Sometimes the first lesson in flying is discovering who will catch you.
The first cub had been flying for approximately three seconds.
This was already longer than expected.
He floated above his mother’s enormous paws, all four legs stretched toward directions that had apparently been agreed upon only moments before. His belly faced the pale sky. His ears disappeared into the white fur around his head.
His mouth was open.
Whether he was laughing or issuing instructions to the clouds was difficult to determine.
Below him, his mother lay comfortably on her back in the snow.
She pushed him higher.
The cub squealed.
Behind them, two other cubs watched.
They had seen enough.
A queue formed.
First Flight
Snow fell lightly over the valley, the flakes so fine that some landed on the mother’s nose and stayed there.
She ignored them.
There were more important matters overhead.
The cub came down.
Soft belly against softer belly.
For half a second he disappeared into his mother’s fur.
Then his head popped up.
Again.
Apparently one successful landing had convinced him that aviation was now a family business.
His mother raised him once more.
Up he went.
The mountains behind them were barely visible through the mist. Their gray shapes rose and vanished again as the snow moved across the valley. Everything smelled clean and cold—the dry scent of snow, damp fur, and that sharp frozen air that made every breath visible.
The cub stretched his paws wider.
This time he knew what was coming.
He was not flying, of course.
His mother knew this.
The mountains knew this.
Gravity, patiently waiting nearby, certainly knew this.
The cub was the only one who had not been consulted.
Next, Please
Eventually he landed beside her and immediately began bouncing through the snow.
The second cub stepped forward.
He had been studying the procedure carefully.
Lie on mother.
Climb onto paws.
Go up.
Come down.
Become expert.
Simple.
He approached with the seriousness of someone reporting for an important appointment.
The third cub followed directly behind him.
There was now unmistakably a line.
Their mother looked at both of them.
Then at the first cub, who was still running in circles nearby.
Then back at the line.
Three children.
Four paws.
This had seemed like better mathematics before the children became interested.
The second cub climbed aboard.
Up.
His legs stiffened at first.
Then one paw opened.
Then the other.
A little snow collected on his belly.
Higher.
His ears flattened in the breeze.
And suddenly his whole body loosened.
There it was.
That strange little moment when caution forgot what it had been doing.
His paws opened completely.
His mother watched from below.
He could not see her anymore.
But he could still feel her paws beneath him.
Again
By the time the third cub received his turn, the snow around their mother had become a battlefield of tiny footprints.
There were landing marks.
Takeoff marks.
Several marks with no obvious explanation.
The third cub was the smallest.
He climbed more slowly.
One paw onto his mother’s belly.
Then another.
He looked upward.
The distance suddenly seemed considerably larger from here.
His mother waited.
Snow gathered along the curve of her shoulder.
The cub looked at his siblings.
They were watching.
He looked at the sky.
Then at his mother.
She nudged him gently with her nose.
That was all.
He climbed onto her paws.
At first his little legs remained tucked close to his body.
She lifted him.
A few inches.
He grabbed at her fur.
She lowered him.
Nothing happened.
No lecture.
No disappointed audience.
Only snow.
The first cub sneezed.
They tried again.
This time, a little higher.
His paws loosened.
Again.
Higher.
One paw stretched outward.
Then the other.
By the fourth attempt, the smallest cub was flying.
At least according to the smallest cub.
And perhaps that was enough for one afternoon.
What Hands Do
There is a peculiar courage available only to those who know something is beneath them.
Children discover it before they have words for it.
They climb one stair higher because a hand is nearby. They jump from the edge of a swimming pool toward someone waiting in the water. They ride a bicycle farther once they stop checking whether the hand is still holding the seat.
For a while, confidence can be borrowed.
Someone else’s hands become the ground from which a smaller person experiments with the sky.
Eventually, of course, the hands have another job.
They loosen.
That is harder.
The one being lifted must discover balance.
The one doing the lifting must discover release.
But this afternoon had not reached that lesson yet.
This afternoon was still about going up.
So the mother remained on her back beneath the pale sky, wet snow melting into her fur.
One cub flew.
Two waited.
Then they changed places.
Again.
And again.
Until the mountains disappeared almost completely behind the evening mist.
At last the mother rolled onto her side.
Enough.
Three exhausted cubs collapsed against her.
For several minutes nobody moved.
Snow settled over four white bodies until their outlines almost disappeared into the valley.
The smallest cub opened one eye.
He looked at his mother’s paws.
Then at the sky.
Then back at the paws.
He climbed onto her belly.
The other two lifted their heads.
Apparently the airport had reopened.
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