Climbing a Mountain – ruminations on career change by a corporate executive
- an extract from an article to be published in "Changing Ways" - an anthology of writers from Northumberland County, Ontario in November 2008
Shane Joseph

...I walk out through the gate and down the lane, take a left and enter the vineyard. Dogs bark, hens run ahead making me wonder if that is dinner –all dressed up. The cordillera running the length of this country hem me in, snow capped on their highest peaks, with gum trees circling their base. The ground is arid; the dried mud the colour of chocolate.
...Here I am in Chile, under blue skies, in a vineyard at the base of the Andean foothills, trying to decide if I am going to climb, not only this mountain facing me, but the next one in my career that looms as insurmountable as those distant snow covered peaks.
...The hawk in the dried eucalyptus tree, the rooster crowing, the cicadas and the screechy chorus of Kiltaway birds amidst the grape vines; a horse fly buzzing by anxious to leave its scratchy sting in me, a sprinkler rat-a-tatting somewhere, and the sun hot on my face – all taking me away from the extreme winter I left behind in Canada. In this new environment, my mind and spirit are free to look at things differently, to go exploring boldly along new trails that may lead to – who knows where?
...The rusting farm machinery reminds me of the struggle to keep things in shape here and how fast they could be subsumed by the land if left idle, like my business skills will, if I don’t keep exercising those particular muscles: the rusty fence posts, the unused well gone dry and losing its corrugated metal covering as the winds pick at it, one sheet at a time; the plough ground into the brown earth, covered in fine dust and quietly becoming a natural part of the landscape.
...The canal is active today, flooding the thirsty fields with dirty but nourishing water; water collected from rain and snowmelt off the mountain and streaking through pipes along ditches towards the hungry vines. Violet thistles grab the banks of the irrigation ditches, in front of the line for the scarce water that tomorrow will stop flowing when the communal tap is reversed to feed the next farmer’s field.
...Dead eucalyptus leaves crunch under my feet, the late spring’s unborn grass lies dead on the path. The only prolific growth comes from the young Espinosa bushes springing up everywhere, confident in their sharp thorns for protection. Yet up on the mountain, their older cousins lay parched and eaten by the cattle that roam at night, shredding trees and leaving deposits of dung that dry and roll down on to the pathway.
...I like the peaceful, dry surroundings and the peace within myself at this moment. Is this a hint of what a changed life could be? But the struggle for survival is evident even here, reminiscent of the dog-eat-dog world of commerce. There is no escape, just a different kind of a rat-race, this one brought about by nature. Those mountains look so daunting up ahead.

* * *

...My walk borders on two pre-occupations: to be or to become; status quo or change.
...The answers vary, depending on locale. When I am in the snow by the lake at home, I think of being, not sure of what the alternative holds for me. When I am on this vineyard, away from reality, I want to climb that mountain.
...But when I return to my home on the lake, back to those neighbourhoods, familiar and nostalgic, I know that being is not an option anymore, because I have outgrown those places, the comfortable rugs have been pulled away, the golden handshake delivered, and I am already being pushed halfway to becoming. It is tempting to linger in this limbo land, to delay the decision, because I know that very soon I will have to leave this place and head off in only one direction.
...I walk through a wide open swath of land full of the rotting carcasses of machinery, parts, empty crates, dead batteries, plastic bottles – debris that was once productive. I guess vineyards, that bring forth life and the nectar of Gods, have their burial places too. Walking through a graveyard normally calms my nerves and reassures me about death; those guys reposing under gravestones have done it, you see. The dead are happy; trees grow, flowers bloom and birds sing in graveyards, sanctuaries of tranquility. But today, this place of decay frightens me.
...I think it is not the fear of death that bothers me as much as the non-accomplishment of the living. To go beneath a tombstone myself one day, having spent the unforgiving minute with 60 seconds worth of distance run, would be my crowning achievement. I would welcome death at that point. But a life unrealized must be the cruellest for someone facing death; a sentence plagued by resentment and regret and the desire for a refund of time. Is that why ghosts haunt?
...I have to hurry along and leave this place of death, and realize my mission before I take up residence among those peaceful grave dwellers one day.
...But sing if you must of the loves you’ve had and lost; of the kind tender loving hearts you crushed in your relentless charge to experience life and success. Oh, but you wanted all those things for yourself and these fragile souls were just fodder for your ruthless machine, and you chewed up and spat them out, broken and disfigured along life’s skid row.
...But now your machine grows weary and the parts do not work so well and you see faster machines overtaking you. You limp to this graveyard of machines and they consign you to the outer circle; the core is reserved for the younger ones – after all, they have more shelf-life and productivity than you.
...You decide to bequeath your parts to the creation of new machines. You are particularly keen that your engine – that storehouse of the collective experiences of your professional life – be fitted on to the newer models.
...And as you are interred in that graveyard for corporate wrecks, your demise is a great excuse to begin another birth elsewhere.

* * *

...I finally get to the top of the small mountain at the end of the vineyard, sit on a rock, exhausted by my exertion, and look down into the valley. Santiago sprawls before me, threatening to climb up the mountains on all sides with its ever spreading urban development, sporting a halo of permanent smog.
...How did I get up here? First, I crept through the fence, waded through the soft sand, Espino bushes and cow dung at the base, and then followed the winding animal trails – after all, if they could get up here, so could I. One foot in front of the other, was all I focussed on, and when I stopped to catch my breath and looked back, I saw the red gate far down below me. There was no point in going back – one foot in front of the other – I kept going, higher. Finally I was on this rock and it did not seem like a big deal after all.
...I feel drowsy and have another daydream.
...I’ve been on a ride, forever it seems. It is an old rollercoaster. Yet it is one that I am firmly strapped to and given a fail-safe guarantee for added protection. All I have to do is enjoy the highs, endure the lows and not puke in between.
...But now they have taken back that guarantee and released my belt, announcing that the ride is over. I am a bit dizzy; I’ve been on this darned ride for too damned long. I am not sure if I know how to ride anything else. I sit in the lonely chair, long after the other riders have departed and wait for someone to press the “start” button again. But the operator has gone off for the day and the lights of the ride have just been extinguished.
...As these lights fade, I begin to see other lights in the fairground, ones I never saw before, as I was too busy on this ride. I step out of my chair and go out into the fairground. It is an unfamiliar place, but I must have come this way before to get to my rollercoaster. I see an array of new rides: people going up vertically and dropping like stones; people going around in cars that twirl on their own axes; people jumping off tall platforms with ropes tied to their waists, ropes that pull them up like bouncing balls the moment they are about to smack the pavement. And these people emerge laughing and wired from their rides, and go onto even more daring ones.
...And all I had done was waste my time on my solitary ride.
...I dip my hand into my pocket and feel a handful of coins, and remember that the rollercoaster manager had given me these when he unbuckled my belt and turned me out. A fistful of coins and a fairground full of rides – what an opportunity!
...I have a lot of fun in the fairground that day. Oh yes, I even tie that rope – a bungee cord, they call it – and jump off that platform. It is hard the first time, but it gets easier after that. The first time is always the hardest with any of the new rides.
...When my father picks me up at the end of the day, I am buzzed.
...“How did you enjoy your rollercoaster, today?”
...“Which one?” I ask.
...“The one you ride every time I bring you here.”
...“Oh that?” I can’t see that old rollercoaster any more. The other, newer rides tower above it.

* * *

...A mosquito hums and wakes me from my daydream. Shadows are running around the base of the mountains changing their colour from red to dark blue, and the sun only glints off the peaks. It is time to descend, take a shower and get ready for some good Chilean wine and dinner with a bunch of similar transplanted people plumbing the depths of their souls, mining for insights to share with the world.
... I look at the next peak – tomorrow, I will climb that one. They are not so daunting when taken foot one at a time; eating the elephant in small pieces.
...I head down the slope, zigzagging, conscious that many a fall happens not only when climbing a mountain, but descending one as well.