It’s not obvious what to write about after a day atop the Coast Mountains, a part of the North American Pacific Coast Ranges. Or, rather, it is so obvious that one cannot actually write it. Feeling insignificantly small against the unending vistas. Breathing requiring conscious effort as one ascends the “easy” trail at 7000 feet, panting and overcome with that which was merely automatic at the sea floor before. The sign announcing the “Top of the World” trail, inviting you to wonder what would happen if you reached your hand out toward the sun, and, with no one looking, daring to wonder if it would feel warmer. Toying with the idea that you have ascended so far that you are, at this moment, closer to God.
Blah, blah, blah.
There is nothing new to human experience I can add from a gondola ride, ski lift and endless pictures that will look exactly like the last mountain-top trail I walked, one meant for the youngest and the oldest only. The young bucks, the virile, manly, unwashed, Rastafarian-haired, muscular yet wiry men with ropes and karabiners and water battles hanging off their backpacks, mountain bikes and hiking gear, oozing a laissez faire attitude as if they couldn’t be bothered to look at the vistas from the mountain summit because they’re so damned cool and strong and young, oh so young, their masculinity brimming and bubbling, strolling long-strided and sure-footed over trails meant for demi-gods while I pick my way slowly and cautiously, stumbling, nervous not to twist an ankle, careful not to step down with too much force on my left knee, the one that sometimes goes out even on the motion-controlled elliptical, ever-vigilant that my 50+ year-old-self is the only one on the tippy top of this mountain to keep my 12-year-old safe.
The young men traversing the mountain top, deep in conversation with themselves, exuding the aroma of manflesh, a decade, maybe two, ahead of my tween-age buck, just shy of his own sweat aroma, young enough that to date it is only my primary scent of womanflesh he knows, yearns for, craves. I carried the backpack, I navigated the way to the trail head, I paid for lunch at the mountaintop summit restaurant serving poutine and Greek food, as if treats this savory are needed in surroundings so outrageously glorious that my recurrent inner dialogue was about how much the whole thing looked like a painting.
After the “all abilities” interpretive loop, we re-joined the multitudes coming to explore summertime at a ski resort. As my son enjoyed a well-earned strawberry kiwi gelato (it’s the top of the world, remember, closer to God and all that, so of course they’ll have gelato), I turned to see a camp counselor preparing for the next stage of the group’s mountain-top treasure hunt. We chatted, he told me about his campers – mostly younger than my son, some a bit older, all from China, all attempting to learn English while exploring the great outdoors of North America on a month-long exchange program. They descended en masse to our picnic table, clad in blue jeans and white t-shirts naming their Christian camp. Before they got credit for the item just located on the treasure hunt, they had to repeat a phrase, using correct enunciation, in English.
On a clear day, it is easy to see that Blackcomb Mountain is taller than Whistler Mountain.
One by one, each student recited the phrase, with varying degrees of accuracy, shyness, and determination, stumbling with the unintended addition of syllables and subtraction of consonants, creating a slightly discordant sing-song chorus.
On a clear day, it is easy to see that all languages reach God at the same speed from the mountain top, faster than they do from sea level.
On a clear day, it is easy to see that fear and excitement co-exist on a mountain top, jockeying for prominence with each meter of elevation gained.
On a clear day, it is easy to see that I do not belong with the mountain-dwelling, gear-equipped, sweaty demi-gods even if we walk, ever-so-briefly, in the same steps.
On a clear day, it is easy to feel the smile of my son.