I was raised on a forest-covered mountain. A modest but roaming mountain that stretched across half the town. The whole land is covered in a sea of dense trees that, from above, looks like a thick, warm green blanket (I am a fiber of this blanket.) Having little else to do, I would alternate all hours between smashing rocks to inspect the layers inside, and wandering through the forested mountain with no particular aim. This sometimes resulted in the construction of stick forts/canopies, or the brewing of a mock herbal remedy using a makeshift mortar and pestle and any mixture of organic material scattered through the woods. Stepping into these woods from the backyard was like stepping into a different world, the real world, as if there was an invisible portal between the yard and the treeline. Once inside, the trees towered over you in every direction, and stretched far into the sky like a congregation of crooked arms giving praise to the sun. I looked up and was dizzied by these monolithic beings. Vines many meters long would hang almost miraculously from these trees, which I would swing from slooowly but steadily like a careful monkey. Though I couldn’t quantify it, I felt intuitively that I was part of a grander intelligence, something ineffable. Those who grow up in a city may feel a similar sensation by the gargantuan buildings all around, but I think the silence of mountains carries a deeper wisdom. On one of the crests of this backyard mountain was a little clearing for hang gliders and underage drinkers. Mostly hang gliders. Seeing the occasional neon pink parenthesis in the sky floating around the mountain gave the same feeling as seeing a rare bird (like a tanager, our school mascot.)
At ten years old I began hiking more regularly, trekking some of the Adirondack 46ers with my mom, and my stepdad Bill, an experienced mountaineer. I loathed the early weekend mornings, but once I hit the trailhead, I would take off running, viewing the gnarled roots, rocks, and creeks as part of a long obstacle course that I had to summit as quickly as possible. I would then tumble down the mountain and wait at the parking lot for 45 minutes for Mom n Bill. On one hike, my older step brother joined us. On the summit, I saw him lying prone on the ground, fingers over the edge of a cliff, peering down hundreds of feet. Since I thought he was cool as a cucumber at the time, when he got up and walked away, I mimicked him and laid down on the ground to peer off the cliff. After a few seconds, I felt the momentum of my body shift off the cliff. Just then, Bill grabbed my ankles and stopped me from see-sawing off into the deep ravine. Later on, my step brother and I got lost on the way down, and hitchhiked back to the parking lot.
Like many transplants, the mountains played a big role in my coming to Denver. In 2013 and 2015, during some North American road trips, I had the privilege of experiencing the mountains of Colorado for the first time. The Devil’s Thumb, Mt Bierstadt, and Devil’s Causeway particularly sparked a love of the geography here. Unfortunately, as so often happens, I have not taken great advantage of being here as much as I would like to. Of course, now that the season is changing, I feel more called to the mountains than before.
I recently learned of Mount Kailash, the sacred mountain in China, and mythologically the abode of Shiva. It has never been ascended, as it is prohibited to do so, but thousands make pilgrimages there to circumabulate the mountain every year. I would like to do this someday, if anyone would like to join.
Last week I tried approaching my hike with an attitude of reverence for the mountains. An approach of, “I surrender to and trust in you.” Nothing to prove, nothing to conquer. Though, after the first mile, I began dismissively thinking, “I could do Longs Peak, easily.” Then I saw Grays and Torreys peak in the near distance and thought many times, “Ugh, I could’ve done Grays and Torreys today.” I considered making my way towards those peaks, but this would’ve added hours to the trip and I wanted to be back in time for pickleball. The main difference between the peaks I was doing and Grays/Torreys is that the former are 13ers and the latter are 14ers. 14er sounds more impressive than 13er to some people’s ears. It’s embarrassing enough that I don’t have the latest and greatest hiking clothes – how embarrassing it would’ve been if I was only doing 12ers or 11ers – why even go outside at that point? Nevertheless, all I could do was laugh at my own mind. Like many action-points in life, several motives went into this venture. The action-point (decision) is a prism – multicolored rays of light go into this prism in the form of pride, shame, love, fear (joy paralyzed, as I heard it referred to today), curiosity, etc. – they are concentrated into a focal point in the prism – they are then refracted and emitted out of the other side of the prism, into other multicolored rays of light, like confusion, hope, grief, excitement, etc. Rarely is there a large decision in which one white light goes into or out of its prism, which I find comfort in when experiencing a stew of feeling, as it gives ample air for all rays of light generated from our infinite inner sun. It isn’t a novel thought to say that the mountain exposes the ego in many ways – countless books and films have portrayed this phenomenon. I was also humbled by false summits on this hike, which fool me physically and metaphorically more often than I’d like to admit. Life is filled with “false” summits, though they are all real, and the views are always worth it. Sitting at the summit of each mountain, I search for myself. But the closer we examine anything, the more elusive it becomes; it disperses the closer we think we’ve become, like swimming underwater trying to snatch a leaf with a slow-motion matrix swing of the arm. We feel fear, we feel worry – we sit and look closer, try to locate it, pinpoint it – the examination disperses the sensation, the hollow remains. Examine the mountain: where did it go? Break out the telescope-microscope to play how-low-can-you-go and the same phenomenon occurs, everything swims away like a flock of birds or a University of fish. What’s your favorite fish?
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