Climbing to the Top ... Well ... Almost

As the sun finished his climb up the sky and high noon heat hit my bared shoulders, I led my siblings and my over-excited dog into the car for a field trip to Kennesaw Mountain. While it took a while to herd my parents into the car, Phoebe rushed excitedly around the compact insides of our minivan and climbed all over my legs, leaving scratches and hair on every surface she touched. As the car started, she quieted down and sat patiently (whining) while trying to look through the window.

With ever passing car, Phoebe tried her hardest to "escape" and find new people to scratch her belly. She whined as if it was some malicious intent on our side that kept her from sniffing the blurring magnolias, oaks, birches, and pines. My mom tried to calm her, but Phoebe only took her kindness as a welcome to join my mom in the front seat.

Ignoring everything, my father kept driving and turned up the radio to drown out Phoebe's whining. Song after song, my sister and I belted the lyrics to the tunes on the radio; we shared funny faces and even cajoled our brother into an odd rendition of Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe," a rendition which garnered funny looks from our parents. Phoebe, on the other hand, did not care for singing as she was only trying to escape into the fields of grass just outside the parking lot of Kennesaw Mountain.

Phoebe leapt out of the car once the door opened and the leash nearly slipped out of my hands as she scrambled to sniff the feet of a toddler waddling by on the sidewalk. The toddler giggled in glee and allowed Phoebe to enthusiastically lick his face. Suddenly, both Phoebe and the toddler were shocked still as a cannon went off in the distance. It would appear that we had chosen the annual celebration of the Battle of Kennesaw as our family outing day.

Enthralled by the cannons and volunteers in Confederate uniforms, my brother veered off the trail and walked straight into a reenacted campsite where a lovely woman in a layered hoop-skirt and bonnet was washing clothes in a bucket and another hoop-skirted southern lady was cooking rice and salted pork in a big pot over a fire for the tired soldiers. Some women even offered us tea they had just brewed outside. My sister even let down her guard to enjoy looking at the lovely lace gloves and shawl a woman was wearing. My father and I were driven toward the muskets by our shared love of antique guns. My mother laughed and took pictures to commemorate the impromptu dive into history.

The Union soldiers also had a camp and showed my brother how to clean shoes properly. Their tents were cleaner and they had a small band. Two drums and a few unknown wind instruments played various songs for our enjoyment but were interrupted by their instinctive need to pet Phoebe. Soon after, the Union soldiers marched in formation and put on a brief show of marching and haphazardly throwing their muskets into the air. They needed more practice... or maybe they were trying to be historically accurate.

When the over-heated soldiers took a break from fawning over Phoebe, we finally took off in the direction of the trail to begin our much-awaited trek up to the top of the mountain. That is, we tried. Until my father's still-recovering knees began to give out, so he turned around and told us to keep walking. My mom and I walked ahead, deeper into the surrounding oaks and pines; we took comfort in the shadows of the canopy of leaves. Five minutes into our walk up to the top of the mountain, my mom's cell phone begins to ring and my father's voice booms and crackles from the little speakers. The Confederate soldiers are putting on a cannon show.

My brother had never seen cannon fire so we began to turn around in order to head to the Confederate camp. That is, we tried. Until my sister began throwing a temper tantrum about "this isn't hiking" and "exercise is supposed to be continuous and I just want to walk up the mountain" and "we never get to do what I want because no one asks for my opinion" and "we took so long to get in the car and all I want to do is hike."

So my mother offers to stay with her and hike. Which, of course, my sister defiantly turns down and decides to punish herself by saying she'll just go and watch the cannons. Having irritated every one of us with her tantrum, she huffs and tantrums her way over to the Confederate camp. Stomping on the dirt path, she created small puffy clouds around her feet and scared off a few chipmunks. We all sat on the soft grass to enjoy the history lesson and cannon show.

The Confederate soldiers line up behind their cannons and begin to prime the cannon and loading it with powder. The other soldier held the cannons to prevent some of the recoil, but, even with their help, the cannons would roll back at least six feet with every firing shot. When the "General" shouts "fire!" his soldier light their weapons and the cannons boom. The ground shakes and a cloud of smoke lingers over the air, the smell of ignited gunpowder mixes with the smell of burning coal back at the Confederate campsite. When the smoke cleared and the show was over, we all stood up to go hiking again. That is, we tried.

My sister does not want to. After her irritating tantrum, she has decided she does not feel like walking now. Of course, of course. My father talks her into walking for a little while. Smiles on every face, except for a scowl on my sister's face, we once again take comfort under a canopy shade and enjoy the beautiful trees ascending to touch the sky. My brother stomps through the woods, snickering as he breaks sticks with his feet and stopping to look at the interesting rock formations. I indulge in the simple pleasure of looking through the trees and searching for wildlife. Butterflies and chipmunks abound while a doe leaps over a fallen oak. The hole in the canopy is easy to spot as the bright blinding light shines through a large round opening.

After ten minutes of semi-peace, my brother begins to complain because his feet are tired and my sister chimes in about her aching legs. He's thirsty. She's hungry. My dad's knees aren't ready for this hike. This last one I can understand, so they begin the trek down the mountain for water and shade. My mother and I keep walking up the hill, passing tourist groups speaking a myriad of languages and serious hikers in their lycra, until we reach a beautiful lookout spot.

My camera did not do the view any justice. From this spot between the trees, we could see every building in the Atlanta skyline outlined against a clear blue sky. The King and Queen, the Bank of America Plaza and SunTrust Plaza, and the Westin Peachtree Plaza Hotel. All surrounded by lush green foliage. It's odd how man often forgets that nature was here before us and that it is all around us - even in a city like Atlanta. The city has lush green on every side and mountains are seen in the distance, but whilst in the city, one cannot help but feel that city is all there is to the world.

It had only been ten minutes and we had in no way reached the top of the mountain, but we resigned ourselves to joining the rest of the family. We didn't want to keep them waiting, so we began the trek down the path. We passed the same tourist groups, still speaking their myriad languages, and different hikers and runners, still in their tight lycra outfits. Two emperor butterflies later, we arrived at the bottom of the mountain to find that not only were the soldiers gone by so was our car.

One phone call revealed the family to be at KFC buying lunch for the hungry children. We waited for their return and I mourned the passing of a strange hiking day. My sister was in the car, in a jovial mood, and when pressed for a reason for her new mood... she replied simply and succinctly.

"Chicken."

So there we have it, folks. When your child gives you a hard time and throws at tantrum at age thirteen, all you have to do is give them some chicken.