The cold wind is whipping through me, chilling me to the bone as I stand amidst tall, lonely, gray mountains. The sky is still a mixture of early morning violets and blues, pinks and purples. It is desolate where I’ve landed. Nothing and nobody for as far as my eye can see. Not even a solitary mountain goat or a curious little marmet.

It is familiar though. The mountains, while I can’t name them, feel like they are from a mountain range near my home. There aren’t any trees to protect myself from the merciless onslaught of wind. I’m high above the remaining trees in the distance—thirteen-thousand or fourteen-thousand feet above sea level. And my lungs are telling me just how thin the air was. I want more air and I can feel my heart begin to beat faster.

You’re okay, I remind myself. I steady my breathing; breathing in slowly and blowing it out slowly, waiting for my pulse to slow down.

Looking around, I can see a dirt trail winding its way down the mountain. Turning, I half walk and half scramble up the hill until I can see where the trail ends: the top of an unknown peak. But it’s not really a peak. It hardly ever is. It’s just a collection of boulders; traveled upon and pushed around until it formed what it is now.

I love hiking mountains. It was such a challenge. Not just physically, but mentally too. The first fourteener I hiked was with a friend—a seasoned climber. When we got to the trailhead, I got out of the car and looked towards a distant peak, pointed and asked, “Is that it?” My friend glanced, nodded, and we got to work. But what I pointed to wasn’t actually the peak. The hardest part of any fourteener is the false summits. You think you’re there after hours of hiking upwards, but when you reach what you think is the peak and look up, there’s another one off in the distance, and then when you reach that one and look up, there’s another, and another, until you’re finally there.

And when you’re up there, looking down on all the peaks and valleys, the small lakes at the bottom of those valleys, and the other hikers following your footsteps, it puts a lot of things into perspective. What perspective I was never sure of, but being that high up on such a giant rock, I was always happy to be reminded of how small I was. It was always very humbling and peaceful.

I always felt the most peace in nature.

There were always plenty of days where I’d find myself in the woods, deep in thought. Many times thinking about the nature of the path I was on. There was a time when that path that was winding its way up this mountain wasn’t a path. It was grass, dirt, rocks and roots and one day someone decided that it was a good place to set their foot upon. Maybe they were following old deer or elk tracks. Maybe it was a bear foraging down in the meadow, using its bulk to push through the brambles. But someone first followed the path of nature and began to wear down the grass to dirt until a path began to form that others began to follow. The line of dirt became a groove, a single foot path, and then eventually became wider, until it became a place where nature could no longer hold ground.

Nature was pushed out of the way by man.

But it’s too much. It’s foreign. You’re surrounded by trees and grass and animals that are constantly calling and beckoning you from the path—to get back to that sense of what was.

Stepping into the unknown. Venturing from a path that had been clearly defined to forge a new path. Looking out and wondering, “What would happen if…”

If I step from this path?

If I take my foot off this same collection of dirt and rock that an infinite number of people and across the years have walked.

If I step where no one has stepped before? Gone would be the familiar crunch of gravel; the slight comforting swish as your shoe brushes the path. Gone is the sense of predeterminism. The sense of faith and trust in doing what is known or what is accepted. I don’t step from the path because no one else has. Or when you do, you’re guilted by the signs posted in the park about not straying from the path and the damage you’re doing to the natural habitat. I stay on the path because the people ahead of me and behind me are staying on it. The pack mentality. It’s the sense of knowing exactly where you’re going because so many people have gone before you. It’s comforting and comfortable. It’s familiar and safe.

Stepping into something new. Unknown, yet known. Known, yet hidden. Away from the path into unexplored territory—at least unexplored for a time; forgotten. The questions. The anxieties. The fear. The “what ifs.” What if I step off the path here and step this way and shift my weight from one foot to the other? Will I trip? Will I fall? Is there a hole somewhere covered up by brush that I cannot see? But then I step off and everything is fine. For a time.

If my footing isn’t sure. If I’m not venturing with confidence. If I’m not aware of my surroundings and potential threats—whether from the side, above, or underfoot—I can slip and fall and pick myself up and dust myself off and carry on and—whoops!—another stumbling, another dusting until.

Until what? Do I keep venturing on? Do I keep forging ahead?

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Looking behind I can see other hikers are venturing down after me. The people closest to me are following the grass my feet have just flattened—nothing else has stirred. But further on down the line I can see a haze of dust as people have worn down the grass to dirt. Forming a line in the dirt that has become a groove or even further away it has become wider so that nature can no longer take hold.

But when I look at where I’m standing I remember that sense of nature. It’s there around me—underneath me. It's a cycle. Birth. Death. Rebirth. Except when it isn’t. Except when it’s just being trampled underfoot by people that see an opportunity in the path I’ve forged.

“Where is he going?”

“He looks like he’s going places!”

Step gently. Do not disturb. Or do I disturb? Do I shake things up? Do I ground my foot into the earth until the roots of grass are torn asunder to say clearly to the world, “I am here.”

Stop!

Do you know why I am here? Why are you here? Where are you going? What are you doing?

I am here. I am whole.

Follow me, but know where we are going. We’re here to do better. To be better. To be better tomorrow than we are today. To be better to each other. To be to each other a better version of ourselves. To be better for the earth beneath us.

Step lightly and know where you tread.

It’s cold up here.

A sudden wind pulls me from my thoughts and my eyes focus on the path ahead.

My sense of reality is shaking. I can feel myself getting pulled back into the deep recesses of my mind.

It’s cold. I need to get down to a lower elevation and find some water and away from this thin air.

But why was I brought here? What was it that drew me to this place?

I can’t head down the path, yet.

I move onward, following the path upward, from boulder to boulder, rubbing my arms to keep warm, looking around for a clue. It was just rocks and more rocks, dirt, and—

The rising sun catches something that flashes in my peripheral vision. Turning, I look, waiting for whatever it was to flash again. But I don’t see it, so I venture down in its general direction.

My fingers are numb from the cold and I take my time. Gingerly placing one foot in front of the other, careful about how my weight is getting distributed, wary of the loose rocks along this route. My shoes don’t have much traction and I feel them slide, so I sit down, letting my weight stop my movement.

I’m close enough now to see what has caught my eye: a body. It lay several dozen feet below me. It’s twisted somewhat unnaturally and is still except for the wind that is moving his jacket and the straps of it’s backpack.

The way down isn’t clear immediately. There’s a sheer drop off that could probably be climbed up, but it's not as easy going down, especially with my fingers losing feeling rapidly. But further down the slope, there’s a clearer path. It’s a mixture of loose skree, larger pieces of gravel, and sharp angular rocks. Taking off my shirt, I loop it around my back and wrap it around my hands, so that I can crab-crawl down it, letting my feet and hands maintain balance and control.

I know who it is before I’m there. The shoes are familiar. The legs—one of which is twisted, obviously broken—the waist and torso—all familiar shapes. Even before seeing the face, I know that it’s me.

His/my eyes are closed. There’s a sense of peace about him as he lays there amongst the rocks and boulders. Kneeling down beside him, I put my hand on his chest. To my surprise it’s still rising and falling; slowly, but steadily. There’s a patch of dried blood beneath his head. His jacket is ripped in a dozen or so places, but his backpack is securely beneath him, which probably took a majority of the impact from his fall, protecting his spine.

LIfting his head, I look at the wound. His hair is matted and sticky, but it’s no longer bleeding.

There’s a shout from above. Two hikers, standing at the peak, are waving, yelling something.

Cupping my hands around my mouth, I yell, “He fell! He’s unconscious, but breathing!”

They shout something back, but I can’t hear, but watch their movement as they talk to one another before one heads back towards the trail and the other, a woman, ventures down towards us.

She stops at the dropoff and shouts that her husband is heading down the trail till he gets cell service so he can call in a rescue team. Digging into her pack she pulls out a fleece sweatshirt and throws it down to me. It’s small, but I pull it on, grateful for the warmth. It’s soon followed by a first aid kit.

“I’m going to head back up to the top and see if I can catch other hikers that might have cell service or a walkie-talkie,” she says.

I give her a thumbs up and she starts to gingerly make her way back towards the top.

Kneeling back down, I take the drink tube that’s hanging in the front of his still form and twist the bite valve, squeezing it, letting water slowly trickle out onto his wind and sun chapped lips. His mouth opens, his tongue licking at the water.

Opening the first aid kit, I pull out gauze and apply it to the back of his head, wrapping it around his head as a makeshift tourniquet. Inspecting the rest of his body, I don’t find any other lacerations that are still bleeding and even with the blood on the ground, it doesn’t appear that he lost too much from the head wound. His leg, though broken, doesn’t show signs of the bone breaking through the skin, but I can tell there’s swelling. As I prod and poke and inspect him for injuries his eyes remain closed.

Time passes and the peak gets more and more full of hikers. Some venture down, offering help or supplies, but most stand huddled at the top, talking and pointing.

Eventually in the distance I can hear the whomp whomp whomp of a helicopter and soon it comes into view.

“They’re here, buddy,” I say. Patting him/myself on the shoulder.

“Eleanor,” he whispers. “Eleanor.”

And I’m back in the void.