Sylvan and I, at Chris’s suggestion, decided that we would institute a new tradition on the day before Sylvan’s birthday: hiking to the summit of Mount Pisgah every September 11. Last year, in a fit of get-this-baby-out-of-me, Chris, Aunt Jenny, and I hiked up with Sylvan in utero from the east side, which is longer but not quite as steep as the well-traveled, west-side summit route. In 2005, the hike worked like a charm; I went into labor the next day at 5 a.m.
So, this year, Sylvan and I slowly climbed to the top from the west, hopping off the busy summit route by taking trail 17, which Chris helped build. We stopped to smell the pennyroyal, feel the lichen on the oak branch that crossed the trail just over our heads, and, with our eyes and pointed fingers, follow the bald eagle as it soared to the west, over the Coast Fork of the Willamette. 
At the top, Sylvan found that he appreciated the summit sculpture, which, along the outside, depicts flora and fauna through the eons; Sylvan slid his fingers along brachiopods and ferns. The sculpture is broken up by two fissures running through it, which, it turns out, are great peek-a-boo slots, as you can see from the photo.