One’s own self is well hidden from one’s own self; of all mines of treasure, one’s own is the last to be dug up.–Friedrich Nietzsche
Yesterday I took only a short walk (4 hrs) up the mountain, checking in on some of my old trails that I had not visited for nearly two years.
I had a steady climb up an old mountain road, until I decided to temporarily drop down to check on a water on the a higher point of White Oak Creek than I have shown before.
As I had no aspiration of trying to have a mountain named after me (Elisha Mitchell), I climbed through the thicket around the waterfall—which, though steep and thick with bushes, offered its own beauty.
*** I have a fascination with trees perched on top of large stones (where there seems to be far too little soil for them) I am looking for just the perfect picture of conjunction of living and ‘non-living’ entity. I plan to use it on the cover of my next book (collection of maxims), Strike a Chord of Silence.
This picture is too cluttered and the stone is not distinctive enough.
After getting a good view of the mountain below from the top of the waterfall…
I reconnected with the trail and continued up until it ended, where I started to follow rock outcroppings, animal trails, etc. until I could connect with a trail on Burnt Ridge, which I sometimes take to the top of the Black Mountains. For a time I had to just walk the side of the mountain, without aid of any trail, knowing that I would (in time) contact the trail I sought.
While on this little trek, I encountered some beautiful slabs of stone rising up 20-30 feet, some leaning against each other. When I came upon them, I immediately wanted to take pictures, but got the feeling I should not. The wind began to pick up a bit and I felt my first threat of rain (which was not forecasted to happen until night).
Since I felt no real ‘clear’ indication that I should not take the pictures, I clicked off about five shots. Not surprisingly, when I go home, those pictures were almost completely black. One could not tell what the pictures were of.
I found the Burnt Ridge Trail and took a shot of the horizon.
In a bit of mist, I headed home, earlier than I planned, but got a couple of nice pictures while looking for a place called “Raven Rock.”
The mountain did take a token gift—as usual for traveling through the thickets—an extra shirt I had threaded through the straps of my packs. IInitially it had taken the mouth-piece for my CamelBak (Hands-Free Hydration System), but I asked for it back, and it was given back. I was not surprise when something was later required in trade.
C.G. Walters primarily writes fiction that focuses on the multidimensionality of our loves and our lives.
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