Honeymoon Adventure Continues
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Climbing Mt. Washington
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My wife and I once climbed Mt. Washington as part of our belated honeymoon.But halfway up the rangers steered us off the trail covered from landslide in the night. So up the Lion’s Head we pulled our weighty bodies until a boulders’ summit stretched ahead and beckoned us in spite of the maze.
A week of rain had brought the clearest day that summer – eighty miles in all directions.
The Shepherd-artist had dabbed with green the mountain pastures, streaked with bluish hues the horizon, and jetted with strokes of white the retiring sky.
But besides the view, the summit offered swarms of people in every crevice – people dressed for cars instead of rugged trails – and each high-heel or whiten shoe would sting my soul. My youthful spirit wanted to chain them to the mountain like the buildings anchored for the wintry storms. I felt resentment that a person could buy the Shepherd-artist’s work with money rather than with sweat and toil, forgetting previous labor had earned his means. I felt my being being invaded there.
Having begun our ascent at 8:00 am, we found ourselves at the top of Mount Washington at 3:00. Another quite different adventure was before us.
But time was wasting, the tree line far below. The sun was on the other side, the blues were turning darker, and the greenish dabs were running into blotches of emptiness.
The retiring sky was saying its mighty prayers.
In desperation, we ran and jumped our way along the trail until we stood before the forest sunk in blackness’ deepest sleep.
I had memorized the map and plotted that we reach a ski slope
and pursue the night’s big eye just peeking over Maine’s horizon.
But before us a dragon rose from hill’s steep cliffs and rested its sleepy head across the path. Humming a hymn and grasping my shoulder, my wife nodded. We entered the side of the dragon’s mouth and stepped our way in total sightlessness.
The drowsy monster’s bark-coated teeth just seemed to sprout at every step or turn, and where the path seemed clear, it led beneath saliva’s mushy pools no mouthwash could help.
Avoiding the precipice, we watched our right
until a light between the teeth alighted
upon a swallowed sign – “LOOK OUT” –
a sign we read as with an exclamation point
and turned away from the dragon’s deadly throat.
In an hour, we crossed the mouth and stepped from darkness.
And on the slope the Shepherd-artist sat,
painting in contrasts the moon and ghostly shadows.
When back in camp, we heated a can of stew and as I age, my thoughts returned to the day – To the mountains gallery of art and speechless soul.
But was it speechless?
I think the mind of each individual plays the mountain’s chimes
or sings its chorus for that strong heart.
And thus my soul forever feels at-one
With Washington’s – a self-delusion some
have said, but just the same, a peaceful oneness.
For was the day a day of man against
the elements or of a man in search of self?
For was the day a day conquered that
resistant mountain or found a part of me
embedded in the stone, the wind, the sky?
Delusion? Reality?
Could they be what each
individual makes them out to be?
When into my sleeping bag I slipped, I said,
“You know, my love, I still can feel that mountain.”
“Me too,” she muttered as she massaged her feet.