On Top of the World

The Owls--all 11 of them--clambered up a series of switchbacks to the top of the canyon that overlooks miles of territory. 

Night was fast falling. 

Grasses, sage branches, roots and stones sneakily emerged underfoot as the middle zone of dusk made the wending, wavering band of pilgrims trackable not so much by sight but by the sound of clothing brushing against vegetation.

When our journey ended, we all lay on our backs silently taking in the night sky overhead.

The Milky Way was a faint swab of color. Satellites, no bigger than illuminated mites, slipped along. The international space station made an appearance. We saw them but if they were looking down at us they could not see us. Somewhere a dog barked. Cars whooshed. 

Time went by. Thoughts came and went. Time gave up, defeated, and the whole enterprise kept moving, human devices blinking, stars only pretending to be static.

When the young people we call 8th graders sat in a circle they talked about their lives, about the thoughts they have just before they go to sleep, about their children in the future, about the fact that without ugliness there is no way to recognize beauty, about how they got to know people this week in their grade they had never really known before, about the way in the city they cannot see stars that and that to be on this high hill with so little sound was almost creepy, about how small they feel under the great night sky and how wide the world. You could hear the voices of Monte Alban, the watchers who were their forbears across the span of human history who wondered if they would ever get answers. This little band were very happy talking in whispers.

We descended through complete darkness down to the lights of camp. On the way down they talked about this, that and the other thing. Thoughts shared on top of the hill had gone up like smoke, leaving only the faintest odor in memory. That is as it should be. After all, they were an hour older, an infinity in the life of middle schoolers.