The Adventurer

An ocean of fluffy white drifts under his feet. Here on the top of the mountain, he is precariously perched on the pinnacle of the Earth. This must be God’s perspective. He wonders what the divine perceives from the high places. Could it be anything like the outlook of a little human? He closes his eyes for a moment, and it seems that he can hear the planet. Earth’s sound is a slow and mournful groan. God is advising her to rest and have plenty of fluids. She’s a resilient old girl. With a little help, she’ll be back to her old self in a few million years. 

He chuckles and opens his eyes. What silly notions. Things some verbose biographer might write about his travels one day. Still, he allows himself the luxury of his blasphemous fantasy. It is a private moment despite the rest of the group waiting for him a little way below. Their anxious fidgeting brings him back from his solitude, as well as from the lofty view of himself. He is no more than a man who climbed a mountain. 

One of them waves a signal up at him. Oxygen, yes. They must get moving before it runs out. There is also the weather to consider. This pristine moment has been a blessing of fortune, but things can change unexpectedly. He looks down one last time at the miniscule mound of earth he has created. Clearing away the snow took ages. Interminable hacking away with his tiny shovel. But then a seed planted, clods returned, and the hope that somehow it might survive. He can vividly imagine the impossible sight. A tree where no tree should be, right at the top of the mountain. A pilgrimage of people to observe for themselves the resourceful bounty of nature.  

Him and his trees. He had made sure to explain his side quest to the group before they set out. For the first few days of the climb, the others hadn’t minded pausing periodically for him to plant his seeds. They saw the behaviour as an innocuous quirk. But then it became clear how much stopping there was going to be. Many, many trees were going to be planted. Minutes of delay accumulated into hours. By now, he knows they are sick of it. No-one has said anything, but the sidelong glances carry a lot of resentment. He doesn’t mind. They are just tired and cold. So is he. 

They are also correct. It is time to begin the descent. 

As he clambers down to where they are clustered, he is already dreaming about the next expedition. Svalbard to see the Northern Lights? The North Pole? A caravan into the Sahara? What fantastical trees might be planted in a desert? 

Despite the lack of comprehension or endorsement from the others, his trees are not just a whim. Nor are they to be dismissed as some eccentricity. In a way he cannot articulate, they are important. He does scrupulous research. Each one is chosen to suit its environment and has the best chance of survival. Each one compliments the ecosystem where he plants it and isn’t invasive. This little mound at the top of a mountain doesn’t have much chance at all, though. This one is symbolic. 

One of his companions nudges him. Something about her face reminds him of a rat. Laura. He likes her. She’s a phenomenal climber, much more experienced than he is. He feels bad about thinking of her as Rat-Lady but he can’t help it. Her nudge brings him back to the present. He has stopped just in front of them and become lost in thought again. Yes, they need to descend. His toes are starting to become a little numb anyway. He nods them onward. 

As they begin their trudging, another rat-like person wafts into his mind. This one was a repellent colleague from when he worked in an advertising agency. Her rodent qualities extended beyond her appearance and into her personality. The good days were when she took credit only for some of his work. God, his tortuous period as a copy writer was a lifetime ago. What a shameful talent. No matter the product, he could find an angle which grabbed attention. Toilet cleaner? No problem. The latest, most pointless kitchen gadget? Easy. Wash the poop away, doo doo doo. Dispense that kitchen towel, la la la. Christ, the awful jingles.  

He grasps Rat-Lady’s – Laura’s – hand as she helps him across a treacherous gap. He laughs, and she gives him a funny look. He is suddenly nostalgic for the months he spent as a sewer cleaner. The connection is unclear. Maybe rat-lady, advertising job, rats, sewers? The sewer job was vastly better than the advertising job. Imagine the extent to which you must hate what you are doing for cleaning sewers to seem like a better prospect. The work was exhausting and foul but every day he came home with a sense of achievement. None of his friends had understood. Who could possibly derive fulfilment from wading up to your chin in what other people flush down the toilet? It wasn’t their incredulity which had ultimately caused him to move on. It was that he realised the job was essentially about crisis management. There was never a long-term plan for improvement. 

A blast of wind hits him, and he looks up. The sun is setting. Things are becoming a little dangerous. They better get back to the camp soon. The group has tacitly sped up, but he pauses for a moment by one of the mounds he planted on the way up. He smiles. The others were just about come to the end of their patience with him by that point. Today, their annoyance manifest as walking a little ahead of him instead of next to him, looking away when he spoke, and eventually snapping at him. He understands their frustration. They would be back by now, but for his trees. 

Someone calls out from below. The camp! They have arrived. Everyone’s spirits soar as they plod the final way to the tents. 

As the others hurry to their bubbles of colour, he stands for a few minutes by himself in the frigid dusk. A good day. He hopes that in the months and years to come, they will look back at his trees with a little more charity. He imagines some of them returning years later to find a hardy, mountain-pruned bonsai clinging to the zenith of the planet. 

It is not in his nature to look backward very often. Today has been unexpectedly rich with memory. If in future he decides to retread old paths, he will follow a meandering squiggle of sprouting seeds, charting the magnificent course of his travels. His life, inscribed on the planet in a great line of trees which he will never see in their prime. 

What a comically biblical legacy of what could be. Man dreams and God smiles. 

But not knowing is as it should be. Eyes to the horizon and the mad hope of a better world.