I decide to do a (maybe) dumb thing. I abandon my plan to turn around and go back to the fork (what good is going back to the fork if I’m not even sure that the trail that led me to the fork is correct?). I will hike Rock Mountain.
I know nothing. But one thing I know is this: I need to go up. Jethra’s trail is up. My car is up. Rock Mountain leads up. I can see the summit. I need a summit. Jethra’s trail probably runs right through that summit. I need Jethra’s trail. Up is up, isn’t it?
I begin the hike. The mountain is not as steep as I thought (not even really a mountain, so much as a massive hill). I rename it Baby Rock Mountain. I take Baby Rock Mountain by storm. I go full throttle, kicking dust. Dust gets in my eyes and mouth. I cough, slipping and sliding on the loose rocks. Sweat and lotion drip down my arms and legs, making everything even slipperier. But I keep going. I feel tough. Dizzy with heat, but tough. I am on the move—making it—really making it up this fucking mountain. I’m Moses at Sinai (I’m sure Moses made some questionable decisions out of panic). I know one thing only: up.
I begin to do a little internal rhythmic chant.
Left foot. Up! Right foot. Up! Up! Up! Up! Up!
I’m panting like a feral dog. Keep going. Almost to the summit. Moses did it in sandals.
Then, as my right foot ups, my left foot slips. I put my hands out to catch myself from falling, but my phone is in my right hand. Hands and phone break the fall. Phone lands glass side down with a crunch. The palm of my left hand scrapes against the rocks. A stinging sensation.
I pick myself up and examine my phone first. It’s badly hurt: a spiderweb cracked across the screen (still no service). Poor phone.
Then I look at my palm. It’s peppered with pebbles—like I’ve been shrapneled. I pick out the pebbles one by one. No blood, but my flesh is pink and raw. It burns. Flakes of skin hang off like pieces of dried coconut.
It hits me then. Whatever I am doing, this is actually dangerous. Something bad could happen.
I have to get out of here.
I start up Baby Rock Mountain again. My tongue feels big in my mouth. I let it hang out. The sun is mean.
Up! Up! Up! Up! Almost there, don’t stop. Up! Up! Up! Up! Moses was nuts. Up! Up! Up! Up! Left foot. Up! Right foot. Up! Up! Up! Up! Up! Summit!
Except it isn’t the summit. It’s a false summit: the valley of a second mountain. Not an end, but a beginning. And this second mountain is no baby. It’s twice the size of the first: crusty with red earth (through what mirage or trick of distance I did not see it hovering there from below, I do not know).
I let out a wailing “Noooooo.”
I hate this ugly mountain. I hate the desert. I never want to see another shrub. No more sand. And the thirst! Just get to the top. Get to the top of Red Mountain and then you can have some water.
My legs are heavy. Red Mountain is steep as hell. It’s impossible—no, reframe that thinking, not impossible—challenging. Challenging and exhilarating. Exhilarating and Zen. Be one with the mountain.
“I’m sorry, mountain,” I say. “I’m sorry I called you ugly. I don’t hate you. I hate the situation.”
No traction. Slipping and sliding. Treacherous. Slab and slab and slab.
A big penis-shaped rock looms overhead. I reach for the penis-rock to steady myself. Hands to penis-rock; almost got it. Then my ankle caves. My bum right ankle. My foot slips. This time, I fall and fall.
I fall and fall. I become an avalanche. Dust flies up as I go sliding down Red Mountain on my side. I fall for what feels like days.
I fall all the way down. I land at the fake summit. There is pain in my ankle. I am humbled. Humbled by the danger. The intensity of nature. I am humbled by the sight of my own blood.
Blood drips down my thigh. Red like the mountain. I’m bleeding on a mountain. I feel surprised. Big ugly mountain. I feel very small. Like a bug.
Or a human.