[edit: all those annoying line breaks disappear on my tumblr page.]
There’s a fire on the mountain.
It’s mid October and each step is a decision. I put my left foot out, feel the
sole of my boot catch a grip and lurch my body up. I do the same with my right
foot. And again with the left. I haven’t broken into a pattern yet, so each step
takes more effort than the last. These are the things working against me: a forty
pound pack, a steep section, and the damn water on these rocks that makes my
boot slip every five minutes. It’s mostly peaceful here except for the noise. Hiking
is not as serene as advertised. Rocks and sticks and soil and trees are beautiful
and silent, but we are not. We are red faced and sweaty and there’s the constant
scraping of boot on rock, the snapping of boot on stick, and thumping of boot on
soil. My pack has sandals and a metal pot strapped to the back that like to clatter
together even after I wrap the pot in a fleece.
I am wearing shorts and a poly-cotton blend t-shirt. I can see my breath,
but I am not cold. I move forward as I think about everything but moving forward.
I think about everything but my legs, and the way the left one hurts more than
right. I think about everything but the way my shoulder straps cut into me. I don’t
really think about anything at all. I am working for the top, for the view. I am
working to stop working, but I can’t stop yet. My legs hur— whumpwhumpcrackrustlewhump. The sounds crowd each other and crowd my
mind and I have found my pattern.
The trail spindles its way through these trees. It is frail and thin and
everyday it is absorbed back into the mountain a little more. Today a quiet
stream moves dirt off the path and into the woods. Our staircase is sliding and
shifting and these great stones are sinking back where they belong. I tear the
skin of a clementine and watch this place erode. I am sitting on a rock on a trail
on Mount Washington. I am sitting on rock on a trail on Mount Lafayette. Or it
could be Garfield. Or Galehead. If I really focus I can separate each unique trail.
They are all different.
There’s a fire on the mountain.
I am at the top. All around me great mountains burn autumn as their
leaves drain of life. It is a place of harrowing beauty. I am tiny and insignificant.
But I am at the top. A wind picks up and the fire sways with it. The wind pushes
against me, so I stand up and turn to face it. I am knocked, so I stand up –wider
now. I lean into the wind and feel it press against me. This whole place is in
decay, but I close my eyes and for one fleeting moment I am suspended.
