Elevation Gain

This morning is not the first time I have considered abandoning my plan to climb up Taurus. Driving through the village on the way to the mountain I encounter shattered branches and leaves littering the still wet roadway. The trees have a weary appearance as if beset by a heavy weight as they loom over the road.

Turning into the muddy parking area, I am still waging battle with my resolve to get on with this walk. I am reminded that no one will know if I change my mind. On the other hand, the prospect of challenging myself once again stirs me forward. Being an only child, I became accustomed to creating my own small adventures including forays into the woods.

I look up at the mountain partially obscured by mist and marvel at its steepness. It does not possess the elevation of its Catskill Mountain cousins or the jagged roughness of Adirondack peaks but still  daunting . Realizing that I need a lift of accomplishment, I decide to follow my plan, perhaps just to prove to myself that I still can.

The trail begins on what remains of an old mining road. The night’s rainstorm has further gouged meandering channels in the roadbed. There is an oppressive heaviness to the air but thankfully no aggressive bugs dogging me today. Hoping for wild raspberries, I am disappointed to see that the fruit is still sheathed in its prickly protective sheath. However, I surprise several wild turkeys who corral their chicks and ease into the brush. Finally I reach the first leveling off where it opens onto the floor of a mammoth amphitheater created when a major portion of the mountain was blasted off many decades ago. Before I can catch my breath, the trail picks up the climb once again heading up along the rim where jagged fragments of iron piping jut out from the rocks. It soon veers sharply, a rerouting charted some years ago after two hikers descending after dusk, plunged into the rocks below.

So far, so good. No trips, no slides on the slick boulders. Just a good workout. I am thoroughly damp, part mist, part sweat. I always enjoy stopping by an outcropping which is about one-third of the way to the top. It overlooks the village far below. Today it looks enchanted reminding me of a misty apparition from a fairy tale.

The higher I go more moisture waves come at me and then drift away, teasing like a fickle lover. In my mouth, it seems to have a sweetness. There is a stillness. The only sound is my footfalls and heavy breathing. Usually I would hear birds particularly the shrieking crows or I might espy a red tail hawk high in a tree. Even the usually industrious chipmunks and squirrels are taking a break.

I know I have reached the top when the last dense group of trees gives way to domed boulders emerging from the earth in a manner resembling massive hardened grey pillows. The river cannot be seen. What was a mist has become a churning fog. Out of the fog, the nearby legendary Storm King Mountain reveals its face for a moment and then vanishes like a bloated ghost. I hear the muted rumble of a train with its muffled horn receding. Stunted trees and bushes encircle the summit, a testament to the bruising winds that frequently swoop and swirl around them. Even in the denseness I can make out yellowish lichen eking out of the crevices.

My muscles relax; my breathing settles into normal rhythm. The air is cool with no hint of chill. I am treated to a potpourri of scents – earth, woodland and perhaps wildflowers.

I feel calm. I am queen of the mountain. I am blessed.

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