Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Mountain Summit on a Gray Day

The chilly fall mountain air was blowing directly into our faces as we climbed over the last remaining boulders. It seemed as though the wind itself was trying to prevent us from reaching the summit.

We were well above the tree line, so there was no protection from the wind. My jacket billowed out behind me like a parachute, and I felt goosebumps raising on my arms.

As we climbed over that final boulder, and the summit came into view, I was struck - as I always am - by the sheer power that was required to form these craggy peaks. As I looked north, I saw a range of mountains, one peak after another rising out of the land, alternating rounded, tree-covered peaks and jagged, knifelike rock summits.

If it had been a clear day, someone said, we'd be able to see Mount Washington to the south west. But there was a haze in the air, and anything that far away was obscured by the damp atmosphere.

Just south of us was - surprisingly - a mountain top pond. The water glinted and glimmered shades of grey-blue as the wind whipped over the water, creating ripples and waves. We had come prepared to swim, but on a day this chilly, none of us wanted to get wet.

We sat on a rock ledge just above the pond and ate our sandwiches, looking out over the rows upon rows of mountain peaks that seemed to shimmer, fade, and disappear into the misty distance. The last row of mountains we could see was so obscured by the mist that we could barely distinguish it from the gray sky above.

At last the chill wind got the better of us; we packed the remaining food and water into our packs and began the long downhill trek back to civilization.

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