The mountains have eyes.. and so much more. Underneath their grass covered skin, appearing and disappearing, jagged, stone bones, each hole and crack in la tierra, I imagine as a sponge. It’s pores like telescopes: sensorial passageways anticipating my every step. Before the climb, before my descent through the muddy foothills, through the shit and rocky streams, the mountains wait quietly and patiently.
My sandals prevent my feet from dishonesty. Left. Right. Left. Right. The Way is made through saturated mud, thorns and spring currents. And they are experienced in their totality. All ten toes soaking wet and awake. Many times, often without warning, my whole foot is soaked in thick, brown paste or merging puddles. And after my missteps, I try to reconnect with them, my feet, I mean. I aim to plant each step thoughtfully, but sometimes, I swear that these feet have a mind of their own. Who can blame ’em?
The mountains are patient, I have learned this many times. They wait as I waste time by pondering silly things like, “I wonder if that was mud or shit..” followed by even more silly moments of clarity like, “Who the fuck cares?” They even wait as I stop to greet every donkey with big, round help-me-I-need-to-eat-all-the-time eyes, feeding them with the only baguette in sight for the next 20 kilometers, my baguette. I can’t resist. I stick my hands through the barded-wired fence, one full of bread crumbs and the other with a handful of tall grass to supplement the grains. Hey, look, I never said I was rational. I’m trying to give these creatures a 3-star dining experience. The smaller, more curious donkey, perhaps with the hungriest looking eyes of all, follows me as I begin to walk away. Sadly, for the donkey, I decided that I needed to eat a 3-star lunch, too.
I wander in the direction of the red and white dashes displayed on the lamp-post and head towards the mountains, whom already know that I am coming. And as I scream, “Fuuuuuck!” at the top of my lungs while scrambling up their slippery slopes, they know, despite my diversions, that I have finally arrived. They wait as witness to my pounding breath and rapidly piling mounds of moans and groans, “oo’s and ah’s,” followed by fatigued curse words and sighs of relief, all of which seem to be lost in the wind. The mountains wait, watch, listen to make damn sure that I experience the “awe.” And I always do. The “awe” first strikes me on the climb, not at the top. When I tell myself that it can’t get any steeper, the wind and rocky scales any rougher, they do. And once I reach the peak, it becomes clear that it is all perfectly designed. Every centimeter is accounted for, necessary to see beyond the valleys and ranges which cannot be done from down below.
I am thankful.
To be continued..
