Boarding the afternoon bus was a relief. The terminal reeked of cigarettes. Men who had grown weary of life, who chose to bathe in eternal fluorescence. The city slowly unraveled into long pastoral stretches. Outside, the plains were patchworked with green and gold. They met the sky in the middle, giving way to weaves of blue and white. Occasionally, there were signs of life. Flat, squatting homes huddled together. Schoolchildren in bright jerseys under trees. Soccer fields marked by goalposts with missing nets. Fathers in their best suits riding bicycles.
The seat next to me was empty. Sitting across from me, a couple. They recognized me as English-speaking, cheerfully introducing themselves. Coming directly from Vienna, they were already planning for their next trip after this one. The wife teased her husband that they should go to Antarctica next. He had recently sold a social media company, and we discussed San Francisco, where I had grown up. Shortly after, I returned to the window, putting my headphones back in.
The grasslands retreated into the earth as we climbed. Looking through the bus windshield, giant monoliths peeped over the horizon. The road had dissolved and the bus rocked. Soon after, we saw massive white rocks engulf the sky. The bus came to a halt. We disembarked. The cold wind heralded a storm. The sky a mass of gray.
The hike up was rocky but forested. We were told that all trails converge. After two hours, the group had disbanded. Some walked slower, others took easier trails, and I realized that I was alone. I heard thunder. The sky was now charcoal. The trees lost their shadows. I came to a lake, ringed with tallgrass and wild mushrooms. Nearby, a cabin with amber lights. Under a tree, I searched my backpack. Only a banana peel. Round of thunder and then steady, quick rain. The cabin door opened, where a man sat taking in the storm’s freshness.
He gave a wave. “Come inside! You’ll get soaked”. I was caught off-guard by his English. He had a trusting, genial face. I timidly stepped out of the tree, but quickly hopped to the cabin. He sat me down at a table, next to the fireplace. Books lined the cabin, and a Winslow Homer on the wall. He set a bowl of soup in front of me, clearing away pages of writing. Some brochure caught my eye: a rocky mountain impaled with a glass elevator. On top, a glass temple. Noticing my gaze, he shared that it drew wealthy enlightenment-seekers, who left behind their worlds, their families. He wanted to say more but he held back, saying I should help myself before the soup gets cold.
We dined together quietly. The massaman curry was heartwarming. I asked about his writings and his eyes lit up, awaiting that question. He spent the next hour sharing his world. It had its own language. Time worked differently, but in a way that was surprisingly coherent. He was, in a past life, a mathematician. He remarked at how I was able to understand some of it. I imagine not many passersby had a degree in physics. The evening sun broke through the cabin, as the storm cleared. He gave me a warm goodbye, in his eyes a wince of sadness.
I walked briskly now, both with a renewed energy and noticing nightfall. Some may have already reached the peak. I thought about the cabin man as I walked, someone who inhabited entirely his own constructions. He seemed content. The setting sun stole the shadows again. The trees had become more sparse. The air was cold and crisp, filtered by its journey through the valleys. Behind me, I heard footsteps, someone coming from another trail. It was a girl.
We began talking, both finding comfort in not being alone. When she couldn’t find a word, she turned to Spanish. She lived not too far from the mountain. She showed me her necklace. It was a beautiful crescent. She told me that she made it and that she sells them. She shared that she was curious and wanted to go to university one day.
Suddenly the night’s quiet was pierced by helicopters. Their lights competing with the stars. Their noise challenging the crickets. The fans rustled the leaves and awakened the woods. The girl shared that they were headed to a distant temple. It was common, she said. The helicopter quickly disappeared. As we walked, the rocks now silvered with moonlight. The steam of water carried starlight. Above us, there was the Milky Way. I had never seen it.
She shared that her family would sit outside every night to look at the stars. Neighbors would come, and they would play music until the stars became specks of dust. In Spanish, it was called madrugada, a period of early morning stillness. There wasn’t a word for it in English.
We reached the top, and saw the tents were already set up. Some people were gathered by the campfire. Others were flashing pictures of the view. One person was setting up a telescope. Below, there was a valley of white, of untouched stillness. Yet, in the distance, something caught my eye: a rainbow spilling out of a glass wall. Next to it, helicopters and men in suits. There was laughter and clinking of wine glasses. The girl, not noticing, held my hand and we walked to a quiet place where we could see the full moon.