The mountain seemed far away and the mountain climber a myth. Isn’t it obvious we live in mythological reality. For this is an earth of miracles and signs; and every morning the hawk’s call would wake the mountain climber from his sleep; and every night, his dreams would reveal the sublime workings of the world; and then the depths of those workings waking. What does the hawk know that I do not?
“It’s not an easy climb,” the guide disclosed, “Mt. Rainier is a serious climb.”
“I must go. I can go. God is with me.” said the mountain climber.
Through the trees, it was a pleasant ascent. The company of men stopped by the brook, drank from their canteens, and took a photograph. Then they climbed higher and higher, until the eternal evergreens disappeared. There were boulders and small rocks even monuments of rocks stacked carefully to mark the passage of mountain climbers past. There was not enough time to stack stones. They must reach the summit by afternoon.
Ground hogs joined his company and a purple flower grew out of a rock. There was just enough soil in the stoney crag for the plant to take root. The day was clear, but the peak far away. The mountain climber was unsure of his strength. Still he pressed on toward the summit.
The air became thin. His head throbbed. He climbed with courage not knowing if he would make it. Then just before the peak he collapsed into the dirt and propped his head onto a stone. He had nothing left. The company of men moved on. Too tired to pray. He pulled out his pocket a bible and read.
“The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; My God, my strength, in whom I will trust.”
A moment passed. The sky was frozen. I have died, the mountain climber thought. Then from his marrow a new strength returned. He rose and pressed froward unto the summit. Unto the place where heaven and earth meet. There he prayed for his three sons, and God heard his prayer.
The company made its descent. The weather was fair. A rain drizzled down on the men as they passed through the trees. Then the mountain climber heard the cry of the hawk and he turned up his gaze. On the tree the bird was perched with honor and what was known was real. To live honorably, the mountain climber thought. Is better than to be honored.
Then by the fire he would tell the tale of how the mountain lived. The wood would crack and pop, and the hearth would gather ash. Through his eyes it was explained the triumph of his climb and who was this man not only than the father that is mine.
Dedicated to my Father
Written by: Brett Wiley