Hikes 48, 49 and 50: The Sound of Silence

Standing in the presence of a mountain, its menacing stature looming beautifully terribly, the human heart rings at a resonant frequency capable of tearing apart both flesh and bone. It tolls with a fury matched only by the imposing rocky heights and its bell tower spires. What is a mountain? The bones of a giant? The world placed atop a golden turtle? A geologic anomaly caused by the subduction of lithospheric plates? Perhaps it’s little more than an old tin can being eaten by a goat. I suppose it is, like time and speed, a matter of relativity.

Friday began with a short, unassuming and inconsequential hike from Ramona Falls towards Timberline Lodge. I hiked through rocky beds and crossed the Sandy River. I was joyfully reunited with the woods and continued onward through forest and up a trail that looked very much like Spencer Butte. I grew and shrank with each bite of the mycelium fruit.

Left or Right?

As a black sequined curtain slowly lowered itself over the sun I burst forth from the familiar territory and stood trembling before Mount Vesuvius. It is here that I set up camp, knowing full well the fate that awaited me as I rested in Herculaneum. The pyroclastic explosion buried me in an ashen tomb. Even now a hollow mould of my body rests under the debris.

The morning brought relief from the horrible dreams of volcanic asphyxiation and I packed quickly, anxious to begin the arduous ascent to Paradise Park. Green and fresh, the trees once again welcomed me with a prickly embrace and I slowly stepped stepped one foot in front of the other. Up up up. Up up up. I jealously watched the effortless ascent of a fly.

But I speak too much. I turned this way and that. I lost the trail, I found the trail. Snow crowded the path and threatened to swallow me up. Finally the destination was reached in spite of me. I was treated to a feast. My engorged eyes consumed every flower, every rock, every ice crystal and every blade of grass. The day ended and the ocular snow melted in the sleeping bag warm.

My final day’s trek led me to the summit of Bald Mountain. Covered in clouds, Mount Hood took on yet another identity. Mount Sinai swirled and stormed obscured from view, and I questioned the unquestionable. No commandments were given, no glow was imparted. All I heard from the raging peak was silence. From silence I learned. From silence I grew. Words words, failing words! God has given me something far more valuable. Silence.

And yet here I am filling the page. I’ve gained nothing. Like Gilgamesh, I’ve returned without a boon; it was taken by a snake as I bathed.