Writing Cairn by Cairn

Forget Doctorow's headlights

*note: click on the title to read directly on the Substack site, or

Let’s stay with the hiking-as-connects-with-writing before the summer passes from us, and the season to climb mountains ends.

These piles of rocks, that come to resemble little figures to the hiking eye and heart, are cairns. When you’re hiking terrain with no obvious trail, cairns mark your way. I can’t help but think about those who build them for others, those who stop and take time to find, gather, balance, and build rocks. If the “trail” is particularly tricky, there might be two to indicate the need to walk between.

This one was at the edge of a very large rocky area—picture a bowl or gully of rocks. Large rocks, small rocks, and terrifying boulders. There was the constant sense that a misstep could set all in some motion. (Together with carrying huge packs, we’ve decided this is our last trek over such.)

The cairns are not always easy to see. Especially in rock-on-rock, they require stopping and a full look in all directions at times. Here’s the same cairn, a distance away:

Or try this—there are two in this pic, Waldo 1 and Waldo 2.

Can you spot them?

We actually lost our way at one point on the going-to part of the hike. As a result, we spent ages crossing this dense rock instead of finding our way to a—somewhat—easier trail. Or more straightforward.

Part of getting lost was the thought I had in my head, what I’ve been told, to not lose elevation when traversing such places. A good principle. But, as we’ve discussed often here on the Unschool, principles can often be set aside. Or replaced with Robert McKee’s “something better.” In this case, the path that was down the rocky terrain.

Not seeing the cairn down-slope, getting lost, reminded me of the many times I’ve gotten sidetracked by some storyline. Or written over one hundred pages, only to toss them, and start over. Or those days of feeling awash in a story, plotted or otherwise.