So, I was sweating, and building in anticipation to the peak of my day, my hike, the mountain, and my mood. Happily huffing and puffing all the way up the hill. Occasionally I’d lose track of the trail; the only marks were smudges of faded red paint on a rock or tree. I got off once or twice but not far. Often there were other, more obvious, and also more beautiful, markers. Someone told me they’re called “karens”, but I have no idea how it’s spelled. I added rocks to many of them, enjoying the progressive contribution of each hiker.
Just to remind, I was alone this entire hike. So up I went, crossing a stream or two, scrambling up large rock faces, passing through magical tunnels of Aspens and moss. At one point I found this sweet little miniature. I think you’ll agree the scale could be huge, but the photo outlined a few feet.
Here are a few other photos of scenes on the way up:
I arrived at one open ledge which offered a great view of the surrounding valleys, but I only paused briefly. Somewhere along the way I wondered if the name Blueberry Mt. meant what it said. The answer was “yes”. Near the summit I found them. I ate a few dozen. They were sparse, the season was over. Eating those berries from that mountain, which I had labored to scale, gave their nourishment resonance, linking me to the mountain, validating me through those molecules of blue. I was scaling the mountain in me.
I had to round the summit before I reached it, which built the anticipation. I passed through one exquisite moss path before breaking through to the top, a bulging belly of rock with a huge boulder flaunting itself as the peak.
I had lunch up there, took a nap, played duets with the wind. (the whistle through the nearby trees harmonized with the flute of my mouth and water bottle… I guess you had to be there) I felt deeply satisfied to be at a peak, in my day, my life, this mountain. There is something about this type of “high” that always draws me to it. I don’t reward myself enough with it. I’ve only done this a half dozen times in my life. And each time I know its portent, its
depth, its height.
An hour later I decide to leave. For a few minutes I really panicked. I couldn’t find the path down. There were no clear markers. I found it with some concentration and patience.
The way down proved treacherous. Many of the slopes were gravelly. I slipped at least a dozen times, thankfully relying on my hiking sticks to catch me every time. Finely aware of my aloneness, I trod carefully. I didn’t want to ruin a great day with a serious accident. An hour or so later I completed my little journey back to the parking lot where I had begun 5 hours earlier. Along the way I found a few artsy, architectural scenes to share through photos.
The rest of the day and evening I spent relaxing in Lake Placid, where I savored a hearty dinner while watching summer tourists saunter along the streets.