The Day of the Mountain
I had, some time ago, devoted a day to Cradle Mountain. I had only intended to stand upon its peak; a privilege I enjoyed in solitude. Breathless at the wilderness receding to the south and with fond memories of past wanderings, my curiosity was not sated. From the summit I could scry a path which curved down into the chilled valleys behind the famous peaks. I resolved, was drawn, to follow it and thus, having had no plan to, circumnavigated the Mountain. Emerging from otherworldly groves of moss and trees which nestle upon its slopes and shadowed places, I ascended from the southern deeps as the Mountain continued to speak in its silent way; a vantage point on the path causing particular pause.
Having been immersed within this place, I was yet no closer to what I sought than when I started. True, I had gorged on all that was offered, but it remained ‘remains’ other; of distinct and differing voices magnificent in their removal from all that surrounds. It is a vital, visceral place. A place of sanctuary, and yet, of danger; of luring beauty and the immutable. It still speaks, and I yet hunger. I cannot forget.