Between the Needles
Between the thoughts — on our final, definite leaving off the Whitney portal trailhead and head towards “Whitney” on a cold summer day, all too appropriate to our feelings and the state of world. A sudden headlamp light over the gardens of Whitney lifted the gable revealing the pebbles & boulders that are there to share stories of years of interrupted silent nights because, army of hikers with headlamps whispering about the adventure laid ahead of them.
This torture that they say can be fruitful.
what torture is this?
Because, this torture kicks off pain from inside and there isn’t a thing not beautiful about it.
Between the moments — while sizing up the mountain’s inches, for once there was the question of measurement of what does it take a mediterranean climate to carve miles of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Chirping became noise, while every breath got harder , wind failed to bargain with the bodies heat and offered friendship, dialogue between mind and body about next step turned into a never ending debate.
Between the switchbacks — ninety-nine of them, one turn after another- the unknown becomes known and then unknown keep making the turns, while the sun exposed the secrets of Whitney, noise became silence, the marching hikers couldn’t evade but to turn into a sun-flower. A dot, a dust particle, clueless pebbles, group of hikers, rows of nomadic boulders, layers of uninhabited mountains expressed their gratitude for winning over darkness.
Between the windows — faces of innocent mountains with compendium geography, learned to shy away hiding behind the smog. The valley scattered as bouquets of blushes whispered loudly into the ears of each other about the sweat soaked travelers staring at them. It felt as if mountains and valley did not even make an effort- yet, they had flaunted the stalkers with their colossal beauty.
Between the Needles — the gigantic mountain makes its move, alluring us to ascend and the moment encouraged us to sink within the depths of consciousness. The distance to the summit from Needles separates dreams and desires, no graph could be traced with the lines of pain - the triangle of pain failed to accustom to the dimensions of summit.
Between the hard breaths — the fragrance of pain turned from pungent to exotic cinnamon jasmine, the moment we realized there is nothing more left to climb.
Between the pillars of trailhead, I asked myself — What bliss is this they define it as torture?
