On Top of the World

The large ball of fire emerges from behind the horizon. The line of ten year old girls stretches out ahead of me – their heads all turned in awe as the bright sunlight stuns our eyes and the heat warms our souls. Cameras flash in a futile effort to capture the heavenly beauty on film.
The summer before college, I worked as a Girl Scout camp counselor at Camp Cloud Rim for nine weeks. Located high in Utah’s Rocky Mountains at 9200 feet, only thirty minutes from three major cities in three directions, the camp still manages to capture the essence of the outdoors. Each day, I woke to birds chirping, and blinding sun rays seeping through the canvas tent. Small, grey rodents resembling ground squirrels known in Utah as potguts race over the rocks; beavers flee from campers in canoes to the safety of their dam.
The afternoon before we had left the safety of Cloud Rim to conquer Clayton Peak, camping on a narrow strip of land half mile below the summit. At five this morning, we left our warm sleeping bags to continue. Now, the sun barrels up into the sky as we approach the peak.
Two years ago I never would have dreamed I’d be standing 10,720 feet above civilization. It took four years of summer camps before I conquered my fear of what seemed to be an interminably long, hard hike, mustering up enough courage to conquer the mountain. Now, I eagerly scale steep hills and clamber up boulders to witness the view again and again. Pulling my bagel from my pocket, I survey the summit. The girls scatter about snapping endless pictures and chasing potguts. My co-counselor and I keep one eye on the girls, leaving one eye to take in the beauty.
Directly below us Lake Lackawaxen glitters, reflecting the shadows of the steep rock cliffs surrounding it. Behind us the Brighton ski lifts hang in rusty disuse. Two and a half miles away, the jungle green roof of camp reflects the sun’s rays. I always feel on top of the world when I climb Clayton Peak, known to the Girl Scouts as Mount Majestic.
Just last week, I hiked the trail leading to Majestic. I was recovering from an infection, but I had a three hour break and a craving to be outside. The deeper into the woods I went, the more excited I became – I hadn’t climbed Majestic yet this year. Before long I was jogging along, melting into nature. The trees lined the softly flowing brook full of just-melted snow. Moss coated the north side of the craggy boulders. Tall grasses waved at me as I went by as if to cheer me on, “Go Lizzie!” At last I scaled the hill leading to the grassy meadow. Turning away from the summit, I stood on a decaying log jutting out over the steep drop back to civilization.
Behind me, the sun was nearing the end of its trek across the sky. Dropping toward the horizon, it cast long, gray shadows. The city lights of Heber and Park City began to twinkle in the distance. Dark outlines of lakes and woods jumbled together. I seemed to be outside the world: no girls to watch over, no activities to plan. Just me. I felt alone yet surrounded at the same time. Safe in the arms of nature, reveling not only in the adrenaline high of the hike, but in the spiritual high of seeing the land spread majestically out before my eyes.
No matter how many times I reach the summit, the same majesty always strikes me. Now, on top of Mount Majestic, ten exhilarated girls surround me, celebrating their own courage to reach the peak. My co-counselor and I relax in comfortable silence. The look of tranquility on her face says it all. It’s been a difficult hike and a difficult week, yet we would gladly endure it many times over to witness this moment again. We stretch out our time as the sun shoots upward – prolonging the inevitable descent from this peaceful haven.
Last week as I hiked alone, the sun surprised me, sinking quickly from its high position. In a matter of minutes, twilight had struck. I began to race time down the hill – staff meeting started in just forty minutes. A quarter mile down, the path forked. Had I come right or left? Left or right? The question burned in my mind. Facing back toward the mountain, I tried to recreate the original ascent: did I turn before? Taking a deep breath, I turned left and jogged up the hill. Suddenly, the path began cutting away from camp. With no time to spare, I skidded back down the mountain. Cutting through strange woods, I searched desperately for the right route. Weaving through unfamiliar trees and grasses, other trails mocked me. I fought back the panic in my head as I realized I hadn’t told anyone I planned on hiking tonight. I focused on the camp director’s advice, “Don’t worry about hiking around here. You can’t get lost. Just keep following the power lines – they all lead back to camp.” Above me, the black lines hung unknowingly – my last link to camp. I continued jogging, sometimes slipping through unmelted snow in my haste. Would I ever make it out? Would I be one of the endless streams of front-page news stories proclaiming lost hikers? At long last, joy rose up from somewhere deep within me – I could see the trail! The worn dirt cutting through the mountainside lay only fifty feet beyond, just past a small field of grass. I began to cut through the waving grass welcoming me home. “C’mon,” the stalks called in eager anticipation. The grass brushed the bottom of my shirt and my tennis shoes sunk into the mud below, but I forged on. Almost there. My shoes made soft, sucking noises as my pants rustled the grass softly.
There! On top of a hill before me, a moose stood up slowly, powerfully. I froze, panicked. Crouching down in the muddy grass, I held my breath for what seemed like forever. It wasn’t long enough, though. I hid alone in the woods and two moose were now staring straight into me. They looked at me peculiarly as if to inquire, “Why is she hiding?” They stared at me just long enough, so I felt their power in the core of my being. To my left, the sun began to touch the horizon. With no time to waste, I began to brush slowly through the grass. The previously soft rustle seemed to deafen me now, broadcasting clearly my vulnerable position. The moose watched disinterestedly, already bored with my petty adventure. I felt their eyes tracking my movements. At long last, my feet hit the path and I paused, looking one last time above me to their high position on the grass praying they wouldn’t charge. “She doesn’t look that appetizing anyways,” they seemed to say. “Maybe we’ll let her go.” I seized my chance. Trying to give the appearance of nonchalance, while my heart quivered in fear, I headed for home. The pink ribbons danced in the wind by the no snowmobiling signs just before the last hill. The sun dropped at last stealthily behind the horizon, the fireball at rest. Just below me, familiar canvas tents welcomed me back to camp, safe and sound.
I climbed the mountain once more that final summer before college. In some way, it drew me into its web, compelling me to return. One day, I would like to climb to the top in the morning before the sun rises, then stay till it exhausts itself. To watch the glorious fireball rise up, then creep once more behind the horizon. To lose myself in the emptiness of the wide blue sky. To shout to the wind and hear the trees answer back. To live for just one day on top of the world.