by Ezio Salimbeni

Aug 06, 2024

Ezio Salimbeni explores the connection between traditionalist doctrine and the natural world, emphasizing that through deeply experiencing nature one uncovers transcendent symbolism, a journey he illustrates through his own personal experiences, inspired by Julius Evola’s writings.

It is no secret that I find the natural world situated firmly at the core of traditionalist doctrine, wherein one does not adopt a ‘naturalistic’ view; rather, through deeply experiencing her, one may uncover symbolism reflecting solar and transcendent principles. In my previous essays, “Man In Nature: A Dialogue” and “Nature and Her Enemies — A Critique of Modern Environmentalism,” I have illustrated the value of nature in this regard, yet looking back, I find them to be impersonal given their exclusively academic format. In principle, they are well-sourced, well-written, and relatively well-founded — all hallmarks of a proper academic argument — yet I lacked the tangible experience to support them on an individual plane. To condense and solidify a traditionalist doctrine of natural appreciation, I have committed to accomplishing much the same as Isidro Palacios with his compilation of the late Julius Evola’s essays on mountain climbing found within the book Meditations on the Peaks. Evola certainly made countless academic arguments analyzing the symbolism to be found in nature — ranging from his elaboration of lunar and solar forces combined with general critiques of modern natural exploitation — yet the accounts that struck me in my core were his personal anecdotes relaying his harrowing experiences on the peaks of the Alps as a weathered mountain climber. After all, storytelling is designed to show the veracity of metaphysical principles such as morality and virtue through tangible experiences that are both relatable and digestible; therefore, it is logical that the most understandable elaborations of his doctrines would be found in his lived experiences. After my latest hiking trip to Acadia National Park in Maine, I have reinvigorated my commitment to discerning natural symbolism in a manner that can assuage the malady of the modern world, so I too will endeavor to show my own metaphorical path up the slope of the mountain through a combination of academic argument and tangible reality. If my attempts to poeticize my journey appear excessively verbose and gilded, I apologize; however, despite the difficulty I have had writing personal anecdotes, I find them invaluable in illustrating concepts that are so firmly rooted in individual perception.

As with every aspect of life in the traditionalist view, phenomena take on symbolism akin to that studied in literature and poetry. Far from being relegated to rhetoric and what Evola decries as “bourgeois sentimentalism,” symbolism is alive and present throughout the natural world by right that it is the muse of perennial realities that extend beyond the physical plane. When this premise is accepted, the individual must seek out these transcendent truths through activities and disciplines which allow them to supersede their human limitations and become initiated into the upper echelon of existence; however, that initiation can be attained by two distinct but often interwoven paths of action and contemplation. Evola states, “I believe that on the mountain contemplation and action ought to be two inseparable elements of an organic whole, outside of which they immediately lose their higher meaning” (Meditations on the Peaks). To be clear, this is separate from Evola’s ultimate view of the role of the individual within the caste system. The path of action in the traditional hierarchy is reserved for the warrior elite, by which they can participate in the divine order without concern for intellect and moralism; contemplation is reserved for the priestly and religious caste, and entails the opposite. The mountain, for Evola, has initiatory value given that it transcends the weeds of physical human organization and displays the true, holistic, and comprehensive knowledge of humanity as a whole, namely, the necessity of both forms of metaphysical participation. For a civilization to thrive, both of the aforementioned castes must be thriving and functional, so that the civilization as a whole may be allowed to become truly divinely oriented and, by extension, seek the stability by which it can become eternal. However, on the mountain, contemplation, in his eyes, would be far better achieved while sitting in a plane and action by climbing a man-made skyscraper; true transcendent value reflecting the balance of the two central forces can only be achieved when both are united in the holy matrimony of mountaineering. To summarize his main argument in the essays found in Meditations on the Peaks, he finds that the mountain serves as a proper vessel for one to meld the two paths into one comprehensive act that can open the door to metaphysical truths unattainable for those who are unwilling to take the risk of facing the mountain’s icy face.

Though a philosopher, he finds no need for rhetoric when he has transcended a foreboding mountain face and reached the summit. As he describes it: “This experience is not a mystic shipwreck or a sentimental sense of abandonment. Even lyricism is something that finds its proper place among literary circles rather than up here. Here, where there is only sky and pure, free forces, the soul participates in an analogous purity and freedom, and in this way, one begins to understand what the spirit truly is” (Meditations on the Peaks). Furthering his abhorring of unworthy rhetoric bastardizing mountaineering, he previously contrasted ‘true’ expressions of the mountain’s symbolism — found in ancient myths and legends — with false 19th-century Bourgeois poetry romanticizing the mountain’s aesthetics from a distance using meaningless platitudes, all of which expose their author’s inability to grasp the true transcendent nature of the mountain. To further his point, he illustrates the symbolism of Olympus in the Hellenic world, specifically, the nature of the mountain as the simultaneous seat of the divine beings as well as the heroes. In the traditional view, it is the heroes who best exemplify the capability of man to transcend his humanity and enter into an order situated on a higher plane of existence. Even those who reside in the upper echelons of mountain climbing as a sport are not necessarily graced with understanding the true esotericism emanating from the gleaming alpine peaks. Often in his travels, he was faced with mountaineers who saw their path as little more than a sensationalized sport, inherently plebian, that he pins on the unfortunate American influence on the world of athletics. Even the sport of mountaineering he so loved could become nothing more than a surrogate activity of infantile sensationalism and thrill, in his own words: “It must be recognized that mountain climbing, when experienced only in keeping with this view, would not be easily distinguished from the pursuit of emotions for their own sake” (Meditations on the Peaks). As in all manners of life, intention is of the utmost importance in every act undertaken by a genuine traditionalist. The necessity of intention and a constant conscious fight against the ‘demonic’ naturalistic forces that restrain man is best illustrated when he provides a translation of text from the Buddhist mystic Milarepa, who according to legend survived deep in the Himalayan mountains with no other flame or sustenance apart from the unshakable power of his iron will. His battle, as well as the “pure forces” Evola continuously mentions being accentuated by the mountain, serve to test man to such extremes that he has only the options of perishing or ascending to capabilities — spiritual and physical — which would be previously thought impossible. Evola distinguishes himself from Milarepa as well as the tradition of Eastern mountain climbing as a whole — given that his distinctly European blood carries a predisposition towards the path of action as opposed to contemplation — yet the Perennial symbolism of spiritual overcoming and transformation on the mountain remains unchanged and truly ‘traditional.’

Specifically, the mountain for Evola serves as both a teacher and an outlet in which the few remaining aristocratic types can immerse themselves in true conquest and overcoming while simultaneously stuck in a world of ‘tennis and jazz.’ He describes a profound transformation that remains with those who dare to endeavor upon the mountain, describing, “Those who return at night to the valley below, and whom San Marino reabsorbs in the lighted and warm gardens of the grand hotels where handsome men wearing colorful jackets and ladies devoted to tennis matches and tea parties gather — these individuals, without knowing it, carry in their eyes and in their tanned faces something that sets them aside as people of another race,” (Meditations on the Peaks). To his credit, mountain climbing is not only a surrogate and temporary replacement for military feats; rather, it is at the root of the European aristocratic ethos. One can be forgiven for seeing Mountain as a surrogate based on his words in the final chapter, stating: “War itself, having been mechanized, no longer knows warriors — in the ancient, classical, and medieval sense of the word — but only soldiers. Having been suffocated, the heroic will seeks other paths, other outlets beyond the network of practical interests, passions, and cravings that is becoming tighter every day,” (Meditations on the Peaks), yet, in reality, the shift is more akin to that of focusing from one previously important outlet to another. Mountain climbing for Evola is perennial — unlike skiing, which he critiques for its prioritization of speed and the act of symbolic descent — hence, it can serve to reinforce eternal ideals rather than simply becoming a new face of aristocratic nihilism. Evola’s astute conviction that mountains served as the primary origin of the aristocratic system is not merely theoretical, but rather an actual scientific phenomenon. In his dissertation, Costin Alamariu outlines the conventionally accepted fact that aristocratic societies develop when a nomadic population, stronger in body and military ability, asserts itself atop an agricultural population and establishes a symbiotic relationship. Costin and, by extension, Nietzsche describe the phenomenon in secular terms; the mystical hierarchy professed by Evola is simply a deeper angle of the same proven phenomenon. The strength of the pastoral man in faith, devotion, and body is the same which Evola sees reinforced by mountaineering, so, in a sense, the reinvigoration of pastoral and nomadic values through the sport will facilitate a new aristocratic class forming and asserting itself upon the increasingly formless mass of modern man.

In the modern day, as man has become increasingly formless as a result of his own egalitarian fallacies, we discover a profundity of increasingly dramatic masks being dawned. The phenomenon of masking one’s true banality with elaborate veneers is an obvious surrogate for the true human diversity that has been all but purged from mankind; hence, many who adopt the traditionalist label must be regarded with suspicion, as, increasingly, such associations have been used in a sickeningly performative manner. Whether it be the glorification of eco-terrorism online, or simply those who declare themselves as outdoorsmen and naturalists for the duration of time in which they can take a few photos, the modern entertainment leviathan seems to produce an incalculable multitude of these figures. I’ll be the first to admit that the thought of unknowingly sporting one of these masks somewhat haunted me before my latest hiking excursion in Maine, though, in retrospect, these fears were somewhat unfounded. My uncontrollable concerns arose from my experiences as a child attending a camp every summer for eight weeks, where two camping trips for around three days each were scheduled; to put it mildly, it was no coincidence that my two least favorite moments of the eight weeks directly corresponded to these trips. I had the gripping anxiety that this trip would be the same; maybe nothing had truly changed within me besides my exoteric traditionalism, which could have been shattered if the trip had exposed any serious fissures. However, I was simply experiencing a manifestation of doubt that should have been shed long ago, after I had purged myself of ‘online conservatism’ and embarked on the path of genuine, non-performative experience. My hiking trips during my camp days were naturally unpleasant because, to put it simply, they were scheduled events for and among children with little to no room for improvisation or risk-taking. To illustrate this point, I’ll recount one of my favorite stories about a truly nightmarish hiking trip which still elicits laughter at the thought of its pitiful nature.

In my penultimate year attending the camp at age twelve, my cabin of fourteen boys was scheduled to hike Mount Lafayette. The hike was intended to take just six hours — a time that the previous year’s boys set — so ideas about what to do after we finished were already being thrown around, and, ultimately, the hike seemed far less daunting than others I had done in the past. Soon enough, six hours had passed, and we had only just scrambled up the face of the mountain. Awaiting us stretched a long, snaking path over the crest, which extended horizontally before the disgruntled party. Morale was tragically low, and an unsatisfying ‘hikers lunch’ — comprising of whole wheat cardboard-like crackers topped with lukewarm jelly and peanut butter — only further soured the mood. What stood out to me at the time was how unpleasant the diversity of skill within the group made the entire trip. While some boys were bounding ahead, yet constantly being pulled back by the counselor’s shepherd crook, others were struggling profoundly and garnering the silent ire of those who would rather steam forward. Of course, neither side was at fault given the natural separations that undoubtedly exist between human abilities; it was simply a poor situation that only spiraled into exasperation. To illustrate: resentment from the faster group only discouraged the slower ones, which in turn caused them to further annoy the quicker boys by hiking slower. The route across the crest was arduous and slow, and, to add insult to injury, it began to rain steadily. The damp gray sheet that drifted down upon us stripped us of our cathartic view, which would at least add some sweetness to an already bitter trip. By the time we had slithered to the other end of the crest, all were ready for the smooth sailing downward, yet the combination of rain and bare rock created a treacherous decline. For the previous year’s group, the inconvenience would have been marginal, yet the cloud which had descended upon us had not only permeated the air but pierced into our psyches; whether it be the fast or slow group, none had the patience or ability left to hurdle a new unforecasted challenge. Falls, tears, annoyance, and dampness characterized the descent, and still the thick air of displeasure fills my mouth as I recall the frequent stops and unending path towards the flooded campsite. After twelve long hours, the Odyssey was over, yet unlike Odysseus, no Herculean feats, summoned by the gods themselves, had lain in our path to excuse our delayed time. We had not achieved a great feat; rather, we had utterly failed and allowed any camaraderie that the trip was intended to instill to unravel in the face of a fairly mediocre obstacle.

The experiences of my youth had stifled any burgeoning interest in the outdoors, so I took a long hiatus from hiking and camping entirely. Long walks have always been something I have enjoyed, for I very much heed Nietzsche’s advice to “[s]it as little as possible; give no credence to any thought that was not born outdoors while moving freely about — in which the muscles are not celebrating a feast too,” (Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols). Still, I had been unwilling to run the risk of full immersion, spending entire days fully immersed among the tall pines of New England, for fear that it would expose my inability in the face of the ‘harsh realities’ of nature, which I enthusiastically support in my writing. Once more, as Evola described, we come to the transformative power of intention. Intention is vital, for without it, even the most transcendent activities can become utterly meaningless actions that remain firmly lodged in the temporal.

A topical example would be physical fitness, which in recent years has experienced a double-edged boost in popularity. If practiced properly and with full intention, physical fitness becomes a rite, in which the spirit can find itself mirroring the body’s path upward; when done in this manner, physical exercise becomes all-encompassing. However, in the modern day, we see many men who exhibit astounding physiques (especially given the profusion of shortcuts and technological advances making such feats achievable for every class — for better or worse) and yet who are deeply lodged in the lowest spiritual caste. In these men, physical prowess and aesthetics are not used in their proper holistic and symbolic fashion — more or less as windows to that which lies beyond temporal naturalism — rather, these practices are used for little more than the systematic masturbation of the ego. When one gauges the prowess of the body through the eyes of others and current trends, one inherently lowers those features to a human plane in which their value is stripped of higher eternal significance. The very phenomenon of egotistical self-pleasuring through physical fitness is the precise culprit behind rampant modern steroid use and the markedly modern craze around bodybuilding. A man who sees Ronnie Coleman or Arnold Schwarzenegger as an ideal is suffering from the exact modern confusion that permeates our times, for neither man was in keeping with the symmetry and perennial value found within masculine physical disciplines that emerged within every traditional civilization. To reiterate, the best path to escape the mire of modern confusion is an almost obsessive analysis of the past, in hopes of truly deducing and differentiating that which is an illusion from that which is truly eternal.

Returning to mountaineering, I have come to find that, initially, I had no knowledge of the intention that constituted the value of natural experience, of which modern ‘outdoor culture’ is primarily to blame. Hiking was advertised — just as bodybuilding — as an act through the lens of external validation rather than through the lens of higher principles originating from within. ‘Bonding,’ ‘teamwork,’ ‘fun,’ and ‘escape’ were all words used to describe the experience; however, where were the themes of individual discovery, reflection, and overcoming? Of course, I am not advocating for teamwork and bonding to be abandoned; however, I am not remiss in saying that both words have been stripped of any real meanings corresponding to camaraderie and genuine brotherhood. By placing the value of hiking in empty notions devoid of concrete meaning, it is no wonder that the experiences of my youth were, by extension, free of any profound purpose.

In the years following, I slowly began to initiate this power of intention, which ultimately has become one of the most profound journeys of my life. Of my last six years, three years have been of abject unpleasantness, in the wake of which it has taken me three more long years to rid myself of the remnants of that unfortunate period. During this period, I came to the realization — one which was universally known in every period excluding our own — that true strength and knowledge can only come from an individual covenant with nature. These years had taught me that I could not rest my weight on the brittle institutions of man; hence, I had to return to the one truly divine law and pole of existence: nature. In truth, the journey began very much as a form of escapism and illusion, for I knew intellectually that I needed to create this new relationship with nature, yet I did not possess the maturity to make such a relationship feasible. It began with walks and runs, which slowly became more frequent and longer, eventually becoming a means for profound reflection. After bouts of self-doubt, I would fully immerse myself in the problem through an extended walk and come to a mental resolution by the time I returned. Free of distraction — from the animate and inanimate — I sought unbiased guidance from the natural, unchanging truths of the created world. Man has become excellent at weaving great webs of rhetoric in which to shroud the simple truth that the world is dictated by an uncertainty; however, those webs, as ingenious as they may be, are coping mechanisms for imperfect beings, unable to reconcile themselves with reality. What the natural world and her might teach is that one must bend one’s self to the commandments of nature, not seek to bend the world to fit our inherently flawed perceptions. In direct terms, the imperfect must seek to conform to the perfect, not strive to reduce that which is already perfect to its own state of imperfection. All of philosophy can be seen as an attempt to decipher the phusis from the nomos, and yet, we seem to have returned to a dark age where the two have once again become indistinguishable. As these truths revealed themselves, my immersion grew deeper, culminating in a pilgrimage through the countryside of Kent to Canterbury Cathedral. Synthesizing a natural pilgrimage with that of a religious character was incalculably valuable to me, representing a crucial junction in my life from exoteric displays to an esoteric alteration in my innermost being.

At long last, I return to my hiking trip in Maine. I would like to retread every step I clawed up each of the seven mountains; however, I will keep my reflection exclusively on one day, which truly embodies the concept of living symbolism. The day, much like the hike up Mount Lafayette, was full of unexpected and arduous toil, yet it served as one of the highest peaks as opposed to the previous cavernous valley. We began at six in the morning, and quickly scarfed down some hastily heated baked beans and packet-oatmeal. As unsatisfying as it was, its taste was quickly washed down by the thick honey of excitement for the day before us. The trip in its entirety was spontaneous, so in around five minutes we hastily threw together a skeletal schedule for the morning that would see us back to the campsite by lunchtime. Presently, we set out on the trail. The early start allowed much of our initial hike to be between only ourselves and the still-waking nature enveloping us; truly, we had shed our modern veneer of natural spectators and reclaimed our spot within the chain of being. The hike was a moderate length; however, our sheer commitment to only the steps laid out before us allowed her to be conquered before most other campers had even roused. Whether it be a testament to our collective athleticism, or to our boundless enthusiasm, we had nearly run up a supposedly arduous trail. The route up was characterized by direct sun, sweeping views, and few breaks, each challenge being integral to its subsequent reward, creating a holistic Heraclitan experience that enraptured our party.

As we reached the summit, we began to hear the din of cars, the bark of dogs, and the gruff tones of horribly overweight men well past their prime. We had come upon the road which snaked along the opposite face of the mountain. As we stood upon a rockface, looking down at countless cars spewing exhaust over the resilient trees — small yet sturdy — which were one of the proud few capable of enduring such altitudes, I remember one of our group commenting on how odd the contrast seemed between us and those heaving their greatly neglected flesh through the doors of their grotesquely oversized vehicles. By this point, we were shirtless, bounding over rocks and roots as if we were chasing a stag in a primeval age; driving just feet away were great, fat, men sporting baseball caps and sandals, who after a photo or two would return to Bar Harbor. A friend of mine let out a quip, remarking on how easy we could have made the journey in a car, but we knew the statement had no real meaning attached to it. Harkening back to Evola’s words, we return to his concept, in which one can unite the paths of action and contemplation by scaling the temporal peaks. The amorphous families in cars were no better than those who flew in first class over the Alps with the deluded notion that they may fully experience them; their understanding was nothing more than a superficial, hollow admiration from afar. Such a sweeping view can only be understood when each step has been fought for, for without doing so, the mountain may as well have been an illusion — pleasing to the eye, yet nothing more. Through the ascent, one is purified, and only those possessing sheer will strength can know the view; all others look on as though it were a photo on a postcard. “The blood of the heroes is closer to God than the ink of the philosopher or the prayers of the faithful,” Evola wrote, and how true his aristocratic conception of transcendent understanding is. Even in a religious context, one can attend church and allow the scripture to enter one ear and exit the next much as it came; instead, it is only through zeal, relentless honing, and commitment that one clambers onto the next rung of closeness to the absolute. One can pontificate, absorb, and write forever, yet find the man who can match all three in his climb.

After scaling Cadillac easily, we were invigorated. Quickly, we looked at a map of the trail and decided on a piecemeal plan for the day. After circling the summit time and time again in search of a nearly unmarked trailhead, we began our descent into the valley between ourselves and the adjacent Dorr Mountain. Though we were traveling on a downward path, we felt more invigorated than before, given the sizable challenges we faced. Leaping across fissured rock formations on a sporadically marked path proved an immersing challenge, and I do not recall a single word spoken between our party until we had reached the fork in the path situated at the base of Dorr. Once more, we had become intoxicated by the physical challenge, so, without a second thought, we steamed towards the path deemed more interesting by a single glance. As we trekked through the path, following a small stream that sparked a debate on water quality and waterborne diseases, we began to suspect we had not been following the intended loop up Dorr Mountain and back to the campsite. However, the path had offered a challenge that we were intent on overcoming, so we opted to continue and allow fate to sweep us to wherever she chose. After hours of unceasing trudging, we came to our second road of the day. By this point, we regained cell service and, to our horror, checked our location. Rather than simply taking one of the myriad other paths to the intended loop, we had walked directly from Dorr to a point situated adjacent to Bar Harbor — we had veered off our intended path by nearly six miles. We were faced with a burning question: would we retread our path from the morning, difficult yet known and safe, or would we embark on our second odyssey with no thought of consequence? We had not come for teambuilding, bonding, or ‘fun’; rather, we came hungry to test ourselves and fully submerge into the dark, uncertain waters of the new; the decision was made to continue on the road to Bard Harbor, grab some much-needed food, and cover the remaining distance in the afternoon. After what can only be described as a trek around golf courses and scalding hot roads, bathed in the unforgiving June sun, we arrived in Bar Harbor. Into this idyllic town of brightly painted houses, dull-eyed tourists, and ornate shops, stumbled three mud-caked, sweat-soaked, haggard men — all possessing a subtle glimmer of confidence despite, or rather because, of their unkempt state. Once seated in a meticulously ordered diner with a convincing veneer of genuine rustic Maine, we began tearing through a well-earned meal. At that moment, my pot of coffee had taken on the form of ambrosia, and the blueberries in my classic New England pancakes revealed their true form as the grapes sprouting from Dionysus’ supple vines. Once more, we reencountered the duality of experience, where even the most highly prized moments — such as our lunch and the view on Cadillac — were at best menial for the majority of participants.

The paved road stretched before us. Our initial escape from Bar Harbor took us in a direct line from the very edge of the port — brimming with tourists — through the endless shops selling every imaginable useless trinket, to the residential houses of Maine’s most affluent, and, finally, into the beckoning arms of the dense, dark, New England forests. As we found ourselves increasingly surrounded by the shrill sounds of birds echoing from within the deep chasm of the woods, we began to feel a deep-seated desire to leave the road and once more hurl ourselves over the most daunting inclines and perilous declines. A glance at a map showed a small route that would place us close to a path, yet halfway it seemed to fall off the radar and show nothing but blank space. However, whether it be impassible woodland, a raging torrent, or a ravine that created the mysterious blankness on the map, we were resolute in our determination to bridge whatever obstacle lay between us and our path back into the thick Maine wilderness. Rather than being a towering beast or an inestimably deep chasm, we found the most unexpected site unfurling before us: a laboratory. When we entered Bar Harbor, we were already in a haggard state, and by this time our constitution was on the cusp of becoming truly repulsive. As we confidently strode through the well-regimented parked cars and along the winding paved path around the main building, researchers who walked along the same path averted their eyes as though they were children ashamed to be seen raiding their father’s drink cabinet. We were certainly trespassing, yet none of the grown men around lifted a finger, despite being visibly distressed by our unwelcome presence. Eventually, we emerged from the laboratory grounds, yet each of us was left with an almost surreal feeling that remained with us. My understanding of such symbolism may be too underdeveloped to fully understand why the experience caused us to converse ceaselessly about it the entire route back, and yet, it lingers.

After escaping the last clutches of civil society — represented in the absolute sense by the laboratory filled with lanyard-wearing office employees — we set off on the trailhead back to the campsite. Our current path took us parallel to the hike we had conducted that morning; however, incorrectly, we imagined the mountains had all been situated on the morning’s path and the afternoon would only constitute a simple, brisk walk through the pleasant nature of Acadia. Mount Champlain, however, swiftly put an end to such delusions, and the long incline relentlessly tore at our legs as we attempted to shake loose any lingering soreness from the morning’s toil. Though there were a few complaints, I remember the surge of energy I felt, inspired by the knowledge that the next few hours would test me. As we rested briefly on Champlain, we looked ahead and saw the successive few peaks piercing through the ethereal ocean mist before us, and with much the same nonchalant confidence that had possessed us to embark upon Dorr and leave Bar Harbor, we set off swifter than ever. Scrambling up one mountain, down the next, and up another proved highly meditative, and we only paused once we had scaled the last major obstacle standing between us and the Blackwoods campsite. Gorham Mountain was minuscule in comparison to those we had scaled before; however, we were on our twentieth mile of hiking, so, to us, it may well have dwarfed Cadillac and Champlain. We all knew it had marked our last real feat of the day, and nearly bounded through the Otter Creek trail the last mile and a half to the campsite. On the route back, the sparse conversations were characterized by securing a shower that night, and by the time we reached the campsite, all were resolved to show up at the doors of strangers — bribing them to allow us to use their showers. In retrospect, three sweat-soaked, thorn-scratched, bug-bitten men showing up at the doors of strangers sounds considerably more like the beginning of a true-crime podcast as opposed to a hiking epic, so, in truth, we may well have been chased off with a broom or shotgun if we had embarked on that course. Luckily, a park ranger — in this moment acting as our Beatrice, leading us from our meandering through purgatory to the blissful waters of paradise — informed us of coin-operated showers. Just as with the meal in Bar Harbor, my two-minute shower had been a blessing; each second I felt a drop hit my back, I would nearly say a prayer. Once more, I came to reflect on how ungrateful I and the rest of our kind had become. In our fear of the natural order we are begotten of, we continuously blind ourselves so as not to discover our true place within it. Both within the chain of being and society itself, we find ourselves impetuous children to the perennial reality that each man has a given place; from birth, he is inducted, and his maturing must be focused on a total initiation into his birthright. In the modern day, we are still inducted at birth, yet we refuse to mature for fear of our natural servile nature or for the irreverent wish to be at the temporal pinnacle despite possessing none of the innate qualities which constitute an aristocratic spirit. Our political establishment and our society have lost their respective upward orientations; no longer are they the intended ladders to the divine; rather, they have descended into the weeds of short-term economic growth to inject increasingly menial comforts into lives already past their ordained expiration date. Is not a moment of peace, astride a peak with no thought of descent, worth a century of ceaseless chasing?