Zer0-G
New member
Mountains are impersonal. We all know that. However, mountains are easily personified by us mere mortals. Perhaps it is the struggle of the ego vs. rock but whatever it is, it is the truth.
This weekend, I met Allen. Much like Cliff, Allen managed a lasting impression.
It was 5:15 AM before I managed to un-cramp my legs from the folded position they maintained all night as I had decided to sleep in the back seat rather than to string up the old hammock. There was a chill in the air and my departure time was arriving quickly.
After preparing my gear and snarfing down a cold breakfast, I was on my way. 6:15 AM. I knew I had a long walk and it would be a long day so I wasted no time in keeping my appointment with Allen.
I was surprised by this metal and very bouncy suspension bridge that seemed oddly out of place in it’s material make-up but as I would later discover it could not have befit the moment more appropriately.
As usual, as I walk, I have thoughts. Or rather, more truthfully, my thoughts have me. I could not begin to rattle them all off, there was no apparent theme but I found myself asking myself questions. Serious questions, not so serious questions, inane questions, at times, downright silly questions. Then the big question of the moment hit me, why am I talking to myself so fluently? Allen demands it. Allen, it seems, requires time. Lots of time. Time spent over terrain not too demanding. Allen sits behind long stretches of terra firma that does not require the same level of focus that I am accustomed to. So, I talk to myself. I talk about myself and many other things. I have a radio playing between my ears tuned to my favorite song of the day, over and over and over while I talk to myself. I have make believe conversations with my wife, my son, my friends, the guy who almost ran me off the road, the milkman who used to deliver milk to my house when I was a small child. I assure you if this goes on much longer, it will surely drive me to a straightjacket!
Wow! A floating log bridge! I check the map. I check the GPS with the waypoints that were a gift of an online friend. It seems I haven’t gone too far. Now what do I think about. Oh well, I don’t think I’ll worry about that since it seems I have no control over it anyway.
I turn to this inanimate object, my battery powered trail mate, for companionship. Waypoints come and waypoints go. I’m happy to see them marking my progress in real time and confirming that despite the apparent monotony of step after step I am actually making something of the day.
Allen, the old sage, the all knowing presence that insists that I get in touch with myself in the way that only step after step of walking meditation can provide. Waypoint on, waypoint off, waypoint on, waypoint off, another bouncy wooden suspension bridge and endless miles of berries. Waypoint on, waypoint off.
Suddenly, a large wooden sign, shouting in full fury “<-- MARCY” followed by a bellowing and forceful wooden sign “ALLEN -->”. Make no mistakes, the waypoints confirm, trail markers are replaced by improvised directives twirling from branches, the terrain shifts. I am now in familiar territory, the mind quiets as the focus increases and still waypoints confirm the obvious path. The stream and the bandana offers cool respite as I climb over the slippery rocks, twisted slick roots and deep black mud.
Allen now dominates all thoughts and demands my full attention now. It is funny how not so long ago it seemed that Allen wanted nothing to do with me. Allen wanted me to do with me. For the moment and immediate future, I belong to Allen.
Within minutes I am totally physically and emotionally consumed by Allen as Allen suddenly demands more of my physical nature. The monotony and self consumption that marked the majority of the morning now seems a distant memory. I approach the summit, and finally Allen presents the fruits of labor. Like the wizard behind the curtain, Allen exposes its gentle presence, a peaceful summit with shade and cool breezes modest views and so much wisdom. I am invited to lunch and a well deserved rest.
11 AM. I begin the return trip, the streambed with its slick rocks offers many opportunities for pause and care. Allen is bidding farewell and is committed to burning its identity into my memory. The same contrasts exists in retrograde as the conversations pick up where they left off, the radio is tuned to that familiar song once again. Berries now in a bag, the wooden bridge, the floating bridge, the steel bridge, the register. It is 3 PM, my day is done. My life is better now than it was at 6:15 AM, now with the wisdom of Allen permanently etched within.
This weekend, I met Allen. Much like Cliff, Allen managed a lasting impression.
It was 5:15 AM before I managed to un-cramp my legs from the folded position they maintained all night as I had decided to sleep in the back seat rather than to string up the old hammock. There was a chill in the air and my departure time was arriving quickly.
After preparing my gear and snarfing down a cold breakfast, I was on my way. 6:15 AM. I knew I had a long walk and it would be a long day so I wasted no time in keeping my appointment with Allen.
I was surprised by this metal and very bouncy suspension bridge that seemed oddly out of place in it’s material make-up but as I would later discover it could not have befit the moment more appropriately.
As usual, as I walk, I have thoughts. Or rather, more truthfully, my thoughts have me. I could not begin to rattle them all off, there was no apparent theme but I found myself asking myself questions. Serious questions, not so serious questions, inane questions, at times, downright silly questions. Then the big question of the moment hit me, why am I talking to myself so fluently? Allen demands it. Allen, it seems, requires time. Lots of time. Time spent over terrain not too demanding. Allen sits behind long stretches of terra firma that does not require the same level of focus that I am accustomed to. So, I talk to myself. I talk about myself and many other things. I have a radio playing between my ears tuned to my favorite song of the day, over and over and over while I talk to myself. I have make believe conversations with my wife, my son, my friends, the guy who almost ran me off the road, the milkman who used to deliver milk to my house when I was a small child. I assure you if this goes on much longer, it will surely drive me to a straightjacket!
Wow! A floating log bridge! I check the map. I check the GPS with the waypoints that were a gift of an online friend. It seems I haven’t gone too far. Now what do I think about. Oh well, I don’t think I’ll worry about that since it seems I have no control over it anyway.
I turn to this inanimate object, my battery powered trail mate, for companionship. Waypoints come and waypoints go. I’m happy to see them marking my progress in real time and confirming that despite the apparent monotony of step after step I am actually making something of the day.
Allen, the old sage, the all knowing presence that insists that I get in touch with myself in the way that only step after step of walking meditation can provide. Waypoint on, waypoint off, waypoint on, waypoint off, another bouncy wooden suspension bridge and endless miles of berries. Waypoint on, waypoint off.
Suddenly, a large wooden sign, shouting in full fury “<-- MARCY” followed by a bellowing and forceful wooden sign “ALLEN -->”. Make no mistakes, the waypoints confirm, trail markers are replaced by improvised directives twirling from branches, the terrain shifts. I am now in familiar territory, the mind quiets as the focus increases and still waypoints confirm the obvious path. The stream and the bandana offers cool respite as I climb over the slippery rocks, twisted slick roots and deep black mud.
Allen now dominates all thoughts and demands my full attention now. It is funny how not so long ago it seemed that Allen wanted nothing to do with me. Allen wanted me to do with me. For the moment and immediate future, I belong to Allen.
Within minutes I am totally physically and emotionally consumed by Allen as Allen suddenly demands more of my physical nature. The monotony and self consumption that marked the majority of the morning now seems a distant memory. I approach the summit, and finally Allen presents the fruits of labor. Like the wizard behind the curtain, Allen exposes its gentle presence, a peaceful summit with shade and cool breezes modest views and so much wisdom. I am invited to lunch and a well deserved rest.
11 AM. I begin the return trip, the streambed with its slick rocks offers many opportunities for pause and care. Allen is bidding farewell and is committed to burning its identity into my memory. The same contrasts exists in retrograde as the conversations pick up where they left off, the radio is tuned to that familiar song once again. Berries now in a bag, the wooden bridge, the floating bridge, the steel bridge, the register. It is 3 PM, my day is done. My life is better now than it was at 6:15 AM, now with the wisdom of Allen permanently etched within.
