I hiked to Rat Tail Falls for a third time last weekend. The first time was a revelation. The second was a visit with an old friend. The third was best.
We hiked, as always, on a Saturday. But since the popular school "Formal Dinner-Dance" was scheduled that evening, our group was small--only five. Most regular hikers preferred to spend the day primping and preening for the big party.
We started early, but got to the trail head late. I missed the stop and our driver kept going. A quiet grumpiness filled the car, a mixture of early morning fatigue, mild hangovers and unacknowledged frustration. We could see the Rat Tail Valley below our road, but the molasses-slow car had to find the trail head first. Early morning mist made the view inexpressive. Everyone almost said something.
Once on the trail, we walked in silence. Feet obeyed, minds wandered. No one spoke. It was best.
Elephant grass six-feet high clogged the trail, made it disappear. The resilient and sharp clumps obscured the ground below and the route ahead. It cut our hands and faces. It pushed back when we pushed forward. I led the group left and right, searching for direction clues to our goal: a hillside with dolmens on top. Twelve-thousand year old dolmens. Dolmens that still stood, unmoved since they were built. Only parts had collapsed. But which way? Mostly down, then up at the right place.
We descended steep slopes, pushing through the thick grass, falling into it, grasping clumps to keep from falling too hard, feeling for footing in a slow, continuous fall, cushioned and controlled. No one spoke. The grass hissed against itself, crunched under our feet. Hips sideways we moved, pushed through the grass. It was all there was: the grass and down. Don't fall.
Silence in the woods is no silence. The hiss of the grass, the crunch of each footstep, your own breathing. The crickets fiddling their legs into a sharp electronic buzz, the leaves playing a thousand tunes on each other as the silent wind rustles them. Monkey calls in the distance. Bird calls that aren't right.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream, his mind moves upon silence. Thought is not possible in the presence of speech. But in silence it is. And in the woods, I can think. But it is not silent.
I know true silence, perfect, unerring silence. I once spent a night alone in a nuclear bomb shelter in Switzerland. I closed the great, air-sealed door. I turned off the light. I climbed in a bunk. There was no light whatsoever. There was no sound whatsoever. I was terrified. An abyss of emptiness opened up in my mind and I fell into it. I reached and I could not grasp. I screamed and I could not be heard. I listened to the metallic ring of my ears. I despaired. I listened to the beating of my heart and sleep came like a blessing.
Pushing down through the elephant grass suggested a child's game, falling in a dream, swimming, gathering, holding, losing, feeling, breathing. We didn't speak. Preventing death-by-a-fall was our only thought.
Then we broke through the grass onto bare rock and saw the dolmen hill ahead.
.
.
It was magnificent. We stopped, put down our packs and stared at it for a long time.
I admired. I examined details. I compared. I imagined. But I did not understand.
I wondered what the others thought.
The first dolmen was still standing. We climbed inside, then climbed out. We sat and ate oranges on the top.
.
.
.
The group of seven or eight dolmens I didn't exa
mine much. I knew them well. Still perfectly rectangular with intact roofs after 12,000 years. We climbed inside again.
.
.
No one knows for sure what they were used for. Most are on hilltops, and most can be seen from other dolmens on other hilltops. Were they burial sites? No one has found bones. Were they signal stations? They are silent on the matter. And so they inspire thought.
.
.
.
.
Some dolmens have sired trees, perhaps many generations of them.
We left the dolmens and found our way to the river valley through old shola along navigable paths. We had begun to talk. I don't remember what we talked about. The leisure of not having to fight the elephant grass loosened our tongues.
Then we rock-hopped down the river. We were silent again. There was nothing to say as we searched for safe footfalls.
.
.
.
.
On occasion, I would stop and wait for the rest to catch up. The woods around felt ready to speak, ready to reveal, but it didn't. Great rocks in the river bed rested near old trees
. The scenes were puzzles with no answers. There was great mysterious beauty all around. I was happy.
.
.
Nettles stung us. Red ants pinched us. Leeches bit us. We bled.
.
.
We swam in the river, ducked under waterfalls, cooled off in small pools. We didn't talk much.
From the top of the Falls, we contemplated the trek to the plain where our car waited. The dry reservoir beyond the mango and coconut plantations seemed so far away, unattainable. We were there in two hours.
.
At first the drive back to school was talkative. Stories from previous hikes were told. Opinions were held. Then as the light failed, we quieted and some fell asleep. Evening descended, and there was no more to contemplate.
hat all was not ill in Lakshadweep. On the second day, they arrived and stayed, eating sea-grass underneath the dock. Since the wind ruffled the lagoon surface, they appeared as dark blobs until they came up for air. Sometimes they seemed to linger and give us a good look. Some students sat and watched them for hours.
Recent Comments