I was sitting at home reading Tolstoy when my roommate came
in and asked me if I wanted to go and hike Monte Txindoki. 15 minutes later I
was in a car traveling out of the city, not really sure whether I was going to
be in France or Spain by night fall. I’ve
learned to stop asking; I’ve learned to stop caring so much;
but most importantly, I’ve learned how to move—how to go—how to travel— and how to do it all so relentlessly.
It was 11 degrees centigrade with down pouring rain. I wasn’t sure
why my roommate chose the gloomiest day of the week to go hiking, but that
challenge was all the more attractive to me. After every hike, I buy a
coke-a-cola and drink it while taking a hot shower. The refreshing rush of that
sweet, cold sugar, the raucous sound of the shower tuning out the ongoing
world, and the simple, exhausted thought of “I did it.”
The whole drive to Monte Txinkoki, I knew that a cold
coke-a-cola and a hot shower were waiting for me at home. On the drive we
listened to the radio, the rain, and the familiar french voice spouting from
the GPS, until we arrived outside of a quaint hotel & café in Zaldibia. I wrapped my camera as best as I could in one
of my spare shirts before stuffing it deep into my bag.
We walked along the road till we reached the arrow pointing
us towards Txindoki. The rain was endless as we hiked out of Zaldibia, but we
were still warm—we still had that remaining comfort. My roommate had told
me during the drive that this wasn’t quite as steep or challenging as
our last hike to Monte Gorbea, but as we climbed higher towards the clouds and
our clothes became more and more soaked with rain—we both knew that this hike was going
to be much harder.
Within 30 minutes, we had both fallen a few times. The mud
and the slippery rocks were taking their toll, even with a slower pace. It was
agitating, and little was said between us except a few french and spanish
expletives. The greasy and jagged path dissolved below us into verdant, lush
grass. Rain had covered my glasses’ lenses, and my jeans were completely drenched. I took a
moment to wipe my glasses, and to stare at the blurry giant before me: the only
way I could really tolerate the entirety of it.
The wind and the rain had picked up tremendously. We stuck
to the fence posts to keep our footing, but the true climb was undeniably soon.
We didn’t dare look beyond the few feet in front of us, where the
rocks, puddles, and mud waited for us to make a faulty step. We reached a
turning point in the fence-line, where a boulder reached out over the cliff
into the clouded unfathomable. I was just hoping that my camera wouldn’t get
soaked, even after wrapping it in my extra clothes.
And I think that moment, at the turning in the fence-line,
is one of the best photos I’ll never be able to take: where the
world is expressed too fully to be expressed any further. The rain and clouds
flew around me so quickly, that even I wasn’t
capable of understanding what earth pressured splendor had surrounded me. I dug
my fingers into the snowy but green soil in front of me, knowing that with each
minute, I was becoming more of the earth than myself: that my jeans had become
the rain, that my face had become the mud, and that my fingers had become the
very veins that supported the tree of myself, and whatever the wind might soon
make of me.
While love claims to be so strong
that it can merge our souls, I’d like to think that nature is so
strong that it can empty them: not with death or insignificance, but to fill us
completely again with some further grasp at the earth and its personage. In
that moment, I was little more than the earth and a clinging backpack.
We never did reach the top; we knew it wasn’t
within us, or anyone, that day. We just sat in our flooded awe for a bit, and retreated
helplessly along the fence-line. I think that’s one
assurance in life that I can always hold onto, the moments where I’ve
stood at the arresting limits of a single day. And I couldn’t help
but wonder what Levin would’ve thought, or Amory, if they had
stood there like I did. An intelligent man has little to say in a beautiful
place, but has an infinite beauty to say everything about it: I hope that maybe
that’s how I was for a few hours, and maybe with the progress of
myself and each experience—I might widen it, openly.
If the world has taught me anything,
it’s that nothing can be kept, but that everything can be
felt; I hope I feel everything someday.
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