One summer I was in Massachusetts, and on a whim decided to go hiking alone up a small mountain. I felt mostly prepared, but the only shoes I had with me were black Bruno Magli loafers. They were terrible for hiking and, as I later learned, even worse for admitting to others that I had hiked in them. I did pack a little wine and cheese picnic, a sleeping bag, and a supply of SPF 100, so I convinced myself it all balanced out.
I figured I would reach the summit before dark, maybe watch the sunset before spending the night there, but it took longer than I expected. The trail I’d been following gradually dissolved into roots and rocks, and somewhere along the way I stopped being sure that it was a trail at all.
The sun was relentless. It didn’t just shine—it stared. It felt personal, like it was racing me to the finish line and daring me to keep going. I figured I had maybe an hour of daylight left, probably less, and my legs were starting to complain. The air thinned, and I slowed to a trudge. I wasn’t going to make it.
That’s when I found the rock.
It was enormous—twenty feet across, maybe more—and almost perfectly flat on top. From where I stood, it looked maybe three feet tall, but my first attempt to climb it failed. It was taller. Much taller. I tried again, found a deep groove for my hand, and hauled myself up, scraping one knee but managing to roll onto the top. The soles of my loafers had come so undone that they flapped around like a round of applause.
The rock felt really cold, like it had stored a long winter and decided to share a little with me. I closed my eyes, and let the coolness fill my body.
When I opened my eyes, I realized that the rock was surrounded by trees—and high above, the sky formed a perfectly circular clearing, like a portal cut by patience itself.
The sun had started to slide behind the trees, and I felt again like it was racing me to the finish line. Then the first star blinked on, then another, and then the whole sky spilled open as though it had simply been waiting for me to pay attention. Everything felt like it was inviting me to stay.
It wasn’t the kind of night when revelations strike like lightning. The universe didn’t say anything, but it seemed to be asking me to listen. And what I heard was that I am just a guest here.
As everyone knows, a good guest brings something to share. So I sat up and opened my backpack. Inside was the cheese (a chunk of aged cheddar) and wine (a French chardonnay and a Willamette Valley pinot noir) I’d packed. The chardonnay I set gently on the rock to let it chill, thinking I might drink it later. The red I opened.
I poured a little onto the rock—an offering, or a toast, I’m not sure. I cut slices of the cheddar and ate them slowly, sharing each moment with the night sky as if we were passing a plate back and forth.
Nothing dramatic happened. The stars didn’t rearrange into a message. The surrounding trees didn’t whisper in my ear. The rock didn’t glow. But I felt, in a way that I can still feel if I close my eyes, that the universe and I had come together over that simple gift—and I knew I’d remember it every time I packed a bottle of wine to bring someplace.
“I will summit another day,” I thought, and bedded down for the night.