Come the full moon, Anne and I climbed Mt. Royal in the company of our moon shadows. We ascended steeply through the trees, pausing to survey views from an old mine site half way up. A milky, empyrean gauze bathed the landscape as we looked out over the same view which once kept some lonely miner company.
Our headlamps came in use navigating around the bigger rocks under tree shadow darkness. We took turns pausing and listening intently to imagined forest whispers.
Upon gaining the ridge we perched on rocky overhangs, peering down into the valley thousands of feet below. The Perseid Meteor Shower was supposedly at its peak but the moon monopolized the the sky. In fact, the only formation to stand against her was the Big Dipper and I suspect that is only because those stars have formed a Union.
I threw my head back and howled homage to the Planetoid Prima Donna. Moving along the gullies and outcrops of the ridge, the mountains manipulated sound. Some spots echoed whereas others swallowed sonance whole.
Life must be rough along a high and windy ridge, as attested by the stunted, sturdy trees which populate them. One such monument had shoved over many years ago, exposing the whole of his underparts in all their gnarled, twisted glory. It was here that I spotted the Howling Wolf. Do you see it?
The next night was Girl’s Night. We gathered over home-made pizzas and Kitchen Sink Cookies. It is important to commune with ones own gender. Particularly when in a minority. We shared stories of origin. From the wider survey I’ve been unofficially gathering, I contend there are two things which bring females out here: a) Love of/Curiosity about the Mountains b) Boyfriends. As such, it seems sound to conclude most women are led up here by some form of passion; a strong and tempestuous master.
And, my dear readers, it is in the pursuit of those interests that time passes.