I had one thought as I began the plummet to my death -not my life flashing before my eyes, or anything so clichéd, but simply that this was a beautiful day, and so beautiful that even death could not spoil it.
The morning had begun simple and pure, a clear crystal stream and fresh air. Okay, so the bank and campground were a bit muddy, and no, everything was not perfect or clean, but this added to the ambiance, the beauty of the moment: free, wild, and completely alive in the mountains.
I warmed the skillet and grilled some cheese sandwiches I had packed for the trip. I gathered my things up, and then began a brief hike into the mountains before returning to civilized life.
I began climbing the stream bed, following it to its origins. Clear water laughed beside me as I strode along. The stream was not much, certainly no fish, and you could jump across it easily, but the beauty of finding the beginning of this water, this shining fountain of life pouring out of rock
and to drink of its first touch - virgin water splashing across my face and wetting my beard, playful in its
musical innocence. It was like finding the fountain of youth, refilling my reservoirs of life that had been drained empty by months of toil, concrete and the press of the masses.
The cliff face where the spring was born was not sheer.
Looking higher up, I easily succumbed to my desire to climb and decided to go just a little further.
It did rise quite a distance upward, though. And I was out of breath before I could stand normally again, and even then at an angle. I looked out over the small vista I had conquered, and saw lush greenery all
around me and clear majestic blue sky as far as I could see.
I finally reached the summit of my magical world, and breasted the top of the ridge. Another pristine valley spread out before me. The air rushed and coursed around my face and body, pressing my clothes to me with the ardent embrace of a new lover, filling me with life and excitement.
To the north I saw the sparkle of a lake, and walked closer to see the view. It was incredible. I could see for
miles, yet I never saw the drop-off I approached.
My foot slipped, and then steadied again... and I thought I was saved. Then, suddenly, the ground crumbled and I began to fall. The birds sang. The sky glowed. Life was beautiful.
I reached out blindly, and my hand caught something sharp and sinuous along the falling
face - a wild rose bush!
It clung stubbornly, and out of place near the top of this rocky pile. I gripped two thick stems, and the red roses beat across my face as I held on for my life. Already my hands were slick with blood as thorns bit into my flesh. I still couldn't believe it - red roses. I have a weakness for red roses.
I was slipping down the cliff face, the slick stems sliding through my grasp.
Another thorn bit into my hand, and another. I saw many more to come before the inevitable fall.
It was a beautiful day to die. And I was mangling the poor roses. All with my vain hopes ...of what? Another rose? A dozen more and I would fall, surely.
Mount McKinley
And, somewhere in the mountains, an odd wild rose bush springs slightly back, resting its rots from a heavy burden. A few rose petals swirl and fall in the wind, tumbling and spiraling down into the canyon below, floating on the wind with the lazy flight of a peaceful soul.
Back