Telling it on the Mountain

I received an email today about a writing contest. Unfortunately, submissions need to be about the American West or the Colorado Plateau, and I'm not sure where Jewish, middle-aged angst fits within those settings. The good news, though, is it's a fiction writing contest, so even though I have very little knowledge of the region, a little ignorance isn't going to stop me.

I've been to Colorado twice: once, on a "teen tour," when hormones made it virtually impossible to focus on the sights, and again, some thirty years later, when hormones made it virtually impossible to focus on the sights. I was with my husband the second time, and it was summer. I recall being on a particularly arduous climb. And, oh yes, I spent some time hiking up a mountain or two.

My marriage had hit a plateau of sorts, and I wasn't quite sure whether the next stage would find me trudging through mountainous terrain, or plunging off the edge of a precipitous cliff. We had already done our fair share of trudging, not to mention pushing each other toward the edge, but nobody had gone over. Yet.

We were trying to accomplish what "couples therapy" had yet to achieve: understanding, forgiveness, rekindling. All that crap. Mountain air is thin, though, and dark thoughts and recriminations and fantasies of revenge seeped into every pore. The wide open spaces of the spectacular American West did nothing to help me escape my demons; if anything, they bullied their way in, filling up the empty air the way years of worn out clothing fills up closets. We had taken off for the wild West in hopes of leaving the past hurt and anger behind, but, for me, there was just no place to hide.

The plateau in our marriage lasted far longer than the weekend of hiking in the mountains, with some brief periods of great effort tossed in on occasion. Ultimately, though, we found ourselves at the edge, toppling over and hanging for dear life onto flimsy outcroppings. Separate flimsy outcroppings.

We're still separate, but each of us is on much more solid ground. It's an arduous journey of a different sort, but I have to believe that this one will find me (and him, but who really gives a shit about him?) at the top of the mountain, enjoying the spectacular views. I have to believe I will have beaten back a lot of the darkness, and even the thin mountain air won't let the old demons penetrate.

Next time I visit the Colorado mountains, I hope it will be in winter, and I'll be on skis. Even though I've only gone skiing twice, and only on hills that make the dip in my driveway blacktop look like the Grand Canyon, I know I'll love it. Sure, I'll be alone with my thoughts on a mountain, but fear for one's life works wonders for concentration. Anyway, I'll be soaring downward -- most likely on my ass. The demons won't be able to keep up.