The Black Hill. 1030 feet. Certainly no Munro. No baggers in sight. Not worth their attention. Yet I stand below looking up at the domed summit. Absorbing the challenge. Contending the worries. Deflecting the doubts. Will I prevail? Am I fit enough? Am I resilient enough?
Much time has passed since I last climbed a hill. I struggle to recall the last. Why? I ponder. Too many distractions, some not so positive. A few pounds gained since then too. A few years lost to a past I’d rather forget. Am I regretful? Or can I just archive those years under ‘experience’? There is still much thinking to do before I can decide. Perhaps the summit will provide an answer.
With doubts momentarily left behind, I embark on the walk to the summit. I’m immediately slowed by mud. A churn of tractor tyres and cattle hooves. And rain. There is always rain. Each footstep enveloped by mud. A slurp or splodge from every step. My progress is slowed. Caught in the past.
I cross a cattle grid, each step carefully trod. Childhood memories rekindled of trolls reaching up from between the steel girders and grabbing my ankles. Dragging me down into their darkened pit. Perhaps I met those same trolls not so long ago. I turn around to check they are not following me. Then I realise they travel with me inside my head.
A farm gate bars progress. Its steel latch held with a spring that seems too taut to open. I pull, but the latch resists. It does not yield despite my endeavour. A resistant barrier. An obstruction that will not permit progress. Yet with clarity of thought, one that can be easily bypassed. Simple. I just climb over. The obstacle is vanquished. No need to wrestle with the barrier’s obstinacy.
A signpost points the way. I progress through a kissing gate with no one to kiss. A vague path stretches forth, rising up, gently at first, then steeper. My heart thumps, my lungs heave, my body yearns for fuel.
I reach a woodland. Not ancient. A regiment of Scots Pine neatly lined. Like a crowd to be jostled by as I seek progress. The sharpest of branches scrape across my skin. I clutch at superficial wounds. The pain kindles a memory of past hurt. The wound is rubbed, licked, but no blood appears. Just a scratch to my aged armour.
Some of the trees have fallen. Taken by the harshest of winds. Taken in their prime. Only 30 or 40 years of growth. The others will fall soon too. Felled in a diesel-fuelled cull. Sheered and sawn. Timber neatly stacked. Used to make furniture and memorial benches and coffins.
The vague path continues upwards, yet away from the summit. I’m confused by the direction of travel. Is this an easier route to the top? Or more difficult? The path turns again, pointing towards the top once again. I feel reassured.
I trudge on. The incline growing steeper. My pulse rate quickens. My lungs gasp for more air. A pounding heart ignites thoughts of heart attacks and never seeing family again. News stories about people lost on the Cairngorms resurface from dark enclaves of my memory. Am I to be another? No, my body merely plays the tune to a lack of fitness.
Then a few final steps. The summit is reached. A white trig point marks the highest point, like a feeble modern version of an ancient monument.
The view is mesmerising from all angles. I look around a 360° vista. From 1030 feet, I can see other hills. Their summits reaching towards puffball clouds. Each summit is a challenge, daring me to climb on another day. I see patchwork fields. I see towns and villages where life continues on unaware of my prying eyes.
I breathe in the cold air that ripples inside my lungs. I bask in glorious anonymity. Alone and unknown. I listen to the silence. How loudly it resonates when there is no other sound. And now I remember.
I have climbed to heights before. Chased there by demons. The view offered then by the lofty position was a dull, diffuse cloud of irrelevance. Darkness lurked beneath me. Cold, hypnotising darkness that I wished to escape but forever ensnared my gaze. My eyes could see no further. I looked down at an end. Mesmerised by the darkness. Blinded to any source of light.
Yet eyes stung by sunlight open wider. They see a little further. They look out away from the darkness. They snatch wonder from the sprawl of nature. The diffuse cloud evaporates. The summit is a respite from the troubles found at the foot of the hillside. There are no angry words, or insults, or final demands. The mobile phone is switched off, the social media hubbub is silenced. The darkness has gone. Vanquished by the pervading light. The height is no longer a place to stare fearfully down from at darkened menace. Instead the height now beguiles with a wonderous vista. A timeless view to absorb forever.
The voice of reality speaks up. A firm announcement that standing on the summit cannot last forever. I must descend back to that dark realm I have sought to temporarily escape. Back to the worries and the trolls. So why bother to climb? Why try and escape if it is only temporary? What can I take away from this climb? What can I see?
I see fields and towns and hills. I feel energised by the cool air that invigorates my lungs. But I can see even further. Beyond the fields. Beyond the towns. Beyond the hills. I am lifted. Lifted 10 feet off the ground. I can see hope. I can see hope from 1040 feet. I gather up as much as I can hold. I fashion weapons and shields. Hope becomes my ally. A friend who walks with me. A friendship rekindled 10 feet above every hill I climb.