The hike is short, the air brisk. There’s something calming about the living stillness of the woods. A light breeze is enough to set the branches rustling. The air smells clean and earthy, like a pile of fresh-raked leaves.
We emerge from the trail onto a small expanse of bare rock, sparse with grass and loose stones. Above us, the branches thin and the sky broadens. Maybe ten yards ahead, a small ridge of rock about four feet high juts up like a wall. We walk toward it, then Matt leads me to one side, where the ridge slopes more gently. A half dozen jagged rocks mound, forming enough footholds to climb up. Matt goes first, then reaches for my hand.
Glove in glove, he supports me as I climb. “Here we are,” he says. “Top of the world. Or, at least, as close to the top as we can get in Indiana.”
On top of the ridge, the hilltop is flat. We walk out a few yards to take in the view. We’re on a sort of oval plateau, looking down into the valley formed by the hills of the state park. On three sides, the drop is similar to what we climbed, about a four- or five-foot drop back down to trail level. On the fourth side, it’s a full-on cliffside, plunging a couple hundred feet to a blanket of trees below. It feels like we are standing on the top tier of a cake. I picture us as two little tuxedoed figures.
Getting a little ahead of yourself? Sheila muses. Maybe try holding hands without gloves on before proposing?
Matt walks right to the cliff edge. “Come look.”
We stand side by side, taking in the view. In summer, it’s probably a gorgeous green carpet, and now it looks like somebody threw down a game of pick-up sticks. But it’s striking. In the distance flows the snaking line of a river. Once I get my bearings better, I’ll figure out which one. The newborn sun casts pinks and oranges and purple bands along the horizon, behind the clouds.
“What do you think?” Matt asks.
“Top of the world. Definitely.”