The Mountain

Vermont, 1914. A hiker journeys into nature to explore an imposing mountain. He seems to be lost, however: a wanderer who, when he first crosses a river and approaches the mountain, must ask someone where he is. The man he asks is a local farmer, moving so slowly by oxcart that the hiker is easily able to stop him. The farmer answers directly the hiker’s question about what place he finds himself in—the village of Lunenburg—but the farmer provides only a few direct answers to the hiker’s additional questions. There are things the farmer has actually experienced about the mountain, but much of what he recounts is hearsay that he later undoes with further hearsay. Indeed, the farmer is not sure about much of what he says. As he himself tellingly reveals, the real fun lies in how you say something, not necessarily in what you say or why you say it. In the end, the farmer abruptly decides to drive off with his oxen, seemingly in mid-sentence. There is no “goodbye,” no “nice hiking,” no “be careful,” et cetera. The hiker is trying to get further (mis)information, but he is simply left in the lurch—staring at the impassive mountain—as the farmer disappears across the surrounding fields.