there aren’t mountains in michigan.
we’re a peninsula. we have dunes.
i’d been up high before,
of course, driving across america,
my brother and all our family pillows
with me in the back seat,
but this –
this was a mountain i had climbed.
there had been an ascent.
i was days away from the trailhead,
and i had walked myself there,
up into the thinnest of peruvian air.
i kept looking out to the mountains,
all the way to veronica, and thinking,
“but it looks just like a picture.
it can’t really be right there;
it can’t be real, so perfect and green,
right in front of my eyes.”
but it was real.
i was really there,
and so was the mountain.
i stood and i looked;
i soaked it all in.
i knew i was alive.
then i climbed down.
the highest point on the inca trail is called “dead woman’s pass,” as the surrounding landscape resembles a woman on her back. the mountain willka wege was renamed veronica for a woman who died in an avalanche while climbing down it.