It is unwise for one to ramble over these mountains at any time, unless he is prepared to move with as much certainty as if he were solving a geometrical problem. A cloud may at any moment settle around him, and unless he has a compass and knows which way to go, he will be lost at once…To travel there with security, a person must know his bearings at every step, be it fair weather or foul. Thoreau, Journal, 7/8/58
Dry summer has stretched into dry fall, and today in the mountains, the much touted leaves show drought’s stress – colors are muted and many leaves are blotched with brown and crisp even before they fall to the ground. So, this morning’s rain carries with it a small sigh of relief; the ground and the woods breathe a little more easily for a while.
And I am on the edge of small absence as the pattering stops and the shallow puddles glisten a bit in the gray morning light; I have a few hours before an appointment, and I scan my map for a trail that fits those few hours. Then, having settled on an out-and-back to Low’s Bald Spot, where, if it clears, I’ll look up into the Great Gulf and at the neat pyramid of Mt. Adams and the shambling mass of its neighbor, Mt. Madison, I fill water bottles, lace up my shoes and set out.
Mts. Madison and Adams from the other side.
How can the 8 a.m. woods be so dark? I wonder as I quick-step around faintly-shining stones. A slight breeze shakes secondary rain from the leaves; I am wet with leftover drops and, soon, with work. A long corridor of climbing stretches ahead into the gray wherever, and I drop my gaze to the ten-foot puzzle always before me and go up. It happens then: the whole little enterprise of motion and focus that is me meshes; whatever lies behind me or more than 10 feet ahead, stays there. I am perfectly present. It feels like rain after a long dry spell. “Ah,” says self, and I realize that I am smiling.
The Spot, which truly is a low one amid the high peaks, requires a hand-aided scramble up its final rocks, and, in the now-thin woods, day has broken open with light. I am, I realize, about to get more riches of reward. Clouds roll up out of the valley to my north, and then, to my west Adams and Madison ghost through the clouds. They seem impossibly tall and distant, though, if I were to abandon plans, I could be there in a few hours. Then, a giant appears – the ridge that leads up to Nelson Crag is so close it could fall on me, if the earth were to abandon principle and tumble to new arrangement. And the bright white tatters of valley cloud keep rising, keep catching the here-and-gone-and-here sun that has found a slot of blue over the Carters. Not far above the winds of a front are calling all these clouds to change, but here the breeze is faint, and even though I am wet and cooling and it is fall, I can sit back on this fresh-washed rock and watch the whole aerial show – more smiling sans thoughts.
In another season (coming soon), Mts. Adams and Madison, from Low’s Bald Spot
If a day, an enterprise, a quest, is truly blest, the way back will be equal to the way out. Just so on this morning, where somehow the wide and wild visions of cloud and mountains shrink again to the composure of the immediate and its stones and footpath. Rhythm sets up and I match it with chuffs of expressed air – all the way down I sing wordlessly and dance over and on the stones.
