The Black Mountain

The invisible fingers of the cool morning breeze played the leafy trees as a lonely traveler moved through long grass coated with heavy dew. The sky was overcast, although occasional burst of sun provided a pleasant relief from the cold and wet. It all began so well for James. He actually loved these overcast misty summer mornings, adding a certain mystery to countryside and with the hope of hot sun later on. His boots were a problem though. His attempts to keep dry his well worn boots were wasted by his morning expedition through these long grassy fields.

As James passed a small woodland by a quiet town and crossed over a small bridge over a train track he soon reached the summit of a hill, the highest point overlooking the Welsh country. He then walked down a winding path where it narrowed and rose up on both sides into an embankment filled with medium size oaks who's tendril like roots burst through the earth and dangled menacingly towards the road.

For a long time James had wanted to see some shooting stars again, the last time was when he was a boy, so he had decided to do so while camping out the night before in a place located within a wide expansive valley in a small hamlet, distinctive for a looming 800 meter hill that protruded from the country like the back of a crashed spaceship. The night had been cold, but clear, and keeping open the flap of the tent in the moonlight he spotted four silent shooting stars that like a flash emerged from the night sky and disappeared seconds later.

The next morning was cold and as James had his mind on walking around twenty miles he ate a handful of nuts and packed up and left the caravan site early.

Passing the small pub he'd also visited for an hour the day before, up a slight hill he reached a gate surrounded by sheep on the other side of it, except one, who had found a gap in the mesh fence and was baying desperately. James left him alone.

By the time James had walked up a steeper and longer climb uphill, his food and water were already running low. While sitting on a ridge he ate a small bowl of oats with milk and nibbled at some raisins as a flock of sheep excitedly rushed by, some stopping and turning back looking in desperation for their young - glancing nervously at the human.

James' nightmare begun when he could see the gravel path over the long mountain top for miles. The weather was unpredictable up here and every few minutes he either had to put his bottle green zip up raincoat on to fight off the quick bursts of showers before the sun was back again. Five bikers passed James by and wild horses ate at the brown grass.

The Black Mountain had it's own weather system and James had not anticipated its power. As was often the case, occasionally other people walked by with singular 'hi's' or sometimes said nothing at all. It was gloomy up here and he felt like a fool. And such was his desperation as the miles piled on and on that at the first trig point, indicating the highest point, he stopped to look at the map.

The wind whipped and howled and dark clouds emerged as quick as airplanes threatening more showers, and heavier periods of it. On this side of the mountain, what James presumed was over half the way at around 8 1/2 miles of walking across the Black mountain, to the right were woodlands and small villages and towns of Herefordshire down below, where in small village lanes it was said the ghost of Charles Seidel resided.

The wild horses were so impressive each with its unique color, even though some were terribly thin. But James pressed on knowing that both food rations and water was dangerously low and James groaned when he walked around the crest of a hill to be met with an expanse of mountain as far as could be seen.

Without knowing when this hell would end his burning feet kept walking until the path stopped at a five meter length puddle of deep mud. He caught up two female hikers who had managed to leap over, giggling when they reached the other side. He grabbed the straps of his 8kg rucksack and pulled them tighter. His right ankle still hurt from a tendon break two years ago, but leapt over it as graceful as a racehorse racing the grand national.

Large stones set by man created an easy path through the deep marsh and it was obvious that this was the iconic part of the trail, 'but how were the stones moved here?' thought James, 'Giants?' 'Aliens?' 'gigantic wooden rolling pins?'. The work was done by some thoughtful souls. Unsung heroes. And yet, James was still hungry, so it hurt to breathe, each step painful and wild horses turning into delicious hamburgers before his very eyes. He'd been saving a handful of nuts and the water 'how wonderful the taste of food is!' he thought.

The path continued up and up and turned into what seemed to be the entrance of a beach and James was half expecting the sea to rise from the valley below as he got over the brow. Passing the girls from before, without saying a word he looked down for any sign of the acorn etched into a stone tablet - and there like a halo it was there on the right and before he knew it he was hobbling down the back of the mountain like an old turtle and then into open air where his feet could go no further. A monstrous whipping wind blew across this side and still there was mountain. Tired, hungry and miserable James looked for his one out, but saw none, and the signs for the path were gone as were the dying embers of his life.

Like two angels, he saw a couple of hikers walking along a road with full waterproofs on as it started to rain heavily. And desperately he headed towards them. The Black mountain had defeated him because he had underestimated it like a gambler entering the doors of a grand Las Vegas Casino and the experience did change him. 'Hello!...hello there!' and the couple turned around and he was met with two smiles and four pairs of kind eyes.