Here is a thing that happened to me.
This morning was not a prototypical Thursday morning. Sure, it was overcast and had that post-rain dampness that hangs around; the kind that foreshadows a rain later in the day. Morning class was canceled, so I allowed myself to sleep in until 9:30. After a shower, pancakes with peanut butter, and a tirade of curses directed at my computer (Seriously, I have never had so many problems with a machine. It is like its trying to piss me off. You want me to start up? it asks. Well, I have something else in mind. Watch as I sit here and show no signs of life. Never-mind that your roommate was quite successful getting me to work this morning, I am intent on proving my uselessness to you and you alone, day after day, week after week.), I put on my work clothes and head off to school.
I mentioned that this is not a normal Thursday, that means I have not ridden my bike to school at butt-crack o'clock in freezing rain yet this morning. I will not ride my bike today, that is why, in the story, I am driving to school. Here is the thing, though: I have no parking pass for campus. I quickly dismiss this issue with a hardly revolutionary though, there is plenty of free parking within walking distance of the school. Great, I will just park at the top of Sehome hill and walk down. The trails drop me off just behind Miller hall, a short 2.5 minute walk from my first destination that day.
I drove up the hill; the road was windy and trees lined the road. As I accelerated up the hill I felt as though I was in a rally-style race, "pedal to the metal, commander". I was brought back to reality 6.8 seconds later when I realized the car was slowing down while my foot was all the way to the ground. I looked around me and re-realized I was still in my own 1970 Volkswagen Beetle, a car incapable of speeds greater than 60 mph if it was dropped out of the back of a C-17 and allowed to fall 10,000 feet to the ground. So I puttered up the hill, barely able to maintain 15mph in 1st gear.
I reached the top, parked, grabbed my stuff and started off down the trail. At the trail-head was a map of the network of trails that ran through the arboretum. I quickly gathered my bearings and plotted my route: Lookout Tower Trail to Miller Hall Trail. No detours. Simple. Maybe a 15 minute walk, tops. The trail wound through the forest with a gentle downward slope, easing me towards my destination as if it had no thought for how long it would take to get there. It was fine, I had nowhere to be. I enjoyed the surroundings, trees creaking, an occasional drop of water falling on my head or ricocheting off my bag. A solo jogger passed me, trucking up the hill. A few minutes later when I had turned a corner, she passed me again, our only communication a slightly forced smile on both our parts.
My thoughts drifted to my past excursions in the arboretum on Sehome Hill. Really I had only been there twice. Once with my friend Rob, the other time I was alone. The second time was a typical windy Bellingham day on which I decided climbing the highest tree I could find was quite a necessary thing to do. The first time, however, was something entirely different. I had no idea how the thoughts placed into my head that day would affect my current situation. As I turned onto the final leg of my route, the Miller Hall Trail, my thoughts went back to Rob's stories of how he would slide down a particular section of the trail every morning before class. His ability to feel shame is indirectly proportional to the amount of dirt that cakes his body, an admirable trait. He recalled to me all of the times he arrived to class doing his best "Swamp Thing" impersonation. (Rob just got engaged, by the way, congrats to him and Stephanie)
Up to this point in my trek the trails had been roughly paved, but I now tread on densely packed mud. My thoughts settled on idea of my slacks and button-up shirt getting a few splashes of mud on them, but as quickly as the idea was in my head it left. What were a few mud splotches? A welcome price for this wonderful walk, if you ask me.
Everything changed when I saw the spot.
The spot where Rob had told me countless stories of his sliding and muddying excursions.
"Scott," it whispered. "Come to me. Climb down my lovely banks."
I resisted slightly, but I knew in my heart that my efforts were futile. I stood on top of the small slope. About 40 feet down was my destination, but directly below my feet lay a smooth mud slope, beckoning, begging me to partake in a forbidden threesome with itself and gravity. Before I knew what was happening I watched as my right foot moved out in front of my body and set itself on the first bit of slope. My left followed suit. Together, for a fleeting second, my feet, the slope, and gravity all worked together to bring my body safely down the hill. I tell you, there has never been a machine so finely tuned as this mechanism was right in the first seconds of my slide. But it was not to be. Time stopped as my leading foot sent a signal to my brain. That signal said, "something's wrong". Immediately I saw the slope was not beckoning me into its bosom full of the symphonies of gravity, kinetic energy, and exhilaration. Instead, it's true motives were revealed to me. How dare I, even for one second, think the motives of this slope to be benevolent. I saw it clearly, the malice in the slope's metaphorical eyes.
My body was thrown backwards, but I was determined to not be beaten. I twisted, balancing on my trailing foot and, spinning, caught myself with my hands. But by this time, all friction between the ground and any part of me was gone. I found myself spinning and sliding clockwise down the hill on all fours. To my great fortune, my foot caught a root and I was able to use my momentum to stand upright and reorient myself facing downwards. Alas, it was all a trick of the slope's, for in the middle of my path stood a sapling, trunk no more than two inches in diameter. I don't know why, but this sapling was also covered in mud. An instant later, I ricocheted off the sapling and continued a spin. But I was determined to with the very last battle between me and the slope. I started running, or at least, I moved my feet in a running motion. At last, I had scored a victory, for I was in control of my direction and had found my footing. But the hill had one last laugh as it catapulted me into the parking lot at its base. I stomped hard on the ground, trying not to fall on my face (you know, just like when you get off those moving platforms at the airports). Doing so collected looks from fellow college students who wondered how this mud monster had materialized from nowhere.
The damage was great, my friends. People walking through red square would have seen a man whose shoes, already brown, were now black with mud. His slacks had dark splotches on the knees and a splotch on his butt. His hands were unrecognizable as human, they were so covered with mud. His shirt bore a long vertical stain where the sapling had slapped his chest with its magical climbing mud. You would not have known from the condition of his clothes that he had just won the battle against the slope. You would, however have noticed it from his smug look and his "I'm the shiz" gait as he entered the library, mud footsteps marking where he had traveled.
Five minutes in the bathroom and I was presentable again. I could probably have gone through the rest of the day without anyone commenting on the condition of my clothes. But how could I live with myself for not sharing the tale of my battle with the slope. You see, I slid the slope, I fought the fight, and I came out of it with only a few minor blemishes.
It is a victory, my friends. Never again will I dare that hill wearing the clothes I was wearing, with the commitments I had later in the day. But I did do it once.
So that happened to me.
