Mountain Man

Rough, imposing rocks rise around me. I sit in an upright position, my leg pinned underneath me by the cold edges of two unforgiving pieces of rubble. My hands are gripping the sides of a human-sized rock directly in front of me. Every muscle in my arms is tense and strained. If I don’t hold on, the debris that pins my leg will also drag me backwards to the uneven ground, causing the pain in my calf to increase. So I tighten my middle and clasp the oversized stone like it is a family member. But, I don’t know how long my weak muscles can keep pushing, pushing the ground away. I will have to let go of this lifeline. I hurt my brain as much as my body while I am struggling to think of any way to escape. My leg has fallen asleep. Or maybe it has died. Parts of me are going, one at a time.

It reminds me of when my favorite uncle died. He was climbing a tree with me when I was seven. I told him I wanted him to, so he tried it for me, even though everybody knows that middle-aged men should generally not climb things at all. He knew it too, but he did anyway. He misjudged the strength of a branch, and when he placed his tennis-shoed foot on it, the branch betrayed him. He kept falling, hitting wood on his way, taking a face full of oak. He lay there on the grass, and me in the tree. For a second I just looked. He was not dead. But he was. I don’t know if I called for Sylvia, my aunt. Maybe it was my cousin that called her. Or it could have been the neighbor in the house with the apple orchard behind it. He died from a mistake; now I am doing the same. Living out a heritage of not-quite-right steps and just-short jumps.

I am leaning back as my fingers unfurl from the saving rock. I hit the volcanic shards behind me softly, but they still sting. This is not a bad death. I will become part of this landscape I love so fervently. They will know I lived and died here. Perhaps someone will carve a plaque with my name, birth date, eulogy, and death date. Maybe they will bring flowers to the place where I am, and the flowers will decompose too, and be with me in this hard coffin. Or maybe not. Maybe the searchlights will pass over me and see only a mountain. Maybe I will be a mystery. And that might be just as good.

You see, I’m quite the romantic. My wife told me to write a will, but I didn’t do it. Ah, well. She will know what to do. She always does. I wishing she were here right here beside me, stroking my hair and cooing, “It’s alright.” I wish my children were here also. Oh, wait. We never had any children. That’s a shame. It would be nice if I could think of them as I sit here mangled. My wife will not cry at first. She will just freeze in the heirloom paisley chair by the window where she always sits, sipping her peppermint tea. And she will lock her eyes on my frayed brown armchair. Then she will send that armchair to Goodwill, because no one is there to sit in it anymore.

She’s quite pragmatic, my wife. And I am romantic. If she died, I would keep her chair. That’s why were perfect. We both tipped the scale one way or the other, and I’m afraid she will hit the hard ground without me to balance her out. Hard ground. That’s what I feel. But it’s actually quite comfortable. I can no longer feel my bleeding leg, or frozen face, or stiff toes. But I can know that I am going. My body will be the dirt that mountain goats will tread over. I will become part of this mountain. You know what’s funny? They always called me a mountain man.