The path down is the way up
No Path, Just Direction
The path is easy if you don't care about the destination. Choosing the limitation only based on direction is what sailors refer to as a Rhumb-Line, a general direction of a nonspecific spot. Today I took a walk, my vague requirement being "go up there." As I walked, it's not hard to notice that there isn't a path designed for you, not like in civic parks or in contrived outdoor places.
This was an ancient canyon. Google Maps won't help you here. Slowly, though, it occurred to me that the path down is the way up. Gravity, rain, perhaps animals, all forge a path down, loosely visible in some areas, obvious in others. If each series of one hundred steps gains some elevation, then the consensus is we are all headed "up there." Surely no person has ever been where I am at this moment; therefore, the perfectly positioned flat rock may not be attainable, but here is a perfectly positioned group of stones, one shaped like an arrow pointing toward the ranch.
What Gravity Leaves Behind
Nature or nurture, people have indeed been where I am. It occurs to me that everything up there is being pulled down to lower levels. One can certainly see this phenomenon across the canyon. At the top, there are light sand-colored layers of stone face. Lower down, almost down to the river, are pieces and parts of the sand-colored stones placed here and there, almost with precision of unintended grace. No person would have happened upon it that way, so why are the stones this way? I mean whatever way they are because that's how it happened.
Don't Touch
Below my feet is an iron-colored stone, solid yet fractured along perfect lines. How did it get here, and what is causing it to be cleaved at such perfect angles? I kick it, knowing it will just shatter, nothing solid, immovable, but here it is. Further along, the words "Don't Touch" haunt me. My dad would tell me over and over, "Don't touch," until he demanded I put my hands in my pockets. I realize I'm walking in this behaved way. Fuck that.
Meeting the Cactus
As I remember this, I come across the terrifying jumping cactus. I couldn't, I must, I did. Now I'm not stupid. I took the fabric corner from my monocle and touched it to the cactus. There was an audible snap as the small million-needle pod broke off. There is a divine design as to why a plant would do this. It is not a chance. The small cactus relies on parts breaking off later to be deposited elsewhere in order to survive and replicate.
I looked and I also noticed that the needles are not unidirectional; in fact, they are crisscrossed so that they grip pants, deer legs, cow fur, or whatever. With a simple flick, the little pod detaches and rolls down the hill to begin its new place and a new generation. Now I am looking down at the perfect flat rock that just a short while ago I felt was too far up for me to ascend.
Continuing, I feel like I was confronted on this very narrow path, bordered by the steep canyon wall on one side and a steep drop off on the other, which was guarded directly in the center by a large jumping cactus. Oh, I just met your cousin a few minutes ago. We both know I must pass. Neither wishing it, I was on the window seat, needing to pee — the porcupine knew I needed to pass. Reluctantly we agreed: "Don't rub up against me and I'll let you go."
Turning my body, a decision needed to be made. If this goes wrong, do I want the cactus broken off in the front or in the back? Carefully, I faced the danger and I made my way along, agreeing that we did our part. I honored this spiny plant and made my way.
The View From the Top
Now I was at the crescendo of the hill, high above and looking below. I saw my small encampment, a wide swath of the river, cows, and an ancient place. No other person was seeing what I saw. I was so programmed to get validation of where I was and of what I was doing.
Looking down, I saw Emma going to her tent, gathering something, and then walking back to the house, almost like a voice-over in my head. I wanted to bark out a word or a signal so she would see me. She would think I was cool or accomplished or maybe that I got it, what it was to be in that space. That action would have erased everything; it was my moment, my personal record, not available for critique or grading, mine at the bottom.
Now looking at the place I was in, I can clearly see the path to the top, almost cut into the wall of the canyon, a shadow of a gradual elevation to the higher spot. Clearly, the way up was the path down. Still, the route up was the path down.