We made a trip across the mountainous part of Colorado when eldest son was about three years old. We stopped near the top of Berthoud Pass, beneath one of the ski lifts.

It was late spring, with all of the snow gone, replaced with lush, green wildflowers.

We got out to give our legs a stretch, and eldest son announced he was going to climb the mountain.

We told him okay, with a knowing look between us two adults.

He took off up the hill, directly below the ski lifts, climbing straight up the steep slope on his short legs.

The hill crests about 100-150 meters from the parking area, with a gentle break before climbing steeply to the top of the real mountain peaks, several hundred meters taller.

Wife was worried about him taking off by himself, but he was in plain sight on the open slope, and I told her he would turn around when he got to the crest and saw how far away we were.

We sat in the flowers and watched until he reached the curve of the hill. Even at that distance you could see the triumph in his face as he turned and waved down to us.

Then he quickly turned around and continued his assault on the real mountain.

Out of sight.

Oooooops.

I had to make a mad dash up the mountain to retrieve our undaunted kid before he could start the real climb.

The wife left eldest son, now almost 19, at college today. She was in tears as she told me about looking in the mirror as she left the parking lot.

That little boy was waving goodbye.