Tuesday, March 30, 2010
notes on coming down off the mountain, so to speak
Free writing on coming down off of the proverbial mountain and literal glacier. Back in 2005? I just bawled the whole way up, cause a scene--it was embarrassing, but I still couldn't stop. I was terrified to be left alone to climb that mountain alone, and too out of shape and timid to keep up with the group. The trail started steep, wet and rocky. There was a lot of scrambling, and my arms were weak. I thought about all that was waiting for me back home: ridiculously unhealthy relationship, a job I couldn't appreciate, and living scared of everything everyday. It's no wonder I considered the slick edge more than once, more out of intellectual curiosity than actual hopelessness. Like, wanting real hopelessness, instead of this whiny dissatisfaction. I climbed alone, snotty, weepy, wobbly. Up into the treeline, where the trail became brown packed dirt between scrub; the guide came back down to me for awhile to be patronizing and incredulous at all the things I couldn't do or was afraid to try (like driving and riding a bike). He spoke in my direction about just doing it and jumping in and how happier it made him, then left in a cloud of self-congratulatory stink to rejoin the other hikers, declaring me cured. My anger got me up most of the next mile. To the scree, with it's gradual sliding hills and marmots, nestled next to small scrubby plants. The wind picked up by then, cold. There was rain and the gusts were enough to roll the smooth round stones beneath my shoes. I stopped to get my rain gear out. Crying AGAIN. I could see the veils of rain just above me on the trail. The group had been visible for awhile, once the trail had opened up above the trees, but the storm hid them. I almost sat down at one point. The wind and rain, the ice in the rain, slipping, miles above the ice. And pissed. At the guide, at the group, at myself. Damn I am just scared of everything up on that rock.