The Ascent of Starved Rock - A Rite of Passage and Real Childhood Adventure

One summer, when I was just a boy of about seven or eight years old, my father decided to take the family on a camping trip to Starved Rock, Illinois, a state park known for its stunning sandstone formations. The name of the park was derived from a band of Illiniwek Indians that died when seeking refuge atop the one-hundred-and-twenty-five foot sandstone butte that distinguishes the location. Sadly, the Illiniwek had been surrounded by an attacking band of Potawatomi Indians who held their ground at the base of the butte until the poor Illiniwek Indians starved to death.

Despite its morbid history, Starved Rock was a place of wonder and awe for a boy of my age, a place filled with countless adventures and discoveries. One memorable adventure was nothing less than a rite of passage.

You see, my father had explained how when he was a young man, he and some friends had gone to this very same place; to the foot of the soaring gray cliffs of Starved Rock, and how each of them in turn had scaled the formidable rock face with nothing but their bare hands. Once atop its lofty heights this band of adventurers pounded their chests and shouted out their manly victories to the echoing canyons below.

As my father explained this tale to my brother and me, we listened with fascination and curiosity, all the while glancing apprehensively into the shadows for the Indians we knew lay hidden in the foliage all around us. Yet, we knew there was nothing to be afraid of, for our father was there and although he was not a big man, father was tough as they came. He was a brawler, from the ghettos of Chicago, with countless stories of knife fights and altercations. He had a chiseled physique and a tongue that would put even the most seasoned sailor to shame.

As my father pulled a cigarette out from the pack he always kept rolled up in his T-shirt sleeve, my brother and I scrambled up the first few feet of the cliff, only to slide back down again and again.

"You boys want to go up?" my father asked with a wry smile.

"Yes! Yes!" we hooted.

"GOOD!" father bellowed as he stood behind us, "Start climbing boys."

"No, Bob! No!" my mother protested.

"Don't tell me what to do" my father argued, "I'm going to make men out of these snibbling little boys today."

Mother continued to protest, but her voice slowly faded away as we began our ascent. My brother was to the left, I was to the right, and father was between us just below. Ten feet... then twenty feet we went, straight up, like squirrels on a tree, with father laughing, as his cigarette dangled from his mouth. Another ten... another twenty feet we climbed, and our little legs and arms began to grow weak.

"Keep going boys!" he ordered. "Keep going, don't give up."

"But Daddy, what if we slip?" I complained. I looked down. It was a big mistake! The people on the trail below us were as small as ants and I was suddenly seized with the horror of tumbling to my death.

"Shut up! Don't look down. Just keep on going!" he commanded.



Another ten... another twenty twenty feet, and my heart was beating wildly within my chest. I glanced over at my brother, and he too was scared. He looked at me with the most terrified expression on his face. He was pale and weak.

"Keep going boys!"

We looked up at what seemed to be an endless expanse to the top of the cliff, but we were only half way there. We were utterly exhausted and petrified with fear. Father continued his ascent from directly beneath us as he barreled up the rock face. Then he placed his hand beneath me, on his right, and pushed me up. Then he placed his other hand beneath my brother and pushed him up. Thus, he alternated left and right, one son, and then the other as he assisted us in our climb.

"Don't give up, boys. Don't ever give up. I'm going to make men out of you today!"

Another ten... twenty... thirty feet we ascended in this manner. But, then we suddenly began to slow. I looked down at my father; he was covered with sweat. He was growing weak.

"Wait a minute boys," he said as he paused. "Find something to hold on to. Take a breather. We're almost there now."

We were only about twenty-five feet from the top by this point. Yet, as we paused for that brief moment, the realization of our predicament struck me with a sense of fear I had never known before. We were terribly high upon this sheer cliff and the remaining distance offered but little hope for secure footing.

"I'm scared, Daddy!" I protested. "We're gonna' fall" my brother cried.

"Shut up!" father argued. "Don't you whimper and don't you cry. You just keep looking up and climbing because if you give up I'm going to beat the living shit out of you both."

Fear of father was perhaps the greatest motivating factor of my childhood, and for many years of my young life. Yet, at that particular moment, I feared that he would beat us, but good, if we gave up. I feared that if we fell and somehow managed to survive that he would beat us even worse.

Fear drove us on. Once again, we continued our ascent. Yet, as we climbed, each of us exhausted to the extreme, we faltered and we slid. I will never forget the look on my father's face at that time. It was a look I did not believe he was capable of expressing. It was the look of absolute dread. He was white as a ghost. He was shaking and even trembling as we slid two, maybe three feet before we stopped.

My father shook his head as if to fling something off. Only since I have grown into a man did I realize he was flinging off the thought, the image, of what could have been... our bodies mangled and bloody over one-hundred feet below.

Then something magical happened. My father's composure changed.

"OK boys" he said gently. "We're almost there. We're almost to the top. You're going to have to do this by yourself now. Each of us must climb by himself. Don't give up. Don't look down. I'll see you at the top."

And away we went. Up... up... another five... another ten... another fifteen feet we climbed. Twenty... twenty-five feet! And then, then we pulled ourselves over the crest of the cliff top. We had done it! We had climbed the face of Starved Rock. We hooted, we hollered and we lay on our backs to catch our breaths. Our chests heaving.

The view from the top of Starved Rock was surrealistic to my young eyes. For a moment, I knew that we were on top of the world. Far below us, people were swimming in the Illinois River. It seemed strangely inviting and so far away.

"I'm proud of you boys!" my father said. It was one of the few times in his life that he had ever said that to us.

As I look back at the ascent of Starved Rock and put things into perspective as an adult, I shake my head in dismay. What a fool hearted thing to do. Perhaps...

My father died some years ago. They discovered that he had a deformed heart. Maybe so, maybe... but I think not. His heart was huge with courage to live life to its fullest, to stare danger in the face and to inspire mere boys to accomplish the impossible. Still, I would not recommend that any father follow in my father's footsteps in leading boys up the cliffs of Starved Rock. Then again, few men ever could.