Thursday, July 05, 2012

The sound of one hand clapping

Excuse me, says this voice from above.

I'd been chugging up the mountain, head down in my own little world, when I heard it. And then again...

Excuse me.

I look up to see this guy peering over a rock outcropping above and to the right; skinny white kid with curly brown hair bordering on a fro, and dark horn rimmed glasses. Reminded me a little of Woody Allen.

Yeah? I responded, slowing but not stopping.

The thing is... I don't get up Camelback much these days (with my semi-bum knee and all) and when I do, I try to make it count. I focus on my breathing, foot fall, and challenge myself on the ascent.

In this manner, the boulder-strewn terrain requires complete attention, and coupled with my breathing, acquires a meditative aspect.

 Can you tell me where the path is?

Came his plaintive (and somewhat intrusive) response.


So I stopped.

And, yes, while I was tempted to wax sarcastic*, what I said was, go down that way and then up the crevasse.

Crevice. Whatever.

What I should've said?

You may have to figure that one out for yourself.

*Working on a construction site in my twenties, I'd misplaced my hammer and started asking anyone around if they'd seen it. "If it was up your *ss you'd know," came the response. Good point.

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