http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/tyrolean-alps-hike-adventure/

At the mountain’s base, there is a town huddled among the spires of the regal pines. The people in town work hard, and they honor the gods of the water and the land and the sky. For as long as there has been a town in this place, there has been one of their number singled out for special duty. This was the Summiteer.

At the mountain’s peak, the Summiteer can read slivers of the future. In their wisdom, the gods of water and land and sky left clues in the stars, hints as to what may come. When the wolves swept across the land, the gods left instructions on how to safely negotiate with their diplomats and avoid a fight. During the droughts, the gods gave hints on how to make what water they had last.

At the mountain’s base, the town held a ceremony each time the Summiteer left to fulfill his role. Food and wine and well wishes were found in spades. The Summiteer accepted the many handshakes and back-slaps with grace and patience. As with every trip, he left hours after he intended. There were many who wanted to grant him luck before he left and none he felt he could refuse.

At the mountain’s peak, the Summiteer felt the wind whip over his jacket. He was well-insulated, and the effort of the climb kept his body warm from its core. But the splash of cold against his cheeks was a welcome feeling, a satisfying jolt out of the monotony of the ascent.

At the mountain’s base, his presence was always needed. From the moment he woke until the fires simmered low in the temple braziers, he was in the presence of someone in need. Read this sign, interpret this mark on my son’s skin, tell me what this deformed plant means, why does my dog only bark in the morning? He was never alone.

At the mountain’s peak, he found something blissfully novel; he found peace. On recent trips, he’d taken to sitting at the peak throughout the night. When he’d read the stars, he would look out over the mountains, the trees, and the rolling hills far below. In the distance, he could see the dim sparkling lights and thin tendrils of smoke of the town.

At the mountain’s base, he had to provide for the people. In truth, he was at all times torn. He had to be the Summiteer and act as the voice of the gods. But he also felt like an actor playing a part. He was a man who played the Summiteer, and he had long ago lost who he actually was, who he might have been.

At the mountain’s peak, he wore layers upon layers to stay warm, but he wore no mask. He wasn’t sure what he was when he wasn’t the Summiteer. When he sat down, after he’d read the stars, he allowed his mind to wander, to ruminate on what else he could be, even if he could only be it up there.

At the mountain’s base, his days were defined by pressure and the weight of expectation. The people of the town always had another problem to solve, another gap to fill, one more bridge to build. The Summiteer felt as though he was always looking up at some better version of the world. Every step of progress he made was noted, but the better place remained always just ahead. He was forever in a hole, trying to dig up.

At the mountain’s peak, he never felt like he had something above him. Yes, there were the stars and the clouds and, behind it all, the gods whose words it was his fate to read. But when he was at the peak, he felt that they floated beside, not above, him. So he would sit at the peak, and think about himself and his town and life, and it was the only time that the Summiteer, the most important person in town, felt like he was at the top of the world.