Means to an End

We went hiking today. It was wet, and rainy, and kind of humid, but we went anyway, meeting outside of our apartment building. I went down the stairs humming "Skye Boat Song", but I stopped as soon as I got outside and met up with our English neighbor, who was hiking with us. He forgot his umbrella, so he went back up the stairs to get it, and immediately, I came in where I left off--"Many's the lad fought on that day..."

Our English neighbor has a Scottish wife, so a better way to describe them would be: "British". Except, he's incredibly English, and she's definitely Scots. One time they were listening to me play the tin whistle--which is more compact than a fiddle or a recorder, which is why I was playing it--and I accidentally played "Scotland the Brave". I hadn't thought of the implications that would bring. Anyway, Mrs. W was tapping her toe and grinning (grinning for her, I mean) and Mr. W was sitting there with a sort of a strained expression and managed to gasp out something not unfavorable, but not exactly delight, either. It was actually kind of funny, because I hadn't meant to do anything of the sort!

Up we went into the mountains. There was mist all over them, and it was beautiful. But it was tiring. There were winged insects flying around, with four wings not unlike dragonfly wings, but with really short slim bodies. They looked like butterflies, fluttering about. Mr. W said they were lacewings, then later corrected himself and said they were flying ants. Lacewings or ants, they were pretty. One got caught in a spider's web. I saw its body, drained of fluid, transparent; its wings darkening. Death in an insect is not unlike death in a person, at first glance, which is why I hate to see that. I have no moral or personal convictions against eating meat, but I cannot see the death without feeling ill and horribly depressed. The utter resignation and limp appendages dangling--it's poetic, but also terribly, horribly tragic. This should not be.

I began to wonder--not because of the dead insect or anything--just why was I hiking? I could have stayed home today. Sadly, my answer probably is: "because I'm not in good shape". I'm in terrible shape. Part of my dumpiness is attributed to that, which doesn't concern me so much as the incredible fatigue that overtakes my soul and body as I try to climb up a fairly easy trail. But I also enjoy looking at mountain scenery--truly, unspoiled by cable cars or roads. Just being out in the middle with only a trail marring the unspoiled beauty of it.

However, our first resting spot was good enough for me. I might have stayed there for a long time and then gone down, had it been up to me. I have neither the stamina nor the desire to go up to the highest altitudes. Stunning views are camera and paintbrush fodder; if they're that stunning, I'll see them eventually. Just to get to where the pines grow--that's enough for me. Then I just like to be. I like to sing...spirituals, folk songs, rebel songs...all of those. To stroll and explore a finer area instead of reaching the great heights. To just sit and do something normal--maybe even read a book--just to be in the clean mountain atmosphere. That's what I want. I'm not complaining. It was a good hike today. But it seems that to me, hiking is not the end, it is the means to an end. And the end is...atmosphere, rest. That's what I like.