Just an Old Pile of Rocks

Just an Old Pile of Rocks

It had been three minutes. The sun was starting to fall into the western sky, and the clouds above looked as though someone had dumped a couple of gallons of pink paint over them. He had taken several pictures already, but he was saving some of the dwindling camera space for later.

A branch whipped him in the face when he started to daydream. Another time he did that, an innocent looking root caused him to trip, almost sending him flat on his face. Brushing himself off, he continued walking. Every couple of moments, his thoughts would drift away from reality and he would be lost within himself, feeling every which way for the odd yet amazing ideas lurking inside him. He would begin to wonder “what if?” or “how come?” and would make up ideas and reasons; he would pretend something that was not there was and go along with it…until he tripped over a root or ran into a tree.

The clouds were turning a light shade of orange now. The partially visible path he was traversing grew ever harder to see. A squirrel ran right in front of him and up a tree to his left, squawking almost in his own language. A pair of birds from that same tree lit up in flight when they heard the sound the squirrel had made. It was a beautiful place, the closely knit trees still letting in the strands of the dimming sunlight and other small plant life giving off each a different sweet aroma.

It had been nearly seven minutes when he finally arrived. Even from a distance, he could see the jumbled mess of gray leaning up against a nearby tree—or was the tree leaning on it? He half jogged, half walked to the spot, slowing down as he came within a couple feet of it. Here, the surrounding trees were a little farther apart, and the forest roof lay bare to the west, allowing a remaining sliver of sunlight to rest perfectly around the base of the tree. One could tell the tree was old just by looking at it: It had knots all over it and a jumbled mess of bark that reached about six feet in diameter, moss clinging to the bark and hanging off branches. Most of its branches were extended over the large heap of gray.

The rocks were in better shape than the tree. Some of the rocks closer to the bottom looked as though they had cracked, and some had moss aiding in the breaking down process. He simply stared at the mass of stone for a long while, looking perhaps as far in as he was out. Moving again, he snapped some photos from his disposable camera and walked closer to the pile.

He dared not touch or disturb the rocks, for they seemed like an altar, so peaceful, like a tourist attraction or ancient artifact at the museum. He knelt down on the left side of the pile and started to search for a particular rock. Some had writing on them, though the words were faded, but most were plain. Looking near a dent in the tree trunk, he peered over some rocks blocking his view and smiled.

The rock looked almost like a massive egg with a thinner point at the top getting thicker as it went lower until it curved around the bottom. An almost exact representation of that was on the other side too with semi curved edges. He peered down at the rock and started to read the partially faded writing. They had used a red, almost pink Sharpie with green strokes elsewhere. He could not read it very well at that moment, but he knew what it said.

Looking at his watch, he stepped away from the sacred ground and took one last picture focused in on that one rock. He started to slowly step away back into the dark woods surrounding the little oasis. When he had gone a distance, he looked back for the last time. From there, it seemed like just an old pile of rocks, as it would seem to most people. But he knew just how wrong they were. He walked away, muttering to himself, “Just an old pile of rocks…”

In the wilderness surrounding Mt. Baker in Washington state lies an old pile of rocks. Hundreds of people have laid small monuments there, tangibly professing a goal and change for their lives, written on these solitary stones. To any passerby, this is just an old pile of rocks--for these people, it is their fount. Think of your "pile of rocks" and what it stands for in your life. To another, it may just be superficial, but you know what it means under the rough exterior, under the unappealing facade. Think of it, and remember. . . .

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