered by me. I didn't tell my children how sorry I was that I'd disrupted their lives, but I'd like to think they felt it.

On the way back down, Katie took my hand. "I love you, Mom," she said.

Erik walked ahead of us, pockets stuffed with mica. Near the bottom, he turned. "That was fun," he said in his succinct, summary way.

Quiet prevailed as we drove back, but different - companionable and peaceful. When we got home, Katie arranged her mica alongside the sand dollars and cedar sprigs on a shelf in her room.

Years later, I took a piece of it when she left for college. It sits in a bin on my desk, there among the other charms.

Cynthia Anderson lives with her family outside Boston.