Snakes in the valleys, in their hair – by Ben Walter
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1.
Once, I was walking on a ridge and lightning was sparkling peaks to the east and the west, while a white spear of cloud hurtled straight for us. We found the top of the mountain, felt its texture through our boots, stared at the views, then turned and ran through an explosion of rain that was dark in the fury of its clouds, that swapped the sweat from our faces with its own jealous wet. Going was the only thing to do, but it still felt a terrible idea, because we’d have to leave the top of the mountain. There were still views. We could still see.
2.
Summits are parties that celebrate themselves. Have we been invited, or are we just intruding, sneaking through the door to sit awkward on a stone couch? It feels like we’re meant to be there; that if we’re wrong, the mountain will tumble down and become a hole in the ground, or turn inside out and blush fresh stone against the quivering wind. If we’re mistaken, we’ll have to learn a new language, a new religion. We’re tiny elements in a work we can claim no credit for, but we never want to leave. Boulders carve new bones in our legs and leaves press skin against our backs; it feels like we should sit there till the end of our time and then keep sitting. The perspective clutches at our faces. We can’t see enough of it. We look north – there’s that mountain range with the lake nestled in its gut. East, south, west. Back to the north. If we could look in all these directions at once, the dilemma would still be there. There is nothing like this. Perhaps if we were sitting in a satellite looking at the earth; but this is just a higher mountain.
Perhaps all this is how some people look at a painting – but I have never looked at a painting this way.
3.
On a different walk, we followed an old road stumbling over rapids of scrub, snuck through a straggle of forest and across a narrow creek. We pinballed past tussocks up a sunlit ridge, casting long lines through the scrub and trying to hook a good route through the mess. At the top, the evening carried on. The sun ducked its head, shy. The views were an audience surrounding us and watching. If it had all been bundled up in cloud, we wouldn’t be stuck, taped to the peak. But we could see, so we couldn’t leave.
If we could, we’d split our souls to stay on a mountain forever, while still going on with our lives. We’d walk down the ridge towards the painted specks of cars and at the same time, we’d sit on the peak with the breeze assessing our hair. We’d drive into work at the office, scanning our papers and seeing lines of white quartzite rock. We’d eat dinner with our husband or wife and taste old sandwiches and nuts with the plateau stretching out across the table, countless dolerite boulders climbing over each other. We’d play with our children, but wouldn’t see their faces.
4.
We’ve been sitting on peaks for days and weeks, becoming part of the summit as other walkers have plodded over us, stamping on our knees and our faces. The mountains grow a little taller in pinnacles of hunched bodies. We carry stones in our mouths, reeds in our hair; rub dirt into our eyes. Someone said they had come up with the solution. Jump! they said. We leapt off the edges of cliffs and broke our arms and ribs, lay bleeding and crying, but nothing changed. The solution didn’t come. We’re still sitting hopelessly on top of the hills with the wind trickling against our skin as the panes of sunlight warm us. We have not gotten up. There’s food in the bag and another layer of warmth. The light is falling, turning gold. The hours are frowning and the day is rolling over. We should leave – the clock’s hands are dropping and tapping on our shoulders. We should stay – none of this matters.
We are still.
The peak to the east is still there.
The lake is waiting in the valley.
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Image: Sylvia Yang - Unsplash
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