Gilgamesh is no longer able to make an eleven mile hike straight up, then back down, the tallest mountain in Massachusetts. That may sound perfectly rational and like a normal state of affairs to many at any age, but in our world, it’s a startling and painful change: even a year ago, he could have done at least half of it happily, but now we’re in the land of neuropathy and other mysterious limitations of mortality.
So yesterday, at the end of the day, I drove him up Greylock.
His attentiveness and nose-activity grew with each hairpin rise, and by the time we reached the summit, he was aquiver with mountain wind and silence.
Wuthering and enclouded, the vastness of air felt oceanic.
At the top, Appalachian Trail markers lead to the distinctive tower marking Greylock’s peak. Designed as a lighthouse, then re-purposed for a veteran’s memorial, the oceanic feel of the place is only enhanced by the buildings at the top: even Bascom Lodge looks like it would blend happily on Martha’s Vineyard.
The slow incoming of the long, steady, torrential rain we’re now getting thickened everything and dulled all edges.
For a mountain-meadow-roll moment, we could pretend we’d walked up.