Inspired by The Mountain Song by Tophouse.

Why do people climb mountains? I thought, gazing at what stood before us.

The mountain reached toward the sky, a behemoth of rock that obscured the horizon, punctuating the otherwise uninterrupted sea of azure with its jagged, grey peaks. Clusters of oak and pine trees were scattered carelessly over the rock face, as if some ancient god had blindly tossed them onto the slopes and cliffs, not caring to see where they landed. On the northern side of the crag, a waterfall careened downwards, rainbows shining in its spray as the water surged toward the ground. And even though the granite stood immovable, a warm breeze rustled through the leaves of the trees and answered the crashing call of the falls, so that it seemed as if the mountain was conversing with itself, whispering untold secrets to those who dared to listen.

I remember how that same breeze caressed our faces, easing a tendril of hair from your braid and making it dance in the air. I remember laughing as it obscured your vision and you laughing too, the corners of your eyes crinkling with amusement and glee. I remember taking that wisp of hair and tucking it behind your ear, then spotting a flash of fuchsia over your shoulder and leaning down to pluck the wildflower from the dirt. I remember weaving it into your braid. I remember your smile as you took my hand in yours.

I remember that day well. I think about it often.

It was like going back in time. Like we’d taken the cogs of a clock and started turning them in reverse, the hands passing from two, to one, to twelve, to eleven. Back, and back again. The river we were following narrowed and narrowed until we were walking by a stream, which babbled and sputtered and shrank into a spring. The trees, looming above us at the mountain’s base, grew thinner and sparser as we ascended, the sun piercing the canopy and illuminating us like a piece of art as we climbed higher and higher, two tiny specks of life inching up the slope, miniscule in comparison to the abundance and scale and beauty of what surrounded us.

Hours passed. The sun arced across the sky, following its path as we followed ours, step after step after step until all we knew was the ache in our legs and the sweat on our backs and the clasp of our interlocked fingers. The burning in our lungs was a beautiful kind of pain, one that stung but served as a reminder of the progress we were making, not just towards the summit, but towards something bigger. Towards some realisation that could not be found in an office or a screen or in anything that had touched the mundanity of urban life.

And that realisation, that had been flitting on the edges of my consciousness all day, finally took hold as we reached the summit. You laughed and took off your boots and let your feet sink into the emerald grass that crested the peak. I joined you. And in that moment, nothing existed in the world but you, and me, and the meadow on top of the mountain, and the rocks and the trees and the falls and the flowers and the song of the bluebirds serenading us from above.

This is why people climb mountains, I thought. 

To feel like you’re the smallest thing in the world; the most insignificant, microscopic speck on a map of nature’s colossus. Minute. Infinitesimal. Ephemeral. 

And to feel like the two of you are the only thing that matters in the world; the most significant, awe-inspiring phenomenon that makes the beauty around you pale in comparison. Stunning. Perpetual. Complete.