Alpine Destiny

Slowly, the old man topped the hillcrest and sat on a flat spot in the outcropping of rock that thrust forth from the bed of Permian granite; a worthy throne or so he imagined. After walking for hours, he felt the pangs of age creep into his joints and limbs and it was nice to just sit a spell. The breeze from the west sang its dirge upon his face as he slowly scanned the panorama in hopes of catching a glimpse of a deer or, perhaps, a sheep or mountain goat on the peak thirty degrees to his right. Now, all he saw was a chipmunk skittering across the alpine meadow directly in front of him and a band of turkey vultures soaring in the distance— an omen perhaps?

“Haaah!” he bellowed, his chest thrusting outward in defiance of the thought, his voice suddenly echoing across the expanse. Time for considerations of eternity would come soon enough, he supposed, why give it more credence than it deserved with silly superstitions and acknowledgment of fear? Still, the majesty of the setting nearly brought him to tears. Time is short.

Slowly and laboriously, he bent his knees and pulled his legs against his body, wrapping both arms around them, securing them as they strained for release. Time was when he could sit in that position effortlessly—for hours on end—not once feeling the need to re-position or give way to any sort of discomfort. Today, he felt the pressure from every sinew; even his hands, locked together to secure the position, struggled against his weight. Damn! I can’t even sit right any more! What the hell am I doing up here? The man released his hands and felt the flow of blood course through his legs, allowing him to straighten them in front of his body. Crossing his feet, he relaxed and picked up a small stone lying next to him. The rock, round and flat, looked out of place somehow. Some of the very large boulders were rounded, but most of the very small chunks were jagged and rough, as if they’d recently been chipped off this or that ledge. His stone contained the smoothness that only eons of exposure to water and wind could polish. Certainly the primordial oceans didn’t rise to this altitude, he reasoned, so someone must have brought it up here. Yes… has to be that. As he slipped the stone into his backpack, sadness threatened to overwhelm him, the same sadness a cuckolded husband feels when confronted with the reality of his mate’s indiscretions. While it was true that he hadn’t been up here in nearly forty years, the fact remained that this was his hillcrest and goddamn it, anyone else should keep his ass off it!

The absurdness of the thought brought a surge of adrenalin or some other endorphins and the man felt giddy and high… his lips gave way to a squad of white molars as he thrust his head back, raised both arms and once again roared “Haaah—hah--… haaaah!” This time there was no perceptible echo. Had he merely missed it? Only one creature is capable of emitting a call that refuses to echo, and that is the duck. Had he, without anyone bothering to inform him, become a duck or did the valley merely choose to deny him the secondary pleasure as penalty for expressing his arrogance? Well, no matter…

Struggling to his feet, with staccato movement the man wiped his hands on his pants, anxious to remove the gravel from his skin—a further reminder of his age and girth. Yea, rub it in… He still had three miles or so to walk to locate his Hummer, that is if someone hadn’t stolen it. Plus, he had to worry about a possible attack by a grizzly bear or cougar, or perhaps he’d slip on a rock while crossing Soldier Creek and crack his head on his smooth stone’s big brother as punishment for his larceny. And if none of that came to pass, maybe a tick infected with Rocky Mountain spotted fever’d bite him.

Only one thing was sure—he wasn’t walking off that mountain. Six turkey vultures couldn’t be wrong. “Haaah!” he exclaimed, and started off into the trees.

Bob Church©8/12/06