Treasure

I stared down at my hiking boots, my calves feeling the strain. In memory I was a boy, climbing the spines of thistly drumlins in County Tipperary. The familiar voice came back, “Short steps. Short steps” Tobes’ pipe-scoured wheeze, but he kept his pace, always ahead of me. “Short steps my lad to tackle the slope.” Old Uncle Tobes and his forty acres of sheep. I smiled inwardly at the thought of how aged Tobes had seemed to me then. People in the past were always older and yet they died younger. The short steps had always served me well… until today. I struggled for breath. The group was getting too far ahead. I needed to rest. The altitude, the north wind, the late September cold, each took a turn at sharing the blame. I tried not to think about the obvious one… age. The last leg of a long climb with the steepest pitch yet to come. No chatting. Focus on footing. Use the poles to lever up the slope, balance, breathing, the seduction of achievement. This group didn’t dawdle, but they were used to me trailing behind, even liked it, maybe. It was in my nature. The senior sweeper, hanging back on the technical sections to make sure no one was in difficulty. Let those younger set the pace.

I watched as the last of them climbed the ridge before the main ascent. Krista, was it? Or Kristin? We already had a Christine in the group, or ‘Chris’ as she preferred, a young biologist, a seasoned scrambler, and a good leader. Krista was new, had only been with us on a couple of outings. Fit, but not a lot of mountain savvy. I saw the concern in her eyes as she stared up at the peak when we parked at the trailhead. “Don’t worry” I said to her quietly, “I’ll be right behind you.” She gave me a tight smile but did not reply. If she turned now, she would see how far I had fallen behind. She disappeared over the ridge, anxious perhaps to prove she belonged.

The empty path before me wound like an earthen harness thrown across the snout of some stone-warted beast. Too late I shouted and waved, hauling in the chill mountain air. The wind slapped the weak effort back over my shoulder, away and down the valley. On the towering slope above, black beads threaded a necklace of scree. An earlier group. Half an hour made a big difference this late in the season. And above them, still visible through the mire, a bright sash that stretched across the wall of the mountain, the golden strata. Hidden there, a treasure trove of fossil shells that marked the turning of the tide on an ancient shore, but only for those who knew where to look, and only for those who could make the climb. I swore silently in frustration.

Sombre cloud blurred the peak, reaching down in tendrils to obscure journey’s end, to make it an illusion, a cold and craggy heaven. My breathing settled. I knew I could not go on. Seems I had finally caught up with old Uncle Tobes.

I scanned the treeline below, shelter, maybe a kilometre away. If they saw I was missing, the group would wait with patience, or a close counterfeit. When I didn’t appear, they would send someone back to find me. I would be holding them up. I stared back up at the ridge, expecting a neon jacket to materialize. None did. Soon they would enter the hardest part of the climb. The further they got, the further it would be to send someone back. Perhaps they would all turn around. My fault.

I pulled out my cell phone. One bar. Taking off a single glove, I pecked a message. ‘Sorry can’t finish.’ I erased it. ‘Sorry not up to this.’ Erased again. ‘Conditions too rough for me. Will wait for you at the treelike. Enjoy.’ Treelike? Damn autocorrect. Making the change I eyed the screen. ‘Conditions too rough for me.’ I deleted ‘for me,’ a final flick of denial. ‘Conditions too rough. Will meet you at the trailhead. Enjoy.’ When I pressed send, the single bar faded, replaced by the words ‘No Service.’ Red lettering appeared: ‘Message failed to send. Try again.’ I did, and again and one more time. Technology only failed when you needed it most. My fingers were numbing. A gust slithered into the space between my collar and my toque. I must keep moving, get out of the open. Up was not an option. As I turned the wind pushed at my back: ‘Goodbye old man.’

My wife’s voice came to me, “The forecast isn’t great.” Forty years of marriage, and the worry at the corners of her mouth gave me the translation, “Can’t you sit this one out? Surely, they won’t expect you to go?” It was never a matter of their expectations. But she knew that. We had done this climb before, but never this late in the season. But she knew that too. I didn’t try to justify it. Instead, I hugged her and spoke over her shoulder, staring at my half-finished cup of coffee on the kitchen table. “I’ll be fine. If it gets too bad, we’ll all turn around.” Her cheek was warm, her hand gentle on the back of my neck. I shuffled out with my pack and poles. I was late. They would be lingering at the meeting place. I needed to message them, let them know I was on my way.

Metal clicking on stone brought me back. I stabbed below, reaching down with my poles, balancing each counterthrust against my body weight, keeping the strain from my knees. The forest loomed, the path murky now in the coagulating cloud. Before entering the trees, I turned once more to search the mountain, waiting for someone to appear. The summit was gone, folded into the mist. The ridge was still visible, barely, but no one was on the slope.

The wind rose, pushing me off balance. I stumbled slightly but did not fall. The trees whistled in appreciation. I could not stay here. The group was forging ahead. They had gone too far to turn back. I could picture Chris making the decision. She would expect me to take the same trail back, to meet them at the trailhead. That was protocol. I should have felt relief. Instead, the deserted slope reflected disappointment, a personal watershed that only flowed downhill. Stifling the feeling, I entered the dim corridor. The forest baffled the rising blow. I was protected, for now. The wind skulked and lunged in gusts at the treetops, a frustrated predator warning me the chase was not yet over. As the ground leveled out, I relaxed, allowing my mind to wander, the dull syncopation of my poles prodding the soft margins of the path. Despite the cold and the moving air, the forest still carried the smell of the conifers. ‘Forest Bathing,’ that’s what the Japanese called it. They believed the trees had curative powers. There was a substance—what was it called? Another word lost to age. It began with a ‘t,’ an extract from pine trees used to treat cancer. The Japanese were long-lived. The trail narrowed. I stopped. Why did it seem suddenly unfamiliar? A sticky gear clicked in my head. I had missed the turnoff.

A picture of the map came into my mind, the trail that led up through the forest to the foot of the mountain. There was an offshoot, a shorter trail that led to a small lake. I was on that trail now. None of us had ever bothered with it. We were always too focussed on the mountain itself. I tried to remember the details. I should have downloaded the map, but I didn’t want to pay for the app, another piece of technology I could avoid. I was content to stare over someone’s shoulder in the parking lot. The elephant at the rear doesn’t have to remember, he simply follows the herd. Five or six kilometres to do the lake loop. I could be in and out before the others were off the mountain. I was sure none of them had been there. Not the treasure I sought, second prize, but at least I would have some-thing to talk about, a better excuse.

Or, I could go back, I should go back, back to the main trail. ‘The forecast isn’t great.’ Even from this distance my wife was trying to tell me something. I looked at my watch. At least three hours of daylight left. I looked at the sky, maybe a little less. My poles were in motion before my mind had fully consented. Second prize was better than no prize at all.

The ceiling became a slash of iron, the tips of the trees moaning as the wind wielded its whip. The downhill slope was gentle but uneven and root filled. Eyes down, short steps, slow and steady. Thank you, Uncle Tobes. I stopped to collapse my poles and shove them into my pack. The trees were so close now the poles would only be a hindrance. I pictured the small clear lake ahead. On the map the water was always blue.

Today the water would reflect the sky, grey and rolling, but the bowl would be sheltered. I was thirsty. I should have taken a sip when I put my poles away, but the going was slower than I expected. Better to press on than stop again. I would reward myself with a drink when I reached the lake, a drink, and a few moments of quiet to take it in. Maybe I would see some wildlife, the benefit of a solitary hike. I imagined the look on Chris’s face as I told her about an encounter with a marmot.

My foot stepped into nothing, a deep rut. As I fell, I felt the solid impact of root against the cap of my knee, pain rifling into the joint and up my leg. I was on the ground, the burn running deep into my senses, taking up all the available space, blocking all other sensations. I forced air in and out through gritted teeth, until the pain began to subside. Around me the smell of earthen mold, my cheek cold against the forest floor. I lay there for a while, eyes closed, just breathing.

Reaching down I felt gingerly around the knee. Tender, but no swelling. I let the pain drain away to an ache. Turning slightly, I stared up the green canyon at the sliver of grey light above. The walls rippled, like the legs of a walking centipede. The trees soughed and shushed as my breath calmed to a slow metronome. It would be so easy to stay here.

I must get up. I flexed the knee until the pain returned. I had almost a full range of motion. Sitting up I took a moment to reorient myself, to mutter a curse and stare in anger at the offending root. Impassively it stared back, mocking me for my carelessness. Pushing myself up, I stood, purposely putting weight on the affected knee. It held. I took a few hobbling steps down the trail and then back again. The pain lessened. Not far now to the lake. I walked on.

My gait evened. It was not a limp, just a lope with a hint of trouble. Ahead the forest brightened and then opened.

I gazed out over a small depression surrounded by trees, perhaps two hundred yards at its widest, eight feet at its deepest. There was no water. Just an empty vessel, the lake-bottom a dirty grey-brown with a patina of dried mud, small heaps of bare logs scattered here and there, a turlough. It would be full again in the spring, but for now it was simply a desiccated hole in the ground.

Scattered flakes of snow began to see-saw their way from the sky. I sat, deflated, shucking off my pack. But there, on a small island in the middle of the dry hole, lay a single enormous spruce, prone, its branches green and vibrant. A ragged disc at least twenty feet around arced up from its base like a giant head stone. Its naked roots were fresh and wet. The wind must have taken it. But I had not heard it fall. I smiled. Perhaps it was when I was communing with the forest floor. Around me, the snow swirled, a gossamer curtain thickening imperceptibly.

I could not take my eyes from the tree. The open wound at its base held a mash of clay and stones and near the centre a large pale boulder. It glowed through the curtain of snow, trapped by a root as thick as an arm, an aorta feeding a pulsing heart of possibility. Pulling myself up I slid down the slope to the lake bottom, wincing as my foot struck a stone hidden beneath the desiccated skin of the mud. The pain in my knee returned. I paid no attention; my gaze fixed on the strange heart.

Limping across the lake-bottom I clambered on to the island, cringing at the effort. Reaching up I stroked the smoothness of the bright stone. Darker striations passed diagonally across its surface, and between them the outlines of tiny sea creatures, clams, spiral cones, the broken whorls of life. This had been a beach once. The stone was warm as if the tide had not come in yet. I imagined its long journey from the golden strata above: uplifted, exposed, cast off in a winter freeze, rolling down, weathered, pushed by spring floods, smoothed in summer rain. I had found treasure after all. I had a story.

The burn in my leg flared again. I turned, sliding on my back down the surface of root and stone, folding my good leg to take the strain, holding the other rigid in front of me. The pain took on a dull rhythmic throb. The fluid in my leg pooled at the knee, stretching the material around it until it became a second skin that would burst if the seams gave way. “Jaysus, it seems you have trouble lad.” Tobes’ voice was laced with concern. “I do Uncle.” I said aloud, “I do.” I fought to hold back tears. I was a boy again. I wanted to run to him, to feel his big hand on my shoulder.

The snow was coming down heavier now. But the wind had died, as if handing off at shift-change. I was suddenly very tired. I needed to close my eyes, just for a moment. Uncle Tobes’ voice shouted a distant warning. “Get up son, get up. Do not sleep. Get up. Fight!” My eyes flickered. The world came back into focus, rolling a little before returning to horizontal. “Right. I hear you, some water then.” My voice felt far away. I tried to stand and fell heavily, the rough surface of the roots clawing at my back, pain shooting up my leg. The wind gave a last kick, parting the snow, and there, on the other bank, covered in a thin layer of white, was my pack and my water bottle, an empty ocean away.

I thought about the group. They would be well down the mountain by now, nearing the trailhead. When they realized I was missing it would be too dark to mount a search. How had it come to this? Tobes’ voice sounded in my ear once more: “Short steps, my son, short steps.” I laughed out loud, my sudden bark smothered in the white softness of the falling snow. In dim outline the trees around the lake stood silent watch.

I closed my eyes, felt my wife’s hand in mine and in the distance the sound of the sea. My breath came evenly, a portal to deep sleep. My inhale formed a gentle undertow, like the gathering in of a quiet wave. Breathing out I pushed the crest gently over, spreading it tenderly onto the shore.

 

Photo by Pine Watt from Unsplash.