On A Knob:
By @theeclecticrainbowwitch
Last week we camped on a knob. We hiked almost a mile up hill carrying a minimum of forty pounds each.
I went first, stopped often and was so thankful for my cane, it made it so much easier. Once we got there we argued about what part of the knob to camp on. I wanted high, she said no, that was where my dad had been picked up by the hand of God. So, we camped low; more shelter, less wind.
Tents up, fire pit dug, blankets laid out.
"What does one do while camping?"
My brother scoffs at my question. I say that we camped too early, someone else says we need fire wood.
I decide to go for a walk. I take up my cane, tell my mother I'm off for a stroll and begin.
Above and across from us is a bald. A mountain with a barren top, like a monks head. I don't plan on going up to the top when I begin, but I feel strong enough to keep going, so I don't stop. The path across the knob dips low before diving into the woods that ring the bald. This barrier is tangible, the air changes, dense and still. Another in my place might feel fear, I feel only a tinge of magic.
Only a couple yards in I pass a pair of trees off the side of the path, bent in toward one another, and mark it in my mind as a fairy gate. I stay clear.
To the sides of the path is a forest that looks too nice to be wild, too free to be cultivated. I search for dry wood, piling it in the path to pick up on my way back.
I'm halfway I think, still feeling strong.
I'm surprised at myself, but soon I am out of the trees again, and up on the bald.
I look across, wave, and turn on the walkie I brought "I made it up here, can you see me?"
I wave to them down below, and hear my mother's voice on the wind. She calls back my littlest brother, I'm surprised that I can hear it so clearly. I call back, but it goes unheard.
Unbothered, I turn away and continue up the path. There is one fire pit, a metal cross, and a second fire pit beyond it. Besides the second fire pit is an altar. Stacked stones, crystals in the ashes. I grab a stone and place it.
I say a prayer, kneeled before this altar.
I head back, pausing to read the stone at the base of the cross and learn it's a grave. I'm surprised at the age. My brother passes me on his way up, I let him go alone.
The way down is slower, laden with wood. I ignore some creature that I hear scamper through the gate, and continue back to camp.
I had taken nothing but my walking stick up with me. I have no pictures. I brought down only a thistle for my mother, and a bundle of wood for the fire.
In the morning we hurry down before a storm hits us. We had spent the night in the clouds, our tents were wet when we rose. I can't say awoke, there was little to no sleep to be had.
We descend from the clouds, back to reality. I take pictures here, we eat breakfast sandwiches and go home to sleep.
A week later my mother has gotten a thistle tattoo, already planned, and frames the thistle. I think about my prayer, and write the moment down.
I took nothing but my walking stick. I have no pictures. I brought down only a thistle for my mother and a bundle of wood for the fire. And a moment I may carry with me, gently tucked in my pocket.
-fin
