CLIMB EVERY MOUNTAIN
A Widow Bit – May 20, 2010
By Mary Koch

            Glastonbury, England – a mecca for New Age spiritualism. Its myriad little shops do a big business in all things transcendental, from astrology to Zen. And Glastonbury is gateway to the legendary hill of Avalon and King Arthur: the Tor.

            Only 525 feet high, the Tor looms above a large plain. You can see the hill and St. Michael’s stone tower at its top from many miles away. Over the centuries, the Tor has drawn countless thousands of pilgrims and tourists. I was a little bit of each as I began my purposefully slow climb late on a gloomy afternoon. Hiking guides say it’s about a ten-minute walk to the top. Right. You can say the Lord’s Prayer all in one breath, too, but what would be the point?

            To accommodate the stream of visitors, concrete steps have been built into the hillside, climbing gradually up the slope. But because it’s in my DNA to do everything the hard way, I left the steps to walk along the broad, earth terraces that appear to spiral around and up the hill. I’m terrified by heights, yet I felt confident and rooted to good solid earth on the terraces.

            Then, as I reached the back of the hill, I discovered the terraces did not spiral but that I would have to climb a steep and narrow set of stairs to reach the top. Unlike the main stairs, these seemed to be set on the very edge of the hill. A simple stumble, loss of balance and you would tumble down, down, down. I quavered, silently calling, Where are you, John? I need you with me!

            It was the metaphor of our marriage: John insistent on scrambling to the top of everything, having to coax and reassure me every step of the way. In truth, the stairs were not at all dangerous; a child would skip up and down them. It was my imagination, buffeted by the winds and misty rain, that turned my ascent into a test of courage and determination.

            I stayed only briefly at the top. On my way down—on the main path—I met a line of silent pilgrims who were stopping to pray, one by one, at a particular rock that apparently serves as a traditional altar. Had I missed the whole spiritual experience? Perhaps, but climbing a mere 525 feet required more from me than flying halfway around the world had. Though we may complain of security checks and cramped seating, as travelers we experience none of the hardships faced by emigrants, explorers and pilgrims of centuries past.

            Two days later during a workshop in Oxford, I heard a woman comment about the temporary halts of air traffic over England because of volcanic ash. It’d been so peaceful, she said, adding: “We’re smothering the earth, simply by traveling.” Or, changing her word order: We’re smothering the earth by simply traveling.

            I’m to fly home Monday, but between airline strikes and volcanoes, there’s no guarantee of that. No guarantee at all.