Doing Shiva on top of the world

This was the Wal-Mart greeting at the top of Algonquin Peak, the second highest mountain in New York. Moments before, my fellow hikers and I scaled the space age rocks above the tree line, the edge of a sustainable habitat. At 5,102 feet above sea level, anything seemed plausible, even the spry Kate, who in her early thirties, was half woman/ half billy goat.

“Just letting you know that the plants up here are delicate and easily damaged,” Kate said. She emphasized professional qualifications with her Adirondack Mountain Club bag. “Can you remind your friends not to walk on the grass?”

“Sure, Kate,” I said. “I’ll tell them.” I couldn’t move. My legs were shaking, and my voice sounded flat, as if I were talking into a tin can phone. The wind turned puddles into mini cyclones.

Kate thanked us, looked at her watch, and said, “My day is done. I’m going down the mountain now. Anything I can help you with?”

“We’re doing fine, Kate. Thank you.”

Kate disappeared, and I worried about not making it down before sunset. It was about 4 p.m., and those rocks would be three times as hard to go down as up.  We left the top at 4:45 p.m. and reached the parking lot at 8:15 p.m. With shoes untied and beer in hand, I wondered if I had imagined perky Kate, my Summit Steward.