The Summit's call

The air was crisp and cool, and the only sounds were the crunch of his
boots on the pristine white snow, and the slow rustle of the wind.
Peace. He was nearing the end of the first day of his trek, and from
his vantage point, he barely could see the small parking lot where
his car was, but a small dot, a speck, in his vision. As
the sun was setting, he chose a spot to settle down for the night, a
nice clearing, near a ledge. He placed his weighty backpack down,
sinking into the snow, and walked over to the ledge. He tried to look
down, but all he saw was the murky darkness of abyss. Peace. He went
back over to his backpack, and took out a big light, and placed it
into the snow, turning it on. It’s rays basked over the land. He
then took out his orange tent, and propped it up in the snow, an
arduous task. He packed
up his light, the land surrounding him receding back into the inky
black void surrounding him, and crawled
into the tent with his blue, heavy, backpack, and took out his
sleeping bag, Mylar blanket, and a can of beer. To his first day of
his journey, he toasted unto himself. He then stripped
off his numerous layers of insulation, and wrapped
the Mylar blanket around himself, and inched into his sleeping bag, encapsulating himself
in a cocoon of comfort.
He fell into the warm grips of sleep almost instantaneously.

He awoke to the sun gleaming
its seemingly benevolent rays in his face. He felt amazing. It had
been one of the best sleeps he had had in an extremely long time,
ever since he was a child. He quickly got out of his sleeping bag and
Mylar blanket, and back into the waiting arms of his insulation, his
many jackets and sweaters and snowpants and sweatpants. The minuscule
amount of time it took in between him getting out of his sleeping bag
and into his clothes felt terrible, as if his body was being pricked
many times over by the freezing temperatures. He packed up his Mylar
blanket and sleeping bag, and then exited his tent. He then packed up
his tent too. He walked over to the ledge that, last night, contained
the abyss. Today, however, with the magnificent sunlight, he could
look down that ledge, all the way to the ground, thousands of meters
below him. He could look forward, and see the curvature of the earth.
Stunning. Beautiful. The picture scarred itself in his mind, and when
he looked away, the afterimage still haunted his vision. He loved it.

After experiencing the
magnificent feeling of awe, a sense of unsettlement took over him. He
turns around, and looks up to the mountain towering over him. He is
but an ant to it. He takes a deep breath, and asks, hesitantly, “What
are you?” He asks to the mountain, feeling small and insignificant
in the face of this enormous entity. “You’ve been here so long.
Before my first ancestors were born, you were here. You were created
after billions of years of labor, to you, my entire lifespan will
last the length of a heartbeat. What secrets do you hold?”

Silence. Nothing but the
sound of the wind rustling. His face turned red, blushing of
embarrassment. He must be going mad. After all, only one who is mad
would ask such a foolish question to an inanimate object. The hiker
started to continue his trek. He upped his pace from yesterday,
wishing to get to the summit in only one or two more days. To conquer
this monstrous beast, this majestic spire, once and for all. That
mountain which had haunted him, taunted him, throughout his entire
life. He would conquer it. That is, if he didn’t go mad in the
process.

But all of a sudden, the wind
picked up, and he heard a low deep rumble, as if the mountain was
clearing its throat. “I am the mountain,” the disembodied voice
said slowly, in an extremely deep voice, “You are but a speck. Here
today and gone the next, what do you inquire?” the mountain added,
its voice gravel. Wanting to reach the summit, to see that glorious,
magnificent view, the hiker decided on a course of action to walk and
talk at the same time. That way, he could interact with the
perplexing entity he found himself in the presence of, but at the
same time he could reach the summit.

“Who are you?” The hiker
asked.

The mountain seemingly
chuckled. Really, the hiker, didn’t know what was going on,
however, the ground started to shake. It shook for a couple of
seconds, before settling, and the wind whistled, carrying out a sigh.
“Who are you is an interesting question. An intriguing question. I
could ask you the same. What are you?” The mountain replied, its
deep booming voice penetrating through the hikers body, causing him
to feel the words. For those words to emblazen themselves in his
mind.

“I am a human. My name is
Brian. I am, currently, a mountain-climber,” The hiker reputed.

“And yet, how can you be so
sure?” The mountain countered. “After all, aren’t ‘Brian’
and ‘human’ and ‘a’ and ‘my’ all human concepts? All
ghosts of the mind so to speak? Who was guaranteed their realness.
All of the above words except ‘Brian’ even have several
permutations across the human race, or should I say ‘Race
humaine’?” The mountain added.

“But then how can I be sure
of anything?” The hiker responded, feeling as if he was being
pushed off a cliff, into the abyss.

 

“You aren’t.”

 

Feeling dejected, rejected,
and terrifying confused, the hiker continued on his journey in
silence, without consulting or talking to the mountain. Everything
took on a blueish tint. He decided to try to get out of his own mind.
To become disembodied. To relax. Peace. He froze himself, and felt
himself get squished, mushed into his brothers and sisters as a boot
forced him down. He didn’t enjoy that, so he warmed himself up. He
slid for a little, before being freed from his gravitational prison.
He wandered above the earth, zipping around orders of magnitude
faster than he had ever gone before. However, after a little bit of
flying, he narrowly missed a hit with a beam traveling
incomprehensively fast and was brilliantly bright. For the split
second he felt as if he was going to be demolished, the split second
he felt his life almost being taken, stolen, he froze himself, this
time slowly falling. He fell into a rushing stream, warming up and
joining the flow, in an exhilarating roller coaster ride. But after a
couple minutes it got boring. He decided to end the bore, and he
returned to himself. He felt blissful, if only instantaneously. But
then that perennial feeling of dejection, of despair, of drowning,
over came him.

But as he was starting to
plummet once again into the abyss, to drown in the void, become
sucked in, he noticed something ahead of him. A footprint of a small
animal, most probably a deer. Fascinating,
he muttered to himself.

“It really is fascinating,”
A memorable grumble replied to him. That damned mountain talking to
him. However, on this rare occasion, he agreed with the
mountain. The footprint was fascinating. A mark on the world.

“Mountain, you never die?”
He asked.

“No, I never die. I can
only transform. From this mountain to a crevasse, one day,” The
mountain promptly replied with its gravely voice.

“But I will die,” The
hiker then said, in a somber, maroon, voice.

“Yes,” The mountain
boomed, “But remember that footprint, hiker. You will leave a
permanent, everlasting mark on this world,”

“How?” The hiker
inquired. Confused, as to what his footprint would be. How his entire
life, all his tenure on this planet, could be condensed to one mark.

“That is up for you to
decide,” The mountain responded. The hiker was mad. The mountain,
with its overflowing fountain of knowledge, had disappointed him
twice now. All that had happened had left him unperturbed in his
ability to climb this mountain.

So he continued his trek. The
beauty of the forest, its smells, its feel, its frost, its isolation.
It all brought him great joy, it helped to mask his maroonness, his
dejection. O world! O Mountain! O Gaia! What is the point. Why? He
sat down in the snow, in order to regain his composure. He quickly
was engulfed by the outstretched, warm arms of sleep.

He woke up in the dark,
finding every part of himself ice encrusted. He screamed. He had
missed a day of hiking. Today, he would have to make it to the
summit. Hopefully. A distant hope. Very distant. He sat up, and put
his head in his hands, and sobbed.

“Why wallow in your
own self-pity?” He heard, from a familiar voice. The terrible,
magnificent mountain. It caused this. Its fault. Bastard.

“YOU GOT ME INTO THIS MESS!
I WON’T REACH THE SUMMIT THANKS TO YOU, NOW! I’LL MISS THE GREAT
GOAL I HAVE TRAINED AGES FOR. WHY?” He yelled at the mountain.

“Why? Great question. Why?
Why anything. Why are you on this trek?” The mountain groaned back.

“Why should I respond to
you?” The hiker asked.

“Why? You know the answer,”

“But I don’t. I don’t
know the answer,”

“Why are you on this trek?”
The mountain wouldn’t relent.

“Fine. Fine. I don’t
know. I guess for the view?” The hiker conceded. Broken.

“Why did you want the
view?” The mountain inquired.

“I. Don’t. Know.” The
hiker replied, through gritting teeth.

The mountain paused, it let
the hiker regain his composure. It took 30 minutes. To the hiker it
felt like eternity he was crying those tears that froze his face,
that tore into him like tiny needles. For the mountain, it was
incomprehensively short.

“I know why you climb. I
know why you seek the view.” The mountain then said.

He threw tossed his hands up
in frustration. “THEN TELL ME!” Screamed the hiker, being driven
insane by this animate inanimate object. This living stone. This
torturer.

“You climb to get a better
sense of perspective. To see the world from a better vantage point.
To understand your place in it. Your place on this planet. You trek
for your why. This isn’t your first hike, but hopefully, I can give
you that perspective, that knowledge, that sense of direction, that
you have been scouring this world for,” The mountain said in a
startlingly boisterous, yet still deep, voice that the hiker hadn’t
heard from the mountain before.

The hiker wiped tears,
glistening crystals, off of his eyes and face. “Well then, do tell.
What is my purpose? What is the point?” The hiker then asked the
mountain, trying to tease out what he had apparently been searching
for for years.

The mountain let out another
deep rumble, as if it were laughing again. “That, my dear hiker, is
a question that has puzzled philosophers, your kinds greatest
thinkers, for centuries. You’re purpose, the point, they are what
you make of it. You give your life its own meaning. You choose what
matters and what doesn’t. It is all up to you,”

The hiker looked up to the
top of the mountain, feeling a sense of reverence and awe. “But how
do I do that?” He asked the mountain.

The mountain let out a gentle
sigh, the breeze quickened, “You climb. You explore. You take
risks. You summit mountains. You look out at the view. If you hurry
up, you can make the summit by midday.”

The hiker rubbed his hands
and wiped his face. He took in a deep breath of the cold, chill air.
It stung his throat, and woke him up. He started to walk. Before, he
had been walking at a leisurely pace. But now, he was walking as fast
he could, to try to make it to the summit. To experience what the
mountain had teased, to discover what he had been searching for. His
why.

The hiker picked up his pace,
his feet pounding against the rocky terrain. His heart was racing,
beating in his throat, not just from the intense physical exertion he
was experiencing, but from the adrenaline he was pumping throughout
his body. Finally, a purpose. How I have longed, scoured for, this
day. He was determined to reach the summit, no matter what toll it
would take upon his body.

As he ascended higher, his
body and spirit ascending, the air thinned, and his lungs started to
burn. But still, he pressed on, undisturbed by that inconvenience,
his eyes and mind set on the peak in the distance. So close,
tantalizing close, but so far, so painfully far. The wind whipped and
tugged on his clothes and body, causing him to need to lean forward
to keep balance. A challenge. He didn’t falter. Right foot, left
foot. So close.

After a couple more hours of
hiking, the sun having picked up and now dangling almost directly
overhead, he neared the summit. Just two or three hundred more
meters. But then all of a sudden the wind sped up to ludicrous
speeds. His jacket’s hood blew off his face. His heart pounded
higher. Startlingly high. He dug his feet into the ground, and wind
knocked him down. His heart and stomach flying out of his mouth, he
started to crawl. Right arm. Left arm. Right foot. Left foot. He bore
on ceaselessly into the wind. He started to laugh, to cackle. Why
now?

It felt like forever, but he
was finally here. The wind subsided. He was left at the peak. At the
summit. He looked out at the world. He could see the curvature
perfectly. There was all this world. All this much. But he was just
one. One measly person. The incredulous view branded itself
permanently in his mind. Branded itself in him.

“It’s beautiful isn’t
it?” Asked the mountain.

The Hiker hesitated, slowly
breathing in and out deep breaths, taking in the mind blowing view.
“Yes, yes it is,” The hiker finally said.

He knew his Why.