Ego Storm on a Buddhist Mountain

by Cynthia Stone

As many of you know, I love to hike in the mountains. Particularly, I have this perverse desire to hike up mountains with the goal of reaching the very top. Somehow this goal has always been very important to me even though the trek to the top is itself literally and figuratively breathtaking.

It would be hard to admit that reaching the goal surpasses pleasures of the path: the fresh mountain air, the burbling streams of crashing waterfalls, the beauty of the forest, and the abundance of flowers blooming in July and August on the open slopes. Even the steep rocky paths are enjoyable, especially in retrospect as one feels a sense of pride in meeting these formidable challenges.

But my favorite part of a mountain hike is emerging out onto the tundra where practically nothing grows but tiny plants and lichens on the rocks. The amazing openness and emptiness of mountain peaks above the tree line does something to my neurotransmitters, and I enter a state of bliss that transcends the enjoyment of the pleasures of the earlier stages of the hike.

Then there is the summit itself with seemingly unending views in all directions with no sign of civilization as far as one can see. Sometimes one is above the clouds with even the snow below. Maybe it is because the air is thinner, but I never want to leave. I want to evaporate into the vastness of it all.

With this as background, you might be able to understand (though not approve) my reaction when on our recent hiking trip in Japan, I was unable to reach the summit of a sacred Buddhist mountain as I needed to accommodate my hiking companion. Or at least I decided that it wasn’t worth a major marital rift to abandon him and go the last hour to the summit myself. And he was not about to move another foot higher.

We spent the night in a mountain refuge near the top. I desperately wanted to climb to the summit in the morning which dawned sunny and clear. But that was not to be. On the way down, I was miserable. While I felt I’d probably made the right choice, I was not at all content. I longed to hike to the top, I craved the experience and my desire yielded to rage that I was not able to do so. I tried to appreciate the views and flowers on the way down, but my feelings churned inside me.

Then, all of a sudden, I remembered this was a Buddhist mountain! And I was caught in greed and anger, which are without a doubt the poisons of a personal hell. Where, I wondered, was my practice when I needed it? It seemed to get lost in the effort to attain a goal to which I seem to be addicted. The irony of the situation hit me. The more I remembered that every step I took had first been taken by a Buddhist priest in the 8th century, the more I lessened my grip on my desire and the fires of anger diminished. By the time we reached the trailhead many hours later, I was once again able to be where I was with some degree of equanimity, even though it was far from the top.