The Weight of Presence
The last chairlift had disappeared over an hour ago, and my friends an hour before that. Alone, I was hiking upwards in search of steeper sections, whiter cliffs, and lighter, deeper snow. Upwards, in search of a feeling that I knew I needed, but could not describe.
With aching legs I arched my body forward and stomped my left boot into the snow. Then, my right boot. Again and again, up and down, my left boot and my right boot, rising and falling in an endless succession of slow momentum, but momentum nevertheless.
I continued my upward ascent in search of a peak. More than that, I was in search of the feeling that an adventure like this could provide. It’s a feeling that arguably transcends the limited confines of language, but that might be described by words such as fulfillment, elation, or a state of pure flow.
I was getting closer. With each exertion of breath I could feel the altitude creeping into my system. Each drawn out lunge into the snow propelled me forward, bringing me closer to a point at which I was finally able to stop and turn around. Slowly, I moved my head from left to right, attentively absorbing what I saw before me — the endless valleys of the Alps, ceaselessly drawn out into a pastel artwork of white clouds and white peaks against the backdrop of a clear blue sky.
Taking a deep breath, I collapsed into the snow behind me to strap on my board and focus on the ride ahead, tuning into the state of mind I was so desperately seeking.
Using the last of my energy, I dug my fists into the snow below me and edged the backside of my board into the snow. Tensing up my whole body, I pushed myself up off the ground and into a standing position.
As my weight shifted, the snow underneath me began to move. In slow, mounded heaps of powder, the formation grew. Layers of snow started morphing into one another, continuously sliding downwards as gravity began its remarkable dance of descent. The speed increased, and suddenly the few particles of snow beneath my boots had rapidly compounded into an immense force of energy, hurtling down the mountain and collecting more and more snow in the process. A torrent of endless acceleration and accumulation.
With my board still firmly lodged into the snow, and my beating heart rising firmly into my throat, I nervously watched as the enormous cloud of snow, with the force of an ocean, descended into the valley below.
I gazed up at the sky, winced, and looked back down the mountain face for the avalanche that I had created.
Instead of the moving snow mass, I saw a line of trees below, now covered up to their necks in snow that only seconds before was under my board.
I watched the trees stoically bearing the weight of my presence. I had triggered a motion on top of their mountain, and now their roots were tensed below the ground, tirelessly determined to maintain the natural order of things that I had disrupted. With the unwavering resilience that only trees possess, they remained steadfast in their positions, and calmly brought an end to the reactionary chain that I created.
Within that moment, a boundless and universal truth was bestowed upon me.
It was never about me or my self-serving pursuit of adventure. It was never about my search for steeper sections, whiter cliffs, and lighter, deeper snow. The mountain was my means, and I had been using it to achieve my own goal of exhilaration, accomplishment, and momentary silence within my otherwise-racing mind.
But what if I’d misunderstood it all along?
The mountain lived, and I had impolitely awoken its slumber by stepping on its toe, scratching its side with my fingernail, or perhaps just causing an itch above its eyelid. Nevertheless, what entitlement did I have to do so; to use the mountain for the sake of fulfilling my own quest for euphoria?
To the rider, my avalanche symbolizes a threat to outlive; to the wolf a forecast of potential migration; to the forest an assurance of new topography; to the individual tree a heavy blanket threatening to uproot it; and to the mountain air a surging gust that rapidly funnels down the gorge into the valley below.
The mountain — nature’s oldest temple — is laden with layers of meaning known only to its dearest inhabitants. I was no such inhabitant. If anything, I was an intruder, a visitor, perhaps a burdensome guest.
Sometimes, we all search for a part of ourselves in nature, hoping to find silence in our minds and contentment in our bones. As necessary as this may be, we ought never to forget whose playground we are in.
What if, maybe, we enjoyed nature for the sake of itself, and not for the sake of ourselves? After the snow has settled and the avalanche runs its course, it will still be us seeking joy in nature, and not nature seeking joy in us.
Perhaps this is the meaning of Jorge Luis Borges’s dictum: If we could but understand a single flower, we might know who we are and what the world is.
