A Final Mountain Holiday

A child of the mountains… I grew up going on camping holidays in the mountains where we would fish, hunt, wander and play in streams making dams and little boats of wood. Perhaps that’s why I always run to them to seek solace or clear my head whenever I must make a big decision or am questioning myself. The mountains hold a deep, cold, unwavering wisdom. When you’re standing at the crest of a peak looking at the rolling landscape the taut rubber band that holds the daily mundane human experience snaps, and your narrowed perspective gets buffeted away by the wind. It’s not that these things disappear completely, but instead they restructure themselves. In seeing and feeling how small one is, even within the constraints of Earth, the mind reorganises what is important and unimportant, what can be accepted and what is unacceptable.

That is why today I find myself packing my car with all my gear, enough to last a week, ready for a thru hike in the mountains. I’ve been planning this for the last month, to park my car at one end of the mountain range, and hike until I reach the last of six peaks in total. The last being their favourite ski slope where they met for the very first time. It has been an incredibly hard couple of years, lots of hospitals, difficult conversations, paperwork, and sorting through piles and piles of things. I’m tired of moping around my house though, so it’s time to move.

The drive is cathartic, and I flip through radio stations to avoid ads. I’m not really listening, it’s more of an autopilot exercise, until I come across an interview with one of my favourite artists. I leave it on the station and continue to listen until it’s finished even once I’ve reached my destination. There are still enough hours to get a decent start on my journey before setting up camp. After getting all my gear together I start to hike. I always find the first hour is a slog for me, but after that and a quick stretch all those feel-good chemicals kick in and I’m buzzing. This time though tears also start to trickle, like one of those dams we built as children failed and burst. That’s the thing with water is that it always seems to find a way, and here it is forcing its way through the numbing façade I’d put up as one tends to do when something life altering occurs and life around you doesn’t stop. No one tells you how weird it is to feel deeply sad yet full of endorphins simultaneously. Let me tell you, it is bizarre, and I stop for the first night having made it about halfway up my first peak. I set up my tent, heat up a pack of stew and find myself hysterically cackling into it, a by-product of my mixed emotions. The next days are somewhat similar: wake up, coffee and breakfast bar, pack up, hike, cry, stop and set up camp, sleep, repeat. On the start of my fourth day, after hitting three of my total six peaks, I find that I’ve left all my tears on the trail behind me, as if the land has absorbed all my sorrow leaving me empty to feel other things. I pull out The Box and sit with it in front of me pondering as I drink my coffee in the just breaking light of dawn. Many people think it’s frivolous to pack something as extra as coffee grounds and a percolator on a thru hike, but I shrug at them and blame it on my father who instilled a love of decent coffee in me. I just can’t abide by anything less. As I trek towards my next peak, I’m thinking of coffee filled memories, weekend breakfasts with egg cookery lessons, the best pancake recipe, dinner for breakfast, etc. These went on even after I had left home, every time I visited, we’d make a point to sit down for them. My mother at the table reading off crossword clues for us all to have a go at. The light bickering between them as they fussed over who’s turn it was to do a particular chore. I imagine I’m leaving a memory breadcrumb trail with each step forward, like they are also becoming a part of the landscape mulching down with the pine needles and feeding the Earth.

I don’t reach the fourth peak until the end of dusk, and after setting up camp lay down on the ground looking up at the clear star lit sky while my dinner heats up. Despite the mileage increase today, though I still feel tired, I’m less exhausted than the previous days. I guess I’m getting into my stride, and crying is an exhaustive business. Waking up in the morning on top of the peak is a nice treat, there’s nothing quite like having your first waking moments looking out at an expansive view. Today there will undoubtedly be more memories to mull over, the distance in between the next peaks is greater again. Powering forward I’m focusing on making it to my next stopping point not too much after dark, hopeful it will be the base of the next peak. It’s the steepest ascent of them all, so I’ve decided to leave it until the following morning to start the climb. I’m thinking of the one time we took a beach holiday instead of running to the mountains. My father had thought it would be a good idea to have a picnic on some towels, but the dog had other ideas and started digging frantically in the sand spraying it all over our stack of sandwiches that he had carefully assembled that morning. My mom rolled her eyes and us kids were in hysterics as our father looked at the ruined sandwiches, crestfallen. We sidled over to the seafood shack for crab cake sandwiches and fish and chips in lieu. I find that this memory filled with sandcastles and saltwater powers me enough to make it to the base and then a little bit further before it’s too dark to continue. It’s so silent tonight as I lay in my tent, every noise seems amplified, the scuttling of little creatures and snuffling of slightly larger ones and the lack of constant sound in absence of wind. It’s moments like these where it seems like you can hear and feel the very heartbeat of the land. I fall asleep comforted by this.

The fifth peak is reached in the early afternoon, and I allow myself a moment to sit and take it all in. All of the surrounding peaks are all visible, the ones I’ve already reached, the ones I’m not climbing on this trip and the one I’m heading towards. I try to capture this image in my head, I don’t like to hike with excess technology, but I’d love to try and recreate it in a painting. It will be interesting to see how I interpret the memory of it when I give it a go. I’m feeling quite at peace today, and for the first time in what feels like ages can completely clear my mind from anything at all. It’s the pinnacle of relaxation, propelling me towards my goal with the meditative crunch beneath my boots and the steady rhythm of my own breath.

The next day and final day of my journey sees me reach my destination around sunset, which feels like kismet, and I clamber up an outcrop of rock that sits atop the ski slope’s peak. Another three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view with several of the ski trails visible snaking through the trees illuminated by the golden light of the evening. I take The Box out from my pack and remove the lid before tossing its contents into the air. Like my grief the mountains take what physically remains of them and scatters them across the landscape, one final ski run.