038 — The Trailside Offering | Talon Z. Gray

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Today’s the day I won’t make it to the summit.
I know this now.
But the trail—
it’s been a journey worth every step.

Others will come after me.
I thought of them as I pivoted.

I left my water—
not half, but all of it—by the Twisted Pine.
Not as a memorial,
but as a promise:
may it quench a thirst I’ll never know,
may it save someone desperate enough to see it as a sign.

This land is unforgiving.
On the wrong day, it swallows you whole.
I know—I’ve hiked it, run it, crawled it,
parched and on the edge of collapse.

For some, this climb is sport.
For others, survival.
For me, it has always been communion.
Up here, we are closer to the pulse of the universe.

I tucked a tin cup of walnuts and dried apricots beside the water,
sealed against the creatures I know too well.
Little offerings, like seeds scattered along my path.
Few will notice,
but for the one who does,
it might mean everything.

And when I return to find the cups are gone,
I know something has shifted.
Planets have aligned.
Two lives brushed each other without meeting.

Maybe this ritual is my way of remembering her—
her hair blazing in the sunset as she sang to the stars,
two bodies in harmony with the wind.

Enough of that.

I don’t care why you walk,
how you walk,
or where you’re headed.
Only that you keep going.

The sun dips low,
cedar smoke stains the sky blood-red.
The whole world looks aflame.

It’s time to descend.
Clink—clink—clatter.
Walnuts rattle in their tin as I pack the last of my provisions in.

You don’t need to know if kindness feels good.
The mountain doesn’t ask.
It only waits for your return.

(Gentle rock slides cascade down the talus as I pick my way back to the base.)