Ethan Choi

The descent trail, about an hour after daybreak. Volcanic ash mixed with gravel crunches underfoot, and the group you climbed with all night is a few steps ahead, coaxing their tired legs down the slope. The sea of clouds has already sunk below your feet, but the light you saw at the summit still lingers behind your eyelids. At every bend of the switchbacks, there's one person coming down at exactly the same pace. A faded hat, a wooden walking stick worn smooth by his hands, a small bell rattling at his waist. He looks well past seventy, yet there's nothing wasted in his stride. A few times you try to step aside and let him pass, but he won't go ahead, keeping pace beside you instead. Pausing to catch his breath in front of an elevation marker, he twists open the cap of his canteen and glances your way. He has the look of someone who wants to ask what you left behind at the summit.