Changing perspectives

There’s nothing quite like an equilibrium shift to put everything into perspective.

Saturday evening, after a long day of covering local events — which were all enjoyable — I decided to hike up Roundtop Mountain. It was an area in town that I had yet to explore. Plus, after hearing Joe Doak’s “Growing Up in Thermopolis” presentation at the Hot Springs County Museum, I was even more curious about the mountain that my daughter constantly proclaims is a “volcano.”

Doak mentioned how as a youth, he and his friends would hike up Roundtop Mountain and camp out in a cave. As soon as he spoke the words, I knew that’s what I’d be doing for the evening — finding this cave I never knew existed.

Of course, I did not take any trail to reach the top, the seemingly endless plateau where the whole town and more can be seen. No, I chose to climb up the huge rocks — “the one less traveled by,” as Robert Frost would say. In recent years, there has been some argument that Frost’s most famous work was misinterpreted. Some say he in fact did not take the road less traveled and the intent of the poem was completely misunderstood. However, all literary work is open for individual consumption and individualized meaning.

But, I digress. Literary theory is not the purpose of this column — even if it is one of my passions.

Once I made it to the top of Roundtop Mountain, I reveled in the landscape of the area that I can now call home. It still feels unbelievable that I live in a town of so much history and natural beauty.

After finding the cave Doak spoke of, the journey down the mountain began.

Throwing large rocks down the side of the mountain as hard as I could, I watched them break into smaller and smaller pieces with each bounce and crash into the landscape, imagining the bones in my body doing the same thing if I took one faulty step.

And I almost did take that faulty step. I held onto a large rock as I stepped maybe a half a foot down the mountain onto some dirt. The entire weight of my body shifted. I could feel my head and the right side of my body bearing the gravity of the situation, as if I was moments away from tumbling down the mountain.

With every ounce of energy I had, I quickly threw my weight back against the ground behind me. I was fully sitting at this point and breathing the clean air deeper than I ever had. I fully realized, in this moment, what almost happened. And I began to appreciate every breath I took, every gust of wind I felt, the way the dirt and rocks felt beneath my fingertips and on my thighs. I looked at the cuts and bruises I had acquired on my legs from the large rocks I grappled getting up the mountain and was grateful for them.

I realized in this moment how precious life is, and I also realized that if I had fallen down the mountain and injured myself or worse, at least it was happening because of my choice to live every day as if it were my last. I realized how important the details are, whether it’s the details of the mountainous landscape or the tiny hairs on my daughter’s arm or even the moments of unhappiness we all feel from time to time. All of it — every little feeling or sensation is important and not guaranteed.

We should all enjoy our moments — both good and bad — and be giddy that we get to experience any of them.