The Climb of your Life

Rising up before you, the mountain dominates everything. Craggy outcrops interspersed with woods carve out of rolling green fields, reaching higher and higher, before thrusting into the sky. It is here that elements must collide: earth gives way to space and finite matter stretches into infinity. There are other peaks, a whole mountain range in fact, but this is the one you have set out to climb; and that summit, well it’s got your name on it.

Quickly lacing on your boots, flinging a small rucksack on your back, you start off on the trail at first light. As you race across the fields, leaving your parents to stick to the path, early morning dew soaks your feet and then your hands as you try a cartwheel or two on the grass. Over in the next field are cows and further away golden horses, manes glowing in the strengthening sun. Tossing your hair and mooing, you gallop off again to rejoin your parents, wiping the grass stains and mud on your jeans. 

At the first fork in the path they’ve come to a stop and are poring over a map. The waterproof paper crackles as it’s unfolded and the creases concertina across the surface. Your mum holds an edge, your dad another, and they try to locate where you are in relation to all the symbols and lines; it’s brand new, bought just for this adventure and not much help at all. 

Compared to what’s stretching out and slicing up, right before your eyes, the map is boring: so flat!- reducing the enormity of what is before you into something small and insignificant. To you it is clear where you should be going: this way! You call out, not waiting for them to even look up. And you’re off, following the babbling brook that gurgles and giggles by your side. You don’t listen to the wait a minute! or isn't this a better route? called after you while your parents struggle to fold the map, repack it and keep your disappearing figure in sight. No, you are like a leaping fish, flinging yourself up and out of the water; a salmon with sparkling silver scales and rosy gills, breath in your lungs enough for each leap forward. 

A brown Labrador appears and bounds over the widening stream in one jump and you follow, springing from side to side, until you have to pause at the next way marker for your slowcoach mum and dad. Provisions are taken out, slices of apple and muesli bars; a bottle of water is pressed into your hands, but after just one swig you pass it back, lying down instead and lapping from the stream like the dog is doing a little further on. Shrieks of: Germs! Bugs! Bacterial infection! Whatever that might be, you know it can’t be good from your parents’ tone; and so, you’re off again before the shouts turn to nags, and the nags turn to trouble. 

Catch me if you can!

Your laugh trails behind you, a kite’s long tail your parents will just have to follow.

If you think the air is already lighter- purer even- then it’s your imagination; but one thing you can be sure of, and that’s the climb really has started now that the patchwork of green fields is behind you. In serpentines, the path snakes its way up, uncoiling in broad loops which don’t go unnoticed by your hamstrings. You pause where the snake flicks out its forked tongue for a second time. Your mum and dad aren’t even in view, and they’ve got the map, so you consider the choices alone. One sign points out the forest road; it’s tarmacked and while you’re considering, a jeep cruises by, windows down and inside a group of day-trippers singing along to the radio. The sign tells you it is two and a half hours to the summit, if you take this route. 

In the other direction, lunging off steeply, is a higgledy-piggledy path of gravel and rocks, disappearing almost immediately into undergrowth. You can just imagine your parents' reaction to this route: ticks and torn-trouser alarm! And this trail will take you over an hour longer to summit. Marked by the symbol of a little eagle in full flight, this path has places mentioned underneath in smaller letters which make your heart take to the wing. You learn that in forty minutes you’ll reach Der Sitz der Erinnerung; after two hours of traipsing, you’ll reach Der Flüsterwald and right here, running alongside the path, is your laughing stream: Der Lachende Bach, which will guide your way. Shorter, quicker and easier or longer, harder and full of surprise? You know what you’d like, but what will your parents, joining you now- huffing and puffing and leaning on the way marker post like it’s a crutch- have to say?

Ticks!

Torn Trousers!

Ok, it’s your choice.

Lead the way!

Off we go!

And you do, tearing your trousers and not caring about ticks as the stream burbles alongside and you take the map from your parents, promising that no-one will get lost with you as a guide. Studying the map periodically, you see many things you’d never noticed before- perhaps it’s not so flat and boring after all. Just off from the path you make a detour, trying to find what on the map is just a little arrowhead nudging a line: a cave. Together you stoop your heads and step inside, wondering how many people have done this and for how many years: decades, centuries even? Pressing your hand to the stone, you notice how cold it is and how moss nestles- little beds for countless microscopic lives. Life is teeming, just a palm press away. 

Later you pause again, at the source of your laughing stream. Water trickles out through dense beds of wild plants and rocks, pooling at your feet, collecting in channels before merging to form the stream, tracing the way you have just come. Here are your parents. Your mum is flushed and your dad’s breath is coming hard, but their smiling eyes laugh like the brook- that swirling gurgling giggle, sweeping past you. 

Satisfaction suffuses you and you take a deep proud breath; first third completed, who cares if it’s the easiest stretch. Your joints don’t ache, your feet still feel quite light; you’ve enough energy and some to spare. All is a delight here: the sparkling stream, the places already seen, and the tired but happy joy reflected in the twin pools of your parents’ eyes. It’s tempting to fold the map and spend the rest of the day just kicking back here, together. 

But the path goes on, just ahead. There is the sign, the eagle still soars and if you are to reach the summit you must stretch your legs, and start off once more. You bend and tighten your laces, smile encouragingly at your mum and dad, and put one foot in front of the other and climb.

The waymarker had promised 40 minutes to the scenic spot and the memory seat which is the Sitz der Erinnerung, but it has taken you at least double as long to reach the bench, perched on a beautiful rocky outcrop, which surveys the land below. Sweating, swiping at insects, with a definite dull ache in both your legs, you fling your backpack down on the bench and greet the panorama with a long exhalation, one part satisfaction, to two parts fatigue. 

You’d like to enjoy the view, but you can’t shake the urge to keep looking up- there’s still so much left to climb! Are you really only nearly halfway up after all this weaving, wending and purposefully putting the best foot forward? Some stretches have been much harder than you expected: that boggy bit, just back there, where you almost slipped over; and before that you’d taken a wrong turn, following what looked like a shortcut which was actually a path that petered out, leading you to a place called nowhere. 

You thought you’d be further along by now…the sun has reached its zenith; surely you should be starting the last ascent, nearing the summit? Hell, the Whispering Wood isn’t even in sight yet!

Flinging your bag on to the bench and flopping down next to it, you distract yourself with lunch. Mouthfuls of sandwich, bites of apple, and with each swallow you can’t stop the thought from rising up: where are they? Not your mum and dad; they’d called up and told you to go on ahead, they just needed to take a bit of a breather. You’re sure they’ll be along before you start on the granola bar. 

No, it’s someone else. You can’t put your finger on it, but wasn’t someone else supposed to come and join you round about now? At this point, to enjoy this view. It’s hard to say why exactly, but on this last leg of the trail, you’ve been pushing on, waiting for someone, half expecting them to be right here already, at this beauty spot, to share the view with you. But there’s no one; you’re alone. 

The view is majestic, it really is, but you just can’t take it in at all. Gripping the map, you jab a finger at all the points you’ve covered already, reminding yourself that there’s still plenty of highlights to come: that Whispering Wood, the summit and a well- earned cold beer. 

But if you want to raise a glass to the setting sun you’ll need to get a move on. Whilst you’ve been resting, clouds have begun to mass and dusk is in danger of falling whilst you’re still labouring up the mountain if you continue at this snail’s pace. You’d thought to wait for your parents, but you’ve got to keep going if you’re going to summit on time. You shoulder the bag and, turning your back on the view, return to the path, now well-trodden. Training your eye on what is directly ahead, you commence your slow and measured march.

At one point, you aren’t sure when, there seems to be only one well- defined trail which leads ever more alarmingly upwards. Some stretches are so steep, you have to pause every few steps to catch your breath and rub at the stitch which is a needle pricking your side. Progress is slow and halting. You stop to rest as the tree cover thickens, grateful for the shade, and notice a woman’s glove dropped just to the side of the path. You stoop and pick it up, noting the softness of the wool but how cold it is to the touch, as if it slipped from the hand that wore it many years ago. You can’t explain why, but you’d like to ease that glove into your pocket and rest your hand in its familiar warmth as you embark on this final stretch. Longingly you place it on a boulder edging the path, perhaps its owner will find it on their return and think of you.

Trees begin to mass, from straggling pines and firs to a forest of evergreens: Der Flüsterwald; you are here at last. After the rolling fields, the babbling brook and the mossy rocks, this is a place of impenetrable dark where only shadows seem permitted to grow beneath the tree canopy. You half wonder if this was listed on the early waymarker as a warning: avoid! rather than as a scenic spot to be incorporated into any itinerary. There’s no way back now though, so you begin to clamber over the roots that rupture the earth like broken twisted limbs. 

The ground is claggy here, cleaving to your feet and soon your trusty boots are slathered in mud. Each step begins with a supreme effort of the will, a heave at the knee, a slow drawn out squelch as your shoe peels away from the mud and then you take the step before beginning all over again with the next foot. You can’t go on like this. Slowly you unlace the boots, noting how well-worn they are; one sole is half hanging off, the other suffers a long gash on its wounded side. It’s time to hang them up. As you drape them over a branch, tying the laces in a knot so the boots hang down, you notice a little shoe just a few feet away. Compared to your encrusted and creased old boots, this is tiny and new: a child’s first walking shoe, somehow separated from its pair. You stoop once more and pick up this little item. It sits like a blue bird’s egg in the cup of your hand, cracked open at the top for the little foot to slide in. It is indescribably light and the feel of its little weight in your hand causes you to weep. Sentimental old fool you think, wiping the tears away. 

You are about to hang it by its laces next to your own, when you hear or half hear a laugh, somewhere up ahead. It is like a child is playing hide and seek; peeking out from behind a tree, unable to stifle a laugh as they see the seeker approach. Happily, you pocket the lost item: the owner must be just ahead of you; you can return the shoe and perhaps the little tot will help you to the top, a helping hand would be just the thing right now. 

Perhaps the laughing child is quicker than you, or they have run on to another hiding place when you took that tumble and hurt your leg back there. And then you remember the name of the forest: The Whispering Wood. Could the child’s laughter have been just a trick, played on you by the forest? Regardless of the reason, the child is not to be found and you pause in the thickest part of the wood. Your water bottle is empty and your provisions long reduced to wrappers. In fact, there is nothing you need in the bag at all; even the map is redundant as you near the mountain top- it would be impossible to go wrong from here. You zip up the bag and hang it from another tree. With nothing but the map inside, it caves in on itself, a hollowed-out form. Divested of boots and bag, you turn to regard the path you've taken once more, wiping a sleeve across your old watery eyes. Looking back, you wish you could have seen your mum and dad just one last time. 

But the wood is not called Der Flüsterwald for nothing, as just up ahead you hear snatches of their voices in the rustling of the trees: 

Lead the way!

Off you go!

They beckon to you from just a little further away; no, you can’t get lost, they’re guiding you after all. And yes, it is hard, this final climb, with everything aching and each step only seeming to gain you a small stretch of ground. But, reaching for the roots as handles to heave yourself up, it is possible and you progress, aiming like an arrow for that window in the wood: the sky, the great beyond.

And you have made it; you have reached the summit at last! All these countless small steps have led you to this point: the achievement of your goal. But somehow, your eye is less trained on what lies above than on what has gone before: the land you have traversed, the places from which you’ve come. From up here, you can see the scale and reach: the lie of your land. Far in the distance, you can locate the place you’ve come to call home. Spotting landmarks, a distant hill, the blue tinge of a lake, you stretch out your arm and trace your finger across the land. Somewhere over there, just beyond the horizon, is where it all began: the place of your birth.

Places give way to space: here is the free wind, buffeting and bowling, teasing your silver hairs into one last dance, coaxing a final blush of colour to your old pale cheeks, till you laugh at their playful bids to make you lie down and do as you're told.

You lie down in the meadow. There is no need to go to the summit cross; here is your journey’s end. Grass tickles your face and an ant clings to the stalk closest to your cheek. You feel its tiny body pass onto the finger you extend; it climbs up, determined and brave. Up and up: so small, so strong, so resolute. Defying gravity, resisting the wind, it climbs to the vertiginous summit of your fingertip, perusing the world from its vantage point. 

You watch it too, this tiny ant who has only you and the infinite sky for company. Here, right here, you are the highest things in all of heaven and earth. One ant and one human being, both borne aloft, sharing the immensity of life: so big, so small, so immeasurably beautiful and impossible to hold; this life which you have climbed, every step of its wonderful way. 

And so, you rise

and rise

and rise.