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By Josh Corman
It isn't long before we notice the steady stream of people walking in the opposite direction. Almost every one of them is replete with elaborate hiking gear: walking sticks, heavy coats, sunglasses, and hiking boots.
"I suddenly feel very under-prepared." I say, "These people look like they're returning from the summit of Everest.
"It can’t be that bad. We'll follow the trail as far as we can. Let's get out of these trees and see what it looks like."
I keep quiet and stay a few paces behind Jonny, taking the occasional slug from my water bottle. Soon we emerge from the lowest part of the trail and the landscape opens up completely. A good distance beyond the edge of the trees, I stop and step off of the trail toward a small stream.
"Too tired to go on, eh?"
"Just refilling my water bottle."
"What? Just in the stream there? You're just going to drink water form some stream?" Jonny, it's safe to say, has an issue with germs. He would say he has a healthy respect for them, and it's true. But at times it goes beyond that. Once, after fixing tea at his house, I tapped the handle of a tea strainer on the sink to knock off excess water after washing it, and after I put the strainer on the dish rack, he picked it up and washed it off again before putting it in the drawer. I love to give him a hard time about it, even though I'm the one who will probably die of some infection because I don't wash my hands before every meal.
I dip my bottle into the flow and withdraw it, filled to the top with cold, glistening water. For good measure, I hold the bottle up to the light and admire its clarity. (Spare me the lecture, science-folk. I know bacteria are microscopic, but it’s as clear as could be, not even a speck of refuse.)
"There isn't anything above us on the mountain, no runoff from anything but snow and rain. If I was drinking from a fetid, stagnant pool of brown water, I'd worry, but I'm thirsty." As I lift the bottle to my lips, Jonny recoils, as if I'm about to pour a vial of hemlock down my throat. I gulp down nearly half the bottle and stoop to refill it. "It's delicious. Best water I've ever had, literally." I’m laying it on a little thick, but the water is cold and quenching. When I extend the bottle to Jonny, he declines.
The traffic heading back down the mountain remains heavy for another twenty minutes. It makes me a little nervous to see all of these people (several of whom shoot us puzzled looks as they pass), who so clearly know what they're doing, getting out of Dodge while we amateurs march on. But march on we do. We reach a point where the incline becomes even steeper and the ground is dotted with rocks the size of medicine balls and larger. The previous days' travel catches up with me all at once, and I grab a seat on one of the rocks while Jonny strays from the path, attracted by a small waterfall about a hundred yards to our left. The weather has changed and a thick mist clings to the mountaintop and hides the sun. I'm reminded of Emyn Muil from The Lord of the Rings and find it easy to see how Tolkien used Britain's landscapes to paint Middle-Earth in true colors. The wind gusts and howls and long brown grasses sway in rhythmic union and even though I'm tired and cold, I know that I've never seen anything quite like this. When Jonny returns, he wears a smile, and I'm glad he's here to force me along.
The trail soon peters out almost entirely and my exhaustion tells me that this would be a fine place to stop, turn around, and proceed to the sustenance of a hearty meal and the warmth of Brodick House.
A friend is supposed to support you, but he is also supposed to do what's best for you, not only what is pleasant. Jonny notices the similarities to Tolkien's world as well, and he keeps the conversation in that line, presumably to take my mind off of just how tired I really am. I see right through it but don't have the energy to protest. "Come on," Jonny says. "Let's get up there to that ridge just under the peak. We won't be able to get any higher than that, but that ridge looks out over everything. We can at least say we made it that far."
I stumble on, but soon we’re stopping every hundred yards or so because of me.
"Corman, pretend there are Orcs on your trail. Just a little farther." Jonny, it turns out, makes quite the Samwise Gamgee. I stand, and instead of traipsing past a few dozen more rocks and sitting again to catch my breath, I am possessed by the utterly foolish notion that if I sprint as fast and hard as I can over the brittle, uneven terrain, I'll make it to our stopping point in one go and then we can simply turn around and fall back to the base of the damned mountain. So I run. I hurtle rocks and cut like a running back into open spaces and up, farther and farther, until the ridge is right in front of me. The ridge itself ends in a cliff face that plunges seventy-five degrees towards the sea below and runs parallel with the coast that extends from the beach across from Mike and Nan's house all the way around the island. From our point on the ridge, the peak of Goatfell rises sharply to our left, blocking out any view of the far side of the island. I nearly collapse onto a rock at a spot perhaps six hundred feet from the summit.
Moments later Jonny is beside me, though I don't really remember him getting there, and I momentarily wonder if I blacked out. The mist is heavy as rain, and my puny cotton zip-up hoodie is rapidly absorbing moisture. My hair is soaked, my shoes are soaked, my jeans are clinging to my legs, and like a child I wipe my running nose on my sleeve. When I finally look up and out over the water, the seeming incongruity of the view is alarming. To the right, the entirety of Arran Isle is laid out before us. Sheep graze in their pastures. Hills and farmland beyond the coast roll and merge with dense forest. Taxis and tiny cars cruise the narrow road just off the beach and inward away from the water. The shadows and mist that have engulfed us do not touch what lies below. Sunlight covers everything we can see, and in the distance we can even glimpse the mainland, kept at bay by the sea.
"This is unbelievable," I manage.
"Look at the difference," Jonny muses. "Behind us it looks like Mordor's doorstep, but out here it's perfect."
I stand and walk nearer to the edge, surveying the world in front of me as though it wouldn't be there if I closed my eyes and opened them again. "You know what," I say. "This is simultaneously the worst and the coolest thing I've ever done."
Jonny laughs at me, but it's the truth. I could have stayed down at the bottom of the mountain and drunk tea, and it would have been fine. I could have stopped half-way up the mountain, seen the peak, and gone back without feeling like I had missed all that much. It would have felt fine, but that's it. It would not have actually been fine, because I would have short-changed myself, all because climbing a mountain is hard.
Damn straight it's hard. But if it weren't as hard, then the view wouldn't be half as sweet. And honestly, the only thing that ends up making any difference is how sweet the view is.
It isn't long before we notice the steady stream of people walking in the opposite direction. Almost every one of them is replete with elaborate hiking gear: walking sticks, heavy coats, sunglasses, and hiking boots.
"I suddenly feel very under-prepared." I say, "These people look like they're returning from the summit of Everest.
"It can’t be that bad. We'll follow the trail as far as we can. Let's get out of these trees and see what it looks like."
I keep quiet and stay a few paces behind Jonny, taking the occasional slug from my water bottle. Soon we emerge from the lowest part of the trail and the landscape opens up completely. A good distance beyond the edge of the trees, I stop and step off of the trail toward a small stream.
"Too tired to go on, eh?"
"Just refilling my water bottle."
"What? Just in the stream there? You're just going to drink water form some stream?" Jonny, it's safe to say, has an issue with germs. He would say he has a healthy respect for them, and it's true. But at times it goes beyond that. Once, after fixing tea at his house, I tapped the handle of a tea strainer on the sink to knock off excess water after washing it, and after I put the strainer on the dish rack, he picked it up and washed it off again before putting it in the drawer. I love to give him a hard time about it, even though I'm the one who will probably die of some infection because I don't wash my hands before every meal.
I dip my bottle into the flow and withdraw it, filled to the top with cold, glistening water. For good measure, I hold the bottle up to the light and admire its clarity. (Spare me the lecture, science-folk. I know bacteria are microscopic, but it’s as clear as could be, not even a speck of refuse.)
"There isn't anything above us on the mountain, no runoff from anything but snow and rain. If I was drinking from a fetid, stagnant pool of brown water, I'd worry, but I'm thirsty." As I lift the bottle to my lips, Jonny recoils, as if I'm about to pour a vial of hemlock down my throat. I gulp down nearly half the bottle and stoop to refill it. "It's delicious. Best water I've ever had, literally." I’m laying it on a little thick, but the water is cold and quenching. When I extend the bottle to Jonny, he declines.
The traffic heading back down the mountain remains heavy for another twenty minutes. It makes me a little nervous to see all of these people (several of whom shoot us puzzled looks as they pass), who so clearly know what they're doing, getting out of Dodge while we amateurs march on. But march on we do. We reach a point where the incline becomes even steeper and the ground is dotted with rocks the size of medicine balls and larger. The previous days' travel catches up with me all at once, and I grab a seat on one of the rocks while Jonny strays from the path, attracted by a small waterfall about a hundred yards to our left. The weather has changed and a thick mist clings to the mountaintop and hides the sun. I'm reminded of Emyn Muil from The Lord of the Rings and find it easy to see how Tolkien used Britain's landscapes to paint Middle-Earth in true colors. The wind gusts and howls and long brown grasses sway in rhythmic union and even though I'm tired and cold, I know that I've never seen anything quite like this. When Jonny returns, he wears a smile, and I'm glad he's here to force me along.
The trail soon peters out almost entirely and my exhaustion tells me that this would be a fine place to stop, turn around, and proceed to the sustenance of a hearty meal and the warmth of Brodick House.
A friend is supposed to support you, but he is also supposed to do what's best for you, not only what is pleasant. Jonny notices the similarities to Tolkien's world as well, and he keeps the conversation in that line, presumably to take my mind off of just how tired I really am. I see right through it but don't have the energy to protest. "Come on," Jonny says. "Let's get up there to that ridge just under the peak. We won't be able to get any higher than that, but that ridge looks out over everything. We can at least say we made it that far."
I stumble on, but soon we’re stopping every hundred yards or so because of me.
"Corman, pretend there are Orcs on your trail. Just a little farther." Jonny, it turns out, makes quite the Samwise Gamgee. I stand, and instead of traipsing past a few dozen more rocks and sitting again to catch my breath, I am possessed by the utterly foolish notion that if I sprint as fast and hard as I can over the brittle, uneven terrain, I'll make it to our stopping point in one go and then we can simply turn around and fall back to the base of the damned mountain. So I run. I hurtle rocks and cut like a running back into open spaces and up, farther and farther, until the ridge is right in front of me. The ridge itself ends in a cliff face that plunges seventy-five degrees towards the sea below and runs parallel with the coast that extends from the beach across from Mike and Nan's house all the way around the island. From our point on the ridge, the peak of Goatfell rises sharply to our left, blocking out any view of the far side of the island. I nearly collapse onto a rock at a spot perhaps six hundred feet from the summit.
Moments later Jonny is beside me, though I don't really remember him getting there, and I momentarily wonder if I blacked out. The mist is heavy as rain, and my puny cotton zip-up hoodie is rapidly absorbing moisture. My hair is soaked, my shoes are soaked, my jeans are clinging to my legs, and like a child I wipe my running nose on my sleeve. When I finally look up and out over the water, the seeming incongruity of the view is alarming. To the right, the entirety of Arran Isle is laid out before us. Sheep graze in their pastures. Hills and farmland beyond the coast roll and merge with dense forest. Taxis and tiny cars cruise the narrow road just off the beach and inward away from the water. The shadows and mist that have engulfed us do not touch what lies below. Sunlight covers everything we can see, and in the distance we can even glimpse the mainland, kept at bay by the sea.
"This is unbelievable," I manage.
"Look at the difference," Jonny muses. "Behind us it looks like Mordor's doorstep, but out here it's perfect."
I stand and walk nearer to the edge, surveying the world in front of me as though it wouldn't be there if I closed my eyes and opened them again. "You know what," I say. "This is simultaneously the worst and the coolest thing I've ever done."
Jonny laughs at me, but it's the truth. I could have stayed down at the bottom of the mountain and drunk tea, and it would have been fine. I could have stopped half-way up the mountain, seen the peak, and gone back without feeling like I had missed all that much. It would have felt fine, but that's it. It would not have actually been fine, because I would have short-changed myself, all because climbing a mountain is hard.
Damn straight it's hard. But if it weren't as hard, then the view wouldn't be half as sweet. And honestly, the only thing that ends up making any difference is how sweet the view is.
By Josh Corman
4 comments:
Love these selections, but reading all this stuff makes me wish I could have been with you lads.
You'll have to join us when we go back to create material for the sequel: Don't Drink It Until It's PITCH Black. I just hope you won't mind attending a Liverpool FC match.
Anything involving Liverpool is no problem!
I also drank from a stream gushing tantalizingly down a Scottish mountain - Ben Nevis. It was also one of the worst and coolest things I've ever done. We did not make it to the top, though - casual hikers couldn't make it through the snow, and someone, on their way down, said they'd been stuck up there rather longer than they would've preferred. But until I get dementia and start harassing underpaid nurses aides, I will never forget the view - or the mountain water.
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