The Static Hiker
The ascent up Blackwood Ridge is a grueling four mile climb, typically occupied by the rhythmic tap of trekking poles and the heavy breathing of fellow hikers. You first see him near the two mile marker. A man in a vibrant neon yellow windbreaker and clean khaki shorts. He is standing six inches away from a massive, ancient cedar tree, his forehead nearly touching the rough bark. His arms hang limp at his sides. You offer a cheery greeting as you pass, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't even tilt his head. You figure he’s practicing some high concept forest bathing or perhaps just caught in a moment of intense mountain vertigo. You keep moving, the neon yellow eventually swallowed by the deep green of the forest. Three hours later, the summit is behind you and the sun is beginning its slow descent. As you approach the two-mile marker again, you see the flash of neon. Your heart skips a beat. He is in the exact same square foot of dirt. However, as you get closer, th...

Comments
Post a Comment