It was my first real hike alone, in
the Whites. Admittedly it wasn't Washington, or even Lafayette, but ascending fifteen-hundred
feet was not exactly easy for this novice.
The path itself was just a little
shy of two miles long from trailhead to the summit, and I enjoyed the early
easy-going, although the bear claw imprint on an ash tree supplied adrenaline
enough.
As the incline increased, I felt my
heartbeat do the same, and as it increased even more, my backpack and my
breathing got a little heavy. By the time I reached the top, I was literally a
mess; sweat had soaked my t-shirt through and through.
But there atop the granite features
they call Indian Head, I could see the notch below in all its mirroring the
humble genius of an ancient glacier's flow. I thought of subsequent Abenaki
tribes who traveled through that very valley giving thanks and praying to the silent peaks above them.
And then I saw the spirit of our
age emerge from out behind a thicket. He was carrying a can of beer and smoking
a cigarette, so cool there wasn't any sign of sweat about him. "Hey
man," he laughed, "don't go spiriting away my valuable point of view."
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