Alarm. Snooze bar. Alarm again. Day-old cinnamon raisin bagel, hard to chew. Minty toothpaste. Cold steering wheel. No – don’t turn on radio. Silence.

Boring. Roll down the window to stay awake. Engine groaning up hills. Passing tractor-trailers sound like Empire’s X-wing fighter in Star Wars.

No words today. Only sights, sounds, senses, feelings for the next 24 hours. Try not to think in words. Try not to think at all.

Winding roads making me dizzy. Crackle of gravel road beneath tires. Parking lot. Tourists talking, looking at maps. Two bearded hikers shouldering heavy packs, bickering about who should carry the binoculars.

No gear today. No map. No compass. Just hike.

Stratton Bald Trail. 20 miles round trip. Brown leaves crunch underfoot. Single-track switchback trail zig-zags through the shaded forest. Chipmunk darts across path and dives beneath a rock.

Hikers ahead. Scuff feet to alert them. They turn and stop. “Good morning.” Wave, nod head and smile.
Carpet of fallen pine needles, still green. Scramble over a boulder. Wind trickles through the tops of silver-barked beech, showering the trail with oval yellow leaves. Hurdle a dead hickory along the trail. A solitary vireo trills a slow, sweet three-note refrain.

Climbing is steep for the next few miles. Windows of blue sky open between stands of straight-backed poplars. Wipe runny nose with shirt sleeve. Overgrown wilderness trail, unmarked and unmaintained. Slashing through yellow-flowered ragweed and head-high stalks of milkweed. A gray squirrel scurries across leaf litter and clasps onto a tree trunk, sounding a guttural kuk-kuk-kuk.

Stumble over a gnarled tree root just as two dark-haired backpackers are trodding down the trail. The girl with the red bandanna is cute. Suddenly realize I forgot to put on deodorant. Keep arms at sides. “Where are you headed today?” Point up to the mountain top. Awkward silence. “Oh ... well ... uh ... how far is it to the trail head?” Hold up four fingers, point down hill. “Thanks.” Probably think I’m rude. Feel guilty.

Spokes of sunlight slant through the canopy. Hike to an overlook halfway up the mountain and shimmy up an old sugar maple. Scrape knees on the trunk. Syrupy sap sticks to the palms of my hands.

Reminds me of climbing trees in the backyard as a kid. When did I stop climbing trees?

Breath of wind. The tree shimmers. Right next to me, a daddy longlegs wobbles out onto a maple leaf. The spider has a big brown spot on its back – never noticed that before.

Noticing a lot of things by keeping my mouth shut. Reds are redder, the blue sky bluer. Sedge grass along the trail really is greener. By closing off one faculty, others are heightened. Senses intensified: salty sweat on my tongue. The thick, pungent scent of hemlock tannin. A palette of leaf colors blazing the trees. Cicada and cricket chorus. A pileated woodpecker tapping tympany on the tree. A symphony of surround sound.

Climb down the tree, swing from its lowest branch, and drop to the ground. Hike through a graveyard of dead spruce scattered along the mountain slope. Acid rain. Acid legs — heavy hamstrings, quads starting to cramp. Getting thirsty and cottonmouthed. Hunger gnawing at my stomach. Hands are swollen and numb. Already thinking about post-hike meal, driving home, talking to someone, anyone. How will I describe the day’s hike? Flowery adjectives start seeping in.

A deer snorts, then bolts. Hair stands up on the back of my neck. The doe bounds away, her white tail a flame flickering into the brown woods. Cannot hear her light footfall, even among the fallen leaves.

Almost to the top. Walk unsteadily along a thin sheet of granite protruding from the mountain like a hangnail. Inch out to edge of rock. Look down. Gust of wind teeters my body. Scalp tingles. Fear. Not fear of falling, though. Afraid of possibility that I could jump.

Step back from the precipice. Feel completely alive. Air feels cool and clean in my lungs.

Uh-oh. The bramble-choked trail dead ends. Backtrack. Getting late. Sweat starting to dry in the cold wind. Parched now. Finally find the spur trail on the other side of a mountain creek. Water slides over smooth rock and gurgles into small pool. Slurp a drink of water from the icy pool.

Grassy bald atop the mountain. Spindly spruce trees squeak in the wind. Running across the sun-filled meadow. Broomsedge and needlegrass tickle my bare legs. Left, right, crunch, crunch. Lub-dub, lub-dub. Systole and diastole, xylem and phloem, wing beats and wind breaths. The same rhythmic sound vibrates through it all.

At the summit, standing completely still and listening to the quiet. Sun feels warm on cheeks. Scarlet oaks, orange maples, canary-yellow birches color the river-carved valley below. Beauty beyond words.
I’m speechless.

Hiking down the mountain at dusk. Crimson crown of sky. Campfires smolder below. Gushing creek glints in the half-light. In the wordless woods, silence comes easy. Down there, though, it gets loud. I’ll have to listen more carefully to what’s there.

And what’s not.

(Will Harlan writes about the outdoors. He can be reached at wharlan@hotmail.com)

 

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