He once lived off the mountain, where people scurried around like working bees. He had a job, a house, and almost a wife once. He did odd jobs to save enough money to leave that place and find the peace he sought high on a mountain where the only sounds were those of the wild.
He built his house with his bare hands now scared from life and hard work. His was a quiet life when words were said silently if said at all.
The years passed, and he grew old alone with no regrets as he had made more friends than he could count. He named them, and when they came to visit, he would put something in his hand, and they would go to him gently, taking the piece of meat or something from his garden, then back away slowly, looking him in the eye as if saying thanks.
Soon, his age would prevent him from hiking the many trails he had carved over the years, and he knew one day soon he would have to venture down the mountain and seek help. Or he could sit in the rocking chair he had made decades ago and hold out his hands, filled with nuts and things from his garden that fell to the ground without notice, as his friends on the mountain quietly said goodbye to the man who was their friend.
Years later, some hikers came across an old cabin with the skeleton of a man sitting in a rocking chair, where small animals in the dozens seemed to be guarding him. One hiker pointed to the trees, where he could see larger animals of the mountain looking at him as if to say, "Leave this place, as it is sacred ground."
He was a kind and gentle man who became one with his mountain and the friends he made who showed this place to their young for generations, telling them not all who come to the mountains are looking for sport but rather for peace within themselves and bonds of friendship with those creatures both big and small who understood him when words need not be spoken
Mike 2024
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