Yesterday I hiked a volcano and I thought it would be a nice outing with the sun and a steady-but-not-too-steep-incline ending with a lake and a pretty view of water and land.
I needed that. Life was getting away from me, and I had been feeling confused, foggy. I wanted some peace, some water, some time to think.
It was almost all those things but imagine if they were dipped in the Eternal Fuck You and then laid out to dry in the Continual Yes. Two hours of upward pain broken by moments of reverie. A man and his child touting wood. A cow meandering along the path. The cry of a bird.
At the summit, I walked directly into a cloud and could see nothing. I was standing above the cratered-lake but couldn’t see a thing because nature doesn’t give a fuck about vistas or your plan, and to tell you the truth, it didn’t really bother me because at this point I am finally getting used to hurricane beaches and cloudy viewpoints and who am I to complain when the clouds decide to swoop in? Hiking endorphins just made me happy to be there, breathing hard and deep.
I descended billions of wooden stairs to the lake’s edge and it felt like Loch Ness — all fog and monster. I decided to walk around the lake because I was there and it was so tranquil and quiet and creepy. I knew I had to.
I started walking and the fog was oscillating between thick and thin and I could see Mayan altars in the water… it was beautiful and eerie and I had no fear of anything. For the first time in a long time, I felt happy and mystical and lucky.
I continued walking around the lake and as I did, there were more altars on the shore and the fog and clouds were rising and thinning and going and by the time I finished my circumambulation, they all had lifted and I could see across the lake and into the sky and it was gorgeous and clear and if that’s not a metaphor what is?