The Illustrated Encyclopedia of an Imaginary Universe

Up through the dividends of trees, where nature itself looks as if it were tumbling down to destruction, crushed under its own existence, a like minded path sways peakwards, littered with stones, sharp cracks of old wood encrusted with dirt and time, the occasional stream either so narrow only a wider step is required to cross, or a small wooden bridge constructed so as to appear as natural and rustic as possible spans its small width. It was a beautiful day with the sun bearing down at a pleasant angle providing enough heat only to make us comfortable in our ascent.

It was beautiful and peaceful and I was feeling Paleolithic. The farther we ascended the more hushed the constant drone of the highway below us became. Aside from two old and scruffy men at the base of the path, the first part of our hike was in our dual solitudes. We paused here and there, once to bask in the sun, once to sip water from a small creek that dropped down from a broken skeleton of fallen trees and rough stones worn smooth. The water was fresh, clean, and cold.

We talked a little bit, about this and that. We commented on the beauty of the what we saw and what we didn’t see. The lack of machinery, of the blunt geometries of humanity’s bleak architecture, the speed at which we move to eat, shit, and fuck, how we avoid being even personable with strangers, the dark streets that sometimes are never coated with rain but always seem damp with something disconcerting, the schedules, and again, all the straight lines, cages passed off as apartments and houses, office buildings, and sanctioned inner city parks with manicured flora, no fauna that is not leashed, and paths made of that same caging stone made with sly curves as a lame trick to convince that they were natural.

Along our way, where the path split in two, we found an old man draped over a wooden sign. Belabored breathing aside, he managed to wave to us and say, ‘Hello,’ or something similar. Perhaps it was ‘good morning’. Maybe we should ahve asked him to move aside so that we could read the sign but we were confident that were we to stay our course, following the vague but apparently competent directions given to us by a friend. So we continued on our way and moved farther up the mountain whilst moving farther away from our destination: Pratt Lake.

We were probably halfway up the slope when we heard the sound of water, a great amount of it, rushing downward. After rounding a bend where the path narrowed slightly and then back again, we were dropped at the base of a rather impressive cascade of water that fell down natural steps of stone and earth worn away by the small river. Above us and below, the water rushed with some margin of great force. The water looked swift and the sharp rocks all around looked uninviting. There was no bridge over which to cross this expanse. We would have to ford it and I was to be the guinea pig in this experiment. Our friend had warned us that we would have to cross a ‘stream’ and that we might ‘get our feet wet’.

After snapping several photos of the waterfall and the view afforded us across the way of other mountains at the opposite side of the valley, we began to plan our attack to ford. There appeared to be no truly safe or obvious place to cross. There was a slight possibility where the path terminated at the water and began again at the opposite side. We probably hung out at the cascade for a half-hour, talking, resting, and planning before I slipped the shoes and socks from my feet, rolled my pants up above my knees and chose my trail to blaze.

The water was indeed moving quickly and twice I had to put my hand down into the swift current so as to steady myself that I would not be swept down and away. The water was frigid as much of it probably was melted snow. I was across quickly without too much difficulty, one hand outstretched for balance, the other holding my boots into which my socks were stuffed.

My friend followed after much trepidation. She was not as confident in her balance as I was in mine, and I think she was more scared of falling than I had been as well. She crossed without much difficulty either; in fact, I don’t believe she had to put her hand down into the water to steady herself even once. After she arrived next to me, we sat down on the rocks to laugh about what our friend had said about fording a small stream. I dried off my feet and put my boots back on and she did so a minute or so later. That’s when I saw someone approaching from the opposite side of the cascade.

I leaned down and said, ‘Hurry up, here comes a naked man.’

This man, with hair only on the top of his head, covered by a baseball cap adorned with sunglasses, deftly maneuvered his way down the steep ending slope where the trail turned to water. He forded the cascade with little difficulty and deft speed. I urged my friend along and into her shoes her feet did slip before she looked up and realized what I had said was not merely a jest but an actuality.

We moved along the path, away from the from the cascades, at a brisk pace, but the naked man was jogging and caught up to us in only moments at which point he said, ‘Excuse me, can I slip through here?’

We stood aside as he passed and then decided to sit for awhile to let him get out of sight. Although he was moving quickly, we didn’t want to hike much farther having to look at his ass.

After that, the rest of the hike was nowhere near as eventful. We never did find Pratt Lake but we did break the snow line and marched through the ice for a bit before turning back and heading back down.

After five hours on the mountain, we returned to the base and made our way home.