The Distant Snowy Mountain: a Short Story 

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• Sarah Cronin

The boy and the girl meet at the edge of the playground, away from the swings and slides, away from the shouting and giggling and screeching of their classmates. They meet where the grass is tall and green and the sky is big and blue and there are secrets everywhere — secret houses, secret patterns, secret songs and secret singers. He is 6 years old. She is 6 years old plus 2 months. Exploring together, they become best friends.

When the boy and the girl get older, they hold hands. And when they get older than holding hands, they kiss. And when they get older than kissing, they decide to spend the rest of their life together. The boy asks: But what will we do with the rest of our life together? The girl points to a distant snowy mountain and replies: We'll do the same thing we've always done — explore the secrets.

They start their new life together by walking to the bottom of the distant snowy mountain, paying attention to secrets along the way — bugs and fish, trees and boulders, chipmunks, waterfalls, secrets within secrets. The trip takes them an entire week and they carry backpacks the entire time. The backpacks are filled with warm clothes and nourishing food and a book of poems that they read each evening in their tent by the fluttery glow of a candle.

Finally, they reach the bottom of the snowy mountain. The top is still far above them; there's nothing to do besides put one foot in front of the other and climb. Setting a steady pace, they climb for hours and hours, up into the cold, windy secrets of a place few people visit. Everything sparkles at the summit, the boy and the girl included. And the world — the world seems to extend in all directions to infinity.

Then the moment to head down arrives. Excited to explore more beauty, more adventure, more secrets, they wedge the backpacks under their butts and use them as sleds. Down the side of the mountain they ride, faster and faster, down, down, down, tears streaming across their faces. They're at the bottom of the mountain before they know it, tumbling in the snow. Laughing, the boy says: I've never laughed so hard! The girl is laughing so hard she can only dance and jump and shake.

The boy and the girl are sad to leave the snowy mountain behind — they don't want it to be distant now that it has been close — but during the long walk home they talk about the great fun and wonder of their experience, and that helps them feel better. They walk and talk, and walk and talk, and walk and walk and talk and talk, and then their feet hurt and there's no part of the trip they haven't remembered. Slowly, they go quiet.

On the last night of the trip to the distant snowy mountain — a trip they agree has been incredible, rich with beauty and adventure and secrets — the boy has trouble sleeping; he rolls onto his hip. The girl also has trouble sleeping; she rolls onto her hip. Looking through the darkness, into each other's eyes, they share an idea without speaking any words. Then the boy says it aloud: I think we should go camping in the wildlands once every month, from today until the end of forever. The girl nods: Yes, once every four weeks, you and me and the wildlands, from today until the end of forever.

That's exactly what they do. The calendar becomes a map, each month another trip into the secrets of the wildlands. In December, it's the secrets of ice. In May, it's the secrets of flowers. In August, it's the secrets of thunderstorms. In October, it's the secrets of golden leaves that fly like golden birds. They explore canyons in the desert where lizards scamper over orange cliffs. They explore beaches by the ocean where dolphins leap from curling purple waves. They explore rainforests where bears sniff and paw at mossy logs. They explore wetlands where frogs croak and creak from hiding spots in the cloud-reflecting puddles.

On the girl's birthday, they return to the distant snowy mountain, their favorite secret place, the place at the center of their many beloved places. Again, they stand on the sparkly summit. Again, the world extends in all directions to infinity. Again, the sledding makes them cry and laugh. The boy says: We get older, but this never gets old! Dancing and jumping and shaking, the girl replies: We should visit again next month!

That's exactly what they do. Months become years and years become decades — the boy becomes a man and the girl becomes a woman — and yet they return repeatedly to the same distant snowy mountain to camp and explore. They travel to different wildlands — rowdy rivers and narrow caves and vast prairies and even giant public parks in giant sprawling cities — but something in the heart they share, the heart that beats inside their life together, can't stop desiring the secrets of their favorite secret place.

The man and the woman have a child, then a second, then a third, and as a family they explore their favorite secret place. The children go to school and tell stories of the wildlands, but none of their classmates on the playground, at the swings and slides, can believe the stories are true. Of course, the stories are true — and the calendar pages keep flipping, the seasons keep cycling. The three children become adults and have children of their own; now the camping involves numerous tents, enough to fit three whole generations. The man and the woman are grandpa and grandma — wrinkly-faced, leaning on canes — though they still feel like a little boy and a little girl in the heart they share.

By the time the grandpa boy has reached the age of 85 and the grandma girl has reached the age of 85 plus 2 months, it's clear that the distant snowy mountain is too long a walk for their tired bodies. Sitting on the back deck, sipping a refreshing lemonade, the grandpa boy asks: But what will we do with the rest of our life together? The grandma girl points past the mowed yard, to the empty field beyond where the grass is tall and green and the sky is big and blue: We'll do the same thing we've always done — explore the secrets. He smiles. She grins. Leaning on their canes, whistling a silly tune, they go indoors to load their backpacks with clothes and food and a book of poems and a candle.

In the tent that night, after watching the neighborhood lights go out, after watching shooting stars and fireflies, after losing track of which is which, the grandpa boy has trouble sleeping; he rolls onto his hip. The grandma girl also has trouble sleeping; she rolls onto her hip. Looking through the darkness, into each other's eyes, they share an idea without speaking any words. Then the grandpa boy says it aloud: I think we should go camping in the wildlands once every month, from today until the end of forever. The grandma girl nods: Yes, once every four weeks, you and me and the wildlands, from today until the end of forever.

Having made this vow, they both grow tired and fall asleep. And in the dream that comes, the dream they share, the distant snowy mountain is moving closer, moving closer, moving closer. And suddenly, effortlessly, easily, they are standing on the sparkly summit, the world of secrets within secrets extending in all directions to infinity. And then the backpacks are under their butts and they are racing down, faster and faster — down, down, down, faster than ever before, tears streaming across their faces.