A Climb

• Christina Ni, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2015

Step after exhausted step, trudging up the sloped path of Mount Oberon. You are tired and unenthusiastic. You grab your bottle, and take a long drink of water while glaring at the endless forest of lanky trees, their floppy green leaves casting dappled light onto the ground. They sway lazily in the breeze and you exhale with a huff. “How come they don’t have to climb this dumb mountain?” Your thoughts are irrational and your brows are furrowed. You’d much rather be in bed at home. Ah, that soft bed with those pale pink sheets and heavy, comfy blankets, which smell like home. “Sleep is definitely a luxury,” you decide, your mind coated with a thick sticky goo that is making you feel detached from your surroundings.
“Come on,” Your friend nudges you with her elbow, jolting you out of self- pitying misery. You look ahead at the tall looming mountain, a dance floor of sorts for the large party of trees- a muddle of moss green limbs and wooden legs swaying to the beat of the soundless music. You shuffle forward, one step, another, three steps and four. You wordlessly count every time your feet hit the ground. It had been fifty when you pass a gnarly looking tree amidst its sluggish dance. 112 when you sit down on the ground with the other campers for a break. 506 when you reach the set of worn, stone stairs that would take you up to the summit. You sigh dramatically and grasp the rusty railing while pushing yourself up each uneven grey step. Each time you lift up your trainer cladded feet, you thump them down on the next step, resembling an elephant lumbering across the African plains in the scorching heat- slowly and lazily. Your eyes dart to the side, and you see the rocky, textured surface of the mountain, a club of tattooed rocks in the mountain wall stationed near the top. If Mt Oberon was a school, then these rocks would be the rebels, the daring and cool kind that everyone wants to be like.

You take that final step onto the flat rock that is the summit. You walk forward near the steep, unprotected edge. The wind huffs and hits everyone on the summit with a large sweep of its billowing cloak. Disconcerted, you stumble backwards, the person next to you grabbing onto your arm. “Thanks,” you say breathily, turning towards her. “Not going near the edge again,” you think to yourself and chuckle shakily. You walk towards a large rock and sit down, finally able to appreciate the view. From above, the beaches look calm and lazy, their waves approaching the shore at a relaxed pace before embracing the sand and retreating. The sea is clothed in a magnificent ombré dress, a dark, stormy blue near the horizon flowing to a pleasant turquoise. A strange feeling overcomes you. You are afraid of heights, but the trembling hands or the pit of anxiety in your stomach does not make an appearance. You don’t think you have ever felt so empowered at such heights. You feel awe and wonder at how on earth did God manage to think up such a beautiful landscape? How could you have ever felt ungrateful about that climb, a path that had been paved by God, which led to the viewing of his magnificent work? In that moment, you feel a wash of emotion, of happiness that you hiked Mount Oberon, because who wouldn’t if it led you away from the imperfect world to see this perfect view? A perfect view that only few have the opportunity to see. You sit and reflect on your attitude toward the climb initially, and feel ashamed and annoyed at your behaviour. You take one last look at God’s work of art and follow your friends back down the mountain in good spirits.