Shooting Stars

A young man once was on a journey through the forested mountains where the elks and salmon live, and because he was hungry, he climbed the tallest tree he could find. It was a pine tree, and its sap and bits of bark and needles stuck to his hands as he climbed, the scent filling the air around him.

It was a slow climb to the top, and once he was there he paused to look at the land around him, at the sweeping river and the spotted canopy of trees. He saw a hawk's shadow gliding across a meadow and raised his gaze to the sky to find it. Once he found the hawk, he kept an eye on it while pulling out an arrow and his bow, made special for the journey and not yet used. It was a creamy brown and smooth as a stone that has sat in the river for many years.

Stringing the bow, the young man took his aim, following the circling path of the hawk as it flew. Just when it was about to fly elsewhere, he let go of the bowstring. His arrow did not strike.

Perhaps it was on purpose, because the young man had already come to love the height of the tree and, hungry as he was, he was loathe to descend. In fact, the young man wanted to climb higher.

So he found an even taller tree and scampered down the one he was in to climb the other. The wind began to blow, but that did not stop him; it only added exhilaration to the climb. He felt one with the forest as his body and the tree limbs all swung every which way in the building storm.

At the top of the second tree, he rode out the winds, laughing as the tree danced and his hair was blown every which way. When the rain began to fall, he held to the tree with his legs, throwing his arms wide and tilting his head back to drink it in. The water quenched his thirst and drenched his body and he was one with the tree, high as a hawk and touching the sky.

When the storm ended and the clouds cleared, he saw the mountain and wished to be on its peak, higher than the trees. So he scampered down the second tree and ascended the mountain, eating berries as he went and skipping through the slower inclines. He relished the challenge of scaling the boulders when they came, his foot slipping now and then on the damp surface but always pushing upward.

Having gained the top of the mountain, the young man looked down on the world beneath and joy led him to laughter. The sun was just setting and he could see the long shadows, hear the crickets, and smell the rich earth. He had been told by the elders of his village to make camp for the night when it came, but his eyes sought the heavens and he wished to go higher, to race with the winds and follow the moon across the sky.

So the young man found another tree, this one still taller than the others, for it was atop the high mountain. And in the dark, he climbed. His bow was across his back with his quiver, all but forgotten as fingers found branches and feet found footholds to hold his weight. He climbed higher and higher, until he was sure he must have reached the top, but there was still more to climb and he continued.

Higher and higher, until he reached the stars. The young man nocked an arrow and aimed it high; it created a graceful arc full of light as it ascended for but a moment and then fell down to the earth far below.

With no way down, and no desire to return, that is where the young man still is. Every now and then he lets an arrow fly out of sheer joy, for he is where the winds, the moon, and the stars are, and during the day he can climb the clouds still higher.

Do you ever visit a place that just feels like it has a story? My husband and I wandered a bit through Boise National Forest this fall and this story came to me while we were sitting on a mountainside overlooking a valley. It just felt right.