Member-only story
Halfway up a Mountain
A memory
I climbed a mountain once, only partway, high enough that the snow grew thick underfoot and the skiers whisked down the slope. It had started out as a walk from the chalet, but soon became something more.
I’d arrived the night before, a passenger on a well-lit bus unable to even glimpse what we were passing by. At the hotel, heavy snow fell around orange lamps concealing where I was and hiding any hint of what I was soon to see.
When I opened my curtains, in the morning, I was temporarily confused, unsure what I was seeing. These enormous lumps of shadow crested in white were lurking around the edges of a frozen lake, the lower reaches shrouded in pine trees before disappearing into the clouds. When I asked if that was the peak my companions laughed and said that was only the beginning.
They weighed on me as I waved my friends off, bedecked in all their gear, ready for a day on the slopes while I stayed in the valley, content or so I thought, to explore the town and read a book or two. I went back in and sat by a window to think and plan my day. I read a book, browsed the leaflets in the foyer, drank some coffee and tried all the while to ignore the shadows as they grew. My glances became more frequent, and I soon became obsessed with what was up there that I couldn’t see.
