The mountain from below
From afar, the mountain calls, and as long as it’s little more than a nick in the blue horizon, its call is loud. It promises thin, clean air and teases the possibility of learning something more about yourself. Windswept adventures, times when the tangle of life falls away and you approach the very heart of reality on silent feet—those moments are too strong a draw to ignore, and so you put a pin in a map, plan a trip to that peak with your chest full of excitement. And that excitement persists as long as the mountain remains distant and the adventure abstract.
But as you grow nearer, you grow less certain. The smile you thought you saw in the mountain, outlined by rocky crags and shadows, never bore any particular warmth. Now that you’re closer, however, you see that you were wrong from the beginning—it was always a frown, an expression of utter indifference. It cares nothing for you or your adventure. How obvious now! How could you have ever thought different?
Step closer still and the mountain that once promised and once smiled looms over you like a coming nightmare. It’s a constant presence, a shadow encroaching on your thoughts, and you’re not sure you want that grand and rarefied adventure anymore. Life is safe down below, comfortable and warm and safe! Who would surrender that? Who would trade a faucet that gives clear water for the uncertainty of springs and feed tanks and muddy puddles? What sort of cold-loving creature would do that? You don’t like the cold, not the sort that creeps past your body and into your soul! But then you imagine the sensation of lying down at night in warmth and simplicity, your only belongings the ones you carry with you, your bedroom the entire spreading land; you feel your heart calm.
~
I’m torn as my hike approaches. I’ve always been able to breathe better, deeper—more comfortably—in the wilderness. I feel I can exhale fully, as though I’m always holding my breath just a little when I’m in the urban world. And no matter how long I’ve been away, returning to the backcountry always feels like coming home. I feel welcome. Come as you are, says that home, bring whatever sadness or madness lies within you. You need to hide none of it here. However, even the promise of such a kind homecoming cannot fully erase the shadow and frown of the looming mountain. It just presents a counterpoint. I’m pulled in two directions at once, a frequent state for me. I’m simultaneously pulled toward and away from the mountain, and I must find a way to suspend myself in the middle.
A song I like by a singer I adore has a line about how you should, “be content inside your questions, Minotaurs inside a maze.” I tell myself I try—and I think I do—to remain content in my ambiguous, ambivalent position. But uninterrupted tension permanently stretches all things, so I’ll try to walk this tightrope only as long as I need. Be content inside your questions! I’ll try. Minotaurs inside a maze: I hope I never get that lost during my hike!
When I think back to all that happened on my AT hike, I don’t know how I could possibly have the mental stamina to do something similar again. And I only managed about 400 miles before my depression grew too heavy to carry (though with a base weight of ~20 lbs., I didn’t need much to push me into sauropod territory). What unknowable struggles await me this time? Will I be able to surmount them? Or will the mountain’s stony gaze prove too intimidating again? Do I need to summit to be fulfilled?
I don’t have answers, but if you give me your hand, I’ll bring you along as I seek to find contentment in the questions.
Most sincerely,