He Planted a Mountain

I rush to the window every morning. Like a kid hoping to awaken to the kind of conveniently inconvenient snowfall that cancels school, I peek through the blinds. Every morning, I’m disappointed. 

That’s because there are still no mountains. 

It seems to be an unfortunate landscape design flaw for those who live smack in the middle of America, where mountains aren’t the least bit indigenous. Here, we just have farm fields, red barns and a whole lotta sensible clothing. But a mountain really should be here. After all, mountains make people happy. Most of all, me. 

People tell me that I could live a million years, and there still wouldn’t be a mountain outside my window. If that’s indeed the case, I’m certain I’m not constructed to last that long. I decide this won’t do.

I draw the outline of a mountain range on the inside of my window in an attempt to fool my brain into thinking there’s one on the horizon. But my brain says, “I was there when you drew it, dummy, so I’m really not fooled by your childish doodling.” My brain also points out I used an orange marker, and it believes that’s a poor choice of color. I don’t always get along with my brain, because it can be so literal sometimes.

I decide to do something about this egregious lack of altitude. I purchase a mountain seed from eBay. I plan to plant it in my backyard. There was a wide array of seeds from which to choose – Appalachian, Rocky or Sierra Nevada. I also could have selected an Alps seed or an Andes seed or a Himalayan seed, but they were more expensive, especially if you factor in shipping. And I wasn’t sure they would take root in my backyard, seeing as they are not native to North America. I ended up choosing the Rocky Mountain seed. It just seemed like a hearty, all-purpose variety. Although it looks just like a rock. I’ll admit I’m slightly suspicious.

I followed the planting directions to a T. I’m not taking chances. The one drawback is it says I should plant it somewhere with lots of space. My backyard is seventeen feet by twenty-one feet. I hope that’s enough.

I’m diligent about watering the mountain seed. I even apply something called Miracle Mountain Grow, another eBay purchase. It promised an extra 1,000 vertical feet of growth. Plus, it fortuitously rains three times the first week. I check regularly for a mountain sprout of some kind. But nothing, even after two weeks. I should have seen something by now.

A month goes by. It’s now autumn. I had plans to hike to the top of my new mountain, and watch the colors change from the peak. I guess I’ll hike around my backyard. Again.

Another month goes by. The nighttime cool leaves the ground wet with dew most mornings. From everything I’ve read, this should be prime mountain growing time. But still, not even a hint of a bud. I hope the squirrels didn’t dig it up thinking it was a nut.

I keep a running list of mountain names on a piece of paper on my refrigerator. I have to be ready to give it an identity when it grows to full size. And even though it will be my mountain, I’m not sure I want to name it after myself. I certainly could and nobody would fault me, but there is something decidedly cooler to names like Mount Mystery or Mount Outtanowhere or Mount Question Mark. I can totally see the t-shirt shop at the base with a sweet MT ? logo. I also like Mount Awesome Awesome. 

Nothing grows in winter, except discontent. It’s a time when things die. That’s why I’m exceedingly disheartened there is still no mountain in my backyard. Just frozen ground. And frozen hope. I can’t describe my disappointment. Especially since I’ve been researching how to build a ski lift. 

The first snow comes in December. It’s just a few flakes. But each one is like an icy nail in my coffin of anticipation. I resign myself to the fact there will be no mountain. It’s then I think…wouldn’t it be great if I could hibernate like bears and avoid all this heartbreak? But that thought only reminds me that, if a mountain had grown, there probably would have been bears living on it. I actually don’t know if those would come with the mountain or if they’d be a “sold separately” sort of thing. But I don’t have to worry. Because there’s no mountain. 

I go to bed.

After a fitful, unsatisfying sleep, I begrudgingly rip myself from the covers and go straight to the coffee pot. I’m out of coffee. Desperate, I dart to the cabinet to see if maybe there is a forgotten remnant bag hiding somewhere behind a can of beans or a jar of jelly that was gifted to me a decade ago. There isn’t. I determine this day has the makings of an old-fashioned suck fest.  Alas, the convenience store three blocks away will be able to fix my lack of caffeine. I open the door. 

There is no convenience store three blocks away anymore.

That’s because I am looking down on the world from the summit of a mountain. A glorious, snowcapped, honest-to-God, 8,000-foot, garden-fresh, stone skyscraper. Rocky Mountain variety, to be precise. It is perfect. And it looks so wonderfully out of place in the middle of my board-flat hometown.  

I rush to my computer. I quickly change the eBay review of my mountain seed transaction. I shouldn’t have said those things.

Then I decide I don’t need coffee. The exhilaration of finding myself on a fully grown mountain has awakened everything within me. I throw on my hiking shoes and begin exploring.

I couldn’t have been more wrong about this day.

I spend the next week continuing to explore my mountain, which I have decided to name Mount It’s A Mountain! That’s the first thing that came out of my mouth when I saw it. Well, technically, I said something else first. But I didn’t think Mount Holy Shit would be appropriate.

It snows on Mount It’s a Mountain! nearly every night, which is fantastic. I snowboard down to the base several times a day, riding my homemade ski lift back to the top. I used rope, an old Dodge truck engine and a vinyl webbing lawn chair atop skis to yank me back up. I learned, however, you really need to be ready to disembark at the right time. I was nearly in the market for a left arm seed.

When I go down to town to get groceries or supplies, the townspeople are curious about Mount It’s A Mountain! They want to know if it’s okay to start up their own Mount It’s A Mountain! souvenir shops for the tourists. I tell them that would be fine, so long as the sweatshirts aren’t the cheap kind that fall apart after you wash them once. Mount It’s A Mountain! will have standards.

Mount It’s A Mountain! provides the best winter of my life. I board. I hike. I drink beer while sitting 8,000 feet closer to the stars. I often sleep with the curtains open so I can drift off while looking up at those stars. I thank them for everything.

As Mount It’s A Mountain! begins to shed its winter coat, I notice my ski lift rope has a fair amount of slack in it. I didn’t know ropes could have so much stretch to them. Even after I tighten it up, it returns to being slack a few days later. Strange.

The tourism has slowed considerably. Partly because the mountain runoff has flooded parts of town, washing away mailboxes, lawn gnomes and two mobile coffee huts. And partly because the bears have awoken from hibernation. They seem very interested in all the town garbage cans and restaurants. They also seem interested in the flavor of Midwesterners. I imagine it’s a cuisine they’ve not previously found on their menus.

My body must really be getting acclimated to this mountain life, because by the time summer starts, I can hike down the mountain in half the time it used to take. Just call me Cardio Man! Although I’m using sunscreen at an alarming rate. Being that much closer to the sun was something I hadn’t considered when wishing for a mountain. It’s okay though. People tell me I would have made one handsome lobster.

If you think a mountain covered in pristine white is stunning, you should see it explode with color in the fall. Stunning. I can’t get enough of it. I think the townspeople agree. Because they seem to be getting closer to me. It’s almost like they’re creeping closer every day. I’m worried they’re trying to invade Mount It’s A Mountain!, one tiny step at a time. 

It occurs to me that I never purchased a Mount It’s A Mountain! sweatshirt. So near the end of fall, I go down to visit a souvenir store. I can’t find one, however. They’ve either closed or been converted into falafel restaurants. I despise falafel. Actually, I don’t. But at the moment, I decide I do. I turn to go home. That’s when I make a significant discovery.

Mount It’s A Mountain! has shrunk, like a sweater that I put in the dryer for too long. I’m horrified to see it’s become nothing more than a small hill. It might even be smaller than the garbage pile at the county dump. It’s also a dead shade of grey, like a bloated fish that washes ashore.

What happened? Did I incorrectly care for my mountain? Was I supposed to use mountain fertilizer or something? Was it supposed to get more sunlight? Less sunlight? Was it a shade mountain? I fall to my knees.

Mount It’s A Mountain! has wilted. 

And I am so sad.

I take the short walk back to my house. It is embarrassingly short. I insert myself back under the covers, already missing Mount It’s A Mountain!

When the first snow flies, I am looking out at the majesty of a seventeen- by twenty-one-foot backyard. Other than a couple of dinged-up skis bolted to the bottom of a cheap yard chair, there is no sign that a mountain ever stood here. 

By Christmas, sadness has faded, and it’s been replaced by anger. I paid good money for that mountain seed, and I’m not sure I got my money’s worth. I wonder if there is a guarantee. 

I go looking for the package so I can contact the company and voice my displeasure. Stuck in the back of my junk drawer behind a protractor and a key I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before, I find it. In very small type, I notice a word in front of the seed variety. It reads:

Annual Rocky Mountain Seed

Annual? Annual?? Annual??? Who on God’s green earth would want a mountain that only blooms for one season?

Son of a bitch.

I return to eBay. This time, I’m careful to search for perennial mountain seeds only. I’m about to purchase one, cringing at the hefty BUY NOW price, when I spot another item for sale. I’m intrigued. So much that I call an audible and make a different purchase. I can’t wait for it to arrive.

I wonder what I will call my volcano.

HE PLANTED A MOUNTAIN

A Short Story by Tom Witkowski

9 Circles Fiction

Photo Credit: Neil Rosenstech

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