Top of the Mountain

The top of the mountain isn’t always a sharp line against the sky. Sometimes it’s a soft place, washed out with light, where the world looks farther away than it really is.

From up here the water turns quiet and pale, a wide sheet of blue-gray with islands resting in it like small, steady thoughts. The hills fade into one another until the edges disappear. The air feels thin, not in the dramatic way, but in the way that makes you notice your own breathing and the simple work it took to get here.

The trail up was the usual rhythm: steps, sweat, a pause to drink, then the slow bargaining you do with yourself when the incline refuses to let up. And then—without any announcement—the view opens. It’s not loud. It doesn’t demand anything. It just sits there, patient and clear, letting you arrive.

I like these moments because they feel honest. Up high, the small things are still small, but they matter again: a bare branch reaching into the frame, new green leaves catching the sun, the hush that falls over you when you realize you’re finally standing where you aimed to stand.

“Top of the Mountain” is a simple title, but it fits. Not because the peak is an ending, but because it’s a brief, bright pause before you turn back toward the ordinary world and carry a little of this quiet with you.