On the East side of Atlanta, in the town of Stone Mountain, Georgia is a park featuring a monolithic piece of quartz monzonite (close to granite) ascending 786 feet above ground and nearly 9 miles below ground. Officially known as Stone Mountain, it is one of the largest monadnocks (single exposed stone) on Earth.
It is here I decided to tempt fate and climb it.
For the record, I am a 53 year old math and science teacher with a large brood of summer school students and a planned field trip to meet the mountain. Not one to shirk a challenge, I agreed to go with all 28 of my healthy, fit, 13 year old students.
I made the climb.
I was sweaty, out of breath, in desperate need of multiple rests, and suffering from what I will describe when I get older as “a heart attack with each step”.
But, I made the climb.
My students finished in 20 minutes. I clocked in at 45 minutes. I wasn’t the last up the mountain, but I looked like a disaster during the entire climb.
On both the ascent and the descent, I passed a number of individuals, each with their own reason for being on the mountain that day. Some where there for fitness, some for adventure, and some for fun.
One was there for another reason.
I have no idea what his name was, so I will moniker him as Bob.
Bob climbed and talked (out loud) to himself. He spoke of times of his life running the entire spectrum of pleasantness to sheer horror. He must have lived each episode and been affected accordingly. His pace matched my pace. His words resonated with me. He married young and she died young. His single child ran away from home and never returned. His army days scarred him of actions too heinous to repeat.
Bob broadcast his struggles with drugs and alcoholism, his repeated attempts at recover, and his time spent behind bars.
Bob detailed the life of his last best friend, his dog. While never stating his name, Bob rejoiced in the few years they had together. He stopped the tale mid-sentence, both to catch his breath and to wipe away a tear on his face. I took that time to mirror his pace and actions. Sweat and pain followed me upward. History and therapy pushed Bob.
At the first rest station, Bob found a respite on a water smoothed rock perfectly accessible for a single person requiring such a place to rest. I lurked nearby, unable to hear Bob’s constant banter, but wishing I could. I am not a professional who might have helped Bob so I should have continued independent of him, but I found myself drawn to his solo conversation.
I became an uninvited spy in the life of another.
Bob moved on and so did I.
The vertical steps between rocks became smaller, but my lack of energy made even this part of the ascent difficult. I am out of shape from the days of my youth and felt every painful leg lift to continue propelling myself forward. If Bob (who looked a decade older than me) had the same problems, he didn’t show it. Mimicking a metronome, he proceeded at the same pace he began.
In for a penny, in for a pound; I had to keep up.
I heard Bob speak of his faith in God and the times he lost his faith.
I heard Bob curse someone named Melissa while never breaking stride.
Bob reached an adjacent gravel road and decided to travel its constant slope for the next quarter mile. So did others. So did I.
Bob became silent during this portion and rededicated himself to a successful conclusion. I kept pace for I could see the top. I would collapse there (as would others).
The rest of the climb became uneventful for the two of us. I heard Bob breathing as hard as I was and walking as slow as I would, if I set the pace.
Upon reaching the summit, I did require a rest, but only one in close proximity to Bob. I have no right to make this decision and no right to eavesdrop for as long as I have, but I had no other choice but to finish what we (Bob and I) started.
Ironically, this was the first time today I used the pronoun “we”.
Once on top, Bob walked to the edge of Stone Mountain and gazed upon the wonder of what Nature bestowed upon man and what man found the courage to preserve for posterity. He took his time, looked about, and began a long guttural scream a long time coming. It was as painful to watch as it was to perform. My ears hurt. My heart ached for Bob. This had to have been his metamorphosis or cathartic release or some other reason justifying what he did and where he did it. Perhaps this one spot atop the mountain had a powerful meaning only he and his ghosts could fathom. Perhaps he had survivor’s guilt from being the last of his kind and the journey was one last goodbye, screamed to the winds. Whatever was Bob’s purpose, whatever pushed him upward, or pulled him through, I believe he became a better man for playing the role he was cast to play.
After catching his breath and exercising his demons, Bob gave thanks toward the sky and began the slow and careful walk back down to his life in Georgia.
I chose not to follow him. I had my own purpose for being on the mountain.
My students greeted me from the snack shack atop Stone Mountain and laughed at my sweaty appearance. I did look disheveled and far from the norm of teaching excellence I wished to always convey to them. My heart was still racing, my pulse was too high, and my face looked flushed.
But I made it when none of my students believed I could do so.
In honor of this small achievement, I walked to the edge of Stone Mountain, gazed about, and proceeded to yell at the top of my lungs to the wind.
My students rarely understand the subtlety of what I say or do.
If Bob had heard me, he would have.
Of that, I am sure.
With degrees in Physics and Chemistry, Andy Betz has tutored and taught in excess of 30 years. His novel, short stories, and poems are works still defining his style. He lives in 1974, has been married for 26 years, and collects occupations (the current tally is 95).