The Stones They Left Behind
She rambled down the path, which was steeper than most trails in the Ozarks. She twisted through the trees on a trail in the national forest adjacent to the gathering space, The Mountain, they called it. The Mountain was a place where neo-hippies and pot loving freaks would don animal tails and get together every year for a festival of southern charm, easy access to drugs and communal bathing on the banks of the river. Or maybe it was a festival for music, you really couldn’t tell the difference these days. Maybe you never could.
People needed to celebrate anything and everything, and it’s best to let people have something when they need it.
One of those big bands, one of those headliners this year, talked about walking this very path just months before. He said it led to waterfalls and cliffs for jumping. That man spoke more truth in song than the most revering pastor on Wednesday night, when real Christians went to church. It was easy to trust him, in all his glory, in the bright white of the day.
Now that all of the hippies were gone, she couldn’t really imagine them there. Perhaps they found it to be a spiritual experience being pulled down the mountain by the force that always pulls down. Every embankment was steeper than the last, and she tried to pretend that her footing was strong. She pretended that the beagle wasn’t in pain and that they’d both easily find their way back up after a dip in the falls. When she was there, she would envision the headliners leaping off the cliffs and splashing in beside her.
The further she followed his promise, the more she became disillusioned with his truths. With every step, his calls to come alive seemed meaningless. She finally reached the bottom of the mountain with her spirits held in a false place, way up high. And in the place where the river was supposed to be, she saw the stones they left behind. There bed was dry. There were no falls, no cliffs. She sat in the middle of the trail and gave the last bit of water to the dog. She was still okay with following the headliner’s fable to the dry riverbed and she trusted him no less after all. Maybe the river ran dry. Maybe it was just past that bend. Maybe she just had to go further.
She was glad that her lover hadn’t followed her down. He would have been less forgiving. He would have abandoned the path long before. He stayed on the top of the mountain and threw plastic into baskets. Why hadn’t she stayed behind with him?
Then she remembered the way her skin tightened when they struck a discord, how heavy and broken the silence was, how forced the dialogue, how strong the love, still. She would head back up The Mountain to see him. He would be done soon. But she couldn’t move at the moment. She stared at the rocks, because there was nothing else to stare at. And she thought about them, because there was nothing else to think about.
Fin
I’m not a huge fan of this picture (the lighting is crap), but when I saw it, I remembered being so drawn to these stones. I was on a hike next to Mulberry mountain and they were everywhere in the riverbed. I couldn’t stop imagining the people sitting there, constructing them. It was a peaceful place and I couldn’t get over how lovely it would have been filled with people building these little monuments. I missed out on taking this trail during the festival. That was the story I wanted to tell, but as usual, the story always seems to get away from me during my hour time limit. I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear your photographic stories! By the by, Mulberry Mountain is where Wakarusa is every year. It’s a wonderful little festival and it’s super affordable as well. You can afford VIP if you’re a college student or if you’re making a medical assistant salary.
People needed to celebrate anything and everything, and it’s best to let people have something when they need it.
One of those big bands, one of those headliners this year, talked about walking this very path just months before. He said it led to waterfalls and cliffs for jumping. That man spoke more truth in song than the most revering pastor on Wednesday night, when real Christians went to church. It was easy to trust him, in all his glory, in the bright white of the day.
Now that all of the hippies were gone, she couldn’t really imagine them there. Perhaps they found it to be a spiritual experience being pulled down the mountain by the force that always pulls down. Every embankment was steeper than the last, and she tried to pretend that her footing was strong. She pretended that the beagle wasn’t in pain and that they’d both easily find their way back up after a dip in the falls. When she was there, she would envision the headliners leaping off the cliffs and splashing in beside her.
The further she followed his promise, the more she became disillusioned with his truths. With every step, his calls to come alive seemed meaningless. She finally reached the bottom of the mountain with her spirits held in a false place, way up high. And in the place where the river was supposed to be, she saw the stones they left behind. There bed was dry. There were no falls, no cliffs. She sat in the middle of the trail and gave the last bit of water to the dog. She was still okay with following the headliner’s fable to the dry riverbed and she trusted him no less after all. Maybe the river ran dry. Maybe it was just past that bend. Maybe she just had to go further.
She was glad that her lover hadn’t followed her down. He would have been less forgiving. He would have abandoned the path long before. He stayed on the top of the mountain and threw plastic into baskets. Why hadn’t she stayed behind with him?
Then she remembered the way her skin tightened when they struck a discord, how heavy and broken the silence was, how forced the dialogue, how strong the love, still. She would head back up The Mountain to see him. He would be done soon. But she couldn’t move at the moment. She stared at the rocks, because there was nothing else to stare at. And she thought about them, because there was nothing else to think about.
Fin
I’m not a huge fan of this picture (the lighting is crap), but when I saw it, I remembered being so drawn to these stones. I was on a hike next to Mulberry mountain and they were everywhere in the riverbed. I couldn’t stop imagining the people sitting there, constructing them. It was a peaceful place and I couldn’t get over how lovely it would have been filled with people building these little monuments. I missed out on taking this trail during the festival. That was the story I wanted to tell, but as usual, the story always seems to get away from me during my hour time limit. I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear your photographic stories! By the by, Mulberry Mountain is where Wakarusa is every year. It’s a wonderful little festival and it’s super affordable as well. You can afford VIP if you’re a college student or if you’re making a medical assistant salary.