The Traveler
The [compass] will guide you
20.14 Kilometers to go. A long walk. No, leaps and bounds. A traveler should never judge distance in length; a traveler ought to judge it in his will to get there. What a traveler can count is the beats of his heart, that way he’ll know if he’s going to be around anymore or not.
This journey ain’t for the weak heart but I’ve made it this far and that says something. Not much though.
The dirt collected on my boots is impressive but not impressive to ground beneath me. “That all you got?” the ground will say. But the ground doesn’t know any better. Soon, the ground will beg for the mercy of my sole. But the dirt and soil still crackles. Fool.
I’ve yet to sweat out the wrinkles in my shirt and the cotton fabric speaks to me. “You’ve yet to even break a sweat.” But the cotton does not know that it ought to be a sponge with the perspiration it will soon bear. But the cotton stays wrinkled. Fool.
The straps of my backpack are relaxed and lazy, the brim of my hat stays loose. “You going to move?” they ask. But they better hold on tight; they are strapped rocket ship and the countdown has already begun. But the straps still rest. Fool.
I’ve made it over the Traveler’s Hill. That’s to say, I got out of bed. It’s simple for a trying man.
The ledge at the end of Traveler’s Hill reminds you that no matter which season you start at, you still have four more to go. There’s the valley and rushing streams, the dusty path of false hope, the lush and ravenous forest, the desolate torment of the high plains and lastly… The Mountain. Oh The Mountain, how mighty it is.
It stares off at me in the distance, an evil grin on its face. He knows…
Clouds escape its rock-hardened mouth like puffing smoke. He’s already lit the victory cigar. Even clouds are afraid of its mass but clouds come and go but tragically for the mountain, the test of a man’s will is everlasting.
My compass says north but that ain’t north. I’ll just have to try and see. I flap the lid of my compass like a clam stating claim to its pearl. I never did like clams anyway.
Getting to the mountain is a journey through every season, a full year of terrain. Even more than that if the Mother Nature forbids it. It’s a less than subtle illusion that Mother Nature and the hemisphere are selective and cruel. Between the rugged and determined mass that is my body and the devilish enormity of that is the mountain, I can see Summer, Autumn and Winter. Spring must be at my side but only to egg me on. An instigator but I do not need any instigating…
My leg gains weight as I take a step forward. The ground knows what to expect but it taunts me nonetheless. But only for a moment as I plant my boot deep into the soil, letting the ground know I’m more than he is.
First the stream. It’s jagged like ice, I can fish along the way, yes this will be good place to fish. The season has brought much rain and the spawn will be jubilant.
My compass jingles in my pocket, I take it out compulsively. Nothing just bugs. Bugs so big, you can hear the size of them…
Across the stream is the path, a curvy familiarity like typography. That’s the easy part.
My compass is trying to tell me something but it’s too early, I haven’t moved.
The lush forest will swallow me but I can trim it like a well-groomed beard.
My compass has more to say. Not now.
The desert is filled with cliffs and rocks stacked high like flapjacks, the deep and treacherous crevices dripping between them like buttered syrup. No one goes down there, not even Indy. But I’m not Indy.
What of my friends, will I see them again? The compass says perhaps not. It says head back.
No the true test is the mountain. It’s solemn and cruel like it’s the only thing orbiting in space, nothing is worthy of the mountain. The space the The Mountain and I is a barrier between just living or actually doing.
My phone still says North and The Mountain Game stares brightly in my face. 20.14 Kilometers to go.
*Inspired by The Mountain art by Brian Edward Miller and The Mountan game by David OReilly
