by Richard Seifried
Signal Hill Musings
September, 2002
During their lifetimes, some individuals, I have no idea what the percentage might be, will experience something in nature that is beyond their comprehension. Such occurrences have happened to me a few times in my long life. Two, in particular, have etched their happenings so deeply in my mind that I shall never forget them. One I will relate to you this month.
Two decades ago or more, I encountered a phenomenon that was so very lovely that I simply could never forget it. My son Steve and I had traveled up past New York’s Adirondack Mountains, somehow moving in behind a hurricane that had blown itself out in the northeastern states. We went on, crossing the Green Mountains of Vermont and into the higher, more impressive peaks of the Presidential Range, located in New Hampshire.
For several days we hiked, camped out, drove around, and enjoyed our coupled loneliness; a father and his grown son seeking one more cherished experience together before adulthood once again separated them, perhaps forever.
One day we hiked up to the summit of Mt. Eisenhower, high by Eastern standards at about 4,800 feet. Our climb, not really a climb, rather an uphill walk, was long. Remnants of the tropical storm and air masses moving off of the Great Lakes continued to create rain showers. That particular day was the like the previous ones so Mt. Eisenhower was enshrouded in a thick fog.
The summit of Mt. Eisenhower in the distance, Mt. Washington in the background
We were above the tree line. Steve would cautiously make his way along the vague trail until he would reach the next rock cairn of piled-up-rocks. Then he would call to me and I would move toward his voice.
We had a great time, existing in a gray void broken only by huge rock fragments of the decaying mountaintop.
Eventually, together, we stood on the summit, moisture dripping from our faces and ponchos, relishing the chilled dampness as it penetrated our clothing to caress our perspiring skin. Our climb was an accomplishment, so we laughed heartily in the fog as we mentally contemplated what we might have seen on a clear day.
Most of the walk down, stumbling from cairn to cairn, then finally reaching easier passage, was, as it often is, anti-climactic and weary. Older and lacking the stamina that youth had once given me, I fell behind. Steve disappeared into the fog-shrouded forest below.
Then, I rounded a turn in the mountain trail. The sun suddenly burst upon me and engulfed the forested slope I was traversing.
I stopped.
For a moment, an all-too-short moment, I seemed to be able to see all about me, like a naked eye observing in all directions at once. Every single leaf, stone, water droplet, and bit of vegetation had become transformed into a radiance of light and remarkable clarity. The colors I beheld were magnificent.
My whole self seemed a part of the mountain. I was as one with the sun-bathed glade.
My human reaction was predictable, even humorous. I let out a low, appreciative moan. “Ohhh!” I almost whispered. My face split into a wide grin that remained for some time.
When I caught up with my son, he looked at me and asked, “What happened? Why are you looking that way?”
Still smiling, I replied that I had just experienced a moment of what some call “total awareness.” He seemed to understand and did not question me. Steve is like me in many ways.
We proceeded on down the trail.
Many years have passed since the memorable experience on the slope of Mt. Eisenhower. Yet, even now, as I write this, I can clearly visualize the rounded, colored pebbles beneath my feet, the soft greenery of the sunlit mountain. The complete lack of sound and the sweet scents of the forest, as they were during that moment of enlightenment, still remain with me, continuing to enrich the joy of my existence here on Mother Earth.
