We climbed to the top of Holy Hill seeking wisdom.

Thinking that surely at the top of the 187 steps on eight or ten sets of switchback staircases, there would be a holy man in flowing robes imparting wisdom, we entered the base of one of two twin towers at the Basilica of the National Shrine of Mary, Help of Christians. It was our only side trip during a short weekend visit to see grandson Eli, now four, and his parents.

The basilica is located on appropriately-named Holy Hill, in Erin, Wisconsin not far from Milwaukee. Wikipedia says the elevation is 1,350 feet above sea level. Not a mountain but the highest elevation in southeast Wisconsin and hilly enough for a ski slope to be located nearby.
The bell towers soar above the surrounding landscape, offering a view of the Milwaukee skyline 30 miles away. It is one of several breathtaking architectural features of the shrine, so it would be an incomplete effort to come all the way to see the place without climbing to the top of the tower.

Besides that, there might be a holy man at the top waiting to impart something to improve one’s character or insight. My wife and I thought he might willing to dispense a brain, an improved model with greater capacity for memory. In the event he had only one to dispense — well, first one to the top. For Eli, we thought he might dispense patience, the boy being sorely short of the virtue. And so on.

When the doors opened at the base of the tower, in we went. The sign said 187 steps. The web site says fewer. I didn’t count. It was a bunch of them. Up and up we went, little Eli in tow.
The steel staircases had been built in a day when visitors were less portly, perhaps wide enough for two abreast then but somewhat lacking now. My thighs began burning about two-thirds the way to the top. I could see that Rosemary was taking uncharacteristically deep breaths, not gasping but looking concerned about how many more flights before we reached our destination at the top. Eli’s little short legs trudged ahead upward, his mama and daddy alternately holding him by a hand.

Finally, we ascended the final flight into the top of what had once been a bell tower. The bells had been removed, replaced by loud speakers thoughtfully located elsewhere on the grounds. The view would have been breathtaking had the long climb left any available to have been taken.

Then there was the distracting realization that the only way back down was the same way we had come up. None of us had thought about the return trip. On the return trip, because we had been near the front of the line, we descended into the flow of ascenders. This involved both turning sideways to allow room for passage.

We made it. Once back at ground level we found that our brains had their same diminished capacity and Eli was, sadly, still quite impatient. But we were wiser, knowing now that what goes up into the tower must return by the same flights of stairs.

The only holy man in flowing robes we saw had been sitting at an information desk. He had told us what time the bell tower opened. He could also have told us that what goes up must come down, had we asked.