Mystic Mountain

It was not April Fool’s Day. Nor was I the victim of someone’s cruel joke. Yet there is no explanation for what happened on that July 13^th in 1977. I was in my thirtieth year. I had travelled some by then and was familiar with various lifestyles, various human foibles, wisdom and stupidity, yet nothing in my life to date had prepared me for what I encountered on that walk up the side of Mystic Mountain.

Mystic Mountain was on the outskirts of the village where we had recently settled; a quiet rural setting with clean water, clear skies, fresh air, lots of nature to explore. On this rare occasion, I found myself free of kids and spouse to do some exploring on my own this was how I happened to be on this path.

I must ask someone, I thought, why they called this Mystic Mountain. Really it was no more than a modest hill with mostly deciduous wood of Birch and Alder with the occasional Maple groupings to lend some royalty to the setting. The small native plants along the path worn into a groove by many hikers over the years welcome the traveller, calm the senses and lift the spirits.

My reverie as I walked along was interrupted by a strange buzz in my brain, not unlike that of a train passing on a nearby track. While I experienced this buzzing, I was also privy to a strange scenario as if caught in a private picture show. What I encountered here was my very self walking down the slope in the opposite direction. However, I was neither of this time nor of this gender. Yet I was as certain as I am of my own history, that the fellow I encountered along that path was, indeed my self. The familiarity of his jaunty walk, the lifting of his hat in greeting assured me that I was not only I but the eye of the beholder.

Strangely, I was not afraid. I was certain this was not a fabrication, no construct of a vivid imagination but a natural phenomenon that defied explanation. It lasted but a few moments in time but there is no power on earth that can dissuade that it was not me coming in touch with me.

I hold this occurrence in my memory along with all other occurrences of my life to be as authentic as any other encounter. I never did ask how the mountain got its name. Nor am I likely to.