My thoughts drift wild like spider’s silk in the wind, unburdened by fate or destiny, unhindered by apprehension, and unbound by rules of engagement. My eyes are wide, listening to the music of the sky and drinking deep of the symphony of the pines. The approach is near, the ascent beginning, the starter pistol fired. I beat against the earth a raucous tattoo, incurring a resounding response of thunderous roar and heavy air brought to life in my arms.
There is a wondrous life in the mountains that I struggle to explain. It’s at once a quiet and contemplative being of its own, sleeping comatose in the valleys and vales, and also a monstrous creature smashing and crushing its way through the trees and rocks. It carves the great canyons and wears away the sandstone cathedrals. It gives life to the undergrowth and the wandering beetles. Its duality is the only way to explain its person.
The Creator took great pleasure in creating parts of the world we’ll never see, I’m sure of it. He set it all in motion at the start, after all, and in conducting the great symphony, he must have known how it would all turn out. Everything from the tiniest bit of moss clinging to stone against the spray of waterfall, to the great cliffs and rock faces facing brazenly into the wind.
I long for those places more than anything else in life. The hidden cove behind the bend of the river, the tiny moss outcrop on the edge of a river, the stark face of a mountain casting shadows on the canyon below. Those places make me feel truly alive. In those moments I feel the Creator smiling, saying “Here, look at this a little longer”.