The Dharma Bums - Jack Kerouac [38]
“You sure know a lot about birds and trees and stuff.”
“I’ve studied it all my life.” Then also as we went on climbing we began getting more casual and making funnier sillier talk and pretty soon we got to a bend in the trail where it was suddenly gladey and dark with shade and a tremendous cataracting stream was bashing and frothing over scummy rocks and tumbling on down, and over the stream was a perfect bridge formed by a fallen snag, we got on it and lay belly-down and dunked our heads down, hair wet, and drank deep as the water splashed in our faces, like sticking your head by the jet of a dam. I lay there a good long minute enjoying the sudden coolness.
“This is like an advertisement for Rainier Ale!” yelled Japhy.
“Let’s sit awhile and enjoy it.”
“Boy you don’t know how far we got to go yet!”
“Well I’m not tired!”
“Well you’ll be, Tiger.”
9
We went on, and I was immensely pleased with the way the trail had a kind of immortal look to it, in the early afternoon now, the way the side of the grassy hill seemed to be clouded with ancient gold dust and the bugs flipped over rocks and the wind sighed in shimmering dances over the hot rocks, and the way the trail would suddenly come into a cool shady part with big trees overhead, and here the light deeper. And the way the lake below us soon became a toy lake with those black well holes perfectly visible still, and the giant cloud shadows on the lake, and the tragic little road winding away where poor Morley was walking back.
“Can you see Morl down back there?”
Japhy took a long look. “I see a little cloud of dust, maybe that’s him comin back already.” But it seemed that I had seen the ancient afternoon of that trail, from meadow rocks and lupine posies, to sudden revisits with the roaring stream with its splashed snag bridges and undersea greennesses, there was something inexpressibly broken in my heart as though I’d lived before and walked this trail, under similar circumstances with a fellow Bodhisattva, but maybe on a more important journey, I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling. Ecstasy, even, I felt, with flashes of sudden remembrance, and feeling sweaty and drowsy I felt like sleeping and dreaming in the grass. As we got higher we got more tired and now like two true mountainclimbers we weren’t talking any more and didn’t have to talk and were glad, in fact Japhy mentioned that, turning to me after a half-hour’s silence, “This is the way I like it, when you get going there’s just no need to talk, as if we were animals and just communicated by silent telepathy.” So huddled in our own thoughts we tromped on, Japhy using that gazotsky trudge I mentioned, and myself finding my own true step, which was short steps slowly patiently going up the mountain at one mile an hour, so I was always thirty yards behind him and when we had any haikus now we’d yell them fore and aft. Pretty soon we got to the top of the part of the trail that was a trail no more, to the incomparable dreamy meadow, which had a beautiful pond, and after that it was boulders and nothing but boulders.
“Only sign we have now to know which way we’re going, is ducks.”
“What’s ducks?”
“See those boulders over there?”
“See those boulders over there! Why God man, I see five miles of boulders leading up to that mountain.”
“See the little pile of rocks on that near boulder there by the pine? That’s a duck, put up by other climbers, maybe that’s one I put up myself in ’fifty-four I’m not sure. We just