Fleeting, Yet Forever: Hiking Millbrook Mountain in Minnewaska State Park
October 19th, 2021
By the end of today I will say to myself: “Why did I have to climb so high?” For my ambition will end in stinging blisters and aching arches as I descend this mountain; but for now, I ignore the warning voice that tells of temperance, and I rise. I rise to where the sky is wide as the sea, where birds fly below me and treetops—speckled with every shade of autumn—look like shrubbery. Here, I can see my mortality in the treacherous edge of the cliff, and my spirit in the hazy blue horizon. We are both fleeting, yet forever.
Our first steps around Lake Minnewaska are accompanied by cold winds that bite my ears and congeal the fat at the backs of my arms. My hair and scarf slap my face, and the sun is no consolation… but the view is. A single house sits atop white stone bluffs that plunge into the lake, surrounded by pointed trees of auburn and gold. From the shelter of a rough wooden cabana, my eyes travel with the wind across the water. She whips it into waves that look like sand storms upon a desert dune, and I realize that my discomfort is a mere byproduct of her art.
As my companion and I continue on, we see Nature’s handiwork all around us. Each foliage-filled tree adds to the composition that is fall. White paper birches bend toward one another like lovers about to caress. Skin-thin leaves of pale buttercup yellow flutter like butterfly wings as the wind becomes a breeze, which carries earthy scents of cinnamon bark and my own vanilla perfume. Contrastingly, ruby leaves flash peach underbellies like two-toned stained glass windows. I pick one off the ground and I’m holding a flame: blazing candy-apple red at its three pointed tips, and a warm, orange glow toward the stem.
We branch off the well-traversed path to a trail that is uneven and jagged, where all sound becomes a whisper. In the hush I hear a high-pitched whistle from a bird in the bushes. To my right is a steep rock face wall, and to my left the ground gives way to nothing, a sheer fall if I misstep. Fuzzy moss gently cascades like waterfalls down the slope. I hear the pitter patter of water dripping from it to feed a cluster of mushrooms. The droplets catch the light that comes in patches through the trees, windows through which we catch a glimpse of what’s to come.
The earth is a fickle friend, seductively stunning yet simultaneously sinister. The spider-leg root of a twisted, stubby pine awaits a foot to trip one moment, then lends a helping handle alongside a sharp decline the next. The path is scattered with their webs and ankle-twisting rocks, padded with pine needles. A nearby stream adds a bubbling gurgle to the whispering wind in the trees, as well as a slick layer of moisture beneath our boots. Clutching the stitches in our sides, we climb gray stone giants through low-hanging branches until they part to reveal what we’ve been searching for.
The sun is suddenly hot, and bright in our eyes; for in this clearing, there is absolutely nothing above us to block it. We are, quite literally, on top of the world. I feel a queasiness I’m unfamiliar with; it stings in my groin and in my toes. Things that should be overhead are now far below my feet. Everything, from the silver ant-sized cars to the red barn houses are a perfect miniature. We are like the ravens that circle the valley, stark black against the pale blue empty sky. From this elevation, I feel as though I’ve entered a new, secret plane of existence, where the tunnel vision of my daily life falls away and I can see reality in its vast wholeness.
We sit cross-legged here for a while, unable to peel our eyes from the soft rolling Hudson Highlands, worn down by a billion years of history. I bite into an apple that’s as red as the wine-colored leaves that scattered the path here. It snaps against my teeth, crisp and juicy, spreading a honey-like flavor across my tongue. My water bottle hisses with released air pressure from the elevation. The wind we once loathed licks the sweat off our backs. When I’ve finished eating, I lie on my stomach as close to the edge as I dare, and close my eyes to feel the sun’s rays that seep through my clothes, listen to the hoarse cry of the birds, and breathe deeply the fresh air of the mountains.
My eyes flicker open and I stare at the hues of green, gold, red, and orange that speckle the horizon like an impressionist painting. It seems, at first, ironic that it is death which gives autumn its blazing beauty. Yet, given further thought, it makes perfect sense. The inevitability of the seasons parallels the story of our own birth, life, and inevitable death. And, like the ever-repeating cycle of Earth’s seasons, our own fall comes with the hope that—after a snowy sleep—spring will come again.
Experienced During
Autumn in The Hudson Valley
Sleep Story
Listen to the sleep story adapted from Fleeting, Yet Forever
