Mount Philbert

Mount Philbert was a mountain the same way Pluto wasn’t a planet. If you measured it from the summit, it clocked in at just under 300 metres high. If you measured from the big rock on the summit, it was 301.4 metres. Experts were divided, some screaming about how the rock wasn’t part of the hill and others howling that it had just broken off the mountain and that didn’t diminish it, but everyone agreed that Mount Philbert was the most forgettable of all the Rockies.

But when Brent got out of his SUV and stared up at it, he gasped.

Yolanda waddled over to him, one arm wrapped around her swollen belly, and shielded her eyes against the rising sun.

“This is it,” Brent said. “It’s just like in my dreams!”

“It doesn’t look that high.”

“Well, it is a mountain. At least, some people say so.”

“Oh, I’m glad it’s not too tall,” she said. “Actually, I feel better now. I had these horrible fantasies of you scaling sheer cliffs with howling winds and blowing snow, and… well… you know.”

Brent turned to her. He placed his hand on hers, over her belly, and then pulled her in close for a kiss. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? I don’t have to go.”

She took another glance at the mountain and then gave him a quick peck. “Yeah, I’m fine. It looks more like a hike than a climb. And besides, you want to, don’t you? We vowed,” she fixed the zipper on his windbreaker, “to support each other’s dreams, and not stand in the way.”

“Love you,” he said.

“Love you.”

Then he grinned at the mountain, bathed in the sun’s gold. “Okay, I’m off then.” The Internet told him most people could do the climb to the summit in about five hours, and a number of grade schools made day trips out of reaching the half-way mark. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“Better believe it.” She wanted to ask again if he was sure he didn’t want a guide – but she knew there were no guides for Mount Philbert. Just signs, and an obvious, lazy trail.

One more kiss and Brent set off.

He marvelled up at the mountain. It really did look like his dreams. Exactly like it. For two weeks now, he’d been having the same dream. It always started with Marilyn Monroe ringing their doorbell and delivering a Chicago-style pizza – loaded with sausage and dripping with cheese – and while they ate it together in the living room, the TV showed an old documentary about climbing Everest.

When he was five years old, he dreamed of being a fire truck. When he saw the documentary at six, he dreamed instead of climbing Everest. Instead, his parents signed him up for baseball and then life happened, and now thirty years later he had completely forgotten about his ambitions. Until the Marilyn dream.

So they’d finish their pizza and get in a Jeep – not sure whose – and then speed down the highway. It was always night when they started and morning when they stopped, and they always stopped at the foot of Mount Philbert.

Brent never remembered his dreams before, as they were senseless, but this one was vivid and just kept repeating. When he told Yolanda about it – well, he left Marilyn out – she suggested it was his repressed childhood goal resurging.

“But I can’t climb Everest,” he said. “It’s huge! Thousands die every year.”

“Well duh,” she said. “And I wouldn’t let you go. But nobody starts with Everest. But this Mount Philmore thing–”

“–Philbert–”

“–Yeah. Maybe it’s a good starter.”

An hour in, his shins were burning and he was breathing heavily. The path was pleasant and afforded a good view of all the countryside as it arced, but it did rise. His backpack, loaded with just-in-case gear, bored into his shoulders. He suspected he might have over packed when he passed a “No Littering” sign, with a metal trash box beside it. There was a note about not feeding wildlife.

The next leg was a winding and narrow path with a hand rail. When he looked over the distant countryside he was struck by how small the closest town looked. Yolanda was there right now, enjoying a day with her friend Danielle.

It boggled his mind. It felt like they had just met, but that was five years ago. And that first date… kind of felt like a last date too. Never could he have imagined a second one, much less all the years they had shared.

Another hour of walking brought him to a large flat area called, creatively, Lookout Point. It also had regular garbage service, and about a dozen picnic tables and firepits. A sunwashed bulletin board claimed this was halfway to the peak.

Brent sat at a table. His legs throbbed and he suspected this was karmic justice for his having ridiculed power walking at the Olympics. Never again, he vowed. He ate a protein bar and washed it down with a pint of sports drink, and then groaned as he got up. The legs fought back but he won, and he was off again.

The next stretch was both less and more interesting. Less, as the view of the countryside was obscured by rocks, cliffs and crevices. More, because the ground was hard. Not treacherous, but mischievous. The pleasant hiking trail turned into broken boulders and jagged stones – irregular and ever upwards. Difficult? Maybe not. But he was drenched when he got to the top.

But then he caught a view of the other side of the mountain, where he could see the river. A gentle wind tugged his hair, and far below he saw it blow through the trees, which swayed like waves.

The sight gave him pause. It alone had made the trip worthwhile. He wondered if one day he’d be up here with his son, sharing a moment. Or, maybe, with his daughter? They decided they didn’t want to know before the birth.

The idea of a daughter gave him a chill. One day she’d turn into a teenager, and then there’d be teen boys around her, and he knew all too well what kind of single-minded hell that was. More karmic justice perhaps?

What if I’m a bad dad? he thought. Yola can handle herself, but kids need constant attention. What if I fail her? Then his eyes widened. Or fail them? What if it’s twins? How could he possibly care for a whole human being when half the time it barely felt like he had his own life together? Somewhere, someone had screwed up big time.

He swallowed his misgivings and continued his climb. Maybe things would become clear at the summit. And then, suddenly, he crested the last rock and found himself at the top of the world. The view was absolutely breathtaking and–

“Holy crap!” cracked a rough voice at full blast.

Brent shrieked and nearly fell off the mountain. He saw a reed-thin man wearing only a potato sack, with a scraggly beard, right beside him. The man’s eyes popped and his nails curled, and he danced from foot to foot with a manic grin. He was about the last thing Brent expected atop Mount Philbert.

“Oh, it worked!” the wild man said, and then he cackled and spun around. “It worked! It worked!” He spun deftly around a ragged tent, a small firepit, and piles and piles of canned beans.

“Oh my,” Brent gasped. “I didn’t expect anyone–”

“–You dreamed the mountain!” the wild man said, pointing a finger right at Brent. His smile kept widening.

“I… how did you–”

“–You dreamed it every day for a fortnight! You get in a Jeep and drive to the mountain. Admit it!”

Brent’s jaw dropped. Then he covered his mouth, and then his hands dropped. “You–how did you–”

“–Ha ha!” the wild man sang, and kicked his heels.

“How could you possibly know that?” Brent demanded.

“Because!” the wild man shouted. He raised a triumphant finger in the air. “I am the world’s first real-life somninaut. I alone have mastered the psychic art of dream sending.”

Brent blinked.

“My friend,” said the wild man, “I have simply been sending you my dreams for the past two weeks. All in the hope that you would get the hint. And you did. You came.”

“Oh my god,” Brent whispered. “That’s–that’s incredible! How? How is this possible?”

“Ha ha! All in due time. I can teach you, now that I know that the technique works. But first!” He sniffed the air and rubbed his hands together. “Where is it?”

“Yolanda’s never going to believe this. Oh man, this is crazy.”

“Yes yes yes,” said the wild man. He opened his hands in anticipation of receiving something. “Now, first things first. Where is it? Hand it over, if you please.”

“Um.” Brent scratched his neck. “Hand what over?”

“The pizza!” The wild man licked his lips.

“What? What pizza?”

The wild man’s mood faltered. “The pizza. The pizza? From the dream? I very clearly sent you a dream of a vivid Chicago-style pizza! Loaded with sausage and dripping with cheese!”

“Oh my god,” Brent said. “The pizza. Yeah, that’s how the dream starts.”

“So where is it!?”

“Well, I didn’t realize I was supposed to bring a pizza. Onto a mountain.”

The wild man howled at the sky and tore at his hair.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Brent said. “Did you really just do your dream magic thing to get me to deliver you a pizza?”

“Yes! Of course!” He sat down hard and covered his face in his ragged hands and howled. “I am so sick to shit of beans.”

Brent was flabbergasted. And with the excitement wearing off, his legs started aching again. He plopped down too and let out an airy, “Incredible.”

The wild man sniffed up at the sky. “Ah, that’s just my luck. Guess there’s some more bugs to work out. Look, kid, sorry for dragging you up here.”

“Yeah, no worries. I actually wanted to climb a mountain.”

“This is a hill.”

“Well, actually, some people say it’s a mountain.”

“They’re wrong.”

“Anyway. Hey, wait a minute. Does that mean Marilyn Monroe–”

The wild man’s eyes widened. “Oh! Shit. You dreamed that too? That was, er, private.” He reached into his tent and pulled out a dog-eared notebook and scrawled in it, muttering.

“Still, it’s incredible,” Brent said.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, I’m Brent, by the way.”

“Phil.”

“Phil? Like Mount Phil–”

“–no relation.”

“Oh.”

Phil took a deep, raspy breath. “Look, Brent. Sorry I’m being an ass. Not going to lie, I’m disappointed. And I don’t get many visitors, so I kind of forget manners and all that.” He picked up a can of beans and offered it.

“No thanks.” When Brent offered a protein bar, Phil inhaled it, letting the wrapper fly loose with the wind.

“So what,” said Brent, “you some kind of hermit? Old mountain guru?”

“Something like that. This place is my retreat from where I plumb the depths of creation.”

“Man, that’s wild. So what brought you up here in the first place?”

“A tale as old as time.” Phil looked mournfully into the distance. “I led a meaningless existence, until one day, I met the love of my life. We hit it off right away and we completed each other. I never believed in souls before I met her, but there was no doubt we were soulmates. But, it was not meant to be.” He shed a single tear. “Fate had other things in store, and I lost her.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. My condolences.”

“Yeah,” said Phil. “She got pretty mad when she found out I was married.”

“Wait… what?”

“Caused a scene and dumped me. And then my wife found out and she dumped me too.”

“You were married?”

“Don’t remind me. The old bag got this needling little lawyer that completely cleaned me out. Ha! Well, almost. That’s why I’m hiding up here.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger and then whispered, “Can’t collect child support if you can’t find me.”

“Oh my god,” Brent said, rising in disgust. “You’re skipping out on child support!?”

“Hey, don’t judge me! You have no idea how hard fathering is.”

“Maybe not, but for crap’s sake, at least I’m not running away from it.”

Phil scoffed. “Not yet, Brent. But you have no idea what it’s like. Your life? Forget about it. Belongs to someone else. Everything becomes bills and worries and work. They don’t even let you sleep.”

“You’re full of it.”

“Oh, am I? You still haven’t figured it out, have you, Brent?”

“Figured what out?”

“Brent. I’m you. From the future.”

Brent felt his mouth run dry. He looked at the scraggly man in his potato-sack, with his curled nails and sunbaked, scabrous skin. Was this really his future? Was he really underestimating… everything?

Suddenly Phil roared with laughter and slapped his knee. “Holy shit, you actually believed me there for a moment! Ha!”

Brent’s blood boiled.

“I’m not you, kid. I already told you my name’s Phil.”

“Unbelievable,” Brent muttered. He had enough and made his way to the descent.

“Hey, wait! Where you going?”

“Go to hell!”

“Aw. I thought we were friends. Hey! Brent! Can you give me another one of those protein things?”

Brent threw the protein bar at Phil, and then descended the mountain as the wild man cackled. He couldn’t wait to tell Yolanda all about it, though she probably wouldn’t believe him. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself.