The Mountain Trail

The Mountain Trail

The trail wound through the forest with no real direction, randomly changing course on what seemed some mystical whim of whoever, or whatever created it in the first place. How long ago had the first footprints dirtied the forest floor? Who had traveled this path up the mountainside? Was I the first man to walk it? Would I be the last?

For much of the journey I walked slowly, for the going was not easy. At times I would stumble over some partially hidden obstacle lying in the path. A rock jutting out of the ground here, the twisted gnarl of a root there. Climbing ever so slowly up the mountain, tiring often yet determined to reach the summit.

For brief moments the trail would dart down some slope, and the going would become almost effortless. Traveling became fast and furious, almost running down the hillside, my spirits uplifted and laughter echoing through the valley. But just as suddenly clouds would appear overhead and the sky become menacing. The laughter would fade as a sullen realization set upon me. This was, after all, just a little reprieve from the steady climb, and I knew with a tinge of dread, that the downhill run only took me further from the mountaintop.

Several times along the way I needed to stop and rest. Weary and worn, knees scraped from falling, my will to continue battered by the forces around me. It was at these moments, however, that I could find the time to look around. To see the beauty of the forest, admire the flight of an eagle, listen to the sounds of the wind as it whistled through the leaves. Looking up at these moments, I often marveled at how the sky would clear and the sun would warmly transfer its energy to my tired body.

Rejuvenated I would set off again, following the trail as it wove itself through the forest's fabric like a tailor's thread making intricate patterns on a sequined gown. Around corners, through meadows, over rocks, no two footsteps alike on a path that was ever changing.

How long I climbed I do not know. The twists and turns of the trail became countless, as did the times I tripped and staggered back to my feet. Though tired and weak, I realized that the higher I climbed the more I could see of the world around me. The sights becoming more and more spectacular as I steadily progressed. The forest became less dense until finally I was clear of the woods altogether. Looking up, I could see the summit was just ahead. With my destination finally within sight, the rest of the climb seemed not so difficult.

Suddenly I was at the top looking down. I had bested the mountain and overcome the obstacles put before me by whoever, or whatever had created this path. Glancing back at the trail I had climbed, I knew in my heart that I was the first man to walk its course. A sense of accomplishment overcame me and filled me with peace and satisfaction.

If I was the first to climb it then surely it was my right to name this mountain. With the pose of a conquering conquistador I raised my fist to the skies above and heartily proclaimed - "I have taken all that you have thrown at me. I have been hurt and scarred along the way, but I persevered and am now at the top. You did not beat me for I have succeeded! I am not the same person now as when my journey began, for I have overcome obstacles, felt both pain and elation and witnessed endless sights of true wonderment. This mountain is my mountain and I shall call it Life…my Life."

The path up the mountain was difficult, but it was more than worthwhile. It was, after all, my life.