by James Wilson
There’s a howl in the wind, but lightly so. Just enough to make the wisp of hair on my face dance about. An ancient symphony in the forest beckons. Creaks and groans and scuttling sounds punctuate the anticipation. The sacred ritual is about to commence.
We begin the journey to the summit. The path worn by those before, guides the way. Bounding, stretching, reaching, climbing, believing. The healing spirit of these woods begins to release her magic. The sacred ritual is underway.
Mud is adorned on legs and limbs and faces. The dance encourages sweat and beating of the drum. The rhythm of firm boots pounds the earth. A heavy satchel contains the spirits of water and Gatorade. The sacred ritual can be a toil.
Gone for a time is the specter of other worldliness. Those things that bind are no more. The summit of this High Peak lays bare of trees and any pretense. Soaring views remind of the inconsequential nature of things. This sacred ritual is powerful.
Gravity speeds the glide down. Assisted by memories and the cycle of time. Future frontiers await with fresh perspective gained. Those who have shared in the sacred ritual are forever changed. So goes the trail on these Adirondack Mountains.