The Old Man of the Mountain

Hi friends! My name is Kameron Shayne, and I’m from New York. I’ve been writing on Medium for three years, but now I’ve said goodbye to Medium completely and decided to fully embrace Vocal Media. This is my first article here, and I hope you’ll enjoy it and give it lots of love.

The harsh midsummer sun had begun to dip and was approaching the western horizon. A soft, pleasant breeze slid soundlessly across the mountain col. The firs, the gently chirping birds, and even the rocks seemed to rejoice in the gradual receding of the relentless heat. The high surrounding peaks, the low valleys and plains, and the distant sea radiated all with the warmest tints the human eye can perceive.

Two friends and I witnessed this alluring scene from a vantage point some way downslope from the ridge crest. We had just ended up there after a long day trekking through the pitiless incalescence of the Greek summer. We were soaked in sweat, and our muscles ached with the sweet pain of exercise. The strenuous walk had come to an end at last; the car was situated only a few minutes away. So we decided to stop at that beautiful viewpoint and enjoy the sunset while smoking a fat joint.

The lulling scent of burning marijuana, blended with the fragrances of bromhidrosis, thyme, and oregano, pervaded the sweltering air. Our spirits were mollified, and our moods cheered as we solemnly and silently began to inhale the fumes. The quiet felt even more gracious with every puff… until it was suddenly interrupted by the clacking sound of dislodged stones.

All three of us turned our gazes toward the origin of the noise. A dark figure had just emerged over the distant purview and was now briskly loping down the trail toward our position. As it got closer, I discerned that it belonged to an old man.

He wore a long-sleeved shirt and trousers of the blackest coloration. His worn, black boots were white with limestone dust. His head bore dense, white hair and a short beard. His complexion was tanned like grilled beef and wrinkled like a plowed field, yet it beamed with almost uncanny vitality. His bloodshot, contracted eyes suggested he was stoned, but he seemed extraordinarily alert at the same time. A cigarette hung from his mouth, and smoke wisps frolicked around his aged face.

“Evening, lads,” he said as he came to a halt two meters before us, after a few moments of quietly examining us.

“Good evening, old chap,” we all voiced simultaneously.

“What brings you around these parts?” he then asked in a sort of demanding tone.

“Just doing some trekking; climbed to the top of the mountain,” I replied, pointing at the summit that loomed imposingly over the landscape.

“Bravo!” he exclaimed enthusiastically, and continued wistfully: “I’ve climbed it hundreds of times; nay, thousands! Back in the day, I used to go up there almost every second day… But now it’s been a few years since I did it last. I always say I will, but I always postpone it. Maybe I could climb tomorrow…” — long pause — “…I must be getting old.”

“How old are you, if I may ask?” I inquired.

“Damned if I know,” he said with genuine puzzlement. “Ninety-eight? Ninety-nine? They said I was ninety-five some years ago. But how many years ago that was, I can’t remember… I’m old anyhow.”

“You’re pretty agile for your age,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, the mountains keep me young,” he affirmed.

Meanwhile, he had finished his cigarette and lit a new one with the still-burning end of the previous before tossing the stub onto the ground.

“And you smoke quite a lot, too, eh?” I noted.

“Hm? Oh yeah,” he said casually. “Always have, since I was a boy, four packs a day. What? Oh, those doctors of yours in the city, yes? It’s harmful, they say. It kills you, no? Bullshit. What do they know? I was already old before they were ejected from their mothers’ pussies. Smoking has kept me hale, too. I’m telling you.”

The joint was then in my possession, and I was about to pass it around. I had noticed the air of familiarity with which he stared at it, so I extended my arm toward him. “Want a toke?” I asked.

“Nonono,” he snapped disdainfully, waving a splayed, creased hand. “I don’t smoke that shit. I grow my own good stuff. I don’t have any with me right now, unfortunately. If I see you again around here, I will treat you to some proper cannabis. Aw, that crap you new generations get high on…”

“Where do you plant it?” I pried.

He sneered. “Over there,” he said, pointing vaguely at the vast woods. “Near my shelter.”

“Do you often stay up here in the mountains overnight?”

“Huh? The mountain is my home. I live here permanently. I have my shack; I have my animals; I have my stove; I have my weed. There isn’t much I need from the village. I only go down there to visit once or twice a month.”

“Wow, those goats require a lot of attention, eh?”

“Hm, the goats? No, they mostly do fine on their own. I live up here because I like it… and to avoid the granny, my wife. You don’t know what a pain in the ass she is.”

“I see. She grumbles, yes?”

“She’s a fine old woman,” he sort of apologized. “But you know, we’ve lived under the same roof for eighty years… It’s a long, long time. Only life itself is bearable for that long. At the end of the day, she’s also better off rid of my presence.”

“And what do you eat? I understand you have meat and milk, but is that sufficient?”

“I hate milk. I only eat meat. Vegetables, fruits, bread… I hate them, too; always had. I’ve been eating only meat throughout my whole life. Well, sometimes I may pluck a few mushrooms to garnish it for variety. Nowadays, I go to the village only to sell milk and buy cigarettes, and to see my great-great-grandchildren. The oldest one is pregnant. I will soon become a great-great-great-grandad.”

“You must have plenty of offspring, right?”

“Phew, I don’t even know how many anymore. I’ve had fourteen kids; around a hundred grandkids; onwards, God knows. Some are in the village; some in the city; others in Athens; quite a few in America; in Australia, Germany, England… all over the place. And that’s not counting the bastards. I’ve executed my purpose in spades: my seed is spread all around the world. Now I can live for myself.”

By then, he was smoking his fourth or fifth consecutive cigarette, and our joint was long gone. The sun had disappeared behind the western ridges, and only the cap of the summit was still illuminated. It was about time to get going.

“It was nice talking with you, old chap. But we’ll have to move on now. It’s getting dark. Have a good night,” we said, lifting our backpacks.

“Sure, God be with you,” he nasalized. A tinge of disappointment showed on his aged features. “Come back for a chat sometime,” he added before he turned around and set off, striding toward the forest.