Two-thirds of the way up I was already inquiring of my trail-sharing hikers (those cheerfully downward-bound) how far I was, how long to the top beyond all the false summits, if they were to guess. They were all charitable in their estimates, either of the distance left to travel or of my abilities as a hiker: 'Not long.' 'You're a third of the way there.' 'It's not too bad.' Lies. Pretty lies.
Before I got to the timberline (lower case) I discovered patches of iced-over snow hiding in the shadows of boulders and bushes. An interesting, slippery surprise.
And above the timberline, only rocks: the bald head of the mountain reminding its fellows that its pinnacle was once only the lower slope of a much larger prehistoric volcano. Way back before time remembered. I did love the barrenness of the living edge - the clinking crunching of the basalt under my shoes, the wide vistas and the sun. But I most loved those few rough boulders I sheltered next to, nearly under - to escape from the wind. Those were places I could have napped for ages, Rip Van Winkle of the mountaintops.
Last time I was trudging up this landform, I got really sleepy then, too. I'm not sure if that's a product of the altitude or the excellent sandwiches I made each time combined with the warm patches of sunlight. My physical body would've been very content to curl up and let the dust bake on my boots.
Why did I continue? I'm still not entirely sure how to answer this question. For one, I knew it would continue to stick in my craw if I didn't get to the top. I know this because there is a sand dune in Idaho that will forever hold my ire and disappointment halfway up its windward slope. And for another, above the vegetation when it seemed that even the lichen was keeping to itself and not friendly to me (the hiker, the interloper), the crows still gave encouragement. These birds were the only moving life I could see or sense above the point where even the trees gave up. And they were so alive, and so close! They wheeled and hovered like witches in the stiff wind. They croaked and spread their primary feathers in such a way that I felt mocked and welcomed all at once. My fellow hikers picking their way over the stones and ledges, swaddled in so many primary-colored layers of GoreTex Breathable PolyCarbonate Moisture-Wicking Thinsulate seemed like astronauts on a distant planet, while these birds were so at ease, so casually disdainful of the height and the cold and the space.
Wish you were here.
I did gain the top, and for a few brief moments was the highest terrestrial thing in Arizona. Until the Dutch man to my left stood up and had me beat by a good 14 inches. I came down in the gathering dark with a wicked dehydration headache, got back in my car 5 hours and 15 minutes after I left it, drove home and soothed my skin and my soul in a steamy shower - the slick, cranberry-colored tile box the polar opposite of the rest of my dry, cold, expansive day.
I still haven't shaken those crows. I keep my ear cocked, wondering what they keep trying to tell me. Is it, 'On, on, onward!' Or 'Look! Look here! Look where you have looked before, but see with new eyes.' If only I could understand through their accents.
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