There is a Hike

There is a ridge.  Nothing special, maybe: a rise in the earth, over which one may traverse.  Over this ridge, there is a bridge of weathered concrete and corrugated metal.  The bridge stands sturdy, but the surface is vaguely concave from the worn pattern of travelers that have crossed this way in time.  The bridge permits travel over the sort of creek that is neither forbidding nor treacherous, but requires bypassing all the same.  There is a fork of the Robert Frost variety offering three tines: to the left along the tree line, to the right along the adolescent creek, or forward and up into the hills.  Loyal reader, I know I need not tell you which direction I took, but nevertheless, I took Yogi Berra’s advice and the fork before journeying onward. 

There is a time.  Not an exact hour or an occasion worthy of calendar marking, but a series of fleeting moments that must be encountered and not captured.  There is a time late in the day when the light is reading over your shoulder surreptitiously.  There is a time in the greater half of autumn when the pigments of the natural world gain enough confidence to flirt coyly from across a crowded forest.  There is a time when life seems to neither sprint away nor drag burdensome on your untied shoelaces.  There is a time when the synchrony of all other factors blend together more pleasingly then diligently tuned bass fiddlers wearing matching tweed vests.  The amalgamation of moments of comfort and beauty as I ambled along the woodsy paths delighted me, but also grounded me.

There is a haze.  It isn’t a fog exactly, but a thickness of the air that magnifies distance and transmutes every scene into a Luminist work from the later mid 19^th century.  A haze hangs over Hungary in a way unlike any other principality or air vapor system.  This haze is practically tangible and it is especially apparent when you surmount a final bluff and make a turn overlooking a clearing.  This haze catches the low sunlight in striations, lazy crosshatches on the horizon.  The air is just thick enough to become a screen onto which you may project your imagined focus, a scrim concealing what actually dances casually on the stage of possibility. 

There is a chill.  Not necessarily a very cold, shiver-causing sort, but a deep-rooted shake inducing kick.  There is a chill that sneaks up on you like a forgotten realization, an irksome deadline, or a mischievous younger brother.  This chill originates just above the small in your back, tickling outward in small rivulets of vigilance.  At first, the onset of this convulsion may seem without cause, but time will reveal this is the harbinger of change.  Just as every pot has its lid, so too every moment has a potential corresponding connection if only it can be found.  Maybe, when this cosmic connection comes to fruition, the body is overcome with fulfillment; the overflow is expressed through a brief inexplicable augural motion, departed before it is welcomed.  I stared into the haze, a brief tremor passing through me, at the figures in the clearing below me.  I could not make out exactly what they were doing, why they were gathered, or the purpose of it all, but I was resolved to learn.

There is a force.  It isn’t brazen or lauded like some, but it is unrelenting it its constancy.  Modesty is its anthem, for this force keeps all things grounded.  Merit should be awarded to the defiant, but the lofty have furthest to fall.  Imagine my surprise, then, when upon closer inspection I discovered the small band of ruffians I had spied from on high were in fact organized for just such a revolt.  With gaudy costume and ornate equipment, the first took his position, jettisoned forwards, and took to the skies.  A brief chill ran down my spine as I looked up just in time to see the man steer his hang glider into the haze and disappear over the ridge.

There is a story.  Not one reserved for bedtime, though those can be most enjoyable.  There is a story of background behind every shared experience.  Such stories need not be spoken upon, written of, illustrated, or recorded.  They thrive in a shared glance, a subtle touch, and a knowing smile.  But pictures never hurt.  Peruse a few after the break, dear reader.