Everyone is with you

When you go into the mountains, the mountains go into you. And the deeper you go and the further you journey, into yourself and into the land, the greater the risk you will lose you way. And if you lose your way, there is a risk that, while you are standing there, on the edge of the world looking out, trying to see where you fit in, no-one will find you.

The day is still, there are no clouds and the eye travels out to the horizon and then goes a little bit further—because it can. When it meets the blue dome of the sky at the most distant range, you think, it must be a band of clouds. But it’s not. It’s the land, perched and pretending, like you, above all the world, that this is the sky, and you, the lonely runner, are flying.

At the horizon the peaks seem to hover, lined up like the choppy waters of a giant sea frozen in time. And gradually you let your eye draw back from the distance, catching each ridgeline, until the land becomes solid and real. And there you are, running.

The land on either side of this path is worn smooth. The wind and rain of centuries have blunted the landscape; there are no aching peaks, no sheer cliffs, just vast rolling hills. The path itself is worn too, but not smooth. The rocks stick up and twist your ankles, this way and that, the thick low scrub on either side is overgrown and catches and scratches your lower-legs—you will have something to show for your efforts after this.

The sun is not strong, for the air is cold and across the other side of the valley, a last patch of snow, a remnant of winter, holds out against the summer. Below it, a creek has sprung up and where the land steepens, a waterfall. The flowing water is too far away to hear. But you imagine the laughing as it dances down over the rocks, and reminds you of the dryness at the back of your throat.

Your arms swing like pendulums keeping time for your legs. On this slow ascent, your breathing comes easily, there is no thought of the end of this journey, no impatience to finish. The rhythm of your running is trance-like, your physical body disappears. You are a spirit moving as one with the land.

The path contours and disappears around the top of a hill. An outcrop of rock is encircled by a group of gnarled snow gums like a meeting place of old men, they tell their stories in the curves of their branches, watch the sun hanging in the blueness above and listen to the footfalls of a passing runner

Thoughts drift like deformed clouds—vapour memories through an internal landscape. They break apart, flying off into new quarters. And you realise that, rather than these new thoughts coming into view, they were always there, you just hadn’t noticed. The twisted trees let you and your thoughts pass like a question needing no answer.

On the far side of the valley, something looms. As you round the bend it grows—a massif—the highest mountain in the area, and bigger, too, by volume. It sits broad and squat, like an ogre waiting to rise up against you. But that will come later. For now the land drops away, the scrub thickens to woodland and down there, somewhere is the water. You don’t spend too long gazing at that lofty peak because you realise that you must cross the river before you climb that mountain.

You scramble downwards, on and on, steeper and steeper. The earth gives way and you slip, on to one knee, sliding, grasping at leaves and branches until suddenly your feet hit grass and in one, fluid motion you are up again, running as if nothing had happened

After a while however, the relentless downhill running takes its toll. The first feeling of fatigue creeps into your thigh muscles and you are annoyed because you’d been so smooth and thought you could run forever. The land however, though willing to bend for a thousand years of wind and rain, does not lie down for humans, not even for the discomfort of a lone runner. And so you follow the path and ponder the futility of reasoning with a geographical feature.

It is dark down here. And cold. The sun does not belong. The ferns fan out and the dank earth holds the silence. Even your footsteps now are muted. Now the soft path flattens out and weaves its way through the greenery. You have forgotten the fatigue in your legs but are thirsty, and you are sure you can hear water. Or maybe it’s just your dry mouth that hears water.

The undergrowth becomes thicker and the trees reach higher. The light filters down from some place you used to know as the sky. Salty sweat drips and stings your eyes, the path blurs. You so want the sky back, the light, no more descending. Yes, it is beautiful here, and peaceful, but lonely too. The silence is closed. And now in your mind is the knowledge that for every step you descend, you must climb back up.

When you reach the river you kneel and scoop dirty hands into icy water and drink. A parched throat is soothed, energy renewed and a prayer answered.

You take off your shoes and wade, gasping, into the freezing river. It gets deeper, and the current stronger. The rocks on the bottom are smooth and slippery. You step into a hole and go up to your waist and hold your shoes out for balance, the laces hang down into the water.

On the other side you sit smiling in a small patch of sun and dry your feet before putting your shoes back on.

It is wonderful to be climbing again, it’s what you’re somehow programmed to do. Your body is refreshed from the water and all fatigue is forgotten. The forest is still dark here but the promise of sunlight is ahead. The ascent begins.

Away from the river the path steepens and the undergrowth becomes sparse and dry. The ground is firm and you’re strong. You leap over a fallen tree. There are rocks too, here and there, trying to interrupt your easy rhythm, but you skip over them like cracks in the footpath. This is the roughest terrain and you are treating it with disdain.

But the path winds now, twisting back and forth with sharp hairpin bends, and at each turn, a rocky step breaks the rhythm and strains the thigh muscles. Here the path takes a direct line and the steepening gradient stings. Your breathing is laboured now, but worse, your legs are fading—they’re not indestructible. Negative thoughts begin to cloud your mind and the beautiful twisted shapes of the snow gums become ugly and menacing. You are annoyed with yourself, at your over-confidence, at the arrogance of thinking you could run up this mountain with ease, at the shame of impending defeat.

The legs are slowing, each stride becoming shorter. And instead of bounding over the rocky ledges, now you stagger and slow almost to a walk. The filtered sunlight is of no comfort. Panic forms a lump in the back of your throat. You are miles from the campsite, wearing shorts and t-shirt and the nights are below freezing. There is a long way to go.

Okay then, you announce to yourself as if addressing the troops, if that’s the way it’s going to be, let’s change the focus here…we’re not aiming for the top any more. In fact the top can get stuffed. (And now you talk directly to yourself, spurring yourself on, like a coach to an athlete, a father to a son) You’re not getting off this mountain in a hurry, so you might as well get into a rhythm you can sustain. Don’t worry about what’s up ahead—it’ll come soon enough. Focus on your running right here and now. Run up this mountain like it’s the rest of your life. This is it, nothing else.

At first there is no change, just an acceptance of the situation. The legs are still stuffed, still running terribly, taking tiny baby steps, shuffling over the ground. But incredibly, within this nightmare of sweat and dirt and solitude halfway up a mountain, there is a spark of hope. The legs have relaxed slightly and the rhythm is returning, and in this rhythm, an efficiency, and a realisation that you just might have enough to pull this off.

The mountain too, seems to pulse of its own rhythm. Far away, to the side, a snowdrift is held in the shadow of the mountain and tries to resist the summer sun. Further down, the melting snow forms a spontaneous waterfall. A breeze picks up and carries from somewhere up ahead the sound of trickling water. A little while later you come upon a small creek and briefly stop to drink. Running again, you look out into space, and high above the ground, a peregrine falcon hangs almost in time. And as you climb higher and higher the shape of the mountain itself is revealed, there is music in its suffering and in its renewal. It has been shaped by the things around it, worn smooth by wind and water, and brought to life by sun.

And you, like the mountain, find that you too have come through the darkness, at first by resisting, but then by accepting and allowing yourself to be changed.

The trees thin, the sun’s warmth cuts through the leaves, and up ahead you can see the end of the tree-line. You’re almost there! You giggle and squeal with delight, and remember how close you came to giving up. The legs feel light and strong now. The gradient flattens out towards to the broad summit. It’s not your classic pointy mountain. Maybe it was pointy a few million years ago; thankfully not today.

And then you reach the last two trees standing sentry-like on either side of the path, and you burst through, and the summit opens up. You don’t even need to keep to the path now, someone’s laid a carpet of grass up here. It’s soft and folds silently beneath your feet as you bound onwards; you could be a leopard. And then you look out over the edge and get the fright of your life—you can’t see the bottom! The river, where you crossed, is a memory. It’s all a memory, as if it never happened. But it did, it must have, because here you are, all alone and exposed to the world. And in the distance the mountain ranges are lining up, reaching out and crashing like waves against the horizon. And it’s quiet. And you feel like screaming but the sky might split open. And you’re sprinting now, for the top, tears streaming, wishing everyone could share this. But maybe they are; it feels like they’re here. There’s a presence, as if everyone who has ever lived is right here, with you.