Out of the fern covered path she comes, a forlorn silhouette amongst a vast sea of green.
"It's five minutes to the top," she says; knowing, perhaps, of the great ordeals that we will face on our trek.
We continue on, and as we turn the corner we break from the forest, discovering a bench. A view of the city to one side, and to the other the fog covered hills, the ‘mountains' as they are so aptly named.
There, nature flourishes.
The peak is out of sight, concealed by the low lying clouds, however what I can see takes my breath away. The amazing variety of life that exists in this world of ours overwhelms the mind. Back on the path now, tramping through dense bush.
The mountain has asserted itself, low lying greenery clouding our vision. Even more, I can feel my psyche changing, morphing to suit the ethereal atmosphere of the peaks.
The wilderness starts to shrink, the trees lose their massive foliage and a canopy of green turns grey. With much of the trees protection gone, the wind begins to howl.
A heavy fog starts to loom over us, and the dulcet tones of chirping birds are now but distant memories. Unconsciously grouping together we soldier on.
Somehow time has slowed to a grinding halt; a seemingly never ending path foreshadows tribulation to come. Forces are encroaching on the fringes of our conscious minds, a presence is here.
Not good, nor evil, for these are restrictions of man's world.
It is something new altogether.
Tendrils of mist creep through low lying branches, consume them, then disappear, revealing a newly changed path. Here the ground has been scorched orange as if by some awesome energy.
What were once majestic trees are now sparse bushes, and the wind, oh the wind. Mercilessly shoving and prodding it brings with it fresh waves of fog, simultaneously covering, and then exposing the hills.
Butters Peak; the name does it no justice. We have been brought to the face of this new cliff, this new escapade.
Let us traverse this feeble hillock to get a better view of what we have climbed...
As the cover of the brush diminishes so too increases the power of the wind. Half way up, what seemed to be ten feet is now at least thirty. We continue to climb. Now at the top we can no longer see the path which we have become so accustomed to, the fog has enveloped us.
As wind blows with the intensity of Satan scorned, distress is not too far from our doorstep; and as if from out of thin air it appears. Its cold steel frame glaring at us.
Wind.
Fog.
Fear.
Run!
As we clamber down the rugged rocks of the mountain just conquered, turmoil sets in. Of setting sun and rising moon, orange tinges permeate the air I breathe. It looms ahead of us, coming nearer and nearer.
To the tower we go, though none of us seem to know, where our chosen paths will lead us. Low whistling, permeating, lights flashing, aggravating.
Through the winds we prowl, unwittingly feeding the scowl of the midnight moon. Like a deer startled, we are hapless.
Go! I must run, before it draws its deathly cutlass. Run rabbits, run, to your den at the base of the horizon.
Creep through gullies of time and fate until you reach that which you consider home.
Although fate will have it that you lose you way, scamper up, up, and away.
Until you are engulfed, set in stone.
Conquered by that which you thought soulless.
- Max Lequeux Year 13, Logan Park High School
