Coffee With a Mountain

 Photo by Bianca Gonçalves from Pexels

This is how I imagine a conversation with a Mountain would go...

    I crest the top of the mountain and drop my pack on the ground. I settle in a cleft between two jutting rocks and pull out my little one-burner stove. The flame stutters in the wind, so I cup my hands around it to shelter the heat like a baby bird. Once it is burning bright, I add my pot with instant coffee and water.

    The rocky ridges surrounding me are crisp and bright in the sun. I can see wispy white clouds rifling over the peaks in the startling blue sky. Then, I feel a slight trimmer from the mountain below me, like a cough building deep in its chest. The pebbles and shale seem to hum with energy as the rumble grows. Then it is here, the heart of the mountain. 

    I can see it and not see it at the same time. A presence is obviously here, in front of me, but it is more like a collection of energy hanging in the air than something of skin and bone. Features flit in and out of focus as I turn my head to look at it from the side. Deep eyes, a strong nose, with hair streaming behind it that seems to melt back into the mountains themselves. 

“Would you like some coffee?” 

I motion at the now boiling pot and draw two mugs from my pack. It nods slightly and settles itself in front of me on the other side of the pot. We are silent as I pour two steaming cupfuls. The spirit seems vaguely nervous, like it is waiting for me to strike out. But that is absurd, it is the mountain itself. If anything, I think to myself, I’m the more vulnerable one here. I smile in a way that I hope is kind and reassuring and offer a mug. It takes it and inhales the fragrant steam. We both drink and it seems a bit more settled now, it’s doubts assuaged.

“I’m not used to talking to people,” it says. “humans haven’t come here to call on me for a long time”

“Well, I’m happy to finally meet you. What would you like to talk about?” 

It fixes me with a piercing look. “Tell me about humans”

My mind stutters for a beat. Where to start? How to sum up an entire species?

“Well...there are a lot more of us now. Many of us live in cities with electric lights and computers and phones so we can always talk to each other. And we don’t fight or get sick quite as much as we used to but we’re still growing and have a long way to go.”

The spirit inclines its head. “I understand. I am still young for a mountain but I have already watched you change so much. And yes, I agree that you have much farther to go.”

I mull over the spirit’s words. I had never thought about a mountain as having an age before, a lifecycle no less.

“What were you like when you were born?” I ask.

The face quirks a bashful smile. “A lot hotter for one thing. And much less formed. Once the volcanoes cooled down I became a lot more predictable”

“And…” I hesitate “Will you die someday?”

“In a way. Eventually, the weather will erode me so much that I become sand and rolling hills.”

“Oh, that’s sad.”

The spirit seems to shrug philosophically. 

“I think of it more like a cycle than the end of a timeline. Once, I was flat nothing. Then the plates shifted and the force was so strong that the land crinkled and I became mountains. Now, each rainstorm or burst of wind wears a tiny bit of stone away, and eventually, I will be soft and trees will grow on me. I will keep shrinking until I am hills, then sand, then nothing. Just like where I started.”

“That’s amazing.” I can’t help blurting out. Who knew mountains were so badass?

The spirit takes a self-conscious sip of coffee and smiles mischievously.

“I know.”

I sip my coffee too. It’s hot and sharp, and warms my insides in a satisfying way on top of this cold, windy pinnacle. 

“What’s your favorite drink?” I ask.

The mountain thinks for a moment, then “About 400 years ago someone brought me beer and it hit the spot.”

I laugh. “Wow, a mountain who likes to have a beer with the humans every now and then. I’ll bring you some next time”

The mountain laughs too. “Maybe it seems strange to you, but humans and mountains used to talk all the time. It’s not that uncommon.”

Images of tradition and tradition flit through my mind. It has a point. 

“But, why did people stop?”

The spirit thinks for a moment. “Well, I imagine there are many reasons.” It continues carefully, measuring its words. “Perhaps, some humans didn’t like to be reminded of how old the world is. Mountains see far in the past and the future and I suppose, if a human society wasn’t built to last, that kind of perspective could be scary.” 

I feel a faint ringing in my ears, as if I have been shellshocked. I take a deep breath, feel my body resting on the ground, my hands wrapped around the warm cup. 

“Do you--you think we’re not going to last?”

“You could.” The mountain smiles kindly but there is a hint of sadness behind its eyes. “One thing you learn from watching so much time pass is that what seems inevitable in one moment can change completely in the next.” 

“So, from your perspective as a mountain and all, what can we do to change the inevitable?”

As soon as the last words leave my lips the world around me begins to hum, subtly purring in the background. It feels like all the mountains in the range are watching me. I look around, surprised by the tingles that are skating across my own skin in response. 

The mountain smiles. 

“That question was a good place to start.” 

What would your conversation with a mountain be like?