Hawk Mountain

At 16, when I finally got the use of the Rambler, I’d head for Hawk Mountain.

I’d pack a lunch in a paper bag: a peanut butter sandwich, a handful of raisins. I’d put on my Wrangler shorts (the only brand I ever bought) and my stiff leather $80 hiking boots--ankle support for hiking on rocks. I’d wear a yellow blouse I’d had since 7th grade, worn almost to transparency, and pack a windbreaker and rain poncho just in case. I brought an army canteen filled with water, a Swiss Army knife, and a small canvas backpack.

The drive was much shorter than it had felt as a child—about 45 minutes. Before I wanted to be there, I was, and I found myself reluctant to pull into the long loops of parking spaces. I didn’t want to go into the visitor’s center, with its stuffed swan swinging on a wire six inches over my head. I didn’t want to see the stuffed red squirrel, limp in the talons of the great horned owl.

I went straight to the trailhead. In my memory, there had always been some bent, grim-faced, old lady taking donations at the gate. I feared she would look the family over and find us at fault. She’d say, “Sorry, no admittance,”” though everyone ahead had passed through easily. To me, she was Keeper of the Gate, like the troll guarding the bridge, demanding to know, “Who goes there?”

Today it was only a bored-looking girl, who barely looked up as she took the money.

I was disappointed by the scores of people on the trail. I had hoped to avoid them by going on a weekday. The trail had eroded to dust and rock, and the going felt much easier than I had recalled. It took 15 minutes to reach the top; too soon, too easy.

But stepping from the forest into the light was just as it had always been: a moment of disorientation, blindness, and then that sense of stepping gingerly into church. The sun was deliciously hot. My calves felt strong in my boots. I started picking my way across the white boulders, heading north, away from scattered clumps of people oohing and aahing with their noses pointed to the sky. I wasn’t really interested in the birds. I made my way across the rocks, sometimes skidding on loose talus, sometimes slipping close to the cool crevices between boulders. I was aware of the copperheads that might have been coiled there, armed with their poisonous bite, and took care exactly where I put down my feet.

At length I hooked up with a trail that led to another mountain at right angles to Hawk Mountain. The trail ultimately led to the South Lookout, a clearing of white rocks visible from the North Lookout, but far less utilized. I was relieved to find no one there. I sat on a rock. I was afraid for myself, my inexplicable depressions, my loneliness, the fears and worries that swirled in my head. Sometimes at night before going to sleep I listed them, as a sort of incantation, to prevent them from happening. I still believed it was possible to think my way out of despair, to solve it like a physics problem: Work=force over mass.

After a long while, I would notice something entering my body, soothing as cool water. The muscles of my back would release. My shoulders would open wider, my lungs would fill to the top. There would be warmth and light, the soft sounds of rippling leaves, the faint cries of hawks. My skin would ripple and then fade, transparent as my yellow shirt; my legs would disappear. I began to feel that everything I could see and feel was inter-joined by a warm filmy light. Everything pinged off of everything else perfectly, exactly as it must. I grew beyond my own skin, to contain everything: the valley, mountains, and sky: the people looking up, the rustling trees, the hawk riding the upward press of air.

In time, I’d return to myself, get up slowly, and gather my things for the hike down.