Friction

You learn so much from walking on mountains. Just little things, like how rocks look when they are slippery or what kinds of soil are likely to give. In Manhattan I can just swing my legs forward and, if it's night and I know or don't care where I'm going, let my thoughts slip into somewhere far away and nonexistent. Here on the hills, it is completely different. Walking, more than anything else, becomes an act of concentration. Every step has to be considered and calculated, at least half consciously, because every step is different, every patch of ground unique. It trains your eyes and feet and balance, gives your legs a sort of precision to their swing and kick. And, if walk the mountain long enough, I expect you come to know the path, feel the softness of the dirt and the shape of the stones in your muscle memory. Then, perhaps, the mountain lets you look away, frees you to think of other things. But not before, and not for a while. The mountain takes some learning too.

Every day I make the long trudge straight up the hill to the program house, next to and over streams, up tall makeshift steps, and along the narrow winding paths that cut through rice paddies and backyards. If it is sunny out, or if I'm in a hurry, I'll arrive soaked through with sweat. If it is raining hard, or if it rained last night, the stream will be too deep to cross without soaking my shoes and pants, so I'll go on a bit further up the path and leap--literally leap!--from boulder to boulder, like Mario or Indiana Jones.

Little girls giggle and namaste as they pass me on their way to school. Some days they'll hold up their hands like a camera or pinch their fingers to their ears, and if I've got my iPod on I'll take our my earbuds and let them listen for a few seconds. They giggle some more, and their friends will run up to ask what I'm listening to. The first time this happened I had on Public Enemy, and the tiny girl, half my height, turned to her companion and made crude gangster-y motions with her hands. Everyday since then that girl has stopped me and done her little hip-hop dance, endlessly chanting "waka-waka-waka-waka!"

Going down is easier, but takes just as much concentration. Friction is the key. I find myself remembering high school physics classes and wondering at the wisdom of the body, to be able to calculate so quickly and so accurately the coefficients of every rock and tuft of grass and mud puddle. At night or, worse, at dusk this becomes infinitely more difficult. In the dark I can't distinguish textures, and my depth perception becomes a mere suggestion. When I leave early, however, and walk home on my own, I try to go fast, and suddenly it all becomes a game. How much easier it feels when I don't try to stop and secure my balance, but let my momentum fly me forward and down, hopping from stone to stone, so light on my feet. And, thinking about those physics classes, I realize that it really is easier. If I'm constantly moving forward, I tend to put less weight down on sloping surfaces, and am thus less likely to slip. I can make better use of the friction when I don't cling to the apparent comfort of careful balance and slow steps.

This isn't a "and that's a lot like traveling" post. You can decipher your own meanings and metaphors. Suffice to say, a certain momentum can useful, if you are willing to sacrifice a bit of feeling grounded.

Sometimes though it is best to stop. Not just for balance and breath, however, but to stare at the textured greens and browns of the mountains across the valley and the complex fractal curves of the white billowed clouds. These are times I can't help but laugh, grunt that maniacal chuckle that comes from low in the stomach and deep in the soul. What wonders lie beyond those peaks? What kingdoms must be hidden in those clouds? The mountains have so much to teach us, and the skies, I think, even more. All we need to climb them is a little balance and determination, and perhaps a little friction.