PEAK

Punching through the last bit of unforgiving brush with the help of a battered but not beaten machete blade, Joe was hit for the first time with the sheer magnitude of the task at hand. The mountain itself was hardly a contender for a behemoth, paling in comparison to the greats. Annapurna. K2. Everest. Thousands of years ago, when the plates shifted underground, forcing mount modest into existence, it seemed a promising up and comer. Joe catches his breath and hydrates as he sets his sights on the summit; a nearly laughable 1,600 feet from his grasp. Nearly.

When ‘Josey,’ as his mother lovingly called him, even against his wishes as he crested the hill to his thirties, summitted Mount Gorgonio in the Sierra Nevada range a year ago, he was born again. Months before his summitting ‘Old Greyback’ as the locals call it, she gifted him a watch for Christmas. Her intention was only to help put an end to his inability to be anywhere on time, she thought a timepiece that fit his drab style while sprinkling in some functionality to his wardrobe would be a surefire fix. Joe continued to be late for things. In fact, the watch seemed to worsen his tardiness to grown-up requirements while encouraging on-time arrival to the outdoors. The device had piqued his interest in climbing when he discovered it boasted an altimeter. Standing on Gorgonio’s peak at 11,503 feet, battling the atmosphere for air, he felt a calm like nothing before. Joe lived a relatively easy life. He wanted for little and was content working for a small photography company where he’d occasionally be sent a town or two over to take pictures of young baseball players posing as if they were first round picks in the draft. Something was missing within his core and he knew it and it ate at him whenever his guard was down. Amidst his pounding heart, a stillness overtook him, and he vowed at that moment to complete the Seven Summits: a rite of passage for climbers. A vow his father tried to dissuade on the coattails of self-preservation.

“You should take up cigarettes, instead. Or maybe text only while you’re driving,” he’d say with that wry smile. A smile meant to diffuse his concern for his son’s well-being with a whisp of whimsey. Even as Joe would systematically, and gently, try to relate to his father that it was self-preservation that ushered him to the footsteps of such a venture, he felt himself flailing. Struggling to find purchase on his father’s icy ideals. A never-ending ascent to acceptance.

“You’re resisting this just to resist it,” Joe fired back with a wry smile of the next generation, “the same way I resisted broccoli, even though it’s good for me.”

“You can’t fall off of broccoli and break your neck.”

“And you bought me a bicycle for my eighth birthday…you reckless savage of a man.”

A giggle escapes his father, bursting through his steely focus on a window lock in need of repair. “Your mother is terrified of you climbing mountains.”

“My mother is terrified of google.”

A laugh now. But the fear hasn’t lifted. Lurking just beneath the surface, in the echo of the laugh. Behind the thin sheet of tissue paper that composes it, a terrific, snarling monster of fear. Joe knows he’s afraid his son will die on a mountain, alone and hurt.

Ignoring the fact that the humble elevation allowed him roughly to make out the condition of the flora atop the peak, even without binoculars, there was a simple truth waiting patiently to be addressed. Reaching the summit and returning to sea level, safely, will prove quite the trial.

Joe had found out about this spot while searching for another. Originally, he planned to hike to the top of more prominent, well known mountains, for his purposes. As he floundered about, obviously lost, his frustration got the best of him so he did what his father would never do. He stopped and asked for some help.

While the sweet, older woman behind the counter seemingly couldn’t have even been paid to tear her gaze away from the television, although Joe was tempted to offer, she told him he was off by about thirty miles, that he had taken a wrong turn before some bridge and that he was in for another two hours of driving to backtrack on account of the winding roads.

“Is there nothing else nearby that would do?” Joe asked, a bit defeated.

“No, sir.” She replied, gaze fixed forever on the tube.

Joe took a moment to regroup and began coming to grips with the notion that this day was a loss.

“Best bet is to head back. We got nothing to climb around here but ladders. You can’t get up to the top of the Glacier without wings, so I’d turn around, young man. Still some daylight left.”

“Where’s the Glacier?”

For the first time, she shared her gaze with Joe. Her eyes were hazel and weathered. Kindness was present behind them but made room for concern in the moment.

“You can’t summit the Glacier,” she grunted. “Folks have lost their lives.”

“Where is it?” Joe asked again.

The Glacier stood prominent in front of him. Unashamed of the lives it had claimed. Unfettered. Neutral. It was no Hillary Step by any means; a forty-foot sheer rock face standing between Everest enthusiasts and the summit, but this relatively pocket-sized climb boasted no easy starting points or alternate routes.

A caravan of storm clouds rumbled and galloped towards Joe and he knew he would soon have to manage through rain.

He took one more moment to appreciate the awe of the sight in front of him as the sky slowly grew darker and a wind tested the resolve of his jacket, tilting his head toward to sky, acquainting himself with the cool, heavy air greeting him. With a nod, he marched to where the flat ground gave way to a steep incline close enough to a ninety-degree angle one would need tools to discern the former from the latter. Up he went.

His boots were a hybrid between a hiker and a baseball cleat and they gripped the ground well. Problems arose when he came to a spot of bare rock, but he managed to traverse it without incident, even as the first few raindrops hit his jacket. The sound of the patter as jarring as a morning alarm. The rain fell in a heavy, rapid progression. Hanging onto a breached root with his right hand, he threw his hood over his head, tightening the drawstring in one foul swoop. A quick glance over his shoulder against his better judgement managed to cripple his resolve for a second. His progress hadn’t been relative to the soreness in his left knee. Joe kept as close to the face of the Glacier as physics would allow. The wind was surprisingly strong. It howled from the sky, seemed to be sent down maliciously, directly at Joe. Aiming for him. The tail of a great beast, swatting an unwanted fly.

The summit of the Glacier felt more like a firm sponge after an hour of steady rain and the sound of Joes boot atop it pulled a twisted chuckle from somewhere within him as he dropped his backpack and collapsed. Smiling at the sky as it saturated his very being.

He was freezing. Baffled the rain hadn’t met him as snow. A quick consult with his watch told him the temperature was forty degrees. Perfect weather for a solo climb.

Always choosing the hardest route.

He could hear his father saying it. See his face. The wry smile and all. The surgical way he finds Joes’ core with a warm, gentle weapon. The truth was, he was right. Even so, as he lay soaking in the rain, he knew his father would be proud of what he’d done. If he were just lying next to him now. Maybe when he hears about it, if the details are crisp enough. Then he’ll be proud.

Only he won’t hear about it. Or maybe he would in some grand, mythical way, Joe considered briefly. No way to know.

As the sky slowly deepened in its shade of gray, Joe slid his ratty daypack across the mud. From it, he produced a rugged Urn, capable of withstanding the rigors of climbing. He clutched the ashes of his father’s body tight against his chest, shielding it from the wind and rain and rose to his feet. Picking the brightest spot in the sky, he headed toward it directly, covering the twenty-five feet of sloppy ground until he reached the edge, opposite the edge where he arrived.

Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he adjusted his posture, feeling suddenly that he’s far underdressed for the occasion. His dad would understand. Suits don’t do very well in the rain and mud. Joe looked at the Urn in his soaked, gritty grasp and felt a swell of emotion rising. This was expected. A loved one reduced in physical form to dust in ones hand is enough to do it.

Resolving to keep the ceremony to a minimum, Joe placed his hand on the lid and took a deep breath.

“You are always a part of me, dad. I love you.”

Removing the lid, Joe swiftly upended the Urn and watched as the ashes caught a friendly draft that carried them over the earth below, rising gently like a flock of songbirds towards the fleeting bright spot on the horizon.

He returned the Urn to his pack and grabbed his camp shovel. Though tears occasionally fell from his eyes to mingle with the rain on his coat, his soul felt peaceful and full of love.

The hole he dug was only a foot deep and half of that in width but would pack a punch. From his Poppins-esque pack, Joe grabbed two stacks of cash. Ten grand per stack. It was wrapped in saran wrap and he had drawn a little smiley face on the top. He placed the money in the ground without skipping a beat and covered it completely. A few pats on the mud with his shovel for good measure.

From his pocket he grabbed a small black notebook. Another quick consult with his watch told him his current coordinates which he jotted down on the first blank page. Under which he wrote, as an afterthought:

‘Kindness creates kindness.’

As he tucked his notebook away preparing to his descent, the sky started to clear. The rain ceased to fall and the wind relented. Just like that.

Joe took a moment to look around in confusion. As if someone had flipped a switch. An owl drifted across his field of view, gliding across the landscape like a satellite, unwavering. He watched the raptor for a while, eye level with it. Equal with it.

He descended the mountain cleanly. Slowly. Savoring it.

The battle through the brush on the way out seemed much easier. He felt rested.

Joes black book, weatherproofed heavily in a double-wrapped plastic bag, found itself tethered to a worn, huggable tree standing guard at what seemed to him the closest thing resembling a trailhead.

One down, he briefly thought to himself, fearing it might deter him from continuing this madness. On the contrary, Joe felt as energized as he could ever remember feeling and took an extra deep inhale, glimpsing the colors of the forest now as if through a filter. Bursting. Beaming.